The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

  Apple didn’t even know if they’d even been apart. She gripped the spatula, mind ticking, heart quick.

  ‘What’s Clement Hall?’ Jackson said.

  ‘The Beauchamp house.’

  ‘Why are you invited?’

  Apple steadied herself against the bench. ‘I have no idea.’

  24

  For days, Apple wondered why Charlie would invite her to such an event. Did it seem like the normal thing to do, was it perhaps what his family would expect? She couldn’t make sense of it.

  A week out, Jill Beauchamp called. Apple stared at the name on her screen, desperate to answer, desperate not to, hating the conflict and guilt that Charlie’s sweet sister invoked. She wondered why she’d called, then had to know.

  ‘Apple! How are you?’

  ‘I’m well . . . How are you?’ Apple remembered Jill being unhappy last time they’d spoken, afraid that the romance between Charlie and his high-school sweetheart had ended. If Jill was happy now, was it a sign that Charlie was, too?

  ‘I’m great! I was just checking that you got the invitation we sent.’

  Apple hesitated. ‘Yes, I was surprised to be invited.’

  ‘Pfft. What do you mean? You are definitely invited, and you’re definitely coming.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll try . . .’

  ‘You won’t try. You’ll be there.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Apple wondered if anyone had ever denied Jill anything. She wished she could, and decided to text Jill after she’d hung up to say she was double-booked.

  ‘Yippee! Cannot wait to see you.’

  Apple started drafting a message but was interrupted by one from Jill.

  Thrilled you’re coming. Counting down. Been way too long. Much love, JB xx

  ‘Shit.’

  Jackson called a few days out. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I feel like I have to. But it’s weird. It must be a misunderstanding – Jill wanting me, Charlie not?’

  ‘God knows. It is weird.’

  ‘They’re both just so . . . nice. I’m confused.’

  There was a beat before Jackson said, ‘Take the Swiss.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That Ken Doll guy who can dress. Take him to the event.’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘Yeah. Make a statement, show you’ve moved on.’

  Apple hadn’t moved on. Charlie remained with her, unmoving.

  ‘We know you haven’t moved on, obviously.’ Jackson said. ‘Beauchamp’s probably the love of your life, but just act like the person you wish you were.’

  ‘Ken’s Barbie?’

  ‘No, like you’re out of love with Charlie. Pretend you’re in love with someone else.’

  ‘I can’t pretend to be in love with Henri.’

  ‘Just take him. It’s a fashion event. He’ll love it.’

  A high stone fence ran the entire length of the Albert Park block, soon giving way to twin gates that opened onto an arching drive. The Beauchamp crest was mounted on iron, and Apple’s nerves danced as the cab drove towards the house.

  Henri smoothed his hair. ‘I’ve bought Georgia’s pieces before. I’ve taken them back to Switzerland. My mother likes the style.’

  Apple eyed his ironic satin bomber jacket and bow tie; his pants were formal, hair fair, teeth bright.

  Box hedges lined the way as tyres crunched on pebbles. Moreton Bay figs arched overhead. Light glinted off a shallow pool in the centre of the circular drive.

  ‘Have you been to their fundraisers before? It’s usually an auction.’

  ‘I haven’t been, no,’ Apple sounded breathless and wished she didn’t. She strained to see guests making their way up the wide paved steps of a manor – three storeys of twentieth-century sandstone, fifty metres of pillared facade.

  The car had stopped but Apple didn’t want to get out. She didn’t want to see Heidi. But more than that, she didn’t want to see Charlie, and yet wanted to see him so badly she doubted she could bear it. She cursed Jill for luring her there with her kindness.

  Henri opened her door and she slid out, adjusting the skirt of her dress – a sage silk slip she’d made, with barely there straps and a slit running up to her thigh. She fussed, over-handling it, muttering to herself.

  ‘This is another excellent piece,’ Henri said. ‘You are very good at the elegance.’ He adjusted a strap for her and Apple wished he was gay, hoped he’d be happy to be treated as if he were.

  She’d messaged Poppy, hoping to get some advice about what to think, do, feel. But rightly so, Poppy, on her honeymoon, hadn’t replied.

