The Deep End

---

Scene 1

🌷 🌸 🌺 Visible 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Charli ]

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have begun our descent into Brisbane…”

The engine note thinned, the plane easing down as if the captain was pumping the brakes. I felt a hard thud in my chest—and then… nothing. Emptiness. A numb, floating blankness that made my hands feel slightly distant.

She should be here.

The wings flexed, shouldering us through the cloud. We dipped under the clouds and raindrops streaked along the window. The cabin rattled softly, like the whole fuselage was clearing its throat, and the light went flat and metallic.

I shot Sarah a nervous grin, the kind you give when you want to borrow steadiness from someone else. Sarah didn’t grin back. Her fingers were wrapped around the armrest like it owed her money and an apology… her mouth, a thin line.

When the wheels hit the runway—that solid, honest thump—and the engines roared at the rain, I felt her grip loosen. Not much, just enough to allow breathing to resume.

Rain had smeared the windows into watercolour.

The moment we stopped rolling, half the plane stood up like standing would summon the exit faster. Sarah stayed seated. She exhaled through her nose, eyes on her phone, unbothered by other people’s impatience.

“Change of plan,” she said. “No pickup. Never-mind: we’ll take the train.”

My body felt a little stiff when I stood, my bum numb from the seat, and I rubbed at the ache without thinking, then caught myself, suddenly aware of the public aisle.

Sarah lifted her carry-on down in one smooth motion. I reached for mine but my bag had slid back, wedged just out of reach.

“Need a hand?”

A young man leaned in, all sunburnt neck and eager smile. I smiled back automatically—because, why not—my mouth already opening.

“Yes, ple—”

Sarah’s arm went up. My bag came down. Quick, tidy, handle in my hand.

“Thanks for the offer, mate,” she said. It was polite enough to pass as friendliness.

The young man’s smile faltered. I looked at the aisle floor with my luggage handle suddenly feeling awkward in my hand, trying to work out why my stomach had tightened.

We moved through the concourse at Sarah’s pace: brisk. Sarah's eyes were straight in front of her, purposeful, not looking at anyone. Signs. Doors. Escalators. She didn’t hold my hand or hover, but just… stayed close, as if intent on filling space between us others might try to step into.

The first train was packed and steamy. The rain had stopped, but the damp air combined with heat and damp wool, leaving a sour aftertaste of travel sweat and over-worked deodorant. Bodies pressed in, shoulders brushing, someone’s backpack zip scraped my arm. I planted my feet in the exit area gripping luggage handles, handbag hanging off one shoulder, and felt the old instinct tug at me—fold in, make smaller, disappear.

Sarah’s hand landed at my elbow. Firm. A correction, direction. She shifted to the side, away from the open aisle, and I copied her, turned my body so my bag was in front of me. It was a tiny thing, but it made me feel less… accessible.

Sarah’s eyes flicked to my face, her lips tightened quickly in acknowledgement.

By the time we reached Eagle Junction, the sun had come out. The platform heat hit like opening an oven—drying concrete radiated it back up through my shoes. I found the ticket office and asked which way, voice too soft in my own ears.

“Last platform,” the man said, indicating. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I dug through my purse for a breath mint and my fingers found something cold, small, precious. There it was: a tiny white vial tucked beside my wallet like a secret.

J’Adore.

Everything in me leaned towards home, towards a little flat in Torquay, towards her. For a second it was like Celeste was close enough to melt into. I held the vial to my face, eyes closed. The thought of her made my throat ache.

Then—without thinking—I sprayed my wrists.

Two tiny mists. Soft. Private.

Sarah’s breath caught.

“What?” I said softly, already bracing. “Is that… bad?”

“That certainly smells nice, love,” a man said behind me—too close, too casual, too familiar, as if the word belonged to him.

Heat climbed my neck. Cringing slightly, I dropped my hands to my sides as if hiding skin could hide scent. My eyes went to the concrete like it could form a wall around me.

When I glanced at Sarah her lips had tightened again, her face cool in the way a door goes shut. She stepped in front of me as welcome as shade at noon. Practised. Almost... resigned.

The train screamed into the station.

Sarah touched my elbow—firm, guiding—and steered us toward a carriage towards the front of the train, her body between mine and the platform. We darted in, pulling our luggage like reluctant sheep behind us.

The carriage was full and loud for a long while—not music loud, just bodies loud. Conversation still wearing its outside voice. Phone calls on speaker. A child kicking the seat behind me in a steady, cheerful rhythm.

I stared out the window and arranged my face into commuter neutral.

Every now and then I glanced at Sarah. She glanced away almost immediately, as if she didn't want to provide an explanation.

Eventually the noise softened. The air didn’t get clean so much as… less lived-in. Left behind was a stale smell that had nothing to do with rain and everything to do with someone making a decision about soap and sticking with it.

The city started to loosen into gum trees and scattered houses. The light went softer.

Sarah shifted in her seat.

“How’re you travelling, Charli?”

I swallowed. My throat still felt tight in a way that wasn’t from the plane. “Okay,” I said with a tiny shrug, and then, because I was sure she could see it sitting right there in my chest, “I didn’t think it was going to be like this.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “What did you think?”

I shrugged again, still small. Missing Celeste had been a full-body thing—crowded, constant—like there wasn’t room left for anything else. And now, the real world kept crowding in.

“You miss her,” Sarah said.

It wasn’t a question.

My eyes went hot. I looked down quickly and brought my hand up to rub the back of my neck; it felt like cast iron.

And suddenly, the fragrance—J’Adore, still sitting on my wrists, faint but there—and with it the platform, the man’s voice behind me, that word like he owned it.

Love.

I shuddered, feeling slightly sick, and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Sarah was watching me. When she spoke again her voice was lower, flatter.

“Right,” she said. “Perhaps we should talk about that.”

I made myself look at her. Swallowed. Hard.

“About… perfume?”

“About you, hun,” she corrected, and it was so matter-of-fact it didn’t feel like an insult. “Out here.”

I felt my shoulders curl in without permission. Sarah noticed—I could tell she noticed, because her hand came down gently on my forearm: not comforting, just anchoring.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “Don't… fold up.” She glanced at the aisle, then back to me. “This is no time to make yourself smaller.”

I glared at the seat back, my cheeks burning. She could always see it happening. Sarah sighed, a small sound.

“You were thrown in a bit,” she said. She worried her thumbnail. “Wardrobe’s a managed place. There are women around you. Standards. Eyes on things. Out here… it’s different.”

I stared at her, didn’t speak. The train rattled, we swayed in our seats. She nodded toward my wrist.

“Perfume carries,” she said. “It travels further than you think. Smiles do too. It’s an easy way to be noticed without meaning to.”

My mouth opened and nothing came out. Sarah’s expression softened by half a degree.

“Hun, you weren't to know. You’re not in trouble,” she added, as if she could hear the shame forming. “You’re just… untrained.”

Untrained.

The word sat wrong, like fabric cut against the grain. I looked down at my hands.

Then—slowly—I pulled my handbag into me. I didn’t know why it made me feel better. It just did.

Sarah saw that too. She didn’t comment.

That was her comment.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice quiet. “So what do I do?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched again. “Here's what you don't do.”

I waited.

“Don't smile at strangers,” she said. “Want to be friendly? Choose who to be friendly to. Not just anyone.”

Something tightened in me again, but this time it wasn’t sadness—it was the uneasy understanding that I’d been walking through things without knowing I should brace.

The train hummed under my shoes, a steady vibration that made it impossible to forget I was moving.

I looked around properly this time. Not out the window: at the carriage. At who was left. Who was looking at their phones. Who wasn’t.

I rested my arm on the window ledge and caught the faint scent on my wrist again. For a second it twisted—platform, voice behind me—and I had to force myself to think harder, to bring Celeste’s face back into focus instead of that man’s.

I didn’t want the smell to mean carelessness.

I wanted it to mean her.

Just then, Sarah's phone pinged. She glanced down at it and grinned.

"Celeste."

---

Scene 2

💞 Weak Rails 🫧

[ Celeste ]

The front-door lock was too loud in the tiny hallway. When I pulled the door shut, the quiet inside the flat didn’t settle—it judged. I sighed. The tension did not loosen in my ribs.

Flicked the kettle on—there's always tea.

It was just for a month.

I threw my bag into a corner and curled up on the couch with my lecture notes. They made as much sense as if someone else had scribbled them.

I checked my phone, then checked it again, wondering if it was defective. I was sure I'd been 'studying' for longer than ten minutes.

Sarah has texted: "7:30 pm".

It was 6:30.

My thumb hovered. I let out a quick puff and dialled. The phone painted moiré. I felt my breath come quicker instantly as Charli's face appears on screen.

And then, my stomach sank a little. She smiled at me, but her eyes betrayed her lips.

Scene02a "Hey, sweetie..." I said, softly, carefully.

Her lower lip quivered.

"Hi Celeste," she said, barely above a whisper.

"How was the flight?" I asked, deliberately bright.

She nodded quickly and swallowed.

"Okay." A pause said more. Then, quietly: "I really miss you."

Something gripped my smile, even while my eyes softened.

"I miss you too, sweetie..." I said. "Sarah texted me that Queensland's very different."

Charli nodded. A little grin tried to form.

"Smelly-different. Lots of people smoke. And deodorant's optional. And perfume..." She paused.

"Perfume?" I prompted gently. Charli's face had gone careful. Her face fell as she bit her lip. She looked at me like I might snap.

"I..." She swallowed. "I screwed up today, Celeste. Like, so bad..."

"How?" The word came out clear, but my hands had tightened on the phone. She was shrinking—the old Charlie shape—and it made something in me go hard and protective at the same time.

“Charli.” I kept my voice level. “Listen to me. Are you allowed to make mistakes?”

"Not epic ones like this one!" She wasn't looking at me.

"Anyone hurt?"

Her jaw was tight. "No, of course not..."

"Right, then!" I said. I let that land. “Then we’re in the category of: 'learning curve'. Not 'catastrophe'. Tell me what happened.”

The words came in a rush—finding the perfume vial, how it reminded her of me so sharply it hurt, how she’d clung to that memory and then—how it had been spoiled. Her voice thinned. When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet.

"You do know what the name means, don't you?" I said.

She swallowed. "I adore..."

"And I do." I kept my voice steady, clear. "I adore you, Charli. Tonight, wear my perfume to bed." I pushed my chin up slightly. "And tonight, I'm going to wear your t-shirt, so I can smell you." I felt a soft smile ease the tension in my neck. "Because, as much as you miss me, I miss you more."

She stared wordlessly at me. Finally, her head did a little turn, as if she'd misheard.

"Really?"

I nodded quickly, blinking hard once. I forced a deep breath I could feel in my toes.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Sarah and I are going to meet Fiona's girls... I mean, her staff." A banner with the name 'Sarah' popped up above his head. "She's done the site visit: it's still not ready. Tradies everywhere."

"Did Fiona have any updates on when the crates arrive?"

"Day after tomorrow, she said." Her smile eased. "She's really nice. Sort-of like Mum, in a way."

"Have you eaten?"

Charli shook her head.

"Please do, Charli. Even if it's just an apple or something. Promise me you will."

"I promise. I feel better now, just because..."

"Good." My head bobbed. "Fruit. Shower. Perfume. Sleep. And tomorrow: be in your space. You have a lot to offer. Focus on that."

She nodded with each phrase, taking it in like I’d handed her a list for a new costume.

“I love you, Charli,” I said.

The words were barely out—I took a sharp breath in. Out loud, they tasted odd in my mouth. I’d never even said them to her face-to-face, only in the secret parts of my mind.

Her gaze held mine, deep and dark.

“I love you too, Celeste.”

The phone sat warm on my lap, suddenly heavy. I stared at nothing in particular. My stomach had that folding-in feeling again—the same one I’d had at the airport, watching Charli walk away.

My phone buzzed again.

Sarah.

I took in a deep breath and tapped my phone. No video call.

"Hey!" Her voice sounded cheerful, bright. So Sarah.

"How are things, Sarah?" I said.

"Hey, could be worse. Fiona was under-estimating the work still needed doing at the Wardrobe site, though. And I have no idea who signed off on this. No proper extraction for the steam irons. This place is already humid as blazes. Their toenails are going to curl in there. Power-points are too few, too feeble and in the wrong places." I could picture her pushing hair off her face, lips pursed. "I could go on, but anyway... I'll sort it. Not going to make a lot of friends amongst the tradies, mind."

"And the crates?"

"No shelving. And the rails are laughable—pre-teen dance costumes would struggle. And there's, what, three?" She snorted. "So yes, a bit of adjusting needs doing, here."

My grip tightened on my phone as I got up to flick the kettle on.

"Anything for Charli to be doing yet?" I asked.

A pause—long enough to feel.

"Yes and no. Charli is..." I heard a soft sigh—Sarah, at a loss. "Look, this is all a bit new... for both of us." I waited, watching little bubbles form at the bottom of the glass kettle. "I do think she'll get up to speed," she said finally, "but I'll be honest, Celeste, she's a bit of a babe in the woods. Just—in the world outside Wardrobe."

I stiffened.

"As bad as that?" I kept my voice level—it mattered—but closed my eyes.

"I'm not going to sugar-coat it, Celeste. She's got a lot to learn about... things. And I won't be able to set up their Wardrobe properly and mind young Charli."

The kettle gave a merry 'ding', content to have done its duty properly. I poured the boiling water over my teabag.

"Should we have her come home?"

"No!" Sarah’s voice had gone sharp. "No-no-no, Celeste, she has to learn." She cleared her throat as I settled nerveless into a chair.

"Listen, I've got an idea. I sent Charli to our accommodations with our bags this arvo. Figured she'd had enough. And on the site, I met the new girls." She chuckled. "They're really sweet. I think they'll take to her."

I pressed my lips together.

"Your idea?"

"Hang on, I'm getting to that." My impatience came out in an aggravated gust. "So, one of them, Brittany—she's really sharp, smart as a whip. She'd be the team leader, I reckon." He dropped her voice. "I pulled her aside and told her that I needed her help."

"Yes?"

"I told that this was Charli's first trip away from home and that she needed someone to..." Sarah rushed the next bit. "...keep her out of trouble. You know. Boys, and all that."

"Sarah!"

"I know, I know. Look, Charli's not a dummy. She's a quick read, just—new at this. And Brittany's from Sydney. City girls are clued up. Besides," she added, her tone sobered, "the place needs her! There are things she knows that I can't teach, even if I had the time."

I took a sip of my tea. Tasted like hot water.

Sarah had a point.

"And you're sure she'll be safe?" I said, hating how desperate I sounded.

"Celeste, she'll be in Wardrobe, most of the time. Brittany's promised me she'd stay close."

I took moment. Then, decided.

"Okay," I said. "Let's do one day. I'll have a chat to her tomorrow night, see how she went. If she still wants to stay—fine." I stared out the window at the fading light. "If she doesn't..."

"Right-ho. Then she doesn't." Sarah softened a little. "I have faith in her—she's a trier."

I closed my eyes and saw Charli's brave little smile, and the tiredness behind it.

I wanted Sarah's confidence.

I didn't have it.

---

Scene 3

🌸 Brittany 🌸

[ Charli ]

The sun drove hot needles into dry eyes. I squinted and rolled away, then sat bolt upright.

Reached for my phone. Tapped.

Dead.

Heart thudding in my throat, I pulled on black leggings and green smock. The pins I'd shoved into my hair clawed at my scalp. I glanced at the kitchenette clock, clutched the training clipboard and keys and ran out the door.

Last night's shower had slicked the clay-covered stones. My thin-soled shoes slid on slippery cobblestone as I hurried past workmen. One nudged the other. Their eyes stuck.

My neck shortened.

Jaw set, I tucked my chin.

I didn't run or slow, but lengthened my stride until I reached Wardrobe.

I pushed the door in and stepped into grit and noise. Dust and stale sweat bit my nose. Drills whined and circular saws screamed, the noise vibrated in my teeth. The workmen didn't even glance at me.

I saw Fiona and Sarah at the far end and my breathing eased.

"Sorry I'm late, my phone…"

Fiona smiled, shook her head.

"It's all good, Charli," she said. "Brittany and her troupe aren't here yet. Besides, I'm not sure how much work anyone is going to be able to do, today." She shrugged and grinned at Sarah and an electrician. The 'sparkie' was wiping sweat from his neck. "Except Sarah, of course. Ah! Brittany!"

I turned. Three young women were approaching. The shortest one wore a lopsided smile. She ducked her head.

"Sorry, Fiona.."

Fiona held up her hand, then waved it at the dust and racket.

"Can't even hear myself think in this mess. Why don't you girls go grab a coffee somewhere? Like, Montville… there's that lovely café you told me about. 'Poets', wasn't it?" She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Take Charli with you."

I bit my lip.

"Um, I forgot my purse…"

"Not to worry. My shout," Brittany said easily. "Do you want to leave your clipboard?"

"I'll take care of that for you," Fiona said. "You girls run along. Enjoy your coffee."

I tried to catch Sarah's eye. Failed.

Fiona noticed.

“I’ll let Sarah know where you are,” Fiona said. "Run along, now."

As we approached Brittany's car, my jaw dropped.

"Wow! It's so pretty," I said.

"And, it's electric," Brittany said proudly as we climbed in. After the dust and sweat, the car not only smelled new, but pleasant—cozy. "Seatbelts."

The windows shut out construction noise and morning heat. We floated out of the carpark, the turn indicator clicking softly as we turned onto the main road.

The tyres made a steady hush on the ridge road to Montville. Green paddocks streamed past my window, and every so often the land fell away into cliff and cloud. Behind me, one of the women finally spoke.

"Hi, I'm Natalie," she said.

"Nice to meet you. Sorry I can't shake your hand," I said. "I'm Charli."

I caught Brittany's lips twist a bit funny.

"The shy one is Ellen," she said.

"Ellie!" the shy one protested. I turned and smiled, tiny wave.

"How are you liking Queensland?" asked Natalie.

"Your mosquitoes are bloodthirsty!" I said. "The itch is awful, and you don't even see them biting."

The bite on my wrist was a round red dot. Brittany glanced over, shook her head.

"That's not a mozzie bite, Charli. That's from a midge. They're worse!"

I stared out the window, trying to ignore the itch.

"Queensland is beautiful… so lush and green," I said.

"You got here during our wet season," Ellie said. "Green hills, mozzies, midges… all goes together."

The car stopped opposite Poets, outside a Salvos. My hands searched for something that wasn’t there. I checked my hair in the visor mirror. As I got out, a middle-aged woman in a paisley caftan exited the store and smiled at me, her auburn Carole King hair radiating from her head. I smiled back.

"Very alternative town," Brittany murmured as we crossed the street. "I love it here."

An elderly couple sat near the entrance of the café, carefully spreading jam on their scones as if nothing in the world required haste.

I was studying the chalkboard when Brittany spoke.

"What'll you have, Charli?"

I bit my lip. "Just um… just a small flat white, thanks. Oh, with almond milk, please." Heat rose in my neck. "And, thank you!"

Brittany nodded.

"Why don't you and Ellie find us a nice table, Charli? Natalie and I can manage the drinks. Be with you in just a few."

Ellie and I sat down under a fan doing its best to even out the morning warmth. Brittany and Natalie appeared moments later.

"The barista said he'll bring our order out." She settled comfortably into her chair and leaned her cheek against her curled fingers. "So, tell us, Charli, how did you get into this job?"

