‘Yes in March. You’ve got twenty K, so do I: the money we’ve been saving for the B&B.’
‘No, Jack.’
‘I’m not joining unless we’re partners. You think I’d put in a bunch of start-up work just to let you be the millionaire when it pays off?’
‘Millionaire?’ Apple looked amused but Jackson didn’t. She put out her hand.
‘You’re the creative director. And when we make our first million I’ll call myself CFO.’
She went to shake Apple’s limp hand but Apple withdrew it.
‘No. You can’t invest. I don’t want my designs to be the reason you lost all your savings.’
‘Your designs will be the making of my savings.’
‘This isn’t a game. I don’t want to play with your money.’
‘I’m not playing. I know talent when I see it. I’m seeing it.’
Apple eyed her friend uncertainly.
‘You need me. You need my investment.’
Apple put her head in her hands.
‘I’m a hard-arse, hey?’ Jackson said proudly. ‘This is how I’m going to be with suppliers – stubborn as fuck. I won’t let you down.’
‘I might let you down.’
‘Don’t then.’
Apple necked her drink before putting out her hand. ‘Fine.’
‘Partners?’ Jackson said.
‘Fine. Partners.’
A smile spread across Jackson’s face as she gripped Apple’s hand.
Four months after March’s unofficial founding over a burger, Apple scored her first big achievement. Not that anyone knew. The shoe line she had designed for Loom sold out in the first week after hitting the shelves, and its success was written about on fashion blogs and social forums, with everyone asking how conventional Loom became a sartorial must-have? The Vogue feature seemed to have been forgotten.
Apple was packing up her apartment for good when the mail chute clicked. It felt like déjà vu when she picked up the envelope, having filled and sealed that piece of stationery hundreds of times herself.
She peeled back the Loom seal and read.
Dear Apple,
I hope you’re well.
As I’m sure you’ve heard, the Loom shoe line was an instant success. Your natural flair and unique vision were evident the moment you stepped into my studios, so this success is hardly a surprise, at least not to me, and now I feel that I never adequately acknowledged your contribution to my brand. Please allow me to now, and please also allow me to be open with you about my behaviour last year.
When I decided to send you back to manage the store, I told myself (and you) that it was because the store was where you were needed. In truth, this had nothing to do with it. What had everything to do with it was my concern that you as a designer would soon overshadow Loom. It was only a matter of time before you went out on your own and, rationality seeming to have left me, I tried to brake your forward charge by sending you backwards. I’m not proud of this, but nor do I pretend to be perfect. I hope you know you were the best manager I’ve ever had, and sadly for me, the best designer, too. Now I have you in neither capacity and that’s my penance.
You may think that I want to make amends for reasons that are less noble, but my only desire is to have a clean conscience and goodwill. Lately, I’ve been enjoying the company of a gentleman twenty years my junior who’s saddled with two young daughters of his own. Although these women initially brought me significant displeasure, I’m scared to say that I’m now finding them rather addictive. I’m also realising how difficult it is to be a young person these days, and experiencing these two in close proximity reminds me of you and Jackson. I’m not a sympathetic or apologetic person but I don’t want to be a cruel person, either. I was cruel to you last year and I am sorry.
On a positive note, I’ve heard rumours of a new label, March, and the hype is so consistent and widespread, that I know it can only be you behind it. So, in an inadequate attempt to make up for my behaviour, please find enclosed a launch gift in the form of a contact list. You’ll know that it is like cutting off my arm to give this out, but I’m hoping they call competition ‘healthy’ for a reason. Keep it as close to your chest as I have all these years.
Wishing you prosperity,
Veronica Cheney
Still inside the envelope were a dozen pieces of paper stapled together: lists of names, numbers, businesses; spreadsheets giving away every supplier, designer, manufacturer, publicist, trade fair and global contact Loom had ever had.
A small, grateful smile crept onto Apple’s face as she began to type an email.
