The model tossed her underwear behind the change screens.
March’s collection had accentuated architecture and texture, colours mute. Waists were cut high, skirts moving out in an oversized arch, shoulders formed. The softest piece was a white silk-chiffon blouse, translucent, with a pleated Victorian collar that rimmed the jaw, but over the top was a dark leather vest, capshoulders strong, body contoured, texture grained. A felt kneelength dress was a corrugated navy tube, cinched at the waist, worn with a biker jacket lined in shearling. Another model wore a matching felt top over ballooning leather shorts that were wide without length.
‘I want your hands kept in the pockets of the shorts,’ Apple told her.
‘Two minutes!’
Adrenaline soared.
Jackson took Apple’s hand. ‘We’ve got this.’
Apple felt Jackson’s hand tremble and was grateful, but also unsettled, that even Jackson was afraid.
‘Machine Bon first up!’ the coordinator called. ‘Alexander Mason?’
‘Here!’ Alexander stood breathlessly to attention, his monochrome outfit dark against his Lego-like models – bright primary colours cut in unbending lines, buttons the size of saucers, blonde wigs straight, bobbed, all the same.
‘Three, two, one!’
Music began, a beat echoing down the long industrial passage that was their runway, and Alexander’s models filed out. Minutes passed before they returned, one by one.
‘March!’ the coordinator said. ‘Apple March!’
‘Ready!’
Alexander’s last model returned, and the designer himself strolled onto the runway. Apple waited, eyes all but closed, until he returned, sagging with relief.
‘Jesus, it’s scary out there. The runway seems to go on forever and there’s six of them just sitting at the end, staring.’
‘March is go.’
Apple stood like a post as her first model disappeared down the runway.
‘Next is good to go,’ the coordinator said, and the next model left before the first returned.
When there was only one model left, Apple felt Jackson’s hand take her own. ‘You can do this. Don’t be afraid.’
Apple let her eyes close one more time and realised she wasn’t afraid. There was no need. Fear was behind her; confidence and ambition were ahead.
She let go of Jackson’s hand and walked out into the crude light of the runway, staring ahead until she reached the panel, met Bernadette Jones’s gaze for the first time, looked each of the other five panellists in the eye, and said simply, ‘Thank you so much for the opportunity.’
Then she walked steadily back down the runway.
Apple’s hands were in the pockets of her faded jeans and her T-shirt billowed in the cool night breeze as she and Jackson hurried side by side down the wharf.
They could hear the slow hum of music, caught the incongruous squawk of a seagull, and smelled brine blended with high-end perfume.
Fashion Week’s after-party was crowded. Bloggers and models were reminding the designers why they did what they did for a living: youthful bodies testing styles, colours flamboyant, shapes juxtaposed, layering ambitious. Editors were one dial down – an outrageous shoe tamed by jeans, a jacket tailored, discerning.
Apple felt breathless as she slid with Jackson through the lowceilinged bar to the rear, where an elevated platform looked back across the harbour, the water barely visible in the low light. She’d glimpsed three of the panellists already, now smiling, chatting, drinks in hand, almost unrecognisable from their stony alter egos of that morning. She and Jackson had barely spoken since the show, having done nothing but hunt for food, then beds, making up for no sleep the night before. Now she felt unsure what day it was.
‘Two Camparis and soda,’ Jackson told the bartender and Apple hardly noticed the drink as Jackson slid it into her hand. ‘It’s only Bernadette. It’s only one person. There are five others on the panel and, and sure they may remember what happened way back when, but . . .’
Apple raised her hand, needing silence, speculation futile. All she wanted was for this to be over, for the announcement to be made so that they could leave, plan March’s future, good or bad.
Busyness began on the raised platform and Apple watched, heart pounding.
‘What a week it’s been,’ a woman with a microphone said and the crowd whooped. ‘An extraordinary show of creativity in this rapidly evolving discipline and I’m so proud of what we’ve seen. I welcome Georgie Wright, president of AAKL Group, to announce the winner of the annual Future Salon show and crown our nation’s next big name. Thank you, Georgie, for your ongoing support of homegrown talent.’
