‘You got the letter? Thanks for not making a fuss, you really are the best store manager.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t you read the letter?’
‘Yes, you’re sending me back to the store?’
‘As I said in the letter. The studio was a trial, Apple, and you can’t be down about it – at least you got a free trip!’ She laughed abruptly before adding, soothingly, ‘Now, we both know you’re better suited to a manager’s role. Designers are rife, but good managers are hard to find.’
Apple’s words fought to get out, but her will to fight was beaten by a savage despair and her phone fell to her lap.
‘Apple?’ Veronica’s voice was distant, then she heard the line cut. Rage washed over her.
She grabbed the phone again, intending to redial, but was again overcome by an overwhelming powerlessness. She screamed into the silence of the car.
Tap tap.
Her head snapped towards the window. Jill Beauchamp was waving, round face a little pink, frown slight. Apple fumbled to yank the old window winder.
‘H-hi,’ she stammered, wiping her face.
‘Oh no, Apple.’ Jill saw her face and her frown deepened. She hurried around to the passenger side and tugged the door open. ‘Your mascara’s all over your face!’ She whipped a tissue from her purse and dabbed Apple’s cheek. ‘What’s wrong! Why are you alone in your car crying?’
Apple conjured a laugh to make Jill feel better. ‘Sorry, it must look like there’s been a disaster. It’s okay, it’s nothing. It’s . . . It’s just work.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’ Jill leaned in. ‘What is it?’
Apple sighed, muddled, disbelieving. ‘I, I’ve been designing at Loom. I thought it was going well but now I’ve just been sent back to the shop. Fuck!’ She hit the steering wheel, frightening them both. ‘Sorry.’
‘You just found that out?’
Apple’s head hurt and her hands were clammy on her jeans as she stared down at her phone. ‘Yes,’ she said, hollowly. ‘My boss just called.’
‘But Vogue just did a piece on your upcoming shoe range!’ Jill was laughing, breathless with disbelief. ‘What weirdo would fire you after you garnered them that kind of press? I’ve never once seen Loom written up before, ever!’
‘Vogue?’
‘Online. The other day.’
Apple didn’t understand.
‘It was so good! I was like, I know that genius!’ Jill grinned. ‘Your drawings looked a-mazing.’
Apple was feeling increasingly confused. ‘It was an article about Loom?’
‘And the shoes! And your cleverness! Why on earth would your boss send you away?’ There was a beat before Jill yelped. ‘Oh no! I’m meeting someone and I’m late. Can you drive me? It’ll be faster than walking back for the car, and we can talk on the way.’
Apple blinked bewilderedly, fumbling with the keys to start the engine.
They were well on their way when Jill spoke again.
‘I just can’t believe all this.’ She folded her hands. ‘Honestly. Remember me saying how much I loved your dress at the croquet? I couldn’t believe it when you said you’d made it. And Charlie’s leather mitt? That was the most delicate, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen – I want one! Two!’
Apple’s thoughts danced, adrenaline high. ‘That’s kind of you to say.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And how are you? Are you good, anyway?’ She stared ahead, willing emotions to recede.
Jill didn’t reply at once, seeming to think on it. ‘I’m crap too,’ she finally announced with a little laugh.
Apple glanced over, saw Charlie’s face in Jill’s and knew she shouldn’t be there, that they shouldn’t be sharing.
‘It’s Charlie. And Heidi,’ Jill said.
Apple’s knuckles paled on the steering wheel.
‘Charlie hasn’t been happy for ages, but now he’s gone away, Heidi’s gone away, and I don’t even know if it’s together, and I’m just stuck here all alone, not knowing what to think but unable to stop thinking – you know?’
Shame and angst rose. ‘Did something happen?’
‘Something, I don’t know what. It was on the internet. Charlie got punched in the face, at the croquet. He told me and Heidi that he walked into an arbour, but it was obvious he was lying, and he never lies. And why would he lie? To me? I just want him to talk to me. I’ve known Heidi forever and I just . . . It’s just so sad. I want them to be happy, for everyone to be happy. I just can’t imagine him finding anyone else. It’s always been Heidi, since I was a little girl, but something’s not right.’
