The Deep End—S11¶
— Robyn —¶
✈️ 🕊️ 🌫️ 🌿 🌷 🪜 ☕ 🧠 💻 ꧁ 🪷 🌷 🌸 🌺 🦩 ꧂ 🧺 🔐 💼 💻 💎 🩱 🥻✂ 🩸 💧
😄 🧵 💛 👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 🚺 — —
Scene 11¶
🌷 🌸 🌺 Visible 🌷 🌸 🌺
[ C ] My polka-dot umbrella snapped at me as released the catch, as if to tell me it wasn't done playing the the drizzle yet. Neither was I. I grimaced and stepped into the quiet muffling Wardrobe did to sounds:
I wasn't early, but I was still the first one there.
Something about Queenslanders and rain.
I switched on the coffee machine with a click—it growled back. Too bad: I needed coffee. The coffee beans were clinking into the little measuring cup when the front door opened and talking invaded the quiet.
"Yes, I get it," Fiona said. "No. No... look. I'm sure we can sort this, Leo." A pause. A nod. A glance at me, and a shrug. And then, a number of quick nods. "I'll... I'll talk to her. We can sort this. Leave it with me."
I felt my stomach tighten. I turned back to the machine.
"Could I get you to make me one too, sweetie?"
I nodded. "I think we need double-shot coffee today." I tipped my chin at her phone. "Who was that?"
"Management." You could always rely on Fiona to be blunt. No sugar-coating. "It's those marketplace girls. They whinged to management and a couple walked off the job."
I set Fiona's cup on the table before her. "One mocha, no extra sugar."
"Charlotte!"
I pressed my lips into a wry grin with a side-long glance. She snorted.
"You know I need that extra spoonful—"
"Then go down to Zarraffa's," I said. "I'm not going to be an accessory to diabetes."
Her hand went out, palm up and she gave me a look over her glasses. "Spoon. Sugar. Anything else?"
"Sit." She suddenly looked serious.
Lacings¶
My polka-dot umbrella snapped at me as I released the catch, as if to tell me it wasn’t done playing in the drizzle yet. Neither was I. I grimaced and stepped inside, into the quiet Wardrobe that seemed to settle over everything.
I wasn’t early, but I was still the first one there.
Something about Queenslanders and rain.
I switched on the coffee machine with a click—it growled back. Too bad. I needed coffee. The beans clinked into the little measuring cup when the front door opened and talking invaded the quiet.
“Yes, I get it,” Fiona said. “No. No… look. I’m sure we can sort this, Leo.”
A pause. A nod. A glance at me, and a small, almost apologetic shrug. Then a few quick nods.
“I’ll… I’ll talk to her. We can sort this. Leave it with me.”
My stomach tightened. As I turned back to the machine I could hear the tap of Fiona's phone on the table.
“Could I get you to make me one too, sweetie?”
I nodded. “I think we might need double-shots today.” I tipped my chin at her phone. “Who was that?”
“Management.” Fiona slipped the phone into her pocket. “Marketplace girls. They’ve gone to Leo. A couple have walked off.”
“What about?” I asked, though I already had a sense.
Fiona let out a breath, leaning a hip against the bench. “Lacing.”
For a moment, I stilled. Then sighed.
“They’re saying it’s taking too long to change into costume,” she went on. “Getting in, getting out.”
The machine hissed softly as I locked the handle into place.
“It's just the costume. They'll get used to it,” I said.
Fiona glanced at me. “Yeah.”
I lifted the handle. The machine grumbled as first dark stream hit the cup.
“It’s not meant to be quick.”
“It’s meant to work,” Fiona said.
“It does work.”
She shifted her weight. “That's not how they see it.”
The flat white was a touch too hot. I let it sit on my tongue anyway, something to anchor myself with while Fiona spoke.
Fiona was choosing her words. Not searching for them—choosing.
That was different.
Each sentence came out smooth, almost measured, but there was a tightness underneath it, like something held just out of sight. Her shoulders stayed square to the table, her hands deliberate, never idle. No wasted movement.
I didn’t look at her directly. People gave more away when they thought you weren’t watching..
This wasn’t about lacing.
It was about making something fit that didn’t want to.
I felt myself shift a little—shoulders drawing in, just slightly. Smaller. Quieter.
Ready.
Ready for what, I wasn’t sure.
Fiona was still speaking—steady, reasonable—but the edges of it were beginning to press in. Not forceful. Not yet. Just… narrowing.
My eyes dropped to the rim of my cup.
Lacing.
It was such a small word for something that held everything in place.
If I gave on it—even just a little, just this once—I knew it wasn’t going to stay small. This was a design change. We tested even tiny design changes back in Victoria. And this wasn’t small.
It felt dressed up as something minor.