Georgie took the floor. Apple’s hands felt slippery on her glass.
‘Thank you, Kate. This year we had a record-breaking number of applications from emerging designers, and we couldn’t have been happier with what our top six delivered this morning. It gave us great hope for what we can expect to see from our young creatives in years to come. And now I won’t keep you waiting.’ She smiled. ‘The standout talent at this year’s Future Salon, the designer we would like to see flourish with our guidance and support, is . . . March! Please give a round of applause to March’s creative director, Apple March.’
Apple stood, knowing that exuberance and vindication were what she was supposed to feel, but – eyes upon her, Jackson beside her – all she felt was . . . relief.
She met Jackson’s gaze and knew she felt the same. Jackson gripped her hand, muttering, ‘And we live to see another day.’
This made her smile, and she edged her way into the crowd, up to the podium, and graciously took the envelope offered by Georgie.
‘Thank you,’ she said into the microphone. ‘This is . . . I am very grateful. Thank you to my business partner, Ella Jackson. I couldn’t have done this without you. And thank you to the judges, and to the other talent who walked today. I look forward to us inspiring each other in the years to come. Thanks, thanks again.’ She stepped from the stage, smiling gratefully in response to the congratulations but with her eyes on only one person: Jackson, who was resting her elbows on the bar.
She sidled up beside her, rested her elbows too, and they stood that way for a while, gazing at one another until Jackson necked her drink.
‘Well. That’s a relief.’
Apple sank her head against Jackson’s shoulder. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Likewise.’ She pinched Apple’s nose.
‘Apple?’
She glanced back. Bernadette Jones stood there, in high-waisted stirrup pants and a soft, finely knitted tee.
‘May I speak to you?’
‘Do you—’ Jackson began in Apple’s ear.
‘It’s fine,’ Apple said and felt Jackson slip away.
Bernadette positioned herself on a stool. ‘A martini,’ she told the bartender. ‘Congratulations, Apple.’
‘I, thank you.’ Apple kept her voice steady. ‘I saw you, today, on the panel. The designers were all so good, I can’t believe it. I’m honoured to have . . . Well, I’m honoured.’
‘Your line had flavours of Prabal Gurung, Game of Thrones, Balmain. One of the other judges called it the “new feminine” and I agree – empowering but restrained. You were the clear winner,’ Bernadette sounded strangely proud. ‘You know that.’
‘I suppose I do now . . .’
Bernadette smiled and Apple realised she was much more beautiful than she seemed in her black-and-white portrait in the magazine.
‘Thank you for your note.’
Apple swallowed. She hadn’t heard from Bernadette since she’d sent her the note about donating the funds from the Huntington Foundation auction to FMFAS. The only address she’d had was Harper’s HQ, so she’d doubted that her note had even been received.
She glanced down, finding it hard to hold Bernadette’s gaze. ‘It was my pleasure; it was . . . I suppose it felt like the least I could do. For so long I’ve felt so awful about everything that happ
ened.’ She wondered if she was speaking too quickly, coming to the point too soon, whether there should be more preamble, more build-up to this moment she’d waited so long for, doubted she’d ever have. She glanced up. ‘I suppose I’ve never really known what to do about it.’
‘Surely you didn’t need to give sixty thousand dollars away. My God, you’re not Miuccia Prada – yet.’ Bernadette laughed a little. ‘But it was very generous.’
Apple felt her cheeks warm, felt the familiar, shy girl returning as her fingers started to fiddle with a wisp of hair. She tucked her hands beneath her legs, taking a breath before she said, ‘The money wasn’t mine. It was in my name, but I didn’t feel like it belonged to me. And I didn’t need it as much as others.’
Bernadette regarded her. ‘That’s very noble, Apple, and I’m glad, because I hoped it wasn’t just for me. It made me feel quite . . . guilty.’
‘I’ve felt guilty,’ Apple gushed. ‘I’ve felt so awful all these years for what I did, what I didn’t mean to do. Bernadette, I’m . . . I’m so sorry.’