I stared at the table.

"Well, it was a summer job thing…" I began, licking my lips. I looked up at Brittany's expectant face. "I mean, my Mum had me do some sewing before, so that helped." Brittany's eyebrows asked for more. “I guess I like figuring out how things fit together.”

"So, are you a costume designer?"

"Not really. I do repairs, and I'm a tester for new designs…"

"A tester?"

I bit a nail. Nodded quickly.

"Well, yeah." Her eyes flicked from one face to another. "Things like stays are impossible to get right at the first go."

"What's a 'stay'?" Ellie asked.

"It's sort-of like a corset. But isn't. It's supportive, not as constricting."

"Do our costumes include stays?" asked Natalie.

"Stays are from the 1700s. This Faire is historically set in the 1830s… so no. Technically, corsets." The women groaned. "But, we designed them for movement and breath," I said. "We were thinking of your humidity and everything. And they're not 'one size fits all'." The grimacing eased a fraction.

"Look, I get we won't be wearing them, except for testing," Brittany said. "But the actresses would whinge if the costumes are too uncomfortable. By the way, what are they made of?"

"A sort of cotton called 'coutil', and linen. And some light boning for structure."

"Have you worn one? Like, all day?" Ellie asked.

I nodded.

"I had to test every costume for at least a day, sometimes for longer, just to check seams and all that. So yeah, I wore one. And it was not tailored for me, either."

I bit the inside of my mouth. Brittany's eyebrows shot up.

"What do you mean?"

I held my breath for a long moment.

"We do special fittings if needed," I said. My lips stayed parted. I flicked a glance at Brittany. Her lower lip rose briefly into a puzzled frown and then she gave a tiny shrug.

I exhaled slowly as our coffees arrived. The barista had a white towel draped over his left forearm.

"Voilà, mesdemoiselles," he said. "I have an iced coffee… two Cappuccinos… and, a small almond flat white for?" My hand went up and down quickly. "You are… on holidays?"

"No, I'm here for work," I said with furtive glances in his direction. "You know, the new…"

"This Cappuccino is superb!" Brittany cut in. "I'm impressed!"

"Thank you! Will there be anything else?" he asked. I stared at my flat white, lips tight. Footfalls receded into the café. When I looked up, Brittany was eyeing me, her lips set in almost exactly the same curve as Sarah's yesterday. I grimaced. Brittany's smile broadened.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

"I didn't realise your Wardrobe actually designed costumes," Brittany said. "Like, make your own patterns and everything?"

My chest eased. Slightly. My mouth tried a smile.

"Yes, we took a lot of museum images and Celeste drafted a rough pattern."

I stopped.

Brittany's eyes softened at the name, searching my face. My hands circled the warm cup. I felt heat build up behind my eyelids. A loud motorcycle roared by. I snorted.

"Sorry, just thinking of home," I said.

"Homesick already? You just got here!" Ellie said. I grinned at her.

"Designing costumes sounds exciting," Brittany said, taking a sip of her Cappuccino. "Would you suggest going to design school for costumes?"

"Yes, I would. Celeste didn't, though," I said. "She's just really clever. Mara taught her. She's our designer."

"Do you think Mara would teach me, Charli?"

I swallowed. "Well, I can't speak for Mara, but I'm pretty sure something could be worked out. For now, the focus is on costume maintenance and repair, which is what I'm here to help with."

"But wait. You were a tester," Natalie cut in. "No offence, but how would you know how to repair costumes?"

"I ended up testing costumes because I could tell where the weak spots were, but I started by repairing. My Mum taught me how best to make a seam stronger."

Brittany nodded, staring at a spot in front of her for a moment. Then her chin rose and a frown crossed her face.

"So, it's all about seams, then?" Ellie asked.

"Yes. Keep seams flat, do not stitch in desperation, and the actresses' dresses won't fall off their bodies. That's it."

"Sounds easy," Natalie said.

"There's probably more to it than that," Brittany said with a little snort.

When we got back to the car, I asked:

"When do you think we can actually get to work in the new Wardrobe? Any idea when it'll be ready?"

Brittany shrugged.

"I hate this sitting around," she said, shaking her head. "You can go for just so many coffees."

I stared out the window for a while as we drove back, gazing down on the lush pastureland.

My hands opened before me, and I knew, suddenly, what to ask.

"Brittany, is there any special reason we have to do our training sessions in Wardrobe?"

She stared at the road, her lower lip pushing up a pout.

"Can't think of any. Where do you suggest?"

"Look, all we really need is a costume and a clean room with a table and chairs."

"The costumes are meant to get here this arvo," Ellie piped up.

"So, just a clean room."

Fiona's empty office smelled of fresh plaster and wood dust. It features a desk and four chairs. We had just settled into chairs when through the open window I heard a large diesel engine.

Beep-beep-beep.

Brittany's face snapped to the window.

"Our costumes!"

Fiona was standing in the loading dock, hands on hips.

"I'm going to need two of you to help Sarah," she said. "Brit, why don't you stay with Charli, make a start on your training? You'll be in charge of that part of Wardrobe, so I need you up to speed as soon as possible."

I stepped forward.

"Could we help unload a bit as well?" I asked. "I sort-of need to have a costume to demonstrate things."

Fiona had that Wardrobe face on—the one that didn’t invite discussion.

"We will bring one to you," she said.

Back in Fiona's office, I stared at my notes. The page suddenly looked… ambitious. I flicked a glance at Brittany. Her lips moved into a quick smile, her eyes on me, not on the clipboard. Studying.

I pulled in an unsteady breath.

"Our focus today is going to be on seams. That's where garments fail, if they fail," I said. A pause. Brittany's eyebrows rose.

"If."

"We spent a lot of time testing. Which meant wearing the costume during the day doing all sorts of things. Lifting, bending, carrying. And even having someone pulling at the clothing, because… people do. If we saw a seam that was weak, we first tried reinforcing. We had to redesign it for bodies now—different from the 1900s."

"How?"

"Well, people back then were smaller. Like, physically. We had to design for—like, today's well-nourished young woman…" Brittany giggled. "What?"

"Well-nourished! That's such a nice way to say—." She pursed her lips with a sidelong glance. I shrugged.

"Obviously I could test for only a certain body type. I hope to have caught all the issues. But—"

Brittany nodded.

"We won't know until the actresses have worn them for a while," she said.

"That's right," I agreed. "And when they come in with a split seam, here's what to look for—" I began.

"Wait, what? If a seam is split, we just repair it, right?"

"Well, you actually want to document it first," I said. "Take pictures. Write down as many details as possible: who was wearing it, what were they doing. That sort of thing. If a garment keeps failing at the same spot, the designers need to know."

"Oh." Her mouth stayed open, for a moment, and she smiled. "And so, we tell you about it?"

"Oh yes!"

"You have quite a system." Her voice was warm.

I looked down for a moment, because meeting her gaze felt like stepping on a stage.

"So I document it," Brittany said, "and if it keeps happening, I call you."

"Or email," I said. "Probably email."

“Email,” she echoed, like she was filing it away. She picked at the hem of her smock, then let it fall.

“I hate being new,” she said. “Not the work. The… feeling like everyone can tell I’m trying too hard.”

I smiled, because it was either that or confess I was doing the same thing with my ribs.

Brittany looked up. “You don’t look like you’re trying too hard.”

“Oh, I did,” I said. “At first.”

Brittany leaned against the table, her head in her hands. "How long have you been doing this?"

"A while."

"And before? Was this your first job?"

"No, I worked in maint…" The word snagged like thread on a burr.

Brittany didn’t pounce. She just tipped her head a fraction. “Maint…?”

Heat climbed my throat. I stared at my notes as if they’d suddenly become urgent. My breath went thin.

A pause. The room didn’t move. Even the air-con sounded too loud.

“Maintenance?” she said finally.

My neck tucked in on itself. When I exhaled, it shook.

“Yes,” I said.

Brittany’s expression didn’t change, but something in her softened at the edges.

“Oh, okay,” she said quietly. "Cool.”

Outside, the delivery van's diesel engine coughed to life, growled and cleared its throat.

“I’m not judging,” she added quickly, and then, with a little huff, “I was a tomboy for years. Board shorts, surfing Bondi, black eyes. Wore my hair so short Mum used to think I liked girls.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Brittany smiled, but my cheeks burned anyway—not from shame, but from being seen.

“Liking girls is cool,” I said.

Brittany nodded. “True," she said, then added, her eyes bright. "Girls like Celeste?”

The door swung open.

Fiona came in with a complete costume draped over her arms like it weighed nothing. Natalie and Ellie followed, each with a box of accessories pressed to her hip. The room filled up in three steps: fabric, cardboard, other people’s air.

My lungs remembered how to work. I let out a long breath that felt like it had been waiting behind my ribs for ages. Fiona’s gaze flicked from Brittany to me to the notes on the table—quick, competent inventory—then back to the costume.

“Right,” she said, brisk. “You wanted something to demonstrate with.”

Brittany didn’t look at Fiona.

She looked at me—just once.

Her smile softened, then she turned it down like a light dimmer and reached for the sleeve of the costume, making space for the room to fill up again.

---

Scene 4

🛋 Your Choice 🛋

[ Celeste ]

I put the car in gear and drove out of the Uni cark-park, my spine straight, a quiet smile on my face. Last exam. The turn indicator clicked happily as I merged into traffic.

By the time I parked and shut off the engine, the setting sun was flashing in my glasses.

I sat for a moment in silence. Then pulled my phone from my purse.

Three messages. All from Charli.

I exhaled slowly as I realised my ringer was still turned off.

Once inside, I threw my bag on the table. My thumb was reaching for her first message when the phone rang.

Charli's face appeared.

"Hello, petal," I said softly. She gave me her best effort at a smile. "How are you?"

"I'm okay, Celeste," she said, but her smile was already slipping.

"Really?"

Her quick nods convinced me of the opposite.

"Tell me about your day. How's Brittany?"

"She's lovely," she said, then stopped. "How do you know her name?"

"Sarah's been keeping me up to date," I said. "Does she seem to be getting what you're teaching?"

"We haven't had much of a chance to cover anything yet," Charli said. "The place is in chaos, so Fiona sent us away for coffee. And—"

Her tone had changed. I waited.

"And?"

She swallowed.

"Celeste, I—"

Another pause.

"What is it, Charli?"

She pressed her lips together.

"Okay, so I'm not making massive mistakes... but a whole bunch of little ones. Like, leaving the donga without my bag and still not thinking about things like—" Charli stopped and bit her lip.

"Like most young women would?"

Charli grimaced. "Brittany reads me like a book, Celeste. And then, when I let slip that I had started at the Faire in maintenance, oh sheesh! I can't believe I just blabbered that out."

Charli’s gaze slipped downward, away from me. The smile was gone.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Charli sighed.

"I— think it's just a matter of time before Brittany figures it all out. I mean, she sort of sees me as a tomboy." One side of her mouth squeezed as her eyebrows rose. "But, that's for now! It's just a matter of time, Celeste."

"What are you thinking you should do, Charli?"

Charli huffed a sigh. "I dunno." She shrugged. "Should— should I just tell her?"

"Do you think Brittany would react badly?"

"Oh, I don't think she'd freak out," Charli said, playing with a tendril.

I nodded once. “All right. But listen to me.”

Charli looked up.

“You do not have to tell Brittany your whole history just because she’s noticed a few rough edges.”

Charli said nothing.

“Has she actually asked you anything direct?”

"Well, no." She bit her lip. "It's just that, there with you and Wardrobe, it was different. I mean, everyone knew. I didn't feel like I needed to hide something. I just feel a bit—"

“Exposed?” I said.

She looked at me, then gave the smallest nod.

“Yes.”

“No,” I said, quieter. “Not exposed. Unbuffered. There’s a difference.”

She frowned.

“With us, you never had to spend energy wondering what people were seeing, or what they’d do with it if they noticed something. That’s what feels different. Not Brittany herself. The wondering.”

Charli was silent.

“Someone noticing you’re not straightforward is not the same thing as someone being cruel to you," I said. "Your mind’s turning all uncertainty into danger.”

“Can you blame it?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m still not going to let your head hand your whole life over to fear just because it’s imaginative.”

She blinked, her lips quivering slightly.

“There are people in the world who would make something ugly of it. I know that. But you do not owe every new person advance surrender on the off chance they might be one of them.”

A small, uncertain smile touched her face.

"Thank you, Celeste," she said, her voice small. She sniffed. “So I get to choose how much Brittany knows?”

“Get to know her first, Charli,” I said. “Let her be kind to you a few more times. Let her become someone you trust. Then decide what, if anything, is hers to know.”

Charli's smile warmed, reaching her eyes.

"I feel like I'm home with you right now," she said.

My eyes stung, suddenly.

"You are, petal," I said. "That will never change."

---

Scene 5

🍹 Pub Call 🍹

[ Charli ]

The sun struck me in my eyes. I rolled over, then sat up as if electrocuted.

Not again!

My phone lay on the bed beside me. Useless.

I was halfway dressed, smock in hand, when I glanced in the mirror.

I made myself stop.

Splashed water on my face, patted it dry.

Put my hair up properly. A touch of mascara and a little lippie.

I selected a fresh smock, even though it was Friday. Deodorant, checked my nails, brushed my teeth.

I walked to the door.

Slow down. Deep breaths.

Grabbed purse, my dead phone and donga keys.

Clipboard.

Ready.

Women wearing Wardrobe's costumes smiled and waved at me along the new cobblestone street—no workmen in dusty hi-vis, but actresses already half inside the world we’d been making. It made the whole place feel as if it had turned a corner overnight.

I walked—chin up—into Wardrobe. My nose flared: clean cloth, steam, chalk instead of stale sweat and concrete dust.

Fiona was standing at the door to her office. Waved me over.

"Phone dead again?" Her lips curled when she saw the heat rise in my face. "Thought so. Just plug it in over there. You might want to get a newer phone, with a better battery."

"Or just remember to plug it in before you pop off to sleep," Sarah offered: she'd come up behind me. "Come, your students are keen and have a lot of questions for you!"

I could feel my chest tighten, but with excitement this time, not apprehension.

Three new girls were poring over a torn costume with Brittany, Ellie and Natalie. Brittany flashed me her morning smile.

"This is Lisa, Caroline and the blonde is Harriet."

"I go by 'Harri'," the blonde said.

"Nice to meet you. Welcome to Wardrobe." I flattened the split seam. "How did it happen, Brit? Did the actress say?"

"Well, she said it got caught on a wicker basket," Brittany began and grimaced.

Natalie gave a little snort, shaking her head. “Yeah, nah. Porkies. She just wanted to get to the pub early and hauled the thing off too hard. The seam finally gave up.”

"Well spotted, Natalie," I said. "And I think you're right. A basket would’ve pulled it different.” I glanced at the three new girls. “See how it’s gone along the weakness, not across it?” They leaned in.

“So we don’t just close it,” I said. “We strengthen it, or it’ll pop again. And on this one, we hide the repair.”

Ellie looked up. “Don't we always?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Depends what the garment wants to be. Some things you hide. Some things you let look mended.” I touched the fabric with one finger. “If it’s meant to feel worn, or rushed, or period-correct, too neat can look wrong.”

I could just see Mara shudder at the idea of an obvious mend.

“You want the reinforcing strong, light, and invisible.” I held up some material and gave it to Harri. She took it with an experienced hand, threaded a needle and set to work. I glanced at Brittany who pressed lips momentarily with a shrug.

A workman carrying a box labelled 'Cat 6 cables' approached us, eyes darting between our faces.

I pointed to Brittany.

"But—" she began. I grinned at her.

"Where's the laptop meant to go?" he asked her.

She frowned, then brightened as if she'd suddenly remembered.

"Just over here, mate," she said, indicating a place by the window.

I glanced over at Harri. Solemn, quiet, steady. Her stitches would have earned one of Mara’s nods.

A bang at the door announced the arrival of a group of actresses.

"We're meant to be fitted with our costumes today," said the robust girl. Could have been Sarah's twin, right down to the accent. "Hi, I'm Rachel. 'Rache' to me mates."

Natalie looked at the assignment sheet. 12:45pm. "You're early."

"What of it?"

“You’ll need to come back at 12:45. We’re not ready for you.”

The confident curve of Rache's mouth had flipped to a frown.

"You aren't serious, are you?"

"As serious as a heart attack," Sarah said from the doorway.

Rache stared, then turned on her heel, the little troupe flouncing off with her.

"Good on ya, Natalie," Brittany said.

The tearoom was still mostly dust and bare concrete, so we had lunch in the little courtyard behind Wardrobe. Brittany's eyes narrowed slightly as they flicked from my face to my energy drink.

"That stuff is so bad for you," she said, settling beside me and opening her little eskie. She handed me a dragon fruit. "This'll give you energy and enhance your beauty!"

I giggled.

"What?"

"Beauty," I murmured. I grinned at her. "I think I'd have to eat the whole dragon, not just the fruit."

Her brow furrowed momentarily.

"Hey, are you coming tonight?"

"Where?"

"To the pub. If you want, I could pick you up for prinks and—"

"What's 'prinks'?"

Her head tipped to one side.

"You know! Prinks. Pre-drinks."

I swallowed. Bit my lip.

"I don't get out, much."

"Clearly!" She smiled. "So, is that a yes?"

My mouth opened. Closed. She blinked at me. I looked away.

"Hey," she said, gentler now. "You don't have to, if you don't want."

"I'm just— not real good with... um, alcohol, Brit. Sorry."

Her arms came round my shoulders and drew me in. Warmth, and a real smile, close enough to feel. I hadn’t realised how tight I’d gone till then.

“Good. You can be our designated adorable.”

The music spilling out of the pub seemed loud even before I went in. Screens showing the footy, gridiron, and a tennis panel seemed bolted to every spare bit of wall. I looked around, lips tight. Through the glass at the back, I caught Harri’s blonde updo, blurred by the warping.

My hands trembled slightly as I walked slowly, chin down, to the swinging back door. Before I reached it, the door burst open, and a tall red-headed man came stumbling in. His eyes swam as they found me.

"Pissed as a newt. What a yobbo," I heard a woman say. I slipped quickly out of the noise.

Outside on the veranda, the music was still fairly loud, but no one was shouting. Brittany waved me over.

“You look nice.” She nodded at my necklace. “Ooh—pretty.” She beamed. “What are you having?”

I looked towards the bar. “I don’t know.”

“Right then. Lemon-lime bitters for you.”

"Wait." I bit my upper lip. "Um, you got coffees before, so it's my shout."

Her smile had a slight edge to it. She shrugged. "I'll come in with you. How's that?"

As we headed back into the noise, I tapped my fingers against my thigh, trying to remember who was having what. A loud rough laugh landed in my neck. I glanced at Brittany—one corner of her mouth lifted. She turned to the bartender.

"Two Chardonnays, a Cab-Sav, a diet coke and two lemon-lime bitters." She caught my arm. "You're not covering all this."

"Please, let me!"

"Charli!"

I carried the two lemon-lime bitters back to the swinging back door trying not to spill, and failing.

"Hey, we were just talking about Sunday," Natalie said to Brittany.

"Oh yeah?"

"Harri's folks have invited all the Wardrobe girls over—"

Brittany turned to me. Her eyes shone.

"Oh Charli, Harri's folks are so lovely!"