  Apple took Henri’s arm as they crossed the gravel forecourt, following the crowd that seemed to be heading up the stairs and inside.

  ‘Quick pic?’ A photographer asked in the bustling lobby.

  Henri smiled. Apple didn’t.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ The photographer flitted away.

  She needed to find a toilet before she did anything else. She let go of Henri’s hand and made for French doors ahead. ‘I’ll be back.’

  A large, round, crowded room had a double curved stair rising up to another level. Off to the side she spotted a door and hurried towards it, relieved to find a basin and two cubicles beyond. She walked into one, hitched her dress and sat, heart racing.

  She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here, had never belonged: in this world, in this place, with these people. And Henri didn’t feel like enough of a shield, not even like an adequate distraction.

  The door opened and she heard heels on tiles. She hurriedly unfurled toilet paper, then flushed and unsnibbed the door, cheeks warm.

  ‘Hello there.’ A woman was standing right in front of her.

  ‘Sorry.’ Apple hesitated as she walked round her and the woman entered the cubicle. Her face was familiar.

  Apple turned on the tap, wondering if anyone would notice if she left. Henri would, but there was enough here to distract him.

  She heard the toilet flush before the woman reappeared. Apple patted a hand towel and they locked eyes in the mirror. The woman’s face was lined, smiling; her cascade of ash blonde hair was pinned softly back. She was strangely mesmerising.

  ‘I’m Alison.’ She dried her hands then held one out. ‘Is this your first time at Clement Hall?’

  ‘Yes,’ Apple murmured.

  ‘Are you feeling well? You look a little warm, in the cheeks.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Apple glanced away.

  ‘I don’t think I got your name?’

  ‘Apple,’ she said.

  ‘Oh!’ Alison’s eyes were wide in seeming delight. ‘There could only be one Apple on the list tonight, surely. I’m Alison Beauchamp.’

  Apple stared at Charlie’s mother, realising she was familiar from media pictures.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She touched her throat. ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘I’m so glad we met.’ Alison beamed, making for the door. ‘Everything’s going to be getting underway soon. Let’s go.’

  Apple hesitated then followed, watching Charlie’s mother glide back into the space with the curved staircases, a chandelier draping from the double-height ceiling, and guests crowding the stone floor. Alison lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter then made a beeline for a lectern positioned front and centre in the room.

  ‘Okay!’ she said loudly.

  A few people quieted.

  ‘Okay.’ She raised her glass, tapping her ring against it. ‘Thank you, thank you. Now many of you knew my dear, late friend Mary Huntington, and you know how much she loved clothes – they were her life. For years now we’ve been running this event to raise money for grassroots ventures, and we like it to be as fun and surprising as Mary was. Funds from tonight’s auction will go to supporting a new locally based ethical fashion certification body and a community design market, and to providing seed capital for emerging talent. There are some wild cards in the mix tonight, so enjoy! Where’s our auctioneer, Jonathan?’


  The auctioneer took to the lectern and Apple slid away into the crowd, glancing around for anyone she should avoid, then for Henri. No face was familiar.

  ‘Let’s start, shall we?’ Jonathan said.

  Someone whistled, a few cheered. Apple pushed her way further back, inching towards the door.

  ‘There are many familiar faces here, so you all know how this goes.’ Jonathan beamed. ‘An aisle, please?’

  People shuffled, a wide aisle formed, and Apple was squeezed back towards the lectern. Music suddenly boomed and Alison looked to the stairs. Apple followed her gaze to two willowy women who’d appeared on the upper level. They looked down at the crowd then began sauntering in unison down each side of the staircase, one in a bone trailing gown and the other in a short wrap of identical fabric.

  ‘Gaby Aghion, vintage personal collection,’ Jonathan said. ‘Matching pieces in silk with bone bodice on the cocktail gown, both fully silk-lined, selling as one.’

  The pieces were beautiful, and Apple wished that she was invisible so she could enjoy the celebration of style without fear of who she might see, who might see her.

  A woman beside her raised her hand and Jonathan called, ‘We have our first bid for the night!’