Dear Veronica,
Loom was my sanctuary for many years. I thank you for that, and in one way or another you’ve always believed in me, so I thank you for that too. I was vulnerable during my years at your store and, despite your fears, I imagine I would have stayed in the comfort of Loom forever given the chance, so I’m grateful that in the end you yourself pushed me away.
I hope you’re proud of what you’ve achieved with your store and the Loom brand. You’re a clever, bold woman, and I’m grateful for any such women in my life, so I welcome your apology. As for the list you’ve been sent, well, you know what this means to me.
Thank you, one last time.
A. March.
Poppy appeared at the top of the mezzanine stairs, clutching a rubbish bag. ‘Bathroom’s clean.’
‘Thanks.’ Apple smiled up at her.
‘Got the truck doors closed.’ Lachie came in from outside, grease on his hands. ‘Are you ready?’
Poppy glanced around the small, sweet apartment she and Apple had shared for so long. ‘This apartment was so cheap for what it is, don’t you think? I feel quite sad to leave it.’
‘You’ve been gone a while now, P,’ Apple said.
‘I know.’ Poppy came down the stairs. ‘But it still felt like my other home.’
‘It’ll be good to make a new one together, then.’ Lachie grinned.
Poppy sighed, kissing him, and Apple watched, feeling happy for them and uncertain for herself.
‘Anything else?’ Poppy looked around.
‘The dog?’
Frankfurt bounded in and Poppy laughed, scooping him up. ‘Are you going to be happy to live with Apple in her new place?’ she asked, making his paw wave. ‘He is happy, and thank God – it would break my heart you living all alone, Apple.’
‘He is a good little friend.’ Apple tried to press her nose to his but he licked her.
‘Aren’t we looking after him while you’re away?’ Lachie said.
Apple nodded, barely able to believe what was ahead. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Yeah, love this champ.’ Lachie fist-bumped Frankie’s paw. ‘How long will you be gone?’
‘She’s going to Paris.’ Poppy was grinning.
‘I know.’
‘And to the States!’ Poppy whined.
‘And you’ve leased a place in North Melbourne?’
Apple knew Jackson was there now, setting up March’s studio on the ground floor. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And you’re going to live there?’
‘March will have a studio down below. When I get back, I’ll move in up top.’
Apple thought of the weeks ahead, the trip that had long been calling her.
‘Well, a holiday will be fun.’ Lachie smiled.
It wasn’t a holiday, it was a research trip for March, but Apple knew it would provide her with something she needed: perspective.
‘Yes. I’ve been cooped up here too long.’
‘You’re owed an adventure!’ Poppy said. ‘And travel is the cornerstone of creative living.’
Apple took one last look around the empty space. New tenants would arrive tomorrow. Suddenly it was time to leave: the space was no longer theirs.
Poppy handed Frankie to Apple. She smoothed his ears, and together they walked down the passage and out over the threshold.
27
The fashio
n scene had changed in the years since Apple had started at Emmaline Gray. She’d seen bloggers rise, magazines recede a little, ‘street style’ explode, and with the climb of online retail and style sharing, she sometimes wondered if what people wore was becoming somewhat homogenous.
But when she sat street-side in the Marais, cupping a thin black coffee, it became clear that despite the world’s increasing sameness, the essence of some places did still remain unique. She didn’t think that Paris was necessarily better than the other fashion capitals, but it did have a sartorial discernment she was drawn to. Standing on any corner, she found it hard to find a Parisian who hadn’t styled herself in some way, hard to find a woman who appeared indifferent to the clothes she’d chosen for the day.
Masculine boots, tailored bouclé-wool blazers, leather shorts, tapestry smoking flats, faded Levi’s that were never too tight nor too loose, jewellery that was fine and spare. Pieces were key, but so was everything: hair natural, gait confident yet graceful.