I smiled. Didn't say anything.

"You— are coming, aren't you?"

I smiled at Brittany. “Like… what do I bring?”

Harri laughed.

“You don't have to bring anything. Except your togs.”

"Togs?" My hands felt like ice. My smile slipped. For a second, I couldn't seem to get a breath in.

I shot a glance at Brittany. Her mouth closed slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.

"You probably forgot to bring those, didn't you?" she offered. My nod snatched at the lifeline she’d thrown me.

“That’s all right,” Harri said quickly. “You don’t have to get in. Half the time we just sit around and yap anyway.”

They all smiled at me as though that settled it. I tried to smile back. It didn't work properly.

"I wish I could come," Caroline said. "I have to be in Brisbane. I'm giving a class at the State Library on music theory."

"Oh, that's right," Brittany said. "How is that going, anyway?"

"Great! I have nine people coming now."

My shoulders fell the slightest bit.

Then I looked at Brittany.

Her eyes had softened.

She'd seen.

---

Scene 6

🥐 Over a Croissant 🥐

[ Charli ]

I sipped my lemon-lime bitters and watched a bartender prop the swinging door open. Bar noise—yelling at the screens, laughing, music—poured out, ten times louder. I closed my eyes, sighed. Looked for Brittany.

She was on her mobile at the bottom of the brick footpath, her body curled over.

Then, it shook.

My stomach dropped.

I set down my drink and grabbed my bag.

Brief wave goodbye to whoever might be watching. No one was.

When I got to her, Brittany was silent. I stood beside her. Her shoulders shook again. She looked up, glanced at me and then away.

"Toby."

I swallowed. My hands twitched at my sides.

I carefully moved closer. When she leaned towards me, I reached out for her.

She pressed into me and wept into my neck.

I looked down the empty road, the streetlights glowing peacefully. I gently touched Brittany's elbow.

"Let's go."

She nodded and held onto my arm, her jaw set, her swollen eyes staring at nothing.

The night air smelled of flowers mixed with snags on a barbie. Roadside gravel crunched beneath our shoes. My phone light reflected in the pothole puddles and glistened in the wet grass along the footpath to the donga.

The unwelcome lived-in smell met us as I opened the door. The open windows had done little to shift it.

"Can I get you anything, Brit?" She shook her head. "A tissue, maybe?" She sniffed and nodded.

Her lips trembled as she dabbed at her mascara-stained cheeks and sank down on the couch.

"He was my best friend, Charli."

I silently sat down beside her. Her eyes sought mine, then her face crumpled.

"And I couldn't even be there for him—" Her voice dissolved into tears. Her body shook again as I held her. No words. Outside in the distance, a bus started its engine and pulled away.

Brittany finally looked at me.

"I should have known this would happen," she sniffed, wiping her cheeks again. "His hind legs were never that good. I guess it's a thing with ridgebacks."

I took in a breath. Sighed.

"They're such sweet dogs," I said softly.

"Toby was," she said, her eyes on her hands. "Mum said she was there—" She swallowed, hard. Her chest rose with the effort of a breath. "He didn't feel anything. Just—"

A curlew cried—thin and eerie—in the darkness.

I got to my feet. Her eyes followed me, lost.

"I'm putting the kettle on."

The fan over the table spun slowly as we sat down. Brittany stared at her cup, worrying her teabag.

"Mum said it wasn't just the dysplasia thing," she said. "He had cancer. She said he quickly went downhill, in just a few days."

I leaned forward.

"What were your favourite times with him?"

"Taking him to the beach. He loved the beach, ever since he was a puppy."

"Sounds like he had a great life with you," I said. She nodded.

"I think I like animals more than I like people," she murmured, then caught herself. Put out her hand. "Not you, Charli. You're lovely!"

"No, I get it." My mouth pulled crooked. "Totally."

Brittany gave me a wan little look and rubbed her eyes, mascara shadowing her cheeks in the fanlight.

“You look shattered, Brit. Please stay here tonight. You can have my bed.”

She made a weak protest.

“No, I mean it,” I said. “I’m good on the couch. It’s cooler than the bed, some nights. Slept there last night under the window.”

I gave her a clean over-sized t-shirt and a new toothbrush.

"Coffee and croissants in the morning sound okay?"

I woke in the morning to the click of the kettle. Took me a moment to remember last night. Toby.

Brittany looked flattened. She hadn't gotten all the mascara off under one eye. She heard my feet hit the floor, gave me a wan smile.

"You didn't sleep much last night, did you?"

"I kept hearing him scratching at the back door," she replied.

I reached for mismatched cups.

Neither of us spoke as we stared at the steam rising from our tea. Finally, I looked at her.

"Did you need to ring someone, let them know where you are?"

"I texted my roomie last night."

"Oh, right-o."

Outside, a lawnmower coughed and caught. I glanced at the clock. 8am.

"Did you ring Celeste last night?" she asked.

"I texted her before I went out." Something warmed in me. Brittany leaned in.

"How long have you known each other?"

“Ages,” I said before I thought. “No, that’s not true. End of high school, really.”

"Where did you first meet?" Heat suddenly flamed in my neck. Her look sharpened.

I took a deep breath.

"In the girls' toilets at the library."

Brittany frowned. "What?"

I stared at her. Bit my lip.

“What's weird about is—” I paused. "I went in there by mistake."

Brittany stared at me. Her head tipped forward.

"By mistake?"

"Yeah." I swallowed. "I uh… wasn't meant to be in there."

She went very still. “Charli… what are you telling me?”

I glanced at her, my eyes stinging.

“I'm saying that people weren’t seeing me as… this.”

She slowly pulled her head back.

"Because—back then—you weren't living as a… girl."

I nodded quickly. A tightness grew behind my eyes. I glanced at her.

"That's right," I said. "Thing is: Celeste came into the loo, saw me, and thought I was a girl.”

She nodded once.

"And I didn't correct her," I went on. I swallowed.

Brittany went quiet. Properly quiet. She set her cup down and just looked at me, her eyes gentling as the pieces seemed to fall into place. When she smiled, it wasn’t surprise anymore. It was warmth. And something close to protectiveness.

"Same at Wardrobe," I went on. "I didn't correct them either. It— didn't feel wrong."

Brittany pursed her lips.

“Was that the first time it felt right?” she asked finally.

I shook my head.

"I never really thought about it. I just never… belonged anywhere." I shrugged. "Not until Wardrobe."

She took a sip of her tea, and I suddenly remembered last night.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said quickly. "I'd promised you coffee and croissants."

"I'll just have the croissant, thanks, Charli," she said.

"I can heat it up for you."

"It's fine," she said gently with a shake of the head, one corner of her mouth curling up.

We silently pulled flaky crust off croissants for a moment.

“Right then,” she said finally.

I looked at her.

“Sorry?”

She glanced at me, one corner of her mouth lifted. “That explains a lot.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. She turned her cup in both hands.

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” I nodded. “But… how did it go from that to this?”

I looked down at my croissant.

“It wasn’t one big leap. It was lots of little ones. They all happened at Wardrobe." I bit my nail. “At first, it was repairs. And keeping things neat. All of it.”

Another solitary nod. "You said your Mum taught you how to sew?"

“She reckoned every boy should be able to take care of himself. Mara liked my work, so I was allowed to come back the next day.” I stared down at my tea. "Brit, it was the first time, ever, that I felt like I belonged somewhere. Like, I was useful."

She leaned back in her chair, pulled the end of the croissant off, dipped it into her tea and popped it into her mouth.

"Is it nice?"

She nodded.

"Tell me about Wardrobe, Charli."

"Well, Mara is in charge—"

Brittany shook her head. "No, I mean, what you do there. You said you do testing… did you test all the costumes?"

"When Mara tells you to do something, you do it. She wanted to know where things pulled, where stuff sat wrong."

"Is Celeste also a tester?"

I shook my head. "No, she does admin stuff. She deals with work contracts, vendors…"

“And were you okay with that? With… testing costumes?”

"It bothered me a little. At first. But everyone was happy how I was doing it, you know—"

Her brows rose. "Useful?"

"Yeah. In fact, Celeste called me her wife."

Brittany's mouth fell open. "Were you okay with that?"

I shrugged. "Look, it felt a bit weird at first, but I guess she was right. Because the other girls at Wardrobe started calling me that too."

I peeled flaky crust.

"And then, they said 'she'."

Her lips pursed.

"When they were talking about you." I nodded. "And?"

I looked steadily at her, my head to one side. “And it made me feel… great. Like I was one of them. They were the only people in the world I’d ever felt properly good around.”

Heat suddenly burned behind my eyes. I looked away.

“You okay?”

I turned towards her soft voice and nodded.

"You don't have to talk any more if you don't want to," she said.

I gave a quick shake of my head.

"No, I want to tell you, Brit." I looked down, then back at her. I spoke quickly. “Something was happening to me. My body was—” I glanced at her raised brows, her parted lips. “I was frightened, Brit. Scared out of my mind.” My mouth was dry. "I panicked. Tried to make it stop."

I trembled.

"Celeste found out."

Her chair creaked as she leaned forward. Her gaze dropped, then it flicked back up at me.

"Was she upset?"

"Yeah." I tipped my head a little. “And once she knew, things sort of… had to be faced."

I tore my croissant in half.

"Anyway, I’m not having to fight it anymore.”

The sound of the lawnmower outside stopped. I turned my cup the other way.

"I didn’t understand it properly until I thought I might lose it."

My tea had gone cold.

“That was when I knew.”

Brittany held my gaze. “Okay,” she said softly.

---

Scene 7

👗 Rules for Everything 👗

[ Charli ]

Just as I pegged the last towel, there was a knock at the door. I turned, squinting into the light.

Brittany stood there in floral print shorts and a black T-shirt, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She still looked a bit washed out.

“What’s up?”

“I’ve decided you’re cheering me up.”

“Right-o,” I said. “What are we doing?”

Her mouth twitched.

“We’re going to a party. You and me.”

My shoulders started to rise. I winced.

“Pool party.”

She nodded.

“Please no, Brit,” I said.

“Oh, yes. You never learn to swim if you don’t—”

“—get in the pool. Yeah-yeah, I get it.”

She grinned and wiggled her brows.

“Also,” she said, pointing at me as though she’d just remembered something important, “I’m not Brit.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“I’m Brittany,” she said. “Only my parents call me Brit. I hate it, but they’re my folks, so—”

“Right-o. Brittany.”

She nodded, satisfied. Then her eyes narrowed at me thoughtfully.

“And I’m not calling you Charli anymore, either.”

I stared at her. “You aren’t? Why not?”

“Too blokey. It’s not you, it's the Prince of Wales.” One corner of her mouth lifted. “Charlotte.”

Heat touched my face. “Oh.”

“Much better,” she said. “A proper girl’s name. No confusion. Done.” She pursed her lips. “Go get your bag.”

I knew better than to argue.

A couple of crows had started a shouting match by the time we reached her car. The door shut with a thunk, muting them to a distant squabble. We sat in silence for a moment, and then the car moved off so smoothly it startled me. I’d been waiting for her to start the ignition.

“Actually,” she said softly, “I sort of knew.”

I didn’t have to ask. I gave her a sidelong look.

"How?"

“Charlotte, it was really pretty obvious,” she went on. “You just did things differently. Reacted differently.”

“For example?”

The trees gave way to houses. I looked out, then frowned at her, puzzled.

“Going shopping, girlfriend,” she explained. “Can’t go to a pool party dressed like that.”

“I thought you said it was casual.”

“It’s casual, not daggy. You can’t be dressed in what you'd wear to work at a party.”

I pulled a face. She wasn’t wrong.

“We won’t get you anything flash. Or expensive. Just… nice.”

I frowned.

“So, how did I react differently? React to what?”

She chortled.

“Well, when Natalie brought up the pool party, you went all terrified. You weren't like: ‘not in a party mood’, or: ‘really don’t feel like swimming’. More like you were facing the gallows.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t see your face!” she said.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “That obvious?”

“Yep. There were other things too, tiny things. But enough that ‘tomboy’ stopped making sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charlotte, there’s a lot girls pick up growing up that you didn’t get. It shows.” We turned onto a major four-lane road. “I’m sure some of the others picked it up too—”

I curled into myself. “No.”

“Oi! Chill, girlfriend.” Brittany’s tone sharpened. “Not the end of the world.”

My head went into my hands.

"Don't worry, Charlotte. They all love you. And they will all love the new dress you'll be in."

My head snapped to her.

“Wait. What if if they ask why I didn’t pick up a pair of togs when we picked up the dress—”

She glanced at me sharply. “Ever hear of ‘Martha Monthly’?”

“Martha Mon—” I began, then stopped, mouth open, eyes wide. “Brittany, I can’t!”

“Why the heck not?”

“Well, because—”

Did I really have to explain this?

“Charlotte, there isn’t a girl alive who hasn’t used that excuse, whether it was true or not. Just go with it.”

A familiar strain slid into my shoulders as we walked into the air-conditioned mall. I glanced at Brittany: she looked as though she'd already made several key decisions. Her mouth had that firm set to it.

We passed familiar department stores without so much as a glance at the sale racks out front. The shop we finally entered smelled faintly of timber fittings, a light expensive citrus, and that new clothes freshness.

Brittany moved to a rack with cotton tops.

"No." Flick.

"Nope." Flick.

"Not even."

She stopped at one top, rubbed the material between finger and thumb, looked at me and… flick.

We moved to a rack with dresses. She glanced at me, then wordlessly flicked through dress after dress. Pulled a blue one out.

"Hold that."

Flick.

Flick.

Pulled a rust-coloured one towards me. Held the skirt next to my face, and shook her head.

"Not your colour. I think you're either a summer, or maybe a spring."

My mouth went sideways.

"That matters, I guess?"

"Huge."

She pulled out a yellow dress with a flounced skirt, gave a small snort and stuffed it back.

Then: "Oh, this is lovely!"

She took a turquoise dress with cap sleeves and a square neckline off the rack, and draped it over my arm.

Flick.

Flick.

Finally, she stopped at another dress.

"How do you feel about salmon?" she asked.

"I prefer sardines."

I startled as she burst into peals of laughter.

"'Sardines' isn't a colour, you goose!"

"And 'salmon' is?"

She held out a pinkish dress, brows reaching for her bangs.

"Salmon."

With a tiny snort of my own, I took the pinkish—okay, salmon—dress. She pointed to the back of the store.

"Let's see how they look."

When I stepped out of the changing stall pulling down on the skirt of the turquoise dress, she shook her head.

"That's a no."

"Why?"

"You're already pulling at the skirt. Which means that’d be your entire arvo—tugging at it. Solid no. Besides, I can see your bra through it.” Her mouth curved as my face heated at once. "Know what I mean?"

She greeted the salmon dress with a slight grimace.

"You look like you're about to ask whether anyone would care for a cup of tea."

"The colour?"

"No, the style. It’s the frock equivalent of Mom jeans. You look like a Boomer."

A bit later I stepped out in the blue dress, biting my lower lip.

"How do you do up a back zipper?"

"Here, let me."

She spun me around—lips pursed, eyes sharp.

"Yep. That's the one, Charlotte. That's you."

"But how am I going to get into it on my own?"

"There's a trick to it. But yes—that really works."

I pinched the material. It felt like the good repair jobs Mum used to give me: proper fabric, not rubbish. Then I looked at the price and felt my stomach sag.

"'Buy once, wear a lot' costs way less than 'buy cheap, only wear once'," she said. "You get what you pay for."

I changed back into my top and leggings. When I emerged, Brittany was examining the label. She handed me the dress.

"Try it on again."

I stared at her.

"It's not a costume," I said.

"You don't buy a dress just because it's nice material and looks good in front of a changing-room mirror."

"Excellent. Now I get to struggle with that back zipper again," I said.

"Want to know the trick?"

"There's a trick."

Brittany gave me a look.

“Of course there’s a trick. There’s always a trick. Half of womanhood is systems nobody bothers to write down.” She stepped over to the check-in counter and returned with a ribbon. Taking the dress from me, she threaded it through the hole in the zipper tab.

"Right. First, get the thing sitting properly, or the zip’ll fight you. Then pinch the fabric together a bit if it’s pulling. Smooth."

She finished threading the ribbon and handed the dress to me.

"Don’t yank it. You're not starting a lawnmower. If it sticks, stop and reset the fabric. Take your time."

She sounded like Mara in Wardrobe. Except, those were costumes with lacing and ties, not a dress with a zipper.

Clearly, a dress was not just a dress.

When I stepped out again, Brittany pointed at a chair.

"Sit."

I sat. She shook her head, her lips crooked.

"You sat like you're about to have a beer with your mates."

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did, Charlotte. Stand up." I sighed, cheeks hot, and stood.

"Watch."

She sat down herself in one smooth movement, one hand flattening the skirt behind her before she lowered herself onto the bench.

“See?”

I frowned. “You made that look… like, totally rehearsed.”

“It is rehearsed. I’ve been a girl for twenty years.”

That made me snort despite myself.

“Right. Again,” she said.

This time I paid attention. I felt behind me for the skirt, lowered myself more carefully, knees together from instinct more than thought, then looked up at her.

She gave a slow nod.

“Better.”

Physics. I was back in Wardrobe. Looking down, I saw a skirt that had settle neatly. And then, became aware of how the fabric sat over my thighs. I shifted forward.

So did the neckline.

My mouth fell open.

The dress expected me to move in one line. And avoid any careless ones.

Frowning, I stood and took a breath. Tried a few steps. Turned. Sat again, this time as close as I could to the way Brittany had. Reached for an imaginary bag. And felt the pulls, the resistance. The seams.

I stared at Brittany, wide-eyed. She had folded her arms, her lips in a little pout, not unlike Mara.

"You know, this is what I did in Wardrobe, Brittany," I said.

"What's that?"

"Movement tests." I stood again, aware of how the dress moved. Sat down slowly, hands smoothing the back of the skirt slowly. "It's not just whether a costume fits, but can a person live in it. Actresses had to be able to lift, reach, fight off grabby hands, bend without falling out or splitting seams."

She nodded.

"Makes sense. You told me you had to wear them for hours at a time?"

"Literally days." I stared at the skirt. "Kind of weird, really. In those costumes, they came with rules built in. You could feel those rules, too. A bodice told you how far you could twist. A full skirt with petticoats let you know how much room you were taking up. Especially if you start knocking over milk-jugs." I took in a breath and huffed. "And stays? They told you where your shoulders have gone. Kept you from hunching."

Brittany's lips twitched.

"Like: bossy."

"Yes, bossy," I agreed and then frowned again. "But this—"

I stood and turned, studying the line of the dress in the mirror.

"Different rules," Brittany said.

"It's actually harder, way harder," I said. "This is bossy because—" My lips went thin.

"Because it expects more of you." I nodded slowly. "Those costumes you tested told you the rules," she continued. "Modern stuff expects you to already know."

I puffed a sigh.

"Yes," I said. "That's exactly it."

I took in a deep breath: it failed to settle me.

This dress comes with designed-in expectations.

It was comfortable enough, just standing there. Didn't pinch or drag or hold me in the way a set of stays would. But it seemed to presume a girl who already knew certain things.

How to sit.

How to lean.

How to move as though none of it needed thinking about.

I could feel the shape of the realisation settling. I glanced over at Brittany. She was staring at me with that sharp, measuring steadiness of hers, biting a nail.

