Today Sunni Overend stops by to share an excerpt from her book, March.
Excerpt from Chapter 1 of March
‘It’s your bloody fault, you’ll bloody fix it!’ The woman pitched the jacket onto the polished counter and watched it sail off to land in a heap on the floor behind. The neat pile of receipts Apple had been collating fluttered from the counter to join it.
The woman rolled her eyes. ‘And now it’ll be filthy.’
Apple didn’t find this funny, not at all, but as she bent down to pick the jacket up, she heard herself laugh and realised she was hysterical. Jackson’s high heels appeared beside her and Apple quickly hoisted the jumble of rabbit fur and receipts onto the counter and ducked through the swathe of organza draped across the doorway behind her.
‘Oh, how dreadful!’ she heard Jackson say. ‘I can indeed see those loose threads at the zipper and I’m more than happy to help. Let me see.’
The customer barked something in reply, something about nine hundred dollars, rip-offs, hating her wardrobe, hating her husband, and hating the way her neighbours wouldn’t mow their own nature strip. Jackson gave an indulgent laugh and Apple heard the till buzzing up a refund. She no longer wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry.
Suddenly, Jackson was there, twisting the cap off a bottle of mineral water and shoving it into her hand. ‘Gave the hag a refund, shite-loads of gift vouchers and suggested she get a divorce. Now she’s gone, and they’re the last three favours I’m going to do anyone today, bar getting your sorry arse out of here.’
Apple plucked at the sticker on the Perrier bottle and looked up at the clock. She rubbed her face. ‘Ugh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m hopeless this afternoon.’
‘I’m so sick of these trolls. You’re too nice, that’s your problem. You have to be more underhanded, give them the finger as they walk out, call them hags under your breath. They’re cashed-up, fucked-up, hideously made-up losers, not worth wasting your time on. Can you believe this one wanted to return that coat because there were a few threads loose? It would have cost five bucks to fix at a tailor. It was half price to begin with, for God’s sake. Pay for shrinks instead of saddling us with their emotional crap!’
Apple laughed tiredly and stepped back into the shop. She ran her manager’s lanyard through the till to start closing it up.
King Lear Lane was dimming through the front window and the bright pendant lights inside the shop seemed almost comforting. Every garment had been re-hung for the next day, the shelves dusted, and the polished boards swept down.
Sissy, the visual merchandiser, had come in that morning and put in a new Autumn Harvest window display with a rope swing, leather-bound picnic hampers, plaid rugs, and vintage crates of seasonal produce.
The girls had spent a good part of the day trying to bind the mannequin to the swing in an inconspicuous way. The mannequin’s shiny legs now pointed high into the air, styled in thigh-high silk socks, black lace-up ankle boots, and cashmere high-waisted shorts with a trailing sheer shirt.
Apple switched on the night lights that shone up onto the display. There was a knocking at the door.
‘Oh Christ.’ Jackson said. ‘The Crazy.’
‘Be nice,’ Apple’s said, singsong. ‘She’s your boss.’
‘I swear,’ Jackson breathed, ‘the closer she cruises to sixty and the more southward those knockers hang, the tighter she clings to us. I mean – I’m not ageist, but I’m not a life raft either. Own your sixty years and get over it already.’
‘Girls!’ Veronica air-kissed, as Apple punched in the security code and opened the door. ‘Mwah, mwah, how were sales?’
‘Slutty,’ Jackson said.
‘Busy.’ Apple smiled. ‘Customers were stocking up on weekend-away pieces for Easter.’
‘Brilliant. Nothing like an impending public holiday to boost turnover. Join me for knock-offs?’
They followed Veronica down King Lear Lane, her Mulberry calf-hair pumps clacking up the pavement. ‘Sissy’s window looked great!’ she called.
‘Yes,’ Apple said. ‘I sold fifteen boxes of the thigh-high socks this afternoon. People kept asking to try the brogues.’
‘Ugh.’ Veronica said. ‘I’ll have to get my designers onto shoes. I hate having to send customers elsewhere. We should get a bloody commission from Paquin for modelling those boots.’