Bernadette laughed, this time in dismay as she suddenly took one of Apple’s shoulders. ‘Oh, you poor thing. It’s so over, so well and truly past. Do you think you were the first woman Paul took a liking to? You weren’t even the first student. I was the fool for letting it go the first time.’ Her smile was unexpectedly mellow. ‘I was gutted, sure, but you were a child. I felt ashamed of my husband, that he’d take advantage of someone so young. Of course, I was furious, but with myself, with him. I was better than the relationship he’d given me, and I was disgusted with myself for settling for it.’
Apple stared, trying not to cry. ‘You do deserve much more than that.’
‘As do you,’ Bernadette replied, then let her gaze drift across the room as her hand slid from Apple’s shoulder. ‘See my boyfriend over there? I’m forty-five, he’s thirty-five, yet he’s unbelievably devoted, attentive, intelligent. So, when times seem bad, sometimes they can become incredibly good. I’m much happier now. I wish I hadn’t stayed so long with Paul. His affair with you was a useful trigger.’
Apple felt a kind of exhaustion coming over her. She wished she and Bernadette had had this conversation so many years ago, wished that she hadn’t endured all that toxicity alone for so long.
‘After I heard Paul had been having an affair with his student at Emmaline Gray, I also heard you were expelled for plagiarism. I’m ashamed to say I felt brief validation, but then I heard you’d been expelled for plagiarising Juanita Gray and I felt appalled, knowing Emmaline’s daughter could never have produced anything worth stealing. The whole fiasco was an embarrassment to the academy and, to be honest, I felt quite sorry for you.’
Apple blinked back tears. ‘You have no idea what it means to me to hear you say that,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘Everything that happened there—’
‘It would have been downright haunting! What a catty hornet’s nest that place is. I’m surprised anyone survives.’ She looked sympathetic as she slid from her seat. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to have met you. Your business partner is eyeing us from across the bar, so I’ll leave you both to celebrate.’
‘Thank you. And yes, I’m glad we met too. And thank you for your vote.’
‘You were the best, as I said. I’m sure we’ll feature you in the magazine soon. Maybe a piece about your interest in FMFAS? A good way to showcase you as well as the charity. My people, your people, etcetera.’ She fanned a wave as she strolled away.
Apple soon felt Jackson slide up beside her.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. Now let’s get out of here.’
Jackson led the way through the crowd until they reached the wharf. Apple inhaled the mercifully cool night air as she gazed up at the dark sky. They strolled to the railing and Apple folded over to stare down into the undulating water.
‘Thank God. It’s over.’
‘What did Bernadette say?’
‘A few things.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, incredibly. Everything’s fine.’
‘Are you? Really?’
‘Very much so.’
Jackson shoved her hands through her hair and sighed. ‘Thank God. Helps to have more than one fashion rag on side.’
31
Apple wished she could stop thinking about Charlie. Fresh thoughts of him had appeared on the way back from the after-party, along with a completely unfounded but renewed hope. Something about the disentanglement from Bernadette, the healing, gave her a sense of liberation, a clean slate upon which she could write a love story she could be proud of.
Then the hope vanished with a message from Jill.
She congratulated Apple on her win, and added she was sure Charlie would have congratulated her too were he not living abroad. And Apple remembered that it had ended, that no affection remained for her, nor even for the city where she lived.
The weeks that followed Future Salon were peppered with March press duties and managing stock levels as orders flooded in. One afternoon Jackson slammed down the phone, hooting.
‘The world’s biggest online retailer of couture just ordered the whole range.’
‘Empire Pedestrian?’ Apple stared.
‘Kelly Porter died over your show at Future Salon, loved it, loves you, wants it, all of it. Yes, fucking yes!’ Jackson punched the air, and Apple watched her, feeling satisfaction bloom – hope and joy.
‘How long do you think we can hold out before we have to start hiring new people?’ Jackson asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘More than anything, I’m worried that our local dressmakers won’t be able to keep up. Actually, I know they won’t. We might have to go offshore, find somewhere ethical that can produce fast and at scale, within budget.’
