Chapter Twenty-Nine
Apart from the occasional trip to see her sisters in the Blue Mountains, Christina has spent most of her time at home or at the frock shop.
After years of living in a whirlwind – or so it felt – of auditions and meetings and costume fittings and filming and interviews and parties, of being told where to go, what to do, how to pose, how to smile, how to be, she’s had to adjust to having days that contain not much at all.
She felt guilty about the lack of activity for a while.
Not that she’s been idle – at home she cooks, she cleans, she helps her mother with various things; and at the shop she styles, she catalogues, she talks to customers, some of whom recognise her and want a longer conversation.
Then she realised that if she hadn’t had this period of relative idleness after what happened to her – the assault, then the story that came out in the press, then her banishment from her own career and her self-imposed exile – she may have simply collapsed.
Some days she still feels the shock and the grief of it and gasps.
Some nights she can’t get to sleep until one, two or three o’clock in the morning.
She goes over and over the events that led to this place, to this feeling that she’ll never see her old life again.
She knows it will get her nowhere but she’s not able to stop.
It is irrelevant that she left Los Angeles of her own accord.
She couldn’t have stayed. All the people she knows there work in film and television, but there would be no work for her.
Her days would be as idle as they are now, except she’d be surrounded by people who were still working.
That doesn’t mean the self-imposed exile feels any better than actual banishment, though.
Perhaps it’s worse, because she can’t blame anyone else. She can’t say she was made to leave.
Except she was, wasn’t she? All of those people she knew in film and television took the side of the man who tore her down, in more ways than one. She didn’t have to talk to them to know they did – it’s just the way things work.
She’s thought about trying to find an agent in Sydney.
Even though she and Lindsay haven’t ended their agreement in writing, she took their last phone call to be a severance.
And she still wants to work in the profession that chose her.
Which is how she thinks of it – a vocation, almost. So she finds herself trying to build a new life when she can’t access even the splinters of the old one.
She has to find a way to be Christina O’Flynn again – that’s what she’s realised.
Christina Clarke is, it seems, dead. She’s mourning herself, and it’s the strangest thing.
There are people here who can help her be Christina O’Flynn. Her mother, of course; her sisters. And Duncan, who calls every few days to see if she’ll go out for a drink with him.
She keeps coming up with excuses, but the mere fact he’s asking makes her feel noticed. And flattered.
‘He’s a nice fellow,’ her mother keeps saying. ‘Why don’t you say yes?’
Because it’s not time yet.
That’s the answer that keeps popping into her head, and it’s nothing to do with Patrick, her LA boyfriend, whom she hasn’t heard from at all. So maybe the more correct version would be: Because I’m not back to being her yet.
Duncan is interested in Christina O’Flynn, not Christina Clarke. Which may be the most attractive thing about him at this stage of her life – but she’s still not ready to abandon her old-new self.
There will always be traces of her anyway: in the money she invested, so sensibly that Christina wonders how she knew to do it.
She bought a flat in London years ago that’s generating income, and she has an investment portfolio managed by a trusted adviser.
So she doesn’t need to worry about money for a while.
And volunteering at the frock shop doesn’t just help her pass the time; it exercises her brain. She has fun styling the mannequins, and especially getting to know Daphne, who has stories galore about clothes and customers over the years.
Daphne is out on the floor today as Christina is making them coffee.
She’s already spooned out the instant coffee – two spoonfuls for her, one for Daphne – but manages to spill the sugar across the countertop.
Swearing at how so many granules can escape from one little spillage, she moves aside the in-tray to find escapees – and notices a pile of papers underneath.
She pulls them out – they’re drawings, of clothes. Jackets, skirts, dresses of all kinds. Some of the designs are innovative, fresh, playful even. And there’s a D in the bottom right corner of each sketch.
They can only have been made by Daphne. There are no other Ds here. But when did she do them? Has she always been designing clothes? Christina feels the tingle of curiosity about a story she doesn’t yet know.
Carrying out the mugs of coffee, she sets Daphne’s in front of her and smiles at Mrs Chen, who comes in once a week to see what’s new and is looking at a black-and-red jacket that is quite clearly miles too big for her.