"You're not in Wardrobe anymore, are you?"

I shook my head. "There, the costume teaches the body."

Brittany nodded once.

“And here?”

I let out a breath through my nose.

“Here, the garment expects the body to know the rules.”

She nodded once.

“Welcome to literally every shop aimed at women under thirty.”

“There's something really wrong with that,” I said.

“Maybe. But it’s also true.”

"That came out wrong," I said quickly. "It’s like: women’s clothing assumes someone already briefed you. Can't just chuck on a dress like jeans and a t-shirt. It's completely different. A dress has rules."

"Exactly. Rules. Which is exactly why girls help each other in change rooms, bathrooms, cars, formal nights, everywhere. Because half this rubbish has to get passed along girl to girl, while fashion expects those rules to come preinstalled.”

I took a few more steps in the dress, then sat one last time, more naturally now.

Brittany watched, then gave a single nod.

“You got it. Much better.”

I looked up at her.

“You know,” I said, “I honestly thought modern girls’ clothes would be simpler.”

She laughed through her nose.

“No, Charlotte. Just less honest.”

Brittany took the dress off its hanger and marched it to the counter before I could start objecting on financial grounds.

“Brittany—”

“Don’t start.”

“I only said your name.”

“Yes, and I heard the budget speech lining itself up behind it.”

I followed her to the register, still hyper-aware of the ghost of the dress on my body—where the skirt sat, how the neckline shifted, the strange new fact that a modern frock could require more thought than a period costume and still pretend otherwise.

The sales assistant smiled. “Did we find the one?”

Brittany answered without hesitation.

“We did.”

The assistant folded the dress with unnerving neatness. Brittany leaned one elbow on the counter and looked at me.

“You all right?”

I let out a breath. “Honestly?”

“No, lie to me.”

I gave her a look. She grinned.

The girl behind the counter told us the dress looked lovely on me. My face heated at once.

Brittany, of course, didn’t miss a beat.

“That’s because I picked it,” she said.

The girl laughed. So did Brittany. I only smiled, but as she handed me the bag, I took it carefully. Not because it was expensive, though it was. Because it no longer felt like just a purchase.

“Congratulations,” she said as we turned towards the mall. “You now own one socially competent dress.”

Outside the shop, Brittany nudged my arm.

“Next lesson,” she said, “is how to get in and out of a car without flashing half of Queensland.”

I stopped dead.

“There are rules for that too?”

Her smile was tinged with serene pity.

“Charlotte. There are rules for everything.”

---

Scene 8

🏊‍♀️ Diving In 🏊‍♀️

[ Charlotte ]

I had just realised my little red spray bottle of insect repellent was almost empty when Brittany opened the door and let herself in.

"Hey, you ready?"

I shrugged. "Sort of." I shook the little bottle and my lips twisted.

"You won't need that," she said. "You don't seriously think Harri's folks wouldn't have installed industrial-strength insect management in the middle of a jungle, do you? Their pool is where mozzies and midges go to die."

I looked around me. "So, what do I bring?"

She shrugged. "Your phone. Lippie. Hair tie. Your bag. They've got sunscreen." She tossed her head towards the door. "Let's go, girlfriend!"

The cicadas were so loud, their racket could be heard even through rolled-up windows. Brittany drove one-handed, sunglasses on, one wrist loose over the wheel.

“Right,” she said, as though briefing me for a workplace safety inspection. “So, a few basics.”

I turned in my seat. “Sorry?”

“Look, you do dot-points. I get it. I’m-a speak-a your language.” I snorted a laugh. "No need for a notepad, though."

I looked out the window. “As if I would.”

“Hey, wouldn't surprise me." She grinned. "Okay, so rule number one. If somebody says hi, smile and say hi back. Don’t look like you’re being served legal papers.”

“Since when do I look like that.”

“Pretty much always when you’re nervous. Rule two: after you say hi, ask something. Like, a simple question. Doesn’t have to be anything deep." My stomach flipped as the car jumped through a dip. "Actually, it's better if it isn't. Just ask something easy.”

"Not sure I get what you mean."

“Right. So, say something like, ‘How d’you know Harri?’ or ‘Is that a heated pool?’ or ‘Did you come hungry too?’ Or if someone’s got nice swimmers on, sure, say that. Just keep it easy.”

I folded my arms. “Say hi back. Ask simple-to-answer question. That it?”

“Just a couple more—keeping it simple. Rule three: don't make your answers an essay. Think 'short-attention-span theatre'.”

I stared at the windscreen, slightly envying the bug clinging for dear life on the wiper blades. A semi passed and the bug was gone.

“Rule four: if you get stuck—"

"What do you mean, stuck?"

"Hey, awkward pauses happen," she said. "Just comment on something obvious. The weather, the pool, the food, somebody’s hair, whatever. No one wants a polished thesis.”

I sighed.

“And rule five?”

“If something needs doing, do it," she said. "Offer to carry plates, fetch drinks, help tidy up. Girls forgive social weirdness quickly if you’re useful and not too full of yourself to help.”

I nodded. "Okay," I said through thin lips. "Sounds easy enough. But—"

“But what?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that your rules sounnd frighteningly easy to get, in here. Out there...”

The turn signal clicked softly. She turned into a very narrow road into the jungle. My stomach churned.

Almost there.

"That's all there is to it, Charlotte." My tummy stayed tight despite the cheeriness in her voice.

"Five things," I murmured. "It should be easy enough."

“It will be,” Brittany said, “because I thought them up especially for you.”

We walked along a little flower-lined footpath around the house into a total jungle. The pool was behind the house, nestled among huge trees and vines. I preemptively scratched at a itch that turned out not to be a bite after all.

I heard laughter before I opened the gate to the pool area. It grew louder as we stepped through—girls at the far end of the pool splashing and calling to each other. An older man in denim shorts and an apron stood at a barbie amidst a cloud of smoke. The sizzling-steak smell reminded me I had forgotten to have lunch.

"Oi! Over here, Brittany!"

"Be right there!" She pulled her dress over her head, chucking it on a poolside chair, and without a glance in my direction dove into the pool with only the tiniest splash. When her head emerged from the water, she whooped.

I stood motionless, staring at her receding back. My hands trembled a little.

"Hi Charlotte."

I spun around. Harri smiled at me, a Corona with a lemon slice in her hand. "I'm so glad you decided to come after all."

My cheeks stiffened with an attempt at a smile. After a twitch or two, I gave it up as a failed effort.

"It was so nice of you to invite me," I said. "I can't believe—"

I bit my lip.

Try again.

"This is a really neat place for a pool," I managed.

"Thank you. I hope you change your mind about going for a swim." Her eyes sharpened briefly. "But you don't have to if you don't want," she continued softly. "Drinks are on the table by the barbie. Help yourself to whatever."

I jumped straight to Rule 5. "Can I help with anything?"

She shook her head. "I think my folks pretty much got it sorted, but thanks."

Natalie emerged from the water. She didn't so much climb out of the pool as swoop out like a seal. She wiped water from her face and beamed at me.

"Yay, you came!" she said loud enough for the possums on the roof to hear. "Nice dress! They have some great shops in Victoria, don't they?"

"Oh, I actually got this just today," I said before I thought. Natalie tilted her head.

"Didn't find any togs?"

"I wasn't really in the mood for the pool today," I said, trying to make that the end of it.

Her chin went up slowly.

"Got it," she said with a nod.

"I love your, er, swimmers. They're really cute," I said. "That colour totally suits you."

Natalie grinned.

"Picked them up the last time we went to Sydney," she said.

Brittany appeared by her side, dripping on the warm wooden deck.

"I'm starving. Let's go see what Fred's cooked up for us."

Lisa was putting sunscreen on her arms as we approached the table.

"I thought you just put on sunscreen," Natalie said.

Lisa pointed to her russet locks. "Look, if your hair was naturally this colour, you'd be bathing in it."

"Got it." Brittany tipped her head towards the barbie. "Oh, let me introduce you to Mr Hallows, Charlotte." She grabbed my arm. We wandered into the smoke. My eyes watered and I coughed helplessly. A thick hairy hand appeared.

"Just... Fred," he boomed. "I'm Mr Hallows when at the justice department. Nice to meet you, love. And you're—"

"Charlotte," I said. Brittany gave a hint of a wink, her lips curved upwards. My shoulders eased. "Nice to meet you too, um, Fred. You have a lovely home."

"Thank you," he grinned. "It's simple but we prefer it to Perth."

My brows rose. I glanced at Brittany.

Perth?

Brittany grinned. "Yeah, me 'n' Fred go way back. He and my dad are best mates."

"Except on the golf course." He pointed a sausage he was turning at the water. "You should try the pool, Charlotte. We warmed it specially for you Faire girls."

A whoop and a huge splash on the other end of the pool rescued me from having to answer him. My smile came and went too quickly.

"I might try a bit of your lovely hors d'oeuvres, Fred. And those snags... you must be a master at the barbie."

He beamed. "I try..."

I selected some honeydew melon and a sausage with onion on a slick of white bread. Brittany eyed my plate, pressed her lips together, then looked at me.

“Okay. Tiny social note.”

"What?"

"Just— good job there's no blokes at this party."

My head snapped back. "What are you on about now?" Then I looked at the sausage in the bread and went still. “Oh.”

"Yeah. Oh. Same with bananas. Sends a message." Her eyebrows rose as she bit a nail. "Hey, gotta say: you're doing great, overall. Be right back—just going to go change."

I had just finished the last piece of melon when a strong barbequed-meat odour mixed with something less pleasant drew close.

"So, where are you from, Charlotte?" Fred said. The smoke had followed him. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment.

"Sorry. Smoke. I'm from Torquay," I said.

"You don't sound like a Pom."

"No, not the one in Devon. South of Melbourne. I'm helping Wardrobe here get up to speed."

"Right!" His eyes dropped and stayed there a fraction too long. I glanced down.

Did I drip something on myself?

Then, as my shoulders began to curl forward, Brittany appeared.

"Might show Charlotte the house, if that's okay, Fred." She grabbed my hand. I followed her, my eyes not really seeing anything.

The loading dock, the hand... and now, those eyes.

I glanced over at Brittany. Her look had softened.

“Sorry. Should’ve warned you. Fred’s harmless, but he can't seem to remember where a girl’s face is.”

We stepped into the living room. Children's toys lay abandoned mid-play in front of a huge TV screen showing some action movie. The boys sat staring up at the screen, transfixed, toys forgotten.

In the bathroom, Brittany pulled a lipstick out of her purse.

"You look like you've sort-of had enough, Charlotte."

"Nah, it's okay," I said, following her example. "We don't have to leave yet. I'll be right."

"We're not doing bravery today, girlfriend," she said, squeezing her lips together. "We can leave any time you're ready. Why don't we go over to the other side of the pool with Lisa and the others first, though? Grab a beer... might help you relax a bit."

"I am relaxed!"

"If this is relaxed, I'd hate to see tense."

I picked up a Corona from the eskie and we joined the girls on the deck near the forest. My hand went to my neck. I felt cool hands replace mine.

"Let me," said Natalie. "You look like your neck is going to snap in half."

There was a soft squeaky whistle of plastic as she squeezed lotion into her hand. I startled slightly at the cool touch, then sighed as Natalie’s hands worked over my neck and shoulders in slow, firm circles.

"This is so nice. Thank you, Natalie—"

"It's the least I could do. You looked like you didn't care for the attention you were getting there, Charlotte."

"Look, Fred's harmless," Brittany murmured. "He just doesn't realise our eyes are way up here."

My chest twitched, repressing a laugh. Fred was pouring himself a Jack Daniels, sloshing a bit as he was distracted by a black bathing suit diving into the pool.

The sun had set when we got into the car. I slapped at a mosquito.

"First one today!"

"You did really well, you know," Brittany said. "Everyone loved you, especially Fred."

"That's nice."

She laughed through her nose.

At the side of the road, a wallaby paused mid-graze to look at us.

"Not sure how I feel about this," Brittany said. "I heard from Fiona that if things get a bit slow, we're meant to help out at the Faire, in case someone cracks a sickie."

I frowned and shook my head.

"I have no idea how that would work," I said. "You'll be way too busy. Historical Fairs can grow. You'll need different kinds of costumes at some stage."

"So, will you be showing us costume design, Charlotte?"

"Perhaps. Not this go around, though. We still have a lot of things to cover."

She glanced at me. Her smile and her eyes weren't a perfect match.

"Yes, we do," she said softly.

I didn't have to ask what she meant.

---

Scene 9

👩‍🍼 Pitter-Patter 👩‍🍼

[ Celeste ]

I slammed the car door and stared at my phone for the seventh time that day.

No messages.

Even though it was a Sunday, I’d managed to convince myself Wardrobe needed me. I'd stayed there later than I needed to, tidying things that were already tidy.

I could feel my mouth thinning as I drove. The car engines and truck horns seemed louder this evening. Even the crossing beepers at the lights had more to say than I wanted to hear.

My jaw tightened.

Don't obsess, Celeste.

I pulled in at a drive-through bottle-o. Harsh fluorescent lights were not going to stop me choosing "Cat Among The Pigeons". I checked the year and nodded.

The sun had set when I pulled into my little parking space, grateful the visitors to the next door neighbours hadn't pinched it. Jasmine from the vine on the fence sweetened a weekend-weary evening.

I checked my phone again.

Nothing.

My shoes gave a hollow clack-clack on the floorboards as I entered the kitchenette. I frowned at the slight tremble in my hand as I poured.

I slowly selected a potato. "Brushed". I scrubbed the potato wondering at the term 'brushed'.

Brushed with what? There's still soil!

Checked my phone again.

The microwave hummed as I sat down with my glass and tapped the screen. The phone warbled, then warbled again, bright and pointless. I hung up, my grip tightening on the phone.

6:30 pm. Where is she?

I stared at my glass of wine, and had another sip. The silence in the room was insulting.

The phone trilled. I jumped, then took a deep breath. Let it trill three more times before I tapped it.

I tightened my cheeks into my best smile. The screen brightened, and there she was.

"Hi petal," I said.

"Hi, Celeste," she said. After a pause, "I so miss you!"

I pulled my head back.

"I miss you too, Charli." I paused. Charlotte's head tilted. "So, it's Charlotte, now, is it?"

One side of her lips raised. "Yeah, Brittany didn't like 'Charli', said it was too blokey. Fine by me." She grinned. "Tell me if you hate it."

I snorted.

Those were my words.

I wagged my brows at her with an honest grin. "Touché." My shoulders dropped—I let out a breath I only just realised I'd been holding.

"So, how is training going?"

"Yeah. I think they're getting it," she said. "Harri's got the hands—"

"Harry?"

"She prefers it to 'Harriet'," Charlotte said. "Caroline's into design—she's got great ideas, too. Natalie is going to be their Sarah: I can just see it."

"And Brittany?"

Charlotte bit her lip before replying. "Well, she's a bit of a 'jack-of-all-trades'. But I think she'll sort of end up as manager—"

I swallowed.

"In other words, my role."

"Um, yeah. Sort of. I guess."

I snorted again. My lips had gone tight.

Charlotte frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. Have all the costumes been distributed?"

"Yep. Every last one. And we've also had a couple of repairs. Something tells me Fiona doesn't think they're going to be all that busy, though. I think she's in for a bit of a surprise." She stopped, staring at me. "You know, it's nice up here, but—"

"But?"

Her lips twitched.

"Well, it's a bit party-town after work. Especially on Fridays and the weekend."

"So, like Melbourne."

"I guess." Her lips went sideways. "Not my thing. I mean, the pool party was, um, fun—"

My brows rose.

"How so?"

"Well, everyone was so nice. I even got me a new dress," she said. "I think you'll like it."

"You went shopping for a dress?"

"Well, actually, Brittany took me." The knot had tightened again. "She had decided something about what I was wearing." She shrugged. "But yeah, I like the dress. Paid a bit more for it, but then, I didn't get from the shops I usually go to."

“What did Brittany have an issue with?”

“Look, she’s from Perth. Her folks just bought her a brand-new EV," Charlotte said. "I’m allowed to be mildly suspicious of her standards.”

I cleared my throat.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"What, shopping?"

I nodded. She frowned. "It's a bit— new to me. There's more to it than I thought there would be."

“Mm.” I let the stem turn between my fingers. “And you think I’ll like the dress.”

One side of her mouth lifted. “Yeah. I do.”

We held each other’s gaze through the screen.

She let out her breath in a big sigh. "Two more weeks," she said finally. I pulled my mouth into a small, steady smile as I dipped my head.

"I'm proud of you," I said. "Fiona is really impressed how quickly her department is getting up to speed."

Charlotte found a smile, and kept it there. Her eyes had a question, though.

"What is it?"

She grimaced and let an impatient breath out through her nose. "Not sure how to—"

I flipped my hand.

"Just say it, Charlotte."

She took in a deep breath.

"Well, so—" She paused again. I stilled, waiting. "The pool party, right? The girls kept inviting me in." Another pause as she bit her lip. "Celeste, I couldn't—"

My mouth twitched in a small smile.

"How did you get out of it? No togs?"

Her face reddened. A laugh escaped me. "You didn't!"

"Yep. Invoked Martha. Hey, what else could I—"

"No, that was perfect! Good thinking."

She grimaced. "Have to admit, not my idea. But, here's the thing... I can't keep using that excuse, Celeste. And, to be honest, I don't want to, either." She looked down, her eyes serious. "I've been thinking about this a lot, lately."

"Of what, exactly?"

Outside, a lapwing screeched.

"Of, um, like... surgery?" Her voice was thin.

The screeching faded into the distance.

"Big step."

She stared down, her lips tight.

"I know," she said softly.

I took a sip from my glass. "Just checking. This really isn't just so you can wear togs, is it?"

"No, of course not." She finally looked at me—her eyes had reddened. "No, it's... I've actually been thinking about it, ever since I started the treatments. Off and on."

“Right then,” I said. “This is about something else.” The knot was gone. I looked away for a moment. “Tell me, when you picture it done, what do you actually feel? Relief? Or just less fear?”

She looked away, biting her nail. The clock in the kitchenette ticked.

"Relief?" Her eyes held the question.

"You're not sure?"

"No, it's not that. Just—" Her fingers stroked her temple. She frowned slightly. "I know this sounds weird, but am I allowed to feel... relief?"

"What do you mean, 'allowed'? It's your body, Charlotte."

"Yeah but—"

"I'm not following."

She gave her hand an impatient shake.

"I'm not saying it right, Celeste. It's just... don’t feel like this is only about me.”

I gave a puzzled snort. "About who, then?"

"Well, you, for one," she replied. “It doesn’t feel like something I can decide without you.”

"Oh." I leaned back with a nod, fingertips on my lips. "I see."

Her eyes sought mine.

“I know it’s mostly about me,” she said. “But it changes things for both of us, doesn’t it?”

"If you're talking about the pitter-patter of little feet around the house—"

"Well, yes and no." Her brow furrowed. "It's just that with surgery, there's risks."

"Pregnancy has risks, too," I said.

"True." Charlotte’s mouth widened without becoming a smile. "We have a lot to think about."

We.

That landed well.

"I miss you," she said.

"And I miss you," I replied. “More than’s sensible.”

---

Scene 10

🪡 Made Workable 🪡

[ Charlotte ]

The new kettle gave a merry ding, water bubbling furiously. I poured it over my teabag and watched the new girls file in. Lisa came over with her usual quick, birdlike energy.