  Hands began flicking up across the room. Apple stood, watching.

  ‘Five thousand there,’ Jonathan said.

  The models paced the aisle, coming to a standstill at the base of the stairs, and Jonathan brought down his hammer.

  ‘Sold! Matching set of Gaby Aghion goes to the original bidder to my left.’

  The models started up the stairs again and Jonathan glanced down at the lectern as two new models appeared at the top.

  ‘These next pieces are by a local talent. This is the first public viewing and first opportunity to secure a piece by this emerging designer. You might be getting some collector’s pieces here!’ He beamed at the crowd.

  The models descended and Apple froze.

  ‘Apple March,’ Jonathan said. ‘Two coordinates selling together, both from the designer’s personal collection.’

  She stared at the floor-length houndstooth coat. The same fabric adorned the second model – the woollen dress short, boxy, sleeveless, the collar high and the whole shaped like a tulip.

  ‘Timeless, monochrome set. Single-breasted chrysalis-cut coat with sharp notch lapels, uni-button fastening, full-length sleeve, plus a pocketed, sleeveless hive minidress. Machine-woven pure Italian wool, silk lining.’

  The models reached the floor, and hands began to go up across the room. Warmth crept from Apple’s cheeks to her throat as she clutched her purse.

  Alison was smiling at her.

  Hands continued to rise until the price almost matched that of the previous pieces, and when Jonathan’s hammer came down, Apple started.

  Two new models appeared, one descending in a black scallop-trimmed skirt and blouse set, the other in a plaid cashmere cape, the gold fastening at the collar a piece she’d purchased from a jewellery designer at Emmaline Gray.

  ‘Sold!’

  Opulent neckpieces adorned the next pair of models.

  ‘Two astonishing Georgia’s classics. Need I say more?’

  Bidding flew until six figures claimed the jewellery. Apple stared as two more of her pieces followed another designer’s, then two more. Soon almost every piece she’d ever made had been shown and sold.

  When white, cream and ivory gowns began to emerge, someone nearby cooed, ‘Finally. Bridal.’

  Alison piped up beside Jonathan, ‘Before we see our final dress from bridal couture, I just wanted to say a quick word. This next gown, well firstly, it’s beautiful, but it’s also of significant personal value to the designer. Don’t hold back.’

  Apple could have sworn Poppy stood at the top of the stairs.

  The model stepped forward. It wasn’t Poppy, but it was Poppy’s dress. The crowd was in a silent rapture but Apple’s mind was frantic. The model kept moving until she reached bottom of the stairs, when a bid suddenly rang out.

  Apple’s head jerked.

  The bid was more than twice the winning bid for the previous gown. She tried to see the man with his hand raised, three people away.

  ‘If you really want it, darling, it’s yours.’ She glimpsed him smiling at a young woman who was perhaps his daughter.

  There was quiet before Jonathan grinned.

  ‘That bid had quite a finality to it, didn’t it?’ He brought his hammer down. Captivated mutterings blended with applause.

  ‘Thank you everyone for once again coming along to show your support for innovation and creativity.’ Alison had returned to the lectern. ‘Refreshments will be served shortly.’

  25

  Apple was in a daze. The throng was moving and chattering, and she stood still, her mind scrambling to make sense of what had just happened. She’d glimpsed Henri across the room but didn’t know what to do, was too confused to move.

  ‘Apple!’ Jill was in front of her, breathless. ‘Did you like it? Are you surprised?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I thought you might be mad but Charlie said he could buy back yours if you were angry they were sold, so don’t be!’ She laughed, clutching Apple’s hands. ‘It’s just, it was this idea we had to raise money for you. I mean, obviously, it’s a fundraiser, duh.’

  ‘Obviously?’

  ‘I was so sad when I saw you upset in the car after your boss was so mean! I was so mad because I liked what I’d seen, and Charlie had said you were so good, and Vogue had said you were so good. I felt furious and kept thinking about it, so I called Charlie and he was furious too, and we both agreed you shouldn’t have to stop designing, and then there was tonight coming up and I had the genius idea to put your clothes in the auction – so you could make money off them! I know you’re not a charity case, but there’s nothing wrong with making money off your own work, is there? Can you believe how well they sold? We didn’t realise you had so many pieces and that they were so beautiful until they all arrived from your sister – is it Poppy?’