The three reached King Lear Enoteca and pulled stools up along the outside bar. Veronica looked well and truly like she belonged, she was easily rocking her skin-tight body dress and her silver bob looked nothing but chic.
The bartender leaned over the sill. ‘Hello, VoVoChe babes. What’s on for tonight?’
‘Drinking.’ Jackson said.
‘Pinot, Benji, hun.’ Veronica said.
‘Rosé, thanks.’
‘Girlies,’ Veronica leant back in her chair. ‘I have a product launch thingy tonight. I’m desperate and dateless. Join me?’
‘Gah!’ Jackson said. ‘I was just telling Apple how annoying you are, you’ve got to stop hanging out with us. The natty old investment banker you’re hoping to snag won’t take a second glance at you if we’re there, take your own sorry arse out, you’ll thank me.’
Apple laughed out loud. ‘Jackson, you’re vile!’
‘Yes. You’re starting to sound like the lanky, bitchy, faux lesbian that you are.’ Veronica smiled and pulled out a cigarette. ‘It’s not my fault I fell in love with my business and not with a man. Speak- ing of love, how is the girl-on-girl action working out for you?’
‘Hottest sex ever. Arabella’s a babe.’
‘Oh,’ Veronica screwed up her face. ‘Please.’
‘Well,’ Jackson said, ‘if you’re as desperate and dateless as you say, follow my lead. Men have never been so available. Get yourself a lady friend and a man friend will soon follow.’
Apple cut a piece of fig paste from their cheese board and sat back. ‘I’ll come with you tonight, V.’
‘Thank you, Apple. We can make out, see what happens.’
Jackson feigned a gag and her phone rang.
‘I must say,’ Veronica said, ‘bisexuality suits her, the new cropped mop really sets off her jaw and that smutty mouth. Have you met the girlfriend?’
Jackson snapped her phone shut and stood. ‘Arabella’s picking me up,’ she said as a black Jeep pulled in and slim, black-clad legs and a mane of blonde jumped out.
‘Jack,’ Veronica gaped. ‘She’s fucking gorgeous.’
‘I told you, you’ve got to get yourself some sweet lady action.’ Jackson said, kissing Arabella as she arrived.
‘Will you girls be coming dancing?’ Arabella grinned.
‘They’re on a seedy man prowl.’ Jackson said.
‘Well, meet up with us later, if you want.’
Apple gave her a wave. ‘Will do. And thanks for today, Jack. Hero, as ever.’
Jackson pinched Apple’s cheek and strode with Arabella toward the Jeep.
‘Gawd,’ Veronica said. ‘What a depressingly gorgeous pair.’
It hadn’t been Apple’s plan to be twenty-nine and working in retail. It wasn’t that she thought she was above it, it was just that it didn’t match up with what had once felt like the promising beginnings of her adult life.
Though it was the high end of fashion retail, promo parties and in-store perks couldn’t make VoVoChe – Veronica’s store in which Apple was manager – anything more than what it was: the arduous cajoling of stubborn women with too much money and not enough to do. It was tedious, mind-numbing.
She loved fashion. That, at least, was a savior. Every time a new shipment of stock arrived, Apple gave each new piece a once over – checking the make, lining, fabric, prints and pattern before hanging it on the rack. It was the only part of the job she enjoyed. For a moment she was there, alive and present with the garment, taking in the story it offered, the life it promised to deliver. But then, she’d be called to a change room or would have to dash to stop someone from shoplifting and what had once
made her young, made her fresh, made her interesting, had faded, and soon she knew she’d be as beige as the VoVoChe customers and wallpaper.
She felt she had herself to blame in many respects. She could have taken steps to change things by now, pepped herself up and started again, but that thing, the event of years ago now, had thrown her off course, striking her confidence in a way that was more deep and lingering than she would admit.
The effortless routine of retail, had at the time, offered Apple respite. But now, with skills well beyond those needed to fold clothes, Jackson – with her scathing wit and endless banter – was all that kept Apple’s mind from slowly turning to sludge as she turned up day after day.