“Morning, Charlotte. You were at Harri’s yesterday, weren’t you?”

“I was.” I smiled, a bit pinched. “I sort of stayed out of the pool. Not my day for it.”

Lisa’s brows twitched. “Probably the sensible option.”

I tipped my chin at the stack of dresses on the repair table. “We might as well get stuck in, hey?”

She nodded, tucked her bag into the cupboard, and came over while I read the tag.

“Seems we’ve found a common weak spot.” I pointed to a seam and glanced at Harri, who held up the garment she was repairing as if on cue. “Identical. I thought we’d sorted this back at our Wardrobe.”

Lisa’s eyes shone. “It must be so cool to design your own costumes.”

My cheeks twitched. “Design is fun, but that’s only the first bit. Then there’s the testing.” My mouth went sideways as I studied the seams. “I can’t work out why they’re failing just here. I remember testing this.”

Brittany’s face appeared over my shoulder.

“That’s one of the 'well-nourished woman' models, isn’t it?”

“Oh.” I went still. “Yeah. Good point. I guess I couldn’t have personally tested that model.” I handed the dress to Lisa. “How would you fix this?”

Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, stared at the seam, then took the dress from me, checking the thread and the inside of the garment before looking back up.

“Well, it looks like it might need reinforcing here?”

I nodded. Harri held up the bodice she was working on.

“I’m seeing signs of strain here,” she said, pointing to wrinkled cloth.

The 'well-nourished woman' model again. My jaw tightened.

“Anyone else working on the same model?”

Brittany raised her hand. “Not the same. Similar issue.”

Her dress was the 'return-to-work' model.

The door swung open and Fiona sauntered in with a breezy, “Hello, everyone.”

“Is Sarah coming in today?”

Fiona shook her head. “She’s a bit crook. Sounded awful on the phone.” Her gaze fell to the dresses on the table. “Why aren’t these on hangers?”

My shoulders tucked in.

“I’ll sort it, Fiona.” Brittany’s voice stayed cheery.

The steam press hissed as Harri lifted the handle. “One repair done!”

She was on her third before Lisa came up beside me, holding her dress at arm’s length, as if it might argue the point.

“I thought maybe you’d want to look at this, just to double-check I did it right?”

The sewing was meticulous. Her shoulders dropped when I smiled.

“Good work. Until you know how to use the steam press, I might let Harri do that bit for you.”

I was on the phone to Mara when Lisa came back. She took the remaining dress off the repair table, found the seam problem, and then waited. I glanced at her, brows raised. She gave me a quick smile, but stayed exactly where she was. I turned back to the call.

“No, I don’t think testing was as rigorous as it should have been,” I told Mara. “The problems are all in the same spot. On the same model—”

“Except for this one,” Brittany called out.

Mara went silent on the other end. I could just see her lips.

“Right, then. Noted,” she said at last. “Let me know if anything else needs dealing with.”

I turned to find Lisa still perched there, hands on her lap.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to do it the same way,” she said, her voice small.

Ah. That was it. Not the seam. Me.

“Sorry. I was happy with your last repair. Please carry on.”

She nodded and curled straight back over her work.

At lunch, the girls clustered round the takeaway containers and helped themselves. I was forking Pad Thai onto my plate when Lisa sidled up beside me.

“Oh, I love Pad Thai,” she said. “My boyfriend only ever wants fish and chips.”

Behind me, Fiona growled at the new coffee machine—a semi-professional Italian espresso model, solid as a tank.

“Does anyone know how to work this thing?”

I glanced at the grinder. The little catch-cup was empty.

“Have you ground the coffee?” I asked.

Fiona’s look sharpened.

“Well, obviously not,” she said.

“Right.” I set my plate down. “That’ll be the first problem, then.”

While I got things ready, Fiona stood to one side with her hands on her hips, watching as though the machine had personally offended her. Lisa came round to the other side of me, concentrating while I showed her the steps.

“Do you have to check the grind every time?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Once you’ve got it set, usually not. Unless the humidity changes.”

Fiona snorted. “We haven’t got time to start a romance with a coffee machine.”

It wasn’t until her second sip of cappuccino that she softened.

“Well,” she said, looking into the cup, “this is rather nice.”

“And not that hard to make,” I said, turning to Lisa, who’d made it. “Was it?”

Lisa smiled—proud, but relieved.

She hadn’t needed much. Just somewhere to put her hands.

Without anyone saying so, things had started coming to me to be made workable.

Brittany came into the tearoom with her clipboard.

“Almost time for marketplace-actress dress adjustments.”

A bang on the door announced their arrival. Wardrobe’s usual soft murmur gave way to outdoor voices and raucous laughter from the try-on booths. One of the heavier-set girls, her face clumsily smudged with makeup to resemble dirt, came straight up to me, lips thin and tight.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get into these costumes?”

At the far end of the workroom, Caroline raised her head. The rest of the room was already listening. Harri bent lower over her work. Brittany’s clipboard suddenly needed studying.

I grimaced and nodded. “Yes, I do. I wore that dress for weeks while testing.”

Her face hardened.

“We’re in 2020, not 1820. Can’t we do zippers?”

“A zipped bodice sits differently from a laced one.” I kept my face steady. “And how a costume ages depends on design. You don’t buy new costumes every season. These are meant to be worn over and over. The longer they’re worn, the more authentic they look.”

She turned to Fiona instead.

“I don’t know how much longer I want to put up with this.”

“That’s a choice you’ll have to make for yourself,” Fiona said. “We have standards to maintain.”

The loading-bay door banged open.

Two men stepped in—and stopped.

Fiona was already moving. Hands up. “No. Not through here.”

A needle paused mid-air.

“Brittany, we lock after delivery.” She turned without breaking stride. “Gentlemen—this way.”

She shepherded them toward the front office. They went, casting quick looks across the room.

Brittany’s eyes were shut tight, her mouth a thin line.

“You might want locks that stay latched,” I said gently. “We had to do that ourselves down at our Wardrobe.”

The needle went down again. I heard Lisa let out a breath.

“Wow, really?”

“We turned changing-room access into a procedure,” I said. “Privacy is safety, and safety is non-negotiable.”

Only one more clothing item came through the door that afternoon: a torn pair of soldier’s pants, which Brittany immediately took over.

“Make them look repaired?”

“You’ll need this.” I handed her a coarser needle and thread. She set aside the finer pair in her hand, her mouth twisting slightly. “They’ll need a whip-stitch. That’s what was done to tears back then.”

“You must have really studied this,” Lisa said.

I shrugged. Celeste, Mara and I had worked out strategies for different repairs.

“Some things you figure out as you go.” I rubbed the material between my fingers. “Tough. Durable. Not all that comfortable, but authentic. The clothes back then had to last. We decided this was how they had to be repaired.”

The room seemed to settle on my shoulders.

Lisa’s eyes never left me.

I stilled.

No one had said I was responsible.

They had simply begun behaving as though I might be.

---

Scene 11

꧁ 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."

---

Scene 12

🌷 🌸 🌺 Polyester 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Celeste ]

I opened the armoire. Autumn dictated trousers, but which blouse? I pulled a silk cream-coloured Rhea off its hangar, then put it back: no cardigan to suit.

Ten minutes later, makeup done, hair managed, trousers zipped and blouse tucked I turned slowly in front of the mirror.

Wrong shoes. My lips tightened. Kicked them off, and slipped into my usual black ones.

And thought of Charlotte.

I barely heard my phone chirping. I pulled it from my purse.

“Sarah? All good?”

“I'm fine, thanks. I’m actually at the airport, and was wondering if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Stay there,” I said. “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

I kicked of my black shoes, pulled off the trousers and pulled on a skirt.

Mara must have called her back to Victoria.

The phone buzzed in my hand.

Fiona.

"Hi, Fiona, how are things?" Silence on the other end. I stilled. "Hello?"

"Oh, hi, sorry... just talking to Charlotte. Look, we had a bit of an issue here."

"Oh?"

"Some of the costumes were... failing. And were cumbersome to get in and out of."

The air outside the apartment had that characteristic autumn crispness. I aimed my key at the car. It beeped cheerfully.

"Right?"

I climbed into the car. "I'm going to put you on speaker," I said with a small shiver, wishing I'd stuck with trousers.

"So, Leo—he's from the Faire Management team—he was not pleased that the marketplace girls' dresses were holding up so poorly."

The turn signal blinked and I turned onto the street. Oddly empty for a Friday.

“Where were the costumes failing?”

A long pause.

“Hello?”

“No, I’m here,” she said. “At first—it looked like handling. The girls weren’t exactly gentle.”

“Sorry, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Okay. At first, it was the waist seam. Where the bodice meets the skirt.” A pause. I frowned. I distinctly remembered Charlotte testing this over and over. “It was mostly in the ‘well-nourished woman’ series,” she went on, and then another long pause.

“And then…”

“They started failing alongside the zipper.”

My engine whined as I sped up to catch the yellow light.

“What zipper?”

“Um, well, Charlotte installed some zippers.”

I said nothing. The houses gave way to paddocks. I waited.

“Well, we asked her to install them. To make changing easier.”

I felt my neck tighten as I stared down the road.

Of course they did.

"How many costumes are affected?"

"About a dozen or so."

I sighed. Nodded.

"Thank you, Fiona. Quick question," I added. "Are they repairable?"

"Charlotte's working miracles. She's managed to correct most of the issues. I just wanted to let you know," she said, "because you might be hearing from the lads in Management."

A semi thundered past me on the motorway. I grimaced as I looked at my speedometer. 85. I stepped on the accelerator.

Focus on your driving, Celeste.

Sarah waved at me as I pulled into the passenger pickup zone. The air was warm, thick with the smell of spent jet fuel, making it feel warmer still. I gave her a hug—her hair was all askew from the flight. She landed in her seat with a satisfied sigh.

"Oh Celeste, it's so good to be home!"

“Good to have you back.”

I braked—late—as a tinny beep cut through behind us. A muscle car roared past. “When did Mara ring you?”

"She didn't. Lauren did."

I frowned.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she's been having dramas with Roger. He's being a royal—"

The blast of a horn cut her off. A semi thundered past, chains rattling. I stilled, eyes on the road. Waited for it to clear.

“So—” I said, once it had. “How is Charlotte?”

“Oh, Celeste, she’s coming into her own!”

I glanced at her, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“She’s got this, Celeste.” She shifted her seat back a fraction. I heard it click into place. “Look, my work up there was done, anyway. And Charlotte’s been making really good decisions.”

"Really?"

Sarah frowned at me. "What do you mean, 'really'?"

"Did she run putting zippers into the costumes by you?"

"Zippers?" Her head snapped back, her frown morphing into a stare. "What zippers?"

As I filled her in on my chat with Fiona, the stare settled into thin lips, her focus, on the road. The car was silent for a while. We were just turning into the Wardrobe carpark when she finally spoke.

"Do you need me to go back?" she said at last.

I shook my head. "Fiona reckons the problem's been fixed. However, we might be hearing from Faire Management about this."

The car doors closed with a whomp. I felt my spine loosen as the reassuring scent of cloth and chalk spread itself around us. The steam press hissed as Mara lifted her head.

"Celeste."

"You heard, did you?"

She nodded, curt, lips a thin line.

"It's not like Charlotte to suggest zippers," she said quietly. "That girl knows the design as well as we do."

The door opened and Lauren walked in stiffly, eyes red, followed by Sarah.

"Why don't you two go home. Keep me posted, please," I said to Sarah.

Lauren looked around quickly. "You sure?" Her voice was thin.

I set my hands lightly on her shoulders and guided her to the door.

"You have bigger fish to fry. Take whatever time you need. We'll be fine, here."

The usual bustle of afternoon actresses broke the hush of calculation and design. Bree and Lily were singing as they pinned their hair up beneath the new caps we’d only just finished, caps that were Charlotte's latest design.

I pressed my fingertips to my lips. Shook my head again.

Zippers? Makes no sense.

I stepped into the tearoom and stared at the empty tin usually filled with teabags.

Sighed.

The holding dock bell rang. Bree left the group to open the door.

Mara was on the phone when I returned to my table. She glanced at me and grimaced, pointing at the phone.

"The material you specified does not lend itself to modern contrivances such as zippers, sir." Her voice was cold, her speech clipped. "We can certainly look at changing the material, but the original order emphasised authenticity." She nodded again, lips firm, eyes shut. "We will look into it, but I can't promise anything."

I looked up to see Bree waving me over to the loading dock door, her face a thundercloud.

"You didn't order polyester, did you?"

"Absolutely not." The delivery person passed me the invoice. Under 'Authorised By' was an unfamiliar name.

Leo Gartner.

I heard Lucy's voice over my shoulder.

"Who's Leo Gartner?"

I shrugged, then noticed the first two digits of the phone number.

'07'.

Queensland.

"Who ordered this?" Mara asked, appearing on the loading dock.

"Likely the person you just got off the phone with. You wouldn't have been talking to some bloke named Leo—"

"I was." She stared at the material as if it had reached its use-by date.

"He wants us to use this— stuff, then?"

"He said something of the sort. The quote we'd sent for ball gowns were too dear because of the cost of the material we'd selected for it, was what he said. He didn't mention he'd already ordered something else, though."

"Well, his name's on the invoice." Heat and cold chased each other through me.

"He's trying to steamroll us, Mara."

"Like he steamrolled Charlotte," she said.

My fingernails bit into my palms.

"You know we are going to have to let her finish up there."

Mara nodded once. "We've all had our learning curves."

She pointed at the material. "We might send that on to Queensland, Celeste."

I could have hugged her.

The sun had already gone down when I dug through my purse for the keys to my little car. Our contract with Queensland had been open-ended. Either party could terminate it, for whatever reason.

"We're done," Mara had told me before she left.

She didn't need to tell me the reason.

It was polyester.

---

Scene 13

📒 Sometimes You Have To 🛋

[ Charlotte ]

That evening, two dresses still hung accusingly on the rail, as if they had been left there for my benefit. The split between bodice and skirt gaped open on both of them, ugly and slack, the torn seam exposing the inside as though the garments themselves had lost faith in us.

I kept my eyes off the discarded zippers on the cutting table.

A bad yes.

It should have been a firm no.

The workroom had gone strangely hollow after the girls left. All that noise and movement—machines running, scissors snipping, someone laughing from the pressing table, somebody else calling out for chalk or pins—had drained away until only the fluorescent lights and the faint tick of cooling irons remained. Fiona moved through it with her keys in hand, checking doors, switching things off one by one.

She did not quite look at me.

That somehow felt worse than if she had.

I stood beside the rail a moment longer, my hands hanging uselessly by my sides. My bra had been bothering me since mid-afternoon, the band suddenly too present, the cups wrong in some unhelpful new way, and now that I was still, I could feel every bit of it. Tight under the bust.

Tight across the ribs.

And my throat: tighter.

I collected my bag, said goodnight to Fiona in a voice that sounded like it belonged to somebody else, and stepped outside.

The air had cooled quickly, that sudden eucalyptus evening chill that seemed to rise from the ground rather than fall from the sky. I shivered at once. Near the gumtrees, a curlew stood in profile, still and bony and faintly prehistoric, watching me with the sort of hard reserve that made me feel I had disappointed her personally.

I’ve failed.

The thought arrived whole, without drama. Just a fact, dropping into place.

By the time I unlocked the donga, I was moving on habit alone. The familiar stale smell met me at the door—the faint shut-up heat of old vinyl, detergent, dust, and my own things... and I barely noticed it. I let the door close behind me, dropped my bag by the kitchenette bench, and stopped.

The bottle of wine Brittany had left a few nights earlier sat where she’d put it, cheerful and accidental, as if it had every expectation of being opened amidst gossip and laughter.

I stared at it for a second, then shook my head.

No.

I sank onto the couch with my phone already in my hand, the cushions giving way beneath me with a damp, reluctant sag, and pressed Celeste’s name.

When her face appeared, something in my shoulders loosened.

She was propped somewhere warm and familiar, lamp-light catching one side of her face. Her expression changed the moment she saw me—just a slight stilling, her head tipped a little.

“Hi petal,” she said gently. “How are you?”

That should have been easy to answer. It wasn’t.

Words rose, collided with tears, and dissolved. My mouth pulled tight. I closed my eyes, nodded as if that might somehow make the lie easier to say, then sniffed once, annoyed with myself.

“Okay.”

Her lip twitched.

She did not believe me for a second.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Start with what happened. Not what you feel happened. What actually happened?”

I swallowed. The distinction ought to have helped. Instead it made me aware of how thoroughly feeling had wrapped itself around every fact of the afternoon. Picking the truth out of shame was like unpicking stitches.

My voice came out flat.

“I put zippers into bodices that were meant to lace.”

There was a tiny pause.

“So,” she said, calm as ever, “you knew they were wrong for those dresses.”

My eyes stung again. I nodded.

“Yes.”

The silence that followed felt like one of those horrid dreams where you find yourself in school with no clothes on and no one seems to notice.

“Clearly not your idea, then.”

“No.” I kept staring at her, lips bunched stupidly, trying not to cry again. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Whose, then?”

“Fiona told me there wasn’t a choice.”

The moment I said it, I was back there—that sick, sliding feeling of losing my footing on ground I had never really felt solid on to begin with. Management wanting something. Fiona caught between pressure and practicality. Me knowing enough to be uneasy, but wanting everyone happy.

Celeste’s face softened slightly.

“She may have done,” she said, “and it is true you had no control over what they wanted. However, that isn’t the same as having no choice.”

I frowned at the screen.

“I’m confused—”

That drew the smallest smile from her: tight-lipped, sympathetic, and oddly, pleased.

“I realise that,” she said. “So I’ll make it simple. They were allowed to want the wrong thing. You were not, however, obliged to help them do it.”

I felt the words go through me like cold goes through you when you jump into a mountain stream.

“I could have said no?” I asked with a shiver.

It sounded too strange, as if suddenly a page of the rulebook—one I should have studied—was suddenly explained to me. A page that went against everything the rest of the rulebook had said.

Celeste’s eyebrows twitched. She nodded once.

“They were entitled to insist,” she said. “They were not entitled to your agreement.”

I let out a huge breath and sank further into the couch, all the fight gone out of me now that the shape of the mistake was becoming visible. It was oddly relieving, seeing it properly.

“Oh.” The tiniest irritation needled me. “So the only thing I actually needed to address was the split between the bodice and skirt.”

She nodded again.

“That is an issue, one that needed fixing,” she said. “Still not sure why those were failing. And you couldn’t exactly do a proper wear test on yourself. Not with your figure—” She broke off as her brows popped up.

“What?”

My mouth had gone sideways. I glanced down at myself, then back at her.

“Not sure what’s going on,” I said, “but my bra has been really… wrong, lately.”

For a moment she stared, tipping her head. Then, with a lift of her chin, she grinned.

“Are you telling me you'll testing the 'well-nourished woman' line when you get back?” Her lips pressed together and one shoulder twitched. “Grown a bit fond of sausage rolls?”

I opened my mouth to object, failed, and what came out instead was a pathetic little burst of sound somewhere between a huff and a laugh.

“You know I hate them,” I said, snorting despite myself. “No, it’s just—”

I made a weak gesture at my chest. Her expression gentled at once.

“We’ll go shopping when you get back,” she said. “That’s day after tomorrow, you know.”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

Day after tomorrow.