  ‘Poppy . . .?’

  ‘She told us to keep it a surprise because you’d be too proud and embarrassed to agree.’ Jill grinned. ‘Why would you be? What a success. And that wedding dress! It was like a Met Ball gown. I died with happiness when I heard that bid, then died with sadness because it wasn’t mine.’

  ‘What, how did Poppy—’

  ‘Charlie asked her to send the clothes and she did. The wedding dress was a surprise, though; she sent it later. She’d just worn it the day before – she must have looked so beautiful!’ Apple must have looked faint because Jill said, ‘You look a bit peaky. Shall we find Charlie?’

  She seized Apple’s hand, guiding her out the entry doors and onto the stairs that led to the forecourt, where guests were milling about with cocktails.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jill looked around.

  Someone was waving.

  ‘Oh my God, Ashley! I didn’t know you were coming.’ Jill let go of Apple’s hand and went to greet her friend. Apple took the opportunity to retreat.

  She stumbled back into shadow of the house and when Jill peered back, calling her name, she didn’t reply, pressing herself against the solidity of the sandstone as she hurried through the shadows and around a corner.

  Her breathing was quick as she hurried to type a message. You sold your wedding dress!

  The auction! It was tonight! came Poppy’s reply, the first Apple had heard from her while she’d been away. Are you ok? That dress is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned but I don’t need it now. Its true purpose should be to further your career. Did it sell well? x

  20k

  Poppy’s reply was a line of exclamation marks, and Apple smiled a little.

  Hope your honeymoon is—, she began to type, then heard voices, and she clutched her drink and jogged along the path, not slowing until she reached the end of the house and an expanse of lawn that stretched out into the night.

  She s
tood in the open, scanning the guests ambling through grids of topiary and around a long stone pool that shimmered in the low light. She glanced back at the house. More guests were descending from the stone terrace and she froze when she saw Noah, his ginger curls. She heard him laugh, thought he had glanced her way. She darted out of sight but slipped and champagne splashed out of her flute and down her dress. She steadied herself behind a bush pruned like an obelisk, batting the silk as a dark puddle spread. ‘Shit, shit.’

  She flapped the fabric and squinted to see Noah. She wondered where Henri was.

  ‘Are you hiding?’

  Apple’s heart leaped.

  Charlie was beside her, smiling, blue eyes steady.

  ‘Who are you hiding from?’ he repeated, peering around the bush to see what she was looking at.

  ‘I—’ Apple began. ‘I was . . . I thought I saw Noah.’

  Charlie eyed the back of the house. ‘Well, he’s gone now, if he was there.’

  Apple stared up at him before his eyes slowly met hers.

  ‘You and Noah are okay?’ she said.

  ‘We are.’

  ‘That’s so good. I’m so glad.’

  ‘So am I. I did the wrong thing and I gave him the apology he deserved.’

  ‘What about . . .?’ Apple gingerly touched her nose. ‘Was Noah sorry?’

  ‘For the punch?’ Charlie’s laugh was faint. ‘How is it that I got through six years in a boys’ school to only now be punched in the face?’

  Apple guessed that Noah hadn’t apologised. He’d feel that by accepting Charlie’s apology he was being generous enough.

  Charlie cleared his throat. ‘I owe you an apology, too.’

  ‘Charlie—’

  ‘What I did that night at the croquet, it wasn’t fair, on you, on Noah, anyone.’ He held her gaze, his expression tense, uncertain.

  ‘It was my fault. The intimacy, I encouraged it. You were vulnerable. I’m so sorry.’ Apple wanted to reach for his hand but kept hers close by her side.

  ‘Apple, we both know that I kissed you. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘Are you . . .?’ She frowned. ‘You and Heidi, are you okay?’

  ‘Are we okay?’ Charlie hesitated before he gave a short, baffled laugh. ‘Did what I described that night sound okay to you?’