‘Find anything, Mrs Chen?’ Christina calls.
‘Not yet.’ Mrs Chen puts the jacket back on the rack.
She always looks for jackets, preferably with skirts attached so they make a suit.
She is immaculately groomed and carries the same Yves Saint Laurent handbag each time she comes in.
It’s the only sign that she doesn’t have huge amounts of cash.
In fact, Daphne told Christina that Mrs Chen is a widow who lives in a tiny flat on a fixed income, but she loves clothes and doesn’t want to give them up just because she can’t afford new pieces.
Christina waits until Mrs Chen is at the rack furthest away from the counter before she turns to Daphne.
‘You design clothes?’ she asks quietly.
Daphne blinks but doesn’t respond straightaway, keeping her eyes on Mrs Chen.
‘How do you know that?’ she says after a minute or so.
‘I found your sketches!’ Christina can’t keep the excitement from her voice.
Daphne purses her lips and looks a little upset. ‘Oh?’
‘I wasn’t snooping,’ Christina says hastily. ‘I spilled sugar, had to move the in-tray. I didn’t know they were yours at first. But they are – aren’t they?’
They both watch as Mrs Chen comes back toward them bearing a scarf and a triumphant smile. ‘Rolled edges!’ she declares, proffering the scarf which bears the Louis Vuitton logo repeated. The rolled edges are the signifier that the scarf is genuine.
Christina hasn’t seen this scarf – it must be new – but can see it has a reasonable price on it.
That would be Daphne’s work: when there’s a designer item, she doesn’t mark up the price.
Her rationale, she has told Christina, is to make luxury accessible to anyone.
The regulars know that and most don’t blab about it, which prevents hordes of strangers coming to raid their racks.
‘A true find,’ Daphne says approvingly, even though the scarf wasn’t exactly hidden: it was wrapped around the neck of a mannequin.
Daphne takes Mrs Chen’s cash and writes her a receipt, and she leaves with a big smile on her face.
‘That’ll have made her week,’ Daphne says.
‘Great! Now … those sketches.’
Daphne makes a harrumphing noise. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re so good, Daphne.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Come on – you know they are!’
‘They’re just something I do to pass the time.’
There’s an uncertainty in her tone, but Christina doesn’t know her well enough to prod her about it.
‘Have you always designed?’ she asks instead.
Another harrumph. ‘I’d hardly call it designing.’
‘I would. There are some great clothes there. Have you ever had anything made?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Christina, love …’ Daphne sighs. She looks past Christina to the street. ‘It’s too late.’
‘Too late?’ Christina says, frowning.
‘I’m in my seventies now.’
‘So?’
Daphne’s face relaxes. ‘Bless you, but I need to be realistic. I’m not going to start making clothes now.’
‘Why not?’ Christina doesn’t mean to be pushy, except clearly Daphne does need a push. The designs are too good to go unmade.
‘I wouldn’t know the first place to start,’ Daphne says.
Christina stops to think. She wouldn’t know the first place to start either, but surely they can find out. There must be a seamstress who can do it. Someone experienced at interpreting designs.
‘But –’ she starts.
‘No.’ Daphne’s eyes are bright and hard as they stare into Christina’s.
‘My husband’s … unwell,’ Daphne continues. ‘I appreciate your interest, but I just don’t have the time to think about anything like making dresses. The sketches are for my own diversion.’
Except, thinks Christina, Daphne brought them here. They’re not at her house. For some reason, she wanted them here, where she’s surrounded by clothes and people who are interested in them.
Christina’s not going to pry further, however. She’s just going to let herself think about it all for a while. Because that tingle of curiosity she felt earlier is now a flush of inspiration, and she feels more motivated than she has in a long while.
‘All right,’ she says to Daphne. ‘I understand.’ And they chat instead about the latest fashions from Paris, and whether or not American designers are any good.
That night, though, Christina lies in bed thinking about what might become of Daphne’s designs, and when she falls asleep she dreams of dresses.