The words settled over me like something warm being laid over cold shoulders.

“We just have two more dresses with the split waist seam problem,” I said. “I think I’ve come up with a way to repair them so they won’t tear, even when those baboons are in a hurry to get to the pub.”

She chortled—actually chortled—and I felt another tiny knot inside me give way.

I looked down at my hands.

At the thumb I had worried half-raw without noticing.

“Overall, you did well. You simply forgot what Mara told you at the airport: that you know a lot more than you think you do,” she said. “That knowledge makes you an authority. Next time, you will trust your skills: they will keep you out of trouble.”

My voice came out thin.

“So, I should have said no to something I knew would not work.”

“Yes,” she said. Her head tipped slightly, the way it did when she was separating black from white.

“Sometimes, you have to.”

After we said goodnight, I sat for a while with the dark phone screen in my hand. The bar fridge ended its tiny hum with a click. Someone with more petrol than sense made an announcement about leaving Maleny for the evening with his tyres. And finally, gently, a cool wind brushed at the outside wall.

I brushed my teeth in the narrow little bathroom, watching the water swirl around the corroded drain. I looked up by accident and caught my own eyes in the mirror.

There was still tiredness in my face. Still the faint puffiness from crying. My hair was a mess. I looked exactly like a girl who had had a rotten afternoon.

But I also looked different, somehow.

Not hugely different.

Just, a little clearer on things.

A woman—one who could say no.

---

Scene 14

🌷 🌸 🌺 I Knew 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Charlotte ]

"Lisa and Brittany need to see a different girl than the one I see tonight," Celeste had said before she hung up.

"What do you mean?"

“You don’t believe in tomorrow. It shows.”

The cool water splashed as much over the sink as on my face. Patting my face removed the water but left a puzzled frown.

Maybe if I walked tall?

I mindlessly flicked through videos on my phone. Typed in the word 'confidence' in the search bar, got influencers promising rock-solid confidence "...if you try this simple trick!"

Getting up a half hour earlier to try their suggestions didn't seem like that much of a big deal—a bit of eyeliner, a touch of lipstick. The second influencer said she usually gave herself at least an hour.

A hot shower and slipping on leggings and smock, and even doing my hair up took but a moment.

Applying eyeliner— did not.

First thing I had to deal with was: I had to actually look at my face.

I never spent any time looking at my face. Ever. I'd glance at it, but really look? No.

But on that morning, I not only had to look at it, but I had to inspect it. Scrutinise it.

It literally gave me the creeps.

And the paint job was horrible. Too much. Too little. One side didn't match the other.

I glared at my eyelids.

Just pretend it was someone else's face.

Forty-five minutes disappeared into smudges, wipes, and quiet swearing—until, finally, the result looked: okay. Not great. Okay.

Even when I finally got it right, it felt wrong.

How is this confidence-building?

Lippie was a matter of a minute.

My lips bunched to one side as I gazed at the face of the girl looking back at me. Tried a smile—it looked apologetic.

I still didn’t trust the girl in the mirror to pull off confidence. Not even with eyeliner.

I locked the donga and stepped into the dawn dampness, shivering despite the cardigan I’d thrown over my shoulders. Gravel crunched under my shoes, tiny stones pressing through the thin soles. I picked my way through dew-damp leaves. The sky seemed reluctant to let go of the night; fog had settled over the hills around the Faire.

Just thinking of Lisa's wide-eyed trust made my hands tremble.

I swallowed. A kookaburra cleared its throat, as if about to chuckle then thinking better of it. My shoulders snapped together at a rustle in the bushes. I blinked at the lights of an oncoming car, the morning mists seeping in through the cardigan to my skin. My eyelids felt borrowed. My shoulders rose slightly as the car silently slipped past, my nails biting into my palms.

Things will never be as bad as you fear.

It didn't stick.

The tearoom felt almost cosy as I switched on the light. Through the hiss of the water filling the jug I heard Lisa and Brittany's cheerful chatter as they entered.

"Hey, Charlotte!"

I tried to match the cheeriness in Brittany's voice with a smile, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.

Lisa flicked on the espresso machine, which growled at her. As I filled the cistern at the back of the machine, she grinned at me.

"Guess what?"

I lifted my eyebrows valiantly.

"What's up?"

With a flourish, she threw a large yellow folder onto the tearoom table. Her eyes shone.

"Brittany and I finally came up with a design for a new caracao jacket." Her voice was breathless. "Would you like to have a look?"

The design was close to what we had done for the Faire back in Torquay, with some significant changes.

“You’ve taken the flounce out.”

“Too pretty?” Lisa asked.

“No. Too hungry. It would catch on everything. And you’ve reinforced the waistline?”

Lisa nodded. “Brittany said that’s where it would complain first.”

I looked at Brittany. “She’s probably right.”

When I finally finished my scrutiny, I noticed both girls were intently watching my face.

"This is really good," I said slowly—perhaps, a bit too slowly.

"But?"

I shook my head.

"No buts. This is really good. What material were you designing for?"

"Material?" Lisa frowned. "Hadn't really thought about it."

My brows lowered slightly, and I rubbed my lower lip for a moment.

"Were you thinking 'authentic'?"

"Does that matter?" Brittany asked. I glanced at her, and gave a tiny nod.

“It looks like it was designed for wool. To me. Because we designed for wool.” I looked up at Lisa’s brilliant eyes. “That would have been the obvious choice for this sort of garment. Not the only one, but the one the pattern seems to be expecting.”

Brittany's smile seemed to falter a bit.

"But isn't wool a bit dear?"

I nodded, my fingers on my forehead as I looked at the carefully drawn lines.

"So why does the material matter?" she pressed.

I was silent for a moment. Discarded zippers seemed to glower at me from the cutting table.

"Um, it matters because..." My throat tightened. "Design and material has to fit together." Lisa and Brittany watched me—waiting.

I have to say this right.

"I'll give you an example of why." I pointed at the zippers. "You see, before we ever put those into the bodices, I knew it was the wrong thing to do."

Expectant gave way to surprise.

"You knew?"

I blinked slowly with a huff, and swallowed.

“Yes. I knew.” I smoothed one corner of the pattern paper with my thumb. “Celeste and Mara explained it when I was still testing costumes. I asked the same thing about the lacing.”

Celeste’s answer came back to me with uncomfortable clarity.

“There wasn’t a compromise, Brittany. The design was based on what had already worked. End of story.”

Brittany’s eyes narrowed.

“But couldn’t we just use cotton anyway? I mean, it’s cheap-as.”

“Not if you care how it behaves.”

“Behaves?” Lisa’s look was half-incredulous, half-disappointed.

“Fabric behaves,” I said. “It stretches, sags, breathes, holds heat, takes strain. Or it doesn’t. You can make almost any shape out of almost any material, but once someone wears it for a few hours, the material starts telling the truth.”

Brittany’s sceptical frown felt oddly challenging.

“Like the zippers,” I said. “They solved one problem and moved the strain somewhere else.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

I stilled. Then I leaned back in my chair and gave her my best smile.

“May I suggest something?”

“Sure.”

“Make a test jacket. Make it out of cotton. Then test it properly. Stretch, warmth, seams, movement, stress points. Find out where it fails.”

Brittany’s frown didn’t quite leave her face.

“And if it doesn’t?”

I looked at the pattern again.

“Then cotton gets to stay in the conversation.”

"I guess." Brittany stared at the pattern. "I just really want to see it, you know?"

I grimaced, another wrong yes trying to get out. I closed my eyes.

"That was actually what I did, wasn't it? Wanted to see a problem fixed."

Lisa's eyes clouded over.

"You did nothing wrong, Charlotte. You were... forced."

My lips twitched. Lisa's words were an almond croissant, delicious and deadly.

"You're so lovely, Lisa," I said. And sighed. "However, the point wasn't really the zipper."

"It was them making you put them in?"

My eyebrows twitched.

"They were allowed to insist. They owned that. I didn't have to agree. I owned that."

Brittany snorted.

"They would have given you curry for refusing."

"Which they're doing now because the idea failed, aren't they?"

I pulled the dress with the parted seam off the hanger. "This was mine to fix. Our testing didn't pick up the weakness in that seam."

I picked up the bundle of zippers as if they were slugs. They hit the bin with a loud clunk.

"I knew the solution was wrong. I should have said no. Because, I could say no." I leaned my chin on the back of my hands and studied their faces. "Sometimes, you have to say no."

The door blew open.

"Morning, all!" Fiona glanced in our direction. "Charlotte, may I see you in my office for a minute, please?"

Hot and cold chased each other through me as I followed her. The door closed with a cold click.

"Have a seat." She settled into her chair and gave me a wry smile. "Charlotte, I owe you an apology." My back loosened slightly. "I should not have asked you to install those zippers."

I said nothing. I could think of nothing to say. Tried to return her smile, but it failed after a twitch. Her smile faltered.

"I had a chat to... Mara," she added quietly.

My chin lifted, a sense of relief so sharp it ached. My jaw clenched and I dipped my head once, slowly.

"We came up with a plan." She lifted her chin towards the door. "For Brittany and Lisa, I mean."

I smiled, then, finally.

"They're really keen to learn design."

"Yes, and they have the talent, too." She leaned back in her chair. "Mara agreed to let them come with you when you return home on Friday."

I fought against it, but going from cold dread to vivid excitement was too much: tears welled up in my eyes.

"Oh, Fiona!"

Her mouth curved.

"Harri and I will keep things rolling here. We need Lisa and Brittany to get their heads around everything Wardrobe you can teach them, from testing to designing to costing and everything else."

She gave a quick huff. "You thought you were leaving Queensland behind, didn't you?"

I left Fiona's office, my lips pressed tight to keep from smiling too broadly.

"You're coming back with me, girls!"

I watched the look on Brittany and Lisa's faces go from worried eyebrows to wide grins.

Celeste was right.

The dresses will be right.

Even my eyeliner finally felt right.

---

Scene 15

✈️ The Longest Morning 💞

[ Charlotte ]

The morning I flew home felt as though it would never end.

It was still dark when Brittany and Lisa banged on the donga door. I rolled over and squinted at my phone.

4:10?

Our flight wasn't until after eleven!

I staggered to the door, and wordlessly let them in—along with the cold night air and a few mozzies.

"Why aren't you ready?" demanded Brittany. "We have a bus to catch in twenty minutes!"

"There's no bus at four-thirty in the morning!"

"Not public transport, silly, the Faire thingie. Chop-chop."

Oh.

I moved. Quickly. After a quick shower, I threw on my usual top, leggings and tennies, and did the absolute sloppiest job of makeup and hair ever.

"Finish your eyeliner in the bus," Brittany said. We grabbed phones, bags, suitcases and donga keys to drop at the Faire office. And got to the van just as it was pulling away from kerb. Brittany let out one of those piercing finger-in-the-mouth whistles, and the van stopped.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked when we settled in our seats, breathless.

"At the beach. Sharks happen, and people on boards are their favourite food."

I shuddered. Lisa handed me my makeup bag and mouthed 'not now'. I shook my head: there was no way I wasn't going to stab myself in the eye on this mountain road.

Eyeliner's just going to have to wait.

I did have a go once we were on the Bruce Highway. It looked... okay.

As the sun started to rise, my stomach sank. I almost always felt a bit sick to my stomach at sunup on an early start, and today was no different.

It was still three hours until our flight and Lisa wanted food. I rejected Macca's out of principle. We ended up sitting at a window facing the runway, watching the first planes take off, sipping coffee and munching fresh-baked croissants.

"How's your tummy?"

I nodded. "Better thanks, Brittany. The latte's helping." I stifled a yawn. "I so am going to sleep on the plane!"

I looked over at Lisa: her face had gone rigid, as if she was wearing a mask.

"You right?"

She bit her lip. "I've— never been in an aeroplane before."

Brittany shrugged. "Yeah, first time's a bit weird, but you quickly get used to it."

Once onboard, after we'd stowed our luggage and fastened our seatbelts, it became clear that flying was never going to be Lisa's favourite thing to do.

When the engines roared and my body went heavy into the seat back, Lisa’s hands turned white-knuckled. I glanced at her face. Pinched. Wide-eyed. Her eyes fleetingly sought mine—I moved my lips into my best happy curve and, reaching out, put my hand over hers. With a hand that shook, she grabbed mine as the aircraft thundered and rattled down the runway.

Brittany was staring out the window.

We tilted back and the rattling stopped as the wheels left the ground.

"Off to Victoria, lovelies," I murmured. Beneath us, the gears whined, finishing with a solid, reassuring clunk. Clouds flitted past the window and the 'no smoking' bell dinged. I felt myself ease into the seat.

Going home, home to Celeste.

Lisa hadn't softened her grip on my hand. Brittany threw her a quick smile, and me, a little wink.

"Nothing like that first time, hey?"

Lisa stared before her and nodded stiffly.

“It totally gets boring,” Brittany said, like that was a promise. “That’s the best part. And then, there's the food."

"What food?" I said. "We're flying to Melbourne, not the UK. You call a tiny bag of crisps and apple juice food?"

Brittany shrugged, then produced a heavy book out of her bag.

"Brought something to make time go faster," she said. It was an older edition of the 'Costume Design for Film' book Celeste had been studying before our first attempt at stays. This book's spine was loose and some pages sticking out haphazardly, like a first-year's exercise book.

"Where did you find that?"

"There's a cute bookshop in Scarborough—I think they're closed now. I got this for almost nothing."

The grip on my hand lessened.

"Don't forget to pop your ears," Brittany told Lisa.

"Just try to yawn," I added. Lisa frowned and winced. Her mouth opened and shut.

"It's not working!"

I pulled out my purse and passed her some gum. She popped it into her mouth and after a minute gave a sigh. A smile twitched at her mouth, then failed.

"Thanks." She chewed some more. "Do you have to keep popping your ears?"

"Just until we get to elevation."

We burst through the clouds, the sun's sudden glare outlining every detail on Brittany's cheek. She rolled her eyes as my lips did a quick squeeze.

"Didn't I blend properly?"

I pressed my lips tighter.

"No one's perfect," she said. "Besides, it was 3:30 and dark and I was in a hurry."

The hissing roar of the engines slowed and settled just as the seatbelt bell dinged. Lisa finally looked at the cobalt sky and searing white clouds through the window.

"Wow." She took in a slow breath.

"Take-off is the exciting bit—except for when we land," Brittany said with a grin and Lisa's eyes widened again.

"Don't worry, landing's quick," I added hurriedly. "Did you bring your iPad?"

She nodded and reached into her bag. Her shoulders slumped.

"I saw you pack it, Lisa," Brittany said, frowning. "Wait, did you put it in your check-in luggage?"

Lisa closed her eyes and nodded. I put my iPad into her hands.

"Here, something to do. It's a bit over two hours or so, but it'll feel like all day." She shook her head and tried to pass it back. "No, you hang on to it," I insisted. "You'll need to start reading..." I flicked to a pdf I'd bookmarked: "This."

She nodded and slowly exhaled.

"Thank you."

I tilted my seat back and closed my eyes. Four in the morning starts make 11am seem like much later. The seat back rumbled slightly as I sank into it.

It felt, oddly, like I was leaving home. I never thought I'd miss the stale donga, the misty hills around Maleny, even the pub with its loud music and louder patrons. And then, I realised it wasn't the place, but the people. Fiona. Harri.

I glanced over at the girls, suddenly grateful they were coming back with me.

Lisa had gone to sleep by the time we'd descended into Melbourne's airspace. Outside, grey clouds loomed just above the window, the landscape below laid out like a fairy-garden. Brittany was glued to the window. As the announcement came to fasten seatbelts for landing, she glanced over at me with a wide grin, then tapped Lisa on the arm as a flight attendant appeared.

Lisa awoke with a wide-eyed start.

"Your seat back, please," the flight attendant said, pointing. Stiffly, Lisa complied, and passed the iPad back to me.

"I guess I fell asleep," she said, her lips twisted. Her eyes widened as, suddenly, gears beneath us whined and rumbled. I put my hand over hers again.

"Settle, petal," I said softly. "We're almost there."

The wheels kissed the runway—so soft I barely felt it. The engines thundered for a bit, then stilled. A voice said, "Welcome to Melbourne. The time here is..."

No one was paying attention.

"Not as bad as you thought, was it?"

Lisa shook her head and shrugged.

"Still not keen," she said, lips pursed. I flashed her a grin and switched off aeroplane mode on my phone. Almost immediately, a text from Celeste appeared.

"Let me know when you have your bags. Meet you at the pick-up zone."

As we pulled our carry-on bags up the arrivals ramp, the cool, dry Victorian air blew through the spaces and open doors. Queensland faded as I felt a thrill go through me.

Home.

We walked into the concourse area.

“Charlotte!”

I stilled.

My chest flared—too hot, too fast. For a second I couldn’t move.

Celeste.

Then she was there, and I was in her arms.

I have never held someone so tightly.

Or ever been held so tightly.

When I finally came up for air, I saw her eyes—and felt them, like hands.

Tears suddenly blurred her face, and everything around me. I felt her hand at the back of my head as she buried my face in her top. Something in me—tight for days, maybe longer—finally, just… let go.

Suddenly, I startled: I had completely forgotten Lisa and Brittany. Hurriedly brushing wet cheeks, I turned to them.

Brittany was staring at Celeste, a little starstruck. Lisa looked like a child meeting her favourite ballerina.

"I'd like you to meet Lisa and Brittany," I croaked. Brittany giggled and put out her hand.

"I've heard a lot about you, Brittany," Celeste said, warm but certain. "It's lovely meeting you both. Thank you for taking care of my Charlotte." She pulled me into her warmth again. I smiled stupidly. "So, we've sort of worked out where you'll be staying while you're with us. Did I hear you were thinking of staying with a friend in St Kilda, Brittany?"

"Yes—"

"Except, St Kilda is ages away from Torquay," Celeste cut in gently. "However, we have spare rooms: Charlotte's mum has a spare room, as do we. Just a matter of deciding who stays where."

At first I barely noticed the crowd bustling about the concourse. It wasn't until baggage claim that my thoughts untangled themselves. A little girl in a crinoline skirt and sparkling shoes stared at me as we waited for our bags to emerge.

I gave her a little smile.

She quickly smiled back.

"I think I might stay at Charlotte's mum's, if that's okay," Brittany said finally, and stepped over to the conveyor belt to retrieve her suitcase.

I looked at Lisa: her broad smile betraying an effort to not look too excited.

When the key in the lock to our little apartment finally turned and I entered our home—our space, our smells—I could feel my eyes grow moist again. Celeste's hand settled on my shoulder.

"The next time, we leave together."

---

Scene 16

🃏 Testing Physics 👭

[ Brittany ]

Charlotte's mum was... different. Nothing like I expected.

Sarah and Lauren reminded me of ballerinas dancing a pas de deux. Sarah would pull a wet plastic container out of the dishwasher, and Lauren would take it from her, tea-towel already in hand to dry it. Sarah's hips would slip sideways just enough to let Lauren slide past her in the small kitchenette.

They were chalk and cheese in so many ways: Lauren played the violin; Sarah wrote poetry on her Macbook Air with headphones on—not listening to music, but politics—until the early hours of the morning; Lauren loved prawns while Sarah had a thing for olives... but the gentleness between them, the care in Sarah's eyes, the tender strokes of the brush Lauren gave Sarah's blond hair as they watched TV made me envious.