Apple butted the front door of the old red brick Windsor Fire Authority building with her hip, rattling the handle to get it open. The white lettering on the upper storey was now almost completely enveloped by a green vine.
Frankfurt slithered off the lounge and trotted toward her.
‘Frankie! You ridiculous little daschund,’ she grabbed him around his sausagey waist as she kicked the door shut.
‘Chloe?’ she called. Chloe appeared at the balustrade on the mezzanine floor.
‘Can I borrow a dress tonight?’ Apple waved Frankfurt’s paw at her.
‘Where are we going?’ Chloe wrapped her leg around the old fire pole and inched her way down.
‘What are you doing?’
‘A girl at work has started pole dancing. She’s gotten a ridicu- lously tiny hiney.’
‘You’ve got a tiny hiney.’
‘I don’t. And hers is truly tiny, I’m mean Tracy Anderson tiny. Zero jibbly bits.’
‘What you’re doing looks hellish.’
‘It’s vile!’ Chloe jumped to the floor and laughed. ‘I’ve got blisters all over my hands and I think I’m getting swimmer’s shoulders.’
With a perky bob and big boobs, Chloe was all maternal cuteness. She and Apple had known each other since high school and had taken out the lease on the repurposed fire station five years earlier. Chloe had recently gotten together with an executive at her mother’s marketing firm, where she worked, and had been at the fire station a lot less since.
‘So what do you need to borrow a dress for?’ Chloe said. ‘Can I come? Riley’s away and I’m all cabin feverish. Please?’
They skimmed Chloe’s dress bags in her robe upstairs. She didn’t love clothes, but she could afford them, so bought nice ones.
‘Wear this,’ she handed a bag to Apple.
The fringe of a short black flapper dress slid out. ‘No!’ Apple said. ‘Not your new Collette Dinnigan, you haven’t even worn it yet,’ she strummed the delicate tassels.
‘Oh, just take it.’ Chloe yanked it out. ‘But I do have a condition.’
‘Anything.’
‘I can wear one of yours.’
Apple hesitated. ‘Oh, no. Chloe, no, please don’t ask,’ she was annoyed that she hadn’t seen it coming. ‘You know I don’t like it. Don’t ask me.’
Chloe shook her head. ‘Stop this, stop it. You know I love them. Please?’
Apple started down the hall and Chloe sprinted past her, ducking into Apple’s room and yanking open the door to her robe.
‘Please don’t, Chlo…’
She looked at the row of clothes, almost hidden to the back, hanging lifelessly like old skeletons. She needed to get rid of them, it was well past time.
‘I want to wear this one,’ Chloe pulled out a tan leather mini dress. It had a tulip-cut skirt and a carefully folded box-pleat waist. ‘Look at that detailing, App – you’re so clever! And I know how flattering it is on. Stop hiding these away!’
Apple quickly shut the robe as Chloe stroked the frock. ‘I’ve said it a million times – they were made on my rotten old machine, the dress will fall apart on you and we’ll both be embarrassed.’
‘That’s what you always say,’ Chloe said. ‘They never do.’
Apple watched as she swung the dress under her arm and made off down the hall.
About March (2013)
From the cool heart of Melbourne to Paris and New York, in a vibrant world of Pimms and croquet, crocodile boots and cocoon coats, Apple seeks the thrill of creative freedom and the one man worth sharing it with.
A page-turning debut novel written with fun, stylish wit, March is too satisfying to miss.
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About Sunni Overend
She currently lives in Melbourne with her architect husband, where she writes, grows flowers on her balcony and pretends she’s too busy and important to browse recipes, dog breeds, cashmere and country houses online.
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About the Author:
I was born in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England and have always been a bookworm and enjoyed creative writing at school.
In 1999 I created the Elencheran Chronicles and have been writing ever since. My first novel, Fezariu’s Epiphany, was published in May 2011. When not writing I’m a lover of films, games, books and blogging.
I now live in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, with my wife, Donna, and our six cats – Kain, Razz, Buggles, Charlie, Bilbo and Frodo.
David M. Brown – who has written 868 posts on Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dave.