‘Where is he?’
Jill shrugged as though that was the least of her concerns. ‘Working somewhere, and I’m just praying that everything’s better when he gets back. I’ve got so many final uni assignments to do, and now this, it’s all just so stressful.’
Apple couldn’t speak but squeezed Jill’s hand, and Jill moaned as Apple stopped at the address she’d given her. ‘Argh, so much to talk about.’
‘So much,’ Apple said gently, and Jill got out of the ute. She leaned back in through the open window to blow a kiss, and Apple wondered when she’d see her again.
‘Bye, Apple, hope to see you soon.’
Apple drove on slowly towards the Loom store. She thought of Veronica, prancing up and down the stairs in the shop, asking for Apple’s advice, welcoming her into the studio . . . Why? Had she just wanted some new designs but had no intention of keeping her there? Could she be that cruel?
She climbed from the car and stood in front of the shop, gazing at the clothes she had so meticulously cared for, brushed, picked at and folded, the floors she’d swept and mopped, the windows she’d dusted, wiped and polished.
The doorbell jingled as she entered, and Jackson looked up from where she was hunched at the counter, holding a button and threaded needle.
‘Well, look at you, you tanned queen.’ A grin spread across Jackson’s face as she held up the needle and thread. ‘You must have known. Fuck, I hate sewing. I’m saved.’
Apple moved towards her in a trance, took the button then the needle and tossed one after the other over her shoulder, the button skittering across the floorboards.
Jackson stared. ‘That was the only spare red button.’
One of the change room drapes swung open and a woman peered out.
‘Oh hey, doll, forgot you were in there,’ Jackson said. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Which one of you is in charge?’ The woman looked from one to the other.
‘I am,’ Apple said robotically.
‘Sorry, but you must have changed the standard sizing. These are no good.’ The woman thrust out a pair of pants.
‘Oh. Let me help.’ Apply strode forward. She examined the pants for a minute then walked to the door and flung them out into the street.
‘Um . . .’ Jackson began. She and the woman stared as Apple walked to the racks and calmly began swiping every item off, her movements listless as she swept every neatly hung and folded item to the ground.
‘I think you’d better go,’ Jackson told the customer, but the woman was already leaving. Jackson locked the door. ‘What the fuck?’
Through the window, Apple could see the woman on her phone. ‘Good, she’s already telling her friends.’
‘Are you insane?’
Apple strode into the back room and began gathering things – things she’d never planned to come back for but now didn’t want to leave.
‘That’s my magazine, my book, that one too, that mug, that moisturiser, that milk frother, that jam—’
‘What the fuck?’ Jackson stared as she piled things into a bag. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Veronica cut me from the design team, sent me back here to manage the store. I’m leaving.’
Jackson stared. ‘She . . . what? Wait, why?’
Apple handed over Veronica’s letter before continuing to rifle through cupboards.
‘“Building a career takes years, and I’m sure you didn’t expect it to happen all at once . . .”’ Jackson read the sentence aloud. ‘Oh my God, is Veronica feeling threatened?’
‘By who . . .? Me? By my poverty? My dependence? My complete and utter powerlessness?’
‘The Vogue write-up.’
Apple stopped what she was doing. ‘What was that? I haven’t read anything, I just heard.’
‘Didn’t you get my email?’ Jackson looked disbelieving. ‘I was so excited I sent you this long, fangirl rant!’
‘I haven’t even looked at my email. Veronica had Tilly and me running all over Asia.’
‘That’s exactly it! Her craziness! Come out front to the computer!’
Jackson loaded a webpage. ‘It started when this piece came out.’
Loom is leaping into shoes with a line headed by hot new designer Apple March. March is one of the ‘best things to ever happen to the brand’, the Loom owner says, and if these preliminary designs are anything to go by, we agree. With impressions that promise to meld opulence with unexpected finishes and wearable styles, March’s designs are poised to rescue the brand from its increasingly dowdy days and return Loom to its once-was status as a merchant of front-running style.