Dinner that night was jacket potatoes with cheese and vegemite. I had just sliced my potato and squeezed it when I noticed that Sarah had stilled.

She was looking at Lauren, her eyes sharp.

Lauren stood at the window, her body rigid, her gaze fixed on something on the street below.

"Back again?" Sarah rose quickly and stepping to the curtain, gave it a quick yank. She eyed Lauren, lips tight. "Sit."

Lauren's shoulders sank slightly and swallowing, lowered herself into her chair as if sitting hurt. Sarah turned to me.

"I don't know what Charlotte told you—" She paused.

I shook my head.

"Nothing."

Sarah nodded and glanced at Lauren, who was staring before her, her face expressionless.

"Do you want me to go out there?"

Sarah's voice was cold.

"No."

Lauren pushed her chair back.

“No, I said.”

Lauren stopped.

“I’ll tell him to leave.”

“No, you’ll give him exactly what he came for.”

“Which is?”

“A woman outside in the dark, speaking softly through his car window while he pretends he’s the injured party.”

Lauren’s mouth tightened. Sarah reached past Lauren and flicked on the porch light.

Then the side light.

Then another one, somewhere lower, harsher, the kind that made everything outside look guilty.

The car and its occupant appeared at the kerb in flat white light, number plate and all.

“There,” Sarah said. “If he wants to lurk, he can do it with proper illumination.”

Lauren turned her head towards the window again.

“Don’t,” Sarah said.

“I’m only looking.”

“You’ve looked.”

Lauren’s jaw worked, but she sat still. Sarah took her phone from the bench, opened the camera, and handed it to Lauren.

“Number plate. Time. No flash.”

Lauren looked at the phone, then at Sarah.

“You’ve done this before.”

“No,” Sarah said. “But I’ve met men.”

There was no joke in it.

I sat with my fork halfway through my potato, not sure whether I was allowed to keep eating. It felt wrong to chew while someone sat outside in a car, watching a house that wasn’t his. It also felt wrong to stop, because Sarah had not stopped being Sarah.

That was the strangest part. She was angry, I could see that, but it was an anger with shelves and labels and a place for everything.

Lauren stood just far enough to the side of the curtain to take the photo. She did it quickly, like someone removing a splinter.

“Got it,” she said.

“Send it to me.”

Lauren did.

Sarah looked at her own phone when it chimed. She checked the image, then glanced at the clock on the microwave.

“Seven twenty-three.”

Lauren looked at Sarah's hand on the phone. Her hand was steady. Too steady.

“Sarah.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re scared.”

“Yes,” Sarah said. “And busy.”

Lauren said nothing. Sarah picked up her fork, and looked at me.

“I’m sorry, Brittany. This is not our usual dinner routine.”

I swallowed. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Everyone knew it wasn’t fine, but Sarah's quick smile seemed to say she appreciated that I had tried.

Lauren had not touched her potato. Sarah saw that too.

“No,” she said.

Lauren looked up.

“He does not get to take dinner.”

For a moment Lauren’s face almost broke. Her mouth softened and her eyes filled, but she blinked once, and then put her knife into her potato like it shared the blame for her feelings.

“Twenty minutes?” she asked.

“Twenty,” Sarah said. “If he’s still there, we call it in.”

“Police?”

“Police assistance line first. If he approaches the house, emergency.”

The word sat on the table between the plates.

Emergency.

I glanced at the front door. My own skin felt too tight. I thought of Charlotte, of how small she could make herself when the room had too many opinions in it, and suddenly I understood something I hadn’t before. Women did not become careful because they were timid. They became careful because carelessness had teeth.

Sarah took a bite of potato. Stopped and added more vegemite.

Lauren watched her.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“You’re frighteningly good at this.”

“I’m English. We turn panic into administration.”

Lauren gave the smallest laugh. It barely made it out of her mouth, but it changed the room enough for me to breathe. Sarah pointed her fork at her.

“Please eat.”

Lauren obeyed.

So did I.

For maybe five minutes, we made a strange little performance of normality. Forks against plates. The kettle ticking as it cooled. The sound of someone’s car passing outside growing louder and then softer, like cars were supposed to do. Sarah asked me about the flight. Lauren asked whether anyone had warned me about the draught in the workroom. I answered both badly, because half my mind was outside under the security light, looking at a man I had not yet seen.

Then Sarah’s phone vibrated.

She glanced down.

Her face changed.

Not much. But enough. Lauren saw it.

“What?”

Sarah turned the screen towards her.

A message. I couldn’t read all of it, but I saw the name.

Roger.

Lauren went very still again. Sarah read it aloud, flatly.

Can we talk like adults, please?

For a second nobody spoke. Then Sarah set the phone face down beside her plate.

“No,” she said.

Lauren’s hands were folded now. Too tightly. Sarah picked up the phone again and typed with both thumbs.

She did not ask Lauren what to say.

When she finished, she read it aloud before sending it.

Roger, do not come to my home uninvited.

Do not wait outside my house.

Do not contact me except by text regarding practical matters.

If this continues, I will treat it as harassment.

She looked at Lauren.

“Anything to add?”

Lauren’s voice was low. “Tell him to leave.”

Sarah nodded and added a final sentence.

Leave now.

Then she sent it.

I expected something to happen immediately. A knock. A shout. The car starting. Anything.

Nothing happened.

That was worse.

Sarah put the phone down again. Lauren stared at it.

“He’ll answer,” she said.

“Probably.”

“And if he says something stupid?”

Sarah looked at her potato.

“Then we let him be stupid in writing.”

That was the first moment I understood why Charlotte loved these women. Not because they were soft, although they could be. Not because they were fearless, because they weren’t. Lauren was frightened. Sarah was too, I thought, though she held it differently.

But neither of them treated fear as an instruction.

Sarah’s phone vibrated again.

She did not touch it at once. She finished chewing, swallowed, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and only then picked it up. Her eyes moved once across the screen.

“What did he say?” Lauren asked.

Sarah’s mouth hardened.

“He says he just wants to explain.”

Lauren pushed back from the table. Sarah’s hand came down over Lauren’s wrist.

“No.”

Lauren’s eyes flashed.

“He doesn’t get to frighten you in your own house.”

“He has already done so,” Sarah said. “Now we decide whether he gets rewarded for it.”

Lauren breathed through her nose.

Once.

Twice.

Then she sat back. Sarah removed her hand.

“Thank you.”

Lauren looked away.

I wished Charlotte were there. Then I was glad she wasn’t. Then I felt guilty for both thoughts.

Sarah turned the phone towards Lauren.

“Read it. Then screenshot it.”

Lauren did.

“Do you want me to call?” she asked.

Sarah looked at the microwave clock again.

“Seven forty-one. He’s had eighteen minutes.”

“He’s still there.”

“Yes.”

Sarah stood, taking her plate with her. For one absurd second I thought she was going to wash it.

Instead, she scraped the last of her potato into the bin, put the plate beside the sink, and took another phone from a little charging stand near the toaster.

The house phone.

I didn’t think anyone still had one.

Lauren noticed me noticing.

“For emergencies,” she said.

Sarah gave a short laugh.

“For nuisance men who think mobiles are intimacy.”

Then she dialled. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm enough to be frightening.

“Hello. I’d like to report a man sitting outside my house in his car after being told to leave.”

Lisa and I walked into Wardrobe the next day with the excitement of farm kids at a country fair. We moved cautiously along rails of perfectly finished costumes, tables spread with fabric, paper patterns, chalk marks and pins, as if we had walked in just after a master painter’s final brushstroke. Charlotte took my hand and led us to a rather serious woman wearing a businesslike apron and a frown. She brightened when she saw Charlotte.

"How's my nightingale, then?" she said. Her voice was warm even though she didn't smile.

"So happy to be back," Charlotte said, and turned to us. "Mara, this is Lisa and Brittany."

Mara gave a single nod. "Girls." She glanced at the dog-eared book I was holding. "Good. Lot of truth in that book." She motioned us over to an old table with an open drawer.

"We start at the beginning. In the beginning, you sort grommets."

I frowned.

"Sort—"

"Physics before design," Mara said, pulling out a tin.

I glanced at Lisa and, shrugging, put my book on the table and sat down in front of the open drawer. Lisa was given a seam-ripper and a skirt.

"This skirt has a problem. Find it, and tell me what the problem is."

Celeste appeared in the doorway.

“Need your help in reception, Mara,” she said quietly.

Mara did not ask why, but set down the tin, wiped her hands on her apron, and followed. Sarah joined them from Lauren’s table. The three women moved through the door, and it closed behind them with a soft, deliberate click.

The steam machine hissed and in a corner, a sewing machine whirred. I stared at the pile of grommets and finally picked one up and inspected it.

Physics.

"Small, and yet, so important."

Charlotte stood behind me looking at the grommet. We glanced at each other as an angry male voice from reception intruded on the hush.

“I’m not some criminal. I only want to talk to her.”

Her mouth curved downward. She tipped her head slightly, her look frosty.

"My dad."

Our shoulders twitched as the reception door to the outside slammed.

I had always imagined fathers as distant, awkward, sometimes useful, often useless, but this was worse. This was cringe.

Charlotte closed her eyes and sighed.

"Why can't he just chill?" she said, with the hopeless embarrassment of someone whose parent had gone feral in public.

Lisa lowered the skirt into her lap. She did not look towards reception first. She looked at Charlotte.

“Is he allowed to be here?” Lisa asked quietly.

Charlotte’s face tightened.

“Not like that.”

Lisa nodded, as if that settled it. She placed the skirt carefully back on the table and pointed at a section of seam.

"This it?"

Charlotte nodded. "You got it."

Lisa reached for the seam ripper.

"Wait."

When the women returned, Sarah went straight over to Lauren, who was on her laptop. Mara strode deliberately over to us. She inspected the seam Lisa was holding up and dipped her chin.

"Sewn in a hurry and in fear." She handed the seam ripper to Lisa. "So, unpick. Slowly and confidently."

I spent the day with grommets.

As Sarah started turning off lights, Mara took off her apron.

"Charlotte tells me you've created a caraco jacket design."

I nervously pulled it out of the plastic envelope and spread it out on the table. Mara covered her mouth as she studied it for what felt like hours. Finally, she said,

"This has promise."

My stomach rose so quickly I nearly forgot to breathe. She picked up her purse and turned to me.

"Tomorrow, you're in testing with Charlotte. You and Lisa will test costumes. Physics."

I put my pattern away.

Physics.

I looked out of the back-seat window at the evening sky as Sarah drove us home, clutching my Costume Design book and caraco jacket pattern folder.

“Testing is going to give you that ah-hah moment, Brittany,” Sarah said as the indicator ticked.

I swear she can read minds.

“I guess—” I began, when I heard Lauren groan.

I was suddenly pressed into the seat as the engine wailed and the car sped up.

“Sarah!”

“Just to the end of the street,” Sarah muttered.

We slowed. The indicator ticked again, quietly this time. We turned, went about a hundred metres, and stopped.

Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

“Hello? Yes, this is Sarah. Yes.” A pause. “Yes. Thank you.”

She turned the ignition key and the engine died. Her phone dropped into her purse.

“Now, we wait.”

The wait was short.

“I realise this might sound like cheating,” Sarah said, “but do you remember Carl?”

“The sparkie?”

“Yes, him.”

She turned the ignition and the engine murmured. Behind us, flashing red and blue lights reflected off the windows of the houses in the street.

The police car’s lights were still flashing when we pulled into the driveway. Two officers were standing beside the open driver-side window of a parked car. One of them was handing the occupant a piece of paper.

There was a pause, and then the car slowly drove off.

“Carl’s cousin works for the police,” Sarah continued as we climbed the stairs to her apartment. “Sometimes, it’s who you know.”

“He’s not going to give up,” Lauren mumbled.

“And we are not going to give in.”

I made spaghetti bolognaise out of a tin for dinner. No one ate much. I don’t think their lack of appetite had much to do with my cooking. Not really.

Lauren even gave me a hug after dinner.

“Please don’t take it personally,” she said gently. “It’s this — mess.”

Sarah was gripping the top of a wine bottle, her lips tight, as she started to twist it.

Lauren shook her head.

“None for me, thanks.”

Sarah stilled and then, with a nod, put the bottle back in the cupboard.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll have some when I can enjoy it, not when I feel I need it.”

I settled on one end of the couch with my Costume Design book while they curled into each other at the other end, the TV on but neither of them paying much attention to it.

I opened the book to the chapter on fit and load, but I didn’t read much.

Outside, a car went past, slowed, and kept going.

Sarah’s head lifted.

Lauren’s hand found hers.

Then the car turned the corner and was gone.

The television kept talking to no one.

I looked down at the pattern folder on my lap and thought about what Mara had said.

Testing.

Maybe it wasn’t where design began.

Maybe it was where things told the truth.

---

Scene 17

🧑‍✈️ "Dad." 🤦‍♀️

Lauren had refused him.

Not in so many words. She was too practised for that, knew what to avoid, what buttons to push. She used pauses, tiredness, the solicitor’s phrases. She knew how to use silence. When she wasn't happy, silence would always be her tool, her answer.

It was not going to work this time.

He had rights.

She would know that. He knew she did. Whatever papers she waved about, whatever conditions had been set down by people who had not lived in his house, fatherhood was not something a woman could cancel by changing the locks and learning a few legal terms.

“I want to see Charlie,” he had said.

A pause.

Then Lauren, flat as a closed door.

“Suddenly you want to see Charlie? You didn’t care before. Why now?”

He had almost put the phone down. Almost. Instead he had made his voice level. Level was better. Level showed who was in control.

“I have rights as his father.”

Another pause. Longer.

When Lauren spoke again, her voice was level, with something he did not recognise. It wasn't anger, more the tone you'd use with a youngster who thinks he has all the answers.

“You wouldn’t even recognise your child.”

And the line went dead.

He stood with the phone in his hand for a full ten seconds.

Child.

She was rubbing his absence in his face.

Lauren still knew how to get to him. Bring up the past. Zero in on things he had little control over. It wasn't his fault he was an absentee father. Who was going to bring home the daily crust?

Fine.

He did not need Lauren's permission to see his son. He was going to win this one.

Graham answered on the fifth ring.

“What?”

Roger kept his voice controlled.

“G'day, mate. I’m Charlie's dad: just thought I'd check in on him. See how he's travelling.”

A short silence. Not confusion, but irritation.

“Not here.”

“I thought he was assigned to Maintenance.”

“He was.”

Roger waited.

Graham breathed hard through his nose, close to the phone. “I fired him.”

“Fired him! For what?”

“Being useless.”

The word struck harder than it should have. Roger stood straighter, his jaw rigid.

“You can't just fire him. He’s my son.”

“Then you should’ve taught him something useful.” A scrape of sound. A chair, perhaps. “Check with Wardrobe.”

For the second time, the line went dead.

Roger lowered the phone. For a moment, he did not move.

Useless.

He had thought it himself often enough. Not in so many words, not exactly. But the gist of it had definitely been there: Charlie drifting, Charlie off with the pixies, fancying himself a composer or some such nonsense, sitting in his room reading old books instead of outside playing ball with the neighbourhood kids… all those odd sensitivities Lauren kept mistaking for depth.

Still. A man did not say that about another man’s son and hang up.

Wardrobe.

Of course. Made sense: his mum worked there. Oh, and he knew the woman who ran the place. Mara. Hard mouth, dry voice, the sort who mistook a table full of fabric for a command post. Sarah had been there as well, sharp as wire. And this other lass they called Celeste—cool, composed, entirely too certain that she had the right to involve herself.

They had handled him.

That was the word, once he stripped away the irritation.

Handled.

He would not be handled twice.

The drive gave him time to set the matter in order.

Primary objective: see Charlie.

Secondary objective: establish condition.

Tertiary objective: identify who had taken authority and on what basis.

He disliked condition as soon as it appeared, but kept it. Condition mattered. Boys drifted when no one held the line. Charlie had drifted for years, half-present, half-formed, always somewhere else in his head. Lauren had protected all of it, then wondered why he had no spine.

Roger tightened his hands on the wheel and loosened them again.

No point arriving angry. Anger gave people excuses.

No, this time he had a plan. He would be direct. He would be level. He would not shout. If they wanted procedure, he would give them procedure. Father. Legal interest. Welfare concern. Prior employment arrangement. No one in a costume shed had the right to obstruct him from speaking to his own son.

The Faire irritated him before he had even parked.

Too many painted signs. Too much canvas. People moving about in costume as if costume conferred purpose. Women carrying baskets, folders, bolts of cloth. Men in boots and hats pretending an afternoon’s posture made them craftsmen.

He strode purposefully past the front area.

He didn't need directions: he knew the way.

Wardrobe's double doors were propped open for air. He stopped just short of the threshold.

Fabric first. Racks. Tables. Dress forms standing about like headless women. Baskets. Thread. Chalk. The smell of steam, cloth, and machine oil under whatever floral scent the women had brought in.

Women.

Of course.

Two at the cutting table. One at a machine. One by the wall, writing something on a board. Another moving between racks with a clipboard tucked against her hip. Quiet voices. No panic. No gossiping that he could hear. No one looked idle.

He found that oddly annoying. He had expected fuss. Fuss could be dismissed.

This was not fuss.

The place had a solid structure to it, almost like a military base. The fault board was uncompromising. Columns. Tags. Names. Times. Red, yellow, green. Tools laid out at the end of the table, not scattered. A bin marked SHARPS. Another marked REPAIRS — APPROVED. Someone had redrawn the chalk line across part of the floor.

DO NOT CROSS WITHOUT CLEARANCE.

He glanced at it.

He had read it before. A workroom, then. Whether those women understood the word or not.

He stepped inside.

No one snapped to attention.

No one flustered either.

That was worse.

Mara was at the cutting table, head bent over a pattern piece, pins at her wrist.

She did not look up immediately. That was deliberate. He knew deliberate when he saw it.

Near the reception side of the room, a young woman stood at the ledger.

Small. Pale. Hair tied back from her face. Practical clothes. Sleeves rolled. Chalk dust on one wrist and a pencil tucked behind her ear. One hand rested on the open ledger, fingers flat against the page, as if she had been keeping something in place before he arrived.

She looked up. Her gaze sharpened ever so slightly.

Staff, then.

“Get Mara,” Roger said.

The young woman did not move.

“She’s occupied,” she said.

Her voice was quiet. Too quiet, perhaps, or perhaps the room had gone quieter.

Roger turned his head slightly. Mara had looked up now.

“I’m here to see Charlie.”

The girl’s fingers shifted once on the ledger. Behind her, the machine stopped sewing.

Roger kept his eyes on Mara. “I was told he’s with Wardrobe.”

Mara set down the pencil in her hand.

“Your name.”

Not a question. He turned fully toward her. Better. This, at least, was the person who thought she was in charge.

“You know my name.”

“I asked for it.”

He held her gaze.

“Roger.”

No one reacted. He added what should have been sufficient.

“His father.”

The words moved through the room but did not open it.

That caught him off-guard.

A father arrived, and no one made way.

Mara looked not at him, but at the young woman beside the ledger. The girl lowered her eyes for half a second. When she lifted them again, Roger finally saw her.

Properly.

The room thinned.

It was not a single feature, like the hair, though there was something familiar about it, or the mouth, though it had tightened with a refusal he recognised. Lauren had done that with her mouth. Years ago. When he had said something final and she had decided not to answer.