Apple enjoyed elements of trends, like the bright, ill-fitting activewear of gorpcore and the mindless ease of normcore basics. But classic was a thing for a reason, and Paris had it: a comforting sense of timelessness, and a respect for elegance and restraint. Parisians had an innate sartorial fluency that they, unlike many back home, weren’t ashamed of. To Apple, this was inspiring.
She visited ateliers, one of her favourites being a windowless room lined in vintage wallpaper, where dusty chandeliers bobbed above darkened floorboards and ladders reached to high shelves laden with fabric. The label was one of the few left that still employed highly skilled seamstresses, and watching the four women at work in their little studio, Apple knew she’d do all she could to avoid the day where she’d be unpacking March pieces shipped over from developing nations. So it was a relief when Jackson emailed to say that a group of promising seamstresses had been located in the inner east of the city, back home.
She had designed a teaser range before she’d left: structured cuts in unfussy fabrics, neutrals, tan and khaki, and Jackson reported that the range had already sold out in boutiques. The intention had been to create buzz before March pitched a premium collection to department stores, and the result was as good as they could have hoped for.
During her stay in Paris, Apple wondered if she might see Charlie. Georgia’s had opened a store in Florence, and the two cities felt relatively close, despite their belonging to different countries. But she didn’t see anyone she knew.
She took the train from Paris to Barcelona. There, she spent a week in the studio of a fellow designer she’d connected with on Instagram. Mia Pardo’s venture was a few years ahead of March, the brand already employing four junior designers, and Apple volunteered her services each day, learning how to collaborate – and to one day lead.
At Apple’s final stop, in Manhattan, she heard rumour of another Georgia’s opening.
Apple took a car from her hotel on Washington Street, already missing pintxos and Spanish wine.
She was unsure what she’d do when the car reached its destination. Blogs had raved about Georgia’s new premises, and she felt she needed to at least glimpse the store while in town. The brand felt like home.
The cab began to slow and Apple saw groomed guests gathering in front of a boutique in the bottom of a restored Art Deco building.
‘Just a bit further,’ Apple told the driver.
He pulled over twenty metres on, and she hesitated, staring back at the assembly as she wondered whether to get out.
‘Ma’am?’
She hurriedly popped the door. ‘Thank you.’
The car drove away and she waited on the pavement, gauging the unfamiliar crowd down the block. She walked cautiously towards them and allowed herself a moment in front of the gleaming facade to take in the moody fit-out just visible beyond the glass.
Guests were being chaperoned through pivot doors, and Apple watched the spectacle before strolling back in the direction she’d come as she booked another car.
‘Apple?’
Her heart leaped.
Richard Beauchamp was waving from Georgia’s top step. He began descending, and Apple knew she’d been foolish to come.
‘It is Apple, isn’t it?’ He reached to shake her hand, and she was surprised that he said her name like a question, not with the disgust she might have expected following the auction. ‘Richard Beauchamp. I believe I had a coffee with you and my children one fine day in Albert Park.’
‘Of course.’ Apple didn’t know whether to smile.
‘Richard!’ Someone called from the door.
The woman appeared to be an organiser and Richard called ‘Yes!’ before turning back to Apple. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Oh, no, thank you. I was just passing.’ She made to leave but Richard put out his arm.
‘A quick champagne? It’s delightful to see a friendly face this far from home.’
She hestitated, glancing back up the street, then took his arm. Richard spoke to a member of security inside, and the woman looked Apple up and down before striding away.
‘What are you doing so far from home?’ he asked.
‘I’m here for work.’ She glanced around. ‘But I heard the store was opening and thought I’d stroll by – there’s been a lot of talk about the interior.’
‘We’ve been blessed by the press, which is encouraging, because these past twelve months have almost sent me to my grave. Our clients are mainly offshore, so it was becoming mad not to put down bricks and mortar overseas, but three new stores in a year? What were we thinking?’
‘Wow.’
‘Richard, may I . . .?’ Someone was at his elbow.