It wasn’t.
My thumb trembled as it traced the warmth of the ceramic.
Mara wouldn’t be explaining this.
The thought arrived, uninvited, and sat there. Mara would just say no.
My throat tightened, just slightly.
That wasn’t it. Mara would say no—and everyone would accept it.
I lifted my gaze again, not quite meeting Fiona’s eyes.
Celeste would make it sound like the only sensible option. A different kind of no. Softer. Harder to argue with.
I drew in a breath, shallow but steady.
They weren’t here. Fiona was. And Fiona was waiting.
"Well—" I stalled, just a fraction.
"It's a zipper, love," she said. "Don't you think they would have installed zippers if they'd had them, back then?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. All I could see was that fourth garment fail of this very bodice and then, Mara's reassuring eyes.
Why isn't she here?
"It's—a design thing, Fiona," I said. “They’re cut to tension through the lacing. If you change that, the whole bodice shifts.”
"Well, the tension now is zippers," she replied. "Do you think you could do it? Or do we get someone else to?"
“I can,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s going to hold.”
“Let’s not overthink it,” Fiona said. “If it works for them, it works.”
“Alright,” I said. “Then we’ll need to set them into the existing tension points. Otherwise the bodice won’t sit properly.”
That afternoon, Lisa sidled up to me with a puzzled frown.
“Zippers? I thought you said they weren’t meant to have zippers?”
“They weren’t,” I said.
I adjusted the bodice on the stand, smoothing the line where it had already started to shift.
“But we’re putting them in anyway.”
I kept my eyes on the bodice. My jaw tightened under her gaze. I set my hand on the seam, more to steady myself than anything else.
“Let’s just get them done,” Fiona had said. No-nonsense, purposeful. “We’ll worry about issues if they arise.”
I glanced at Lisa. Her head had tipped slightly, still watching me.
I gave a small shrug. A shake of my head.
“I hope it holds.”
It didn't.
By morning, the weather had turned. Blue sky. Sunlight through the windows.
As if nothing had shifted at all.
I was cleaning the milk beaker during morning tea when the door to Wardrobe banged open. Four of the marketplace girls came in together, voices overlapping.
“These zips—” “—I can’t even get mine to sit—” “—the material is tearing where the zip is pulling—”
I didn’t look up straight away. When I did, I glanced at Fiona.
She wasn’t looking at them.
She was looking at the door.
A man.
Her lips had compressed into a line.
“Anything I can do for you, Leo?”
“Those costumes—” His eyes landed on me, quick and sharp. His brows twitched.
“They’re tearing already.”
All I could think of was The Third Rung. Ignore static. Focus on the work.
I heard the fabric give before I saw it. The same girl was already pulling at her bodice, dragging it loose.
Fiona stepped forward.
“That’s no way to treat a costume,” she said.
The girl flicked a glance at Leo.
“They’re rubbish,” she said. “I’ve got cheaper stuff that holds better than this.” She pushed the bodice into my hands.
I turned it inside out, careful, automatic.
The tear sat just beside the zipper.
I looked up. Leo's aftershave had preceded him. His gaze lingered on the tear, then shifted to me.
“You understand how these are meant to sit, do you?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He stepped back. “I might leave it with you, then.” He strode away.
I turned to Fiona.
"Lacings."
Published¶
꧁ Lacings ꧁
[ Charlotte ]
My polka-dot umbrella snapped at me as I released the catch, as if to tell me it wasn’t done playing in the drizzle yet. Neither was I. I grimaced and stepped inside, into the quiet Wardrobe that seemed to settle over everything.
I wasn’t early, but I was still the first one there.
Something about Queenslanders and rain.
I switched on the coffee machine with a click—it growled back. Too bad. I needed coffee. The beans clinked into the little measuring cup when the front door opened and talking invaded the quiet.
“Yes, I get it,” Fiona said. “No. No… look. I’m sure we can sort this, Leo.”
A pause. A nod. A glance at me, and a small, almost apologetic shrug. Then a few quick nods.
“I’ll… I’ll talk to her. We can sort this. Leave it with me.”
My stomach tightened. As I turned back to the machine I could hear the tap of Fiona's phone on the table.
“Could I get you to make me one too, sweetie?”
I nodded. “I think it's a double-shots day.” I tipped my chin at her phone. “Who was that?”
“Management.” Fiona slipped the phone into her purse. “Marketplace girls. They’ve gone to Leo. They're talking about walking off.”
“What about?” I asked, though I already had a sense.
Fiona let out a breath, leaning a hip against the bench. “Lacing.”
For a moment, I stilled. Then sighed.
“They’re saying it’s taking too long to change into costume,” she went on. “Getting in, getting out.”