The girl was looking straight at him.

She spoke.

“Dad.”

---

Scene 18

🍂🍁 The Cost of Being Right 🌷🌹

[ Charlotte ]

My insides had turned to water the minute his face appeared at the door.

Third rung.

Keep your hands.

My finger twitched against the ledger. Once.

I didn’t look at the ledger, the room, or Mara.

I looked at him.

His face changed.

“Dad.”

For one moment, he looked as if he might speak. His mouth moved. Not enough for a word.

I waited for "Charlie".

I waited for "son".

Nothing came.

His eyes moved from my hair to my hands, then past me to Mara.

The room was silent. I heard my heart in my ears.

He stepped back.

His eyes flicked very briefly to mine again, and then, to the side… away.

He turned stiffly, as if dignity were something he could still arrange around himself.

And strode… away.

The doors slammed shut.

Around the corner, in the tearoom and out of his line of sight, Mum was sitting quietly.

I turned to look at her.

Her eyes were the softest I’d ever seen them.

She rose and came to me.

I buried my head in her shoulder.

Three weeks had passed before I understood my dad was not coming back to Wardrobe, or to Sarah's, or to any place in our lives. Sarah noticed first, because Sarah noticed absences the way other people noticed noise. Mum noticed differently. She stopped pausing before answering unknown numbers. She stopped looking toward the road when tyres slowed outside.

Neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to. For them, his absence was answer enough.

But things had been different at home since his visit.

Finally, one evening, after a dinner quieter than usual, I followed Celeste into the bedroom.

My lips were pressed tight.

"Okay, out with it."

She turned to me.

"Sorry?"

"Why are you like this?"

Her brows dipped slightly, silently. That silence had become the worst of it. Celeste quiet was not like Sarah quiet or Mara quiet. Sarah’s silence sharpened things. Mara’s silence measured them. Celeste’s silence filled the space where certainty used to be.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her fold a cardigan that did not need folding.

“You’ve been different,” I said.

"Different how?"

I hated that. I hated the question. Celeste knew things. Celeste noticed things before they had names.

“Don’t make me explain it.”

Her hands stopped. She stared at the window for ages. I waited.

“Charlotte, I feel…“ She paused. A lapwing screeched at the night. “I've been pushing.“

I grimaced slightly and shook my head.

“Pushing. That doesn't make sense.“

Celeste slowly closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

“Pushing you to become… you.“

That hurt.

“You saw me,” I said. “That isn’t the same as making me.”

Celeste looked down.

“I liked being right,” she said.

“I know.” She flinched at that, which I had not meant to happen. Or perhaps I had. “So?“

She sat beside me, but not close enough. I noticed that too. I hated noticing it.

“Because I keep wondering what I did.”

I looked at her.

“To me?”

She did not answer quickly enough. Something went cold in my chest.

“Celeste.”

She took in another long breath.

“I saw something,” she said. “I named it before you did. I pushed at it. I liked being right about you.“ She turned to face me. “And then your father stood there and couldn’t even speak, and I realised I had never properly asked myself what it would cost.”

I wanted to be angry. I almost managed it.

“You think I became this because of you?”

She stilled. Her gaze drifted away.

“No.”

“That sounded like yes.”

Her mouth tightened. “It feels arrogant either way.”

“Good.”

She looked back at me then.

“Good?”

“Yes. Because it is.” The words came out steadier than I felt. “You didn’t make me, Celeste. But yes, you were right. You saw the door I needed and helped me find it.” I swallowed. “And now, suddenly, you seem to be saying it was the wrong door. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Her face changed. Her eyes lifted to mine.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

My lower lip trembled.

“Don’t… be sorry,“ I said, squeezing my eyes shut, “instead of being here.”

I could feel a hard throbbing in my head. I opened wet eyelids and stared at her.

Her eyes were shining. Only a little. Celeste did not cry easily.

“All right,” she said softly. Her voice was warm, warmer than it had been for weeks. “I’m here.”

Her hand touched mine.

Not gripping. Not fixing.

Just there.

Celeste was here.

---

Scene 19

🌷 🌸 🌺 Being Right 🌷 🌸 🌺

[ Celeste ]

When I opened my eyes, I was alone. I could hear the floor in the kitchenette creak slightly and the click of the kettle. I yawned, stretched, glanced at my watch: it was almost eight o'clock.

Charlotte oozed in with my cuppa, eyes bright.

"Good morning, lovely," I said. "You're up early."

She set the cup of tea down on the bedside table.

"I thought of a piece last night."

"Oh?"

"It's still here," she added, pointing to her forehead. "I jotted some of it down, but I need to get onto the computer to flesh it out."

This was the first time she'd mentioned writing music since high school.

"So, why don't you?"

"I wanted to make you your cuppa first."

I eyed her sharply for a moment, then turned to stare out the closed window.

"You right, petal?"

I squeezed my lips and sighed.

"Who am I to you, Charlotte?"

Her reply was immediate.

"You're my queen!"

I nodded. When my eyes met hers, her face was serious.

"Did I say something wrong?"

I twitched my head in the negative.

"Do I..."

I couldn't go on.

'Threaten'? No.

'Intimidate'? No.

I rubbed my forehead.

"A long time ago, when you first started in Wardrobe, you said to me—"

"'You're a lot'," Charlotte cut in with a grin. "Yeah, I remember that." Her eyebrows rose. "You still are, Celeste."

My chest tightened slightly.

"But that's not a bad thing," she added quickly with a slight frown. "That's just you."

The tightness didn't ease any. I looked at her then, properly.

"You're happy, aren't you, Charlotte? I mean, really happy? Good in your skin?"

Her face slipped into one of puzzlement.

"Yeah?"

"You're not sure?"

"I'm not sure where this is going!"

I bit my lip and gave one hard nod.

"Right. Let me explain." I squeezed my eyes shut, then slowly opened them. "From the very first minute I saw you, back in the library loo, I knew I was looking at a girl. I didn't know in so many words, no. But I knew you were not a lad."

"How?"

I shrugged. "No idea. I just knew. But here's the thing, Charlotte," I said, "I had to prove myself right. I told you that I don't like waste. Which was true. And that I saw you as an investment. Also true." I put my cup down, and took her hands in mine. "But, mostly, I wanted to see if I was right about you. When Graham mentioned that he was going to sack this kid because... reasons, I immediately knew he was talking about you, even before he said your name. Of course, I couldn't force you to work at Wardrobe—"

Charlotte snorted.

"But it was going to happen, wasn't it?"

I rubbed my neck and frowned slightly.

"Well, see, I didn't really have control over what you did, did I?"

Charlotte tipped her head slightly.

"True. I guess that was a gamble. But then, when I did—"

"You fit in at Wardrobe pretty much immediately. Mara was watching you like a hawk: not your work... you." I took in a breath. "Charlotte, she saw what I did!"

Charlotte looked down at her hands.

"Really?"

"And then, so did Lucy. And, to some degree, so did Sarah, although she gave some mixed messages at first."

Charlotte's eyes rose to mine.

"So, you were right about me, Celeste." She frowned. "Why does that bother you?"

"Because—" I felt my breath come faster. "Because I had to be right. I almost feel like you didn't have a say in the matter, as if you were going to be Charlotte one way or another."

Charlotte snorted again.

"That's nonsense."

"Is it?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Yes, it is. And I'll tell you how I know that."

She rose and opened the window. The cool breeze lifted the sheer curtains to one side. Somewhere outside, a whipper-snipper whirred. She turned to me.

"After the pool party—" she began, then stopped as I shook my head.

"I know what you're going to say."

"No, you don't. I never told you, Celeste." She stopped, a frown crossing her face. Her lips tightened. "I always hated... it. Always."

Outside, a metal pole gave a sharp clang as the whipper-snipper's cord lashed against it.

Charlotte's eyes were sad.

"You have no idea what it's like hating a part of your body so much you have dreams about it disappearing." My face must have registered disbelief, because she continued louder, firmer. "Well, imagine how you'd feel if you had... one."

"But I'm a girl." I stopped as her eyebrows shot up.

"Oh?"

My jaw tightened.

"Sorry. That came out wrong."

"So you don't actually see me as a girl, then, Celeste?"

I stilled.

"You know the answer to that—of course I do!" I said firmly. "And yes, I would hate having that... bit." I pushed my fist against my mouth—a thought had occurred to me.

"So, if you hated that bit, would that mean you wanted..."

The room fell silent as the wind blew the sheer curtains again.

The whipper-snipper was still.

I sat, words frozen in my mouth. Charlotte shook her head.

"No."

The word came out quietly, almost as a question. She didn't look at me but at the floor.

"You sure?"

She gave a silent nod, then glanced at me.

"What do you think?"

"I think," I replied firmly, "that what I think shouldn't matter so much."

She was quiet for a moment. Finally, she reached out and touched my arm.

"This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

I closed my eyes and nodded. When I opened my eyes, her face was close to mine.

"Listen to me," she said. "You showed me a door, one I might have found on my own, perhaps, but I found it sooner, thanks to you. I didn't realise just how happy I was until—" Her face darkened. "Until bad things started happening to my body, things that frightened me. And instead of trusting you, I made bad choices." Her tone was earnest. "I am finally me, Celeste. You were right."

"I'm also human," I said quietly.

"Okay, human," she said quickly. "Tell me, what do you see now?"

I said nothing: there was nothing to say.

I suddenly realised that before me was a different girl.

Queensland had changed Charlotte. She looked at me with clearer eyes and a firmer chin.

Suddenly, my fear of being right—of the influence I had over her—felt like arrogance. I realised I needed her as much as she needed me, if not more. I slid up close to her and pulled her body into mine.

“No. You’re right—I don’t get to decide what that means.”

She melted into me. Her hair smelled of jasmine and lilac. Something bubbled up within me, something I'd been wanting to say for a long time.

"I love you, chicken."

I felt her body quiver.

"I'm so glad," she whispered. "You have no idea."

Outside the window, the morning proceeded with its customary routine.

This particular Sunday, however, a weight had lifted.

Being right was not innocent.

It wasn't wrong, either.

---

Scene 20

🧸 Before the Fabric Gave Way 🥺

[ Brittany ]

By half past ten that morning, I had decided breathing was overrated.

I had just pulled my unwilling body out of the warm sheets when I heard Lauren's car pull up. I hadn't expected her back already, to be honest. She and Sarah had left together—as they always did—very early that morning, lots of things on the agenda.

Before I could ask her what she’d forgotten, Lauren had installed me at the small table nearest the fire, which was still giving off a low, steady heat, wrapped a towel over my head, and set a bowl of steaming water beneath my face as if I were a piece of laundry she meant to restore by force. The Vicks hit first. Then the heat. Then another cough tore through me hard enough to make my eyes water.

“Slowly,” Lauren said.

I would have answered, but my nose had resigned from service and my throat had joined it out of loyalty.

The front door rattled and an improperly closed window complained at the wind. I fixed Lauren with a puzzled stare through a Vicks-flavoured haze.

"Why did you leave work—"

"Shush. Needs must." She passed her hand over my forehead. "There's something nasty going around." I dissolved into more coughing. "That'll ease. Just give the Vicks a chance to work."

My mum used to paint our chests with it when we caught a cold. My eyes were watering now as they did back then.

Lauren went into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

"You allergic to anything, hun?"

I managed no, then coughed again, though not as violently.

"A nice honey-and-lemon toddy will do you wonders."

Usually, when I got sick, I liked being left alone. But for some reason, I found Lauren's presence comforting.

Beside my elbow, half protected from the steam by a tea towel, lay my caraco design. It looked far more composed than I felt. Lauren picked up the caraco design by one corner, careful not to let the steam curl the paper.

“You have a real talent for design.”

I made a sound that would have been a laugh if my lungs had been more cooperative.

“Lisa has the talent,” I said.

Lauren glanced at me over the page. “That isn’t what I said.”

No. It wasn’t.

I looked at the drawing instead of her. The neat little curve of the front seam. The placement of the tabs. The stupid, hopeful precision of it.

“I don’t think Lisa and I would even be here if Charlotte hadn’t shown Fiona what Wardrobe really was,” I said.

Lauren’s hand stilled.

"It's actually kind of weird. It probably wouldn't have happened if Charlotte hadn't... done something she knew she shouldn't do." I glanced at Lauren's face, and wondered if I'd said too much. Her eyes suddenly snapped to mine.

"Go on."

I breathed the Vicks-laden steam in deeply, stalling. I could tell by that sharp look she gave me I'd better get this right.

"It wasn't so much like she did something actually wrong," I said. "She didn't, not really. But, here's the thing. She told Lisa and me afterwards she knew that it was a bad idea all along. She said her mistake was to go ahead with it."

Lauren frowned slightly and tilted her head, but didn’t say anything.

"Yeah, so that's why we're here."

The door rattled as if the wind was growing impatient with waiting outside. Lauren was no longer looking at me.

"But the decision for you two—"

"Yeah, that was Fiona. But, her attitude was different, Lauren. She'd been all 'company store' before. I think she must have realised something. She watched Charlotte fix a problem without blaming Leo or her, without protecting herself, without making it smaller than it was.”

I swallowed, which hurt.

“That’s what Fiona saw. Not just fixing costumes. Wardrobe. Mara. The whole bloody system.”

Lauren did not answer. I watched her hand on the edge of my drawing.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. Neither of us moved. The fire gave a small shift behind the grate, one log settling into another.

“She’s good,” I said, because apparently I had decided to keep making things worse.

Lauren nodded.

“She is.”

But there was something in it. Not disagreement. Not even doubt. Something older than both.

At last she spoke.

It came out very quietly, and for some reason, that made it seem even uglier.

“Why couldn’t she have been all that and still been my son?”

I looked at her.

The sensible thing would have been to say nothing. I was ill enough to be stupid, but not quite stupid enough to miss the edge in her voice.

If there was anger, it had burned down to embers. No, this was pain. Raw, from a wound that had never healed. The kind that would have earned a frown and a head shake from any nurse.

I could feel myself getting stuck in something emotionally messy. I had to back up. Way up.

I gazed blearily at her for a moment, collecting myself.

“I don’t think it works like that,” I said finally.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

This was a different woman from the one who had tucked me under a towel and told me to breathe.

"It means: it's about identity."

Lauren’s fingers tightened on the paper, just enough to bow it.

“I know what the doctors said.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“I know what Mara says. I know what Celeste says. I get what Charlotte is trying to say.” She swallowed. “I know what I’m supposed to understand.”

There it was. The wrong word.

Supposed.

I pulled the towel back from my face because the steam had gone thin and my nose had started running again.

“Knowing isn’t the same as having caught up,” I said.

Lauren's eyes were fixed on the fire.

“She chose it, though.”

I almost snapped at that. I felt it rise in me, sharp and ugly, because I was tired and clogged and because people said choice when they meant blame with clean hands. I wanted to scream:

"People don't choose to be born. They get what they're given."

But this was Lauren.

So I swallowed it, badly.

“She chose to stop lying,” I said. “That isn’t the same thing.”

“She chose it, though,” Lauren said.

I could feel that scream in my tonsils.

Swallowing was even more painful. The Vicks had worn thin and my throat hurt and my head felt packed with wet wool. Cruelty would have been easy. It always was, when you were sick enough to think honesty and sharpness were the same thing.

Instead I looked at my caraco design, because it was safer than looking at her.

“She chose to survive it,” I said. “That’s not the sort of choice you make because you fancy a change.”

Lauren answered too quickly.

“I know that.”

“No,” I said, then regretted it. “Sorry. I mean—you know the sentence. I’m not sure you know what the word cost her.”

Lauren looked at me then. She had stopped looking like someone nursing me. Now she looked like someone who had forgotten where she had put something important.

“I want to.” I could barely hear the words.

They were worse than denial.

“She’s still yours,” I said. Being sick made you stupidly brave.

Lauren’s face changed.

I wished I had stayed under the towel.

“She is very much yours,” I added, because once I had started bleeding all over the furniture I might as well do it properly. “She didn’t leave you. She left the part that was killing her.”

I tapped the design with one finger.

“You know when something looks nearly right on the stand, but every seam is under strain?”

Lauren finally looked at me.

“If you keep it that way, it doesn’t become right. It tears.”

My eyes wouldn't leave hers.

“She chose the alteration before the fabric gave way.”

Lauren was silent for so long the steam thinned between us.

At last she set the design down, very carefully. Lauren’s hand rested near the edge of my drawing. Not touching it now. Just near.

“She was such a gentle boy.”

Lauren covered her mouth with one hand.

For a moment I thought she might cry, and I hated myself for wanting her not to. Not because she didn’t deserve to, but because I had no idea what I was supposed to do with a crying mother while wearing a towel and smelling of Vicks.

“She’s still your child,” I said.

Lauren nodded.

Slowly.

The words still had a long way to travel.

---

Scene 21

🌷 The Fourth Rung 🌺

[ Sarah ]

I stood at the door, my inadequate jacket wrapped tightly around me, waiting for Celeste to finish shutting up shop.

As she killed the main overheads, the switch snapped loud enough to cut through the wind thrashing the branches in the empty carpark.

She picked up her bag.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

My mind wasn’t on the switch, the wind, the clouds threatening more rain, or even my growling stomach.

It was on what Charlotte had said to me about Roger that afternoon:

“I wasn’t surprised. He’d never known me before, why start now?”

Dismissive. Almost offhand. And yet there had been an emptiness in her eyes.

She hadn’t only been thinking about Roger.

The words—and her face—played in a loop as we drove along windswept, almost empty streets in the failing light.

I had been puzzled about something for the past week or so: Roger’s vanishing act made no bloody sense. Men like Roger did not usually vanish because they had learned a lesson. They vanished because they had found another door. I knew Roger. He was tenacious.

I had mentally dug in for a long fight.

And then: nothing?

Gone?

That he'd "seen the light" was a naïve way to look at things. There had to be another reason.

During afternoon tea, I'd started unpicking that seam with Mara and Lucy. What they told me—and Charlotte's dry little quip—took my breath away.

Celeste was driving me home in the sort of silence that discouraged questions. She was elsewhere, and not inviting company.

When we pulled up outside my place, the wind buffeted the car.

“Thanks for the lift, Celeste.”

She gave me a small wave. Non-committal. Even that seemed to cost her.

When I entered the apartment, Brittany was just heading down the hallway to her room, toothbrush in her mouth.

"Crook-as. Thank goodness Lauren nursed me back to health," she croaked.

"Yeah, you sound great, now."

"Early mark, see you bright and early! I'll be bright if you'll handle the early."

She disappeared into her room.

I found Lauren sitting at the dinette table, not doing anything particularly useful with a cup of tea. I stood looking at her for a moment. She wouldn't look up.

Finally, with pursed lips, I flicked on the kettle. I could feel my irritation rise.

"What's eating you?"

Lauren glanced at me then.

"Nothing. I'm just tired—"

"Don't give me that." The kettle began its heating-water hiss, louder by the second. "This isn't tired. This is a death in the family. So, what's eating you?"

I dropped into the chair next to her with a determined thud.

She sat with it, as if the words were jumbled and needed arranging. In the end, she gave the cup both hands and looked down.

"I don't think you can understand—"

"Try me," I cut in.

Her fingers went to her forehead.

"This is so going to come out wrong," she said in the same voice.

I waited. She looked towards the window.

"I—I had a lovely, sweet