‘I’ll be right there. You need refreshments, Apple.’ He collected her a glass of champagne from a passing tray. ‘Yell if you need anything.’
She slid off her jacket and watched him move away, wondering how soon she could leave without seeming rude. She sipped her drink, then wandered tentatively through dimly lit rooms – midnight blues, pre-aged leather, slate tiles. The darkness was a nice change from the overly lit stores of most luxury jewellers.
She was gazing at a display when the security woman reappeared.
‘For you to wear this evening,’ she said, gloved fingers opening a box to reveal a thick, diamond-encrusted serpent bracelet.
Apple glanced up to see Richard smiling at her from across the room.
‘Wow. It’s beautiful. But I don’t need anything, thank you.’
‘Would you mind?’ the woman insisted. ‘Richard is very thoughtful. He wants everyone to feel like they’re part of the celebration.’
Apple’s hesitation was taken as acquiescence. The woman unclipped the bracelet from the box and placed the cool, heavy serpent on her wrist.
‘Now look at that. It suits you.’
Apple stared at the opulence as the woman moved away, but didn’t feel the pleasure she was meant to. She didn’t know why Richard seemed unaware of Juanita’s revelations, but she didn’t belong here, in this store, in this jewellery. She’d done nothing wrong, but being here made her feel dishonest.
She peered at the beautiful, unwelcome piece.
‘That looks fabulous on you,’ a Texan voice said.
Apple glanced up.
The middle-aged woman was wearing a giant canary yellow sweater with a leather miniskirt and embroidered floral slippers. Apple recognised her right away as the store’s interior architect.
‘Oh,’ she said, then with more pluck, ‘Ann Leichhardt. I’ve seen you on all the blogs.’
‘How embarrassing.’ Ann gave a dismissive little wave.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, no, I’m surprised is all. You’ve been doing your reading. I thought I was the least famous person in the room.’
‘I love what you’ve done with the space.’ Apple gazed about. ‘It’s visionary. It feels . . . I don’t know. Soothing. I feel so soothed.’
‘Do you? That’s great. Most jewellery stores a
re intimidating. I loathe it. Who wants to walk into an upmarket place and feel like a deer in headlights? No. It’s about being cossetted. Have you seen the sitting room? Come, I’ll show you.’
Apple followed, glad for the company and distraction.
An hour later, the throng gathered for speeches and Ann left Apple to join Richard up the front.
Apple didn’t know where to stand. She waited until Richard began to speak, then decided to move to the back nearer the door. She’d stayed too long already.
As Richard spoke, he reminded her of Charlie. His smile was warm, his gestures generous, and she felt a sudden longing to get him alone, to ask him about Charlie, learn any news. She knew she had to leave before she acted on the urge.
She hurriedly pulled on her jacket as she walked to the door. A young, willowy woman stopped her on the stairs.
‘Cool set,’ she said. ‘Where’s it from?’
Apple was wearing floating palazzo pants with a long untailored blazer, pieces she’d planned to put in the collection she and Jackson would finalise when she returned home.
‘I’m a model,’ the woman added. ‘When I see something I love I have to ask.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Apple said, glancing back at Richard inside. ‘It’s my own label.’
The woman eagerly took her card and Apple kept on down the stairs.
Out on the sidewalk, she observed the ordinariness of the pavement as she walked, the discarded cigarettes and gum reassuring her with their banality. In the subway, she leaned against the grimy tiles, grateful for the reality they provided too, the normalcy that wasn’t the glossy otherworldliness of Georgia’s, where she didn’t belong.
She disembarked at 14th Street and rummaged for her key as she walked towards the entry to her hotel. She glimpsed something, and froze.
Beneath the cuff of her jacket was the Georgia’s serpent.
At first she stood immobile, then she started to run back in the direction she’d come, only to realise that was the last thing she should do. She hurried into the hotel, got into the elevator, then jogged down the hall to her room and, once inside, locked every lock.
She stood, staring at the thing on her wrist.
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 26