Apple stared at the words. ‘Oh fuck.’
‘Look how delectable your sketches look!’
Apple shook her head, uncomprehending; the curated black-and-white page was coloured by her sketches and photographs of Loom in its heyday. ‘Surely Veronica planned this. How else would they have got their hands on this content? They’ve even quoted her.’
‘It was planned, obviously. Loom has a publicist. They’ve been hunting for pre-release press, but I guess Veronica just didn’t imagine they’d write it quite like that.’
Apple felt depression descend.
‘Don’t let her rain on your parade. It’s awesome.’
Apple peered at her name, her work positioned under the fashion bible’s banner. ‘It feels a bit nice, I suppose,’ she said quietly.
‘It’s more than nice, it’s hard-won fucking glory.’
Apple gazed at her friend and reached slowly to squeeze her hand.
‘V should get her head out of her arse,’ Jackson said. ‘All press is good. This is excellent for Loom. She’s being a giant baby.’
Apple looked the article over one last time. ‘Jack . . . any minute Veronica will hear about me trashing the store. I don’t want you to get caught up. I’ll help you tidy and you can reopen. You can tell her you tried to stop me.’
‘You don’t want me “caught up”?’ Jackson barked a laugh. ‘You were so blazingly unruly just now you made my knickers wet. We’re getting the hell out of here. I’m done with this place and it’s nothing without you.’
Apple couldn’t be responsible for anyone else’s failure. ‘No, Jack—’
Jackson laughed. She grabbed Apple’s hand, and Apple hesitated before she began laughing too. Jackson led the way as they ran from the store, onto the street, and Apple threw her old items into a bin as they made for the car, laughing.
‘This is called living,’ Jackson panted.
Apple drove Jackson home, then returned to the quiet of her apartment. She’d barely seen it since she and Tilly flew back the night before, and now her life wasn’t the same as the one she’d woken up to.
Poppy was waiting on the couch when she unlocked the door. It felt so long since she’d seen her that Apple wanted to run to her, but she restrained herself – not quite sure where she and her sister stood.
‘Your guests let me in.’ Poppy gestured upstairs.
Apple leaned to place a kiss on her cheek.
Poppy lifted a paper bag. ‘I brought you something.’
‘It smells sweet.’
‘It needs forks.’
Apple went to the kitchen, returning with cutlery. Poppy tore back the paper, revealing a large wedge of cake, dark and fruity. ‘You first.’
Apple sank her fork in. ‘That’s a lot of fruit . . . and really thick icing.’
Poppy’s smile was amused. ‘Do you like it?’
The cake felt like playdough in Apple’s mouth, the texture overly heavy and dry, the icing adding nothing but bulk. ‘I . . .’ She found her water bottle and washed it down. ‘It’s okay.’
Poppy laughed. ‘It’s bad.’
‘It’s not great . . .’
‘It’s the wedding cake.’
Apple frowned.
‘Mum made it.’ Poppy’s expression grew warm. ‘It’s that awful health cake she used to make us when we were growing up, remember?’
‘Oh God, yes. There’s too much nutmeg, not enough sugar.’
‘And this time it’s slathered in marzipan.’
Apple took another forkful, closing her eyes as she chewed it over. ‘Wow, it’s so unpleasant.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Poppy grinned. ‘But made with so much love.’
‘I didn’t know you wanted Mum to make your cake.’
‘I didn’t either . . . Then she offered and I found myself wanting it more than anything.’
They held each other’s gaze until Poppy’s eyes slowly filled with tears.
‘I don’t want Dad’s money,’ she whispered.
‘Sorry?’ Apple leaned closer.
‘I was thinking about it while you were away, and I don’t want Dad’s money. I don’t want anything from him.’ She tried not to weep, the cake plate trembling in her hands. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you. You were right, everything you said was right. I just think when he died I felt so cheated, like I’d never had anything and now I never would. It’s not his money I wanted, obviously. What I want he can never give.’
Apple took Poppy’s hand.