The machine hissed softly as I locked the handle into place.
“It's just the costume. They'll get used to it,” I said.
Fiona glanced at me. “Yeah.”
I lifted the handle. The machine grumbled as first dark stream hit the cup.
“It’s not meant to be quick.”
“It’s meant to work,” Fiona said.
“It does work.”
She shifted her weight. “That's not how they see it.”
The flat white was a touch too hot. I let it sit on my tongue anyway, something to anchor myself with while Fiona spoke.
Fiona was choosing her words. Not searching for them—choosing.
That was different.
Each sentence came out smooth, almost measured, but there was a tightness underneath it, like something held just out of sight. Her shoulders stayed square to the table, her hands deliberate, never idle. No wasted movement.
I didn’t look at her directly. People gave more away when they thought you weren’t watching..
This wasn’t about lacing.
It was about making something fit that didn’t want to.
I felt myself shift a little—shoulders drawing in, just slightly. Smaller. Quieter.
Ready.
Ready for what, I wasn’t sure.
Fiona was still speaking—steady, reasonable—but the edges of it were beginning to press in. Not forceful. Not yet. Just… narrowing.
My eyes dropped to the rim of my cup.
Lacing.
It was such a small word for something that held everything in place.
If I gave on it—even just a little, just this once—I knew it wasn’t going to stay small. This was a design change. We tested even tiny design changes back in Victoria. And this wasn’t small.
It felt dressed up as something minor.
It wasn’t.
My thumb trembled as it traced the warmth of the ceramic.
Mara wouldn’t be explaining this.
The thought arrived, uninvited, and sat there.
Mara would just say no.
My throat tightened, just slightly.
That wasn’t it. Mara would say no—and everyone would accept it.
I lifted my gaze again, not quite meeting Fiona’s eyes.
Celeste would make it sound like the only sensible option. A different kind of no. Softer. Harder to argue with.
I drew in a breath, shallow but steady.
They weren’t here. Fiona was.
And Fiona was waiting.
"Well—" I stalled, just a fraction.
"It's a zipper, love," she said. "Don't you think they would have installed zippers if they'd had them, back then?"
I squeezed my eyes shut. All I could see was that fourth garment fail of this very bodice and then, Mara's reassuring eyes.
Why isn't she here?
"It's—a design thing, Fiona," I said. “They’re cut to tension through the lacing. If you change that, the whole bodice shifts.”
"Well, the tension now is zippers," she replied. "Do you think you could do it? Or do we get someone else to?"
“I can,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s going to hold.”
“Let’s not overthink it,” Fiona said. “If it works for them, it works.”
“Alright,” I said. “Then we’ll need to set them into the existing tension points. Otherwise the bodice won’t sit properly.”
That afternoon, Lisa sidled up to me with a puzzled frown.
“Zippers? I thought you said they weren’t meant to have zippers?”
“They weren’t,” I said.
I adjusted the bodice on the stand, smoothing the line where it had already started to shift.
“But we’re putting them in anyway.”
I kept my eyes on the bodice. My jaw tightened under her gaze. I set my hand on the seam, more to steady myself than anything else.
'Let’s just get them done,' Fiona had said. No-nonsense, purposeful. 'We’ll worry about issues if they arise.'
I glanced at Lisa. Her head had tipped slightly, still watching me.
I gave a small shrug. A shake of my head.
“I hope it holds.”
It didn't.
By morning, the weather had turned. Blue sky. Sunlight through the windows.
As if nothing had shifted at all.
I was cleaning the milk beaker during morning tea when the door to Wardrobe banged open. Four of the marketplace girls came in together, voices overlapping.
“These zips—”
“—I can’t even get mine to sit—”
“—the material is tearing where the zip is pulling—”
I didn’t look up straight away. When I did, I glanced at Fiona.
She wasn’t looking at them.
She was looking at the door.
A man.
Her lips had compressed into a line.
“Anything I can do for you, Leo?”
“Those costumes—” His eyes landed on me, quick and sharp. His brows twitched.
“They’re tearing already.”
All I could think of was The Third Rung.
Ignore static. Focus on the work.
I heard the fabric give before I saw it. The same girl was already pulling at her bodice, dragging it loose.
Fiona stepped forward.
“That’s no way to treat a costume,” she said.
The girl flicked a glance at Leo.
“They’re rubbish,” she said. “I’ve got cheaper stuff that holds better than this.” She pushed the bodice into my hands.
I turned it inside out, careful, automatic.
The tear sat just beside the zipper.
I looked up. Leo's aftershave had preceded him. His gaze lingered on the tear, then shifted to me.
“You understand how these are meant to sit, do you?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He stepped back. “I might leave it with you, then.” He strode away.
I turned to Fiona.
"Lacings."