Apple’s phone lit up. She glanced at it, thought at first she’d misread the name, then slowly reached out, her fingers sliding around the cool device as she brought it close.
I need your help.
‘Who is it?’ Jackson asked.
Apple reread the words, unable to make sense of them.
Jackson came over. ‘Who is it?’ she said again, as a second message appeared.
For a change, it’s me who needs your help. Are you in town? I’m at
15 Alexander Pl, East Melbourne.
‘For God’s sake, who—’
‘It’s Charlie.’
Apple tracked the address as her cab crawled across town. She hadn’t let go of her phone since the moment she’d picked it up, afraid that if she did, the messages would disappear, that it would be like they’d never come at all.
She stared down at Charlie’s words, fidgeting.
Large period homes lined a wide road in the leafy East Melbourne street. At number 15, the cab stopped. Apple climbed out, paid and stood on the pavement, looking alert, then opened the iron gate of a grand Victorian – two storeys of stone. She took the stairs to the verandah, filigree ironwork arching overhead, reached the front door and found it ajar.
‘Hello?’ Apple hesitated before peering through the gap.
There was silence. She called out again.
‘Hello?’ came a woman’s reply, then a woman, neat in a navy pantsuit as she hurried to pull the door wide. ‘You must be Charlie’s friend!’
‘I think so,’ Apple said.
‘Well, come in! I’m Kristy.’
‘Thank you.’ Apple followed her, glancing about, looking for some sign as to why Charlie had asked her there.
The first thing she noticed was that the grand old home was bare.
‘Isn’t it something?’ Kristy glanced back as she led Apple inside.
Smokey timber boards ran through a large entrance hall and into several adjoining rooms, elaborate pendant lights falling from ceiling roses into beautiful, lonely spaces.
‘Yes. Where’s Charlie?’
‘He just got a call, so he’s stepped out back. I’ll show you the kitchen. You’ll love it.�
��
Apple went to speak but didn’t know what to say as she followed Kristy down the hall.
‘Look at the incredible marble fireplace, and in the kitchen,’ Kristy gushed. ‘This is the original table too – solid oak, made in France. It’s selling with the house.’
‘Lovely.’ Apple fingered the worn timber. ‘But—’
One of the four kitchen doors swung open and Charlie appeared. He looked paler than she remembered, his hair darker, too. Summer in Europe had only just begun, and she wondered if he hadn’t seen much sun in a while.
His expression became one of discomfort and uncertainty when he saw her. ‘Apple . . .’ he began hesitantly. ‘It’s, it’s nice to see you.’
Her heart was in her throat, her emotions muddling as she opened her mouth. ‘Hello.’
‘I tell you, this boy,’ Kristy tut-tutted. ‘I’ve shown him five extraordinary properties and he still hasn’t decided which he prefers.’
‘Kristy is my property manager.’ Charlie took a step forward. ‘She’s helping me choose a house, a home.’ He strode over to Apple and gingerly placed a kiss on her cheek. ‘But I, ah, I’m finding myself quite unable to decide.’ He frowned, rubbing his forehead. ‘Can you help? For some reason, I don’t know . . . For some reason I keep wondering, keep finding myself wondering what you might think.’
‘What I might . . . think?’ Apple could barely speak.
‘I’m sorry. I know you have better things to do. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just—’
‘The house is beautiful, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you like it?’ Charlie’s face brightened as he searched hers, and Apple felt herself wanting to smile.
‘Well, what’s not to like?’ she said almost lightly. ‘Look at it.’
‘I told you, Charlie, it’s beautiful.’ Kristy beamed.
‘It’s handsome,’ Charlie said, uncertainly. ‘But . . . but is it a home?’
His gaze was still on Apple, his finger fidgeting with a button on his shirt.
‘Is it a home?’ Kristy laughed, taking Apple’s arm. ‘Let me show you upstairs, Apple, just quickly. It won’t take long.’
The Rules of Backyard Croquet Page 29