‘And you were right about Lachie.’ Poppy wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘He has been silly. He’s fed up with his work and feeling fragile, thinking this wedding means something it doesn’t, him having to provide or whatever. I honestly don’t know where he got the idea. I love my work, I never want to stop.’
She took another mouthful of the cake and choked, then laughed and guzzled water.
‘So, ta-da. Here’s our high-end wedding cake.’
‘Well, if it’s to save coin, perhaps a supermarket cake covered with cream . . .?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘Nope, this wedding is all about love. I want it tangled in love. You’re making the dress, Mum the cake and Mum’s neighbours, George and Val, are making the food.’
‘The Italians? They’re amazing cooks.’
‘I know. And we decided to have the ceremony in Mum’s backyard. The council gave us permission to use the park for the reception. I’m going to be a catwalk bride on the sidewalk.’
‘Sounds like a Vogue shoot.’
Poppy grinned. ‘Speaking of Vogue . . . the Loom shoe write-up. Could you believe what they said? Apple, it was amazing.’
Apple didn’t want to tell Poppy, not now, not amid the joy of their reunion.
‘Wasn’t it amazing?’ Poppy tried to meet her gaze. Apple knew she had no choice.
‘I don’t think Veronica liked it,’ she said. ‘She fired me from the design team and sent me back to manage the store.’
There was a pause. ‘She did not.’
Apple nodded.
‘No!’ Poppy’s face became a mask of rage. ‘That’s so unfair! You’ve worked like a slave there forever. You can’t go back, can you? Are you going to? What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not going back. Jackson and I both walked out . . . today.’
Poppy stared, frown deepening until her hands left her cheeks and settled upon Apple’s. ‘Oh fuck.’
22
Apple was grateful that she’d rented Poppy’s old room out as a holiday stay. She doubted the landlord would have approved, but now she really needed it – the income would cover the rent and leave some over to help while she figured out what to do next.
What surprised her was that she didn’
t feel afraid. The rage and dismay the morning she’d left Loom had dissipated that very same day, the action of leaving imparting the smallest sense that she was indeed in charge of her life.
Now, weeks after leaving Loom, she had the fewest prospects she’d ever had, but strangely, the least fear.
She guessed that Vogue’s favourable review had contributed to her feelings of confidence, its words offering a kind of validation she barely dared to own. She knew the endorsement was small and fleeting but, whatever happened, Vogue’s words would always be there to return to, to remind her that however things might seem, she was not nothing.
Still, the world felt like it was progressing without her, and the only thing that offered the illusion of her moving with it was Poppy’s wedding, and her part in it. A week from the big day, the dress still wasn’t quite finished, and with the wedding now DIY, nothing else about it felt finished either.
The Bernina did its part, dancing across the layers of the waist, and easily handling the delicate seam work around the bodice. In the end, the difference between a finished and an unfinished dress came down to Apple, her needle and thread.
On the eve of the wedding, friends arrived at Ginny’s to set up a canopy of pale canvas, draping it edge to edge over the small yard. Poppy decided she wanted to walk down the hallway of the house and out into the garden, where everyone would be waiting, making a little aisle.
‘This is going to be like stuffing eighty jelly babies into a matchbox,’ Ginny said.
‘Perfect!’ Poppy clapped. ‘Squishy, oozy, bohemian, soppy and lush. Our perfect wedding day.’
She gave Apple a little kit at the last minute. ‘Lip balm, Hollywood tape, tissues, nail file, hairspray, a needle, thread . . .?’
Apple stowed the kit in her glove compartment and didn’t hear from Poppy again until early the next day.
‘Lachie’s dad was meant to bring spare chairs down from the farm yesterday but forgot!’ she said. ‘The neighbours are bringing some, but can you bring all of yours, too? You’ve got six?’
‘I have eight including desk chairs.’
‘Thank God. See you for make-up.’
Apple took her time stacking the chairs into the little tray of her Morris ute, looping rope, winding it tight and fastening it to the tow ball. Grease and dust clung to her hands and she washed up before taking her own dress to the car, glad she’d delivered Poppy’s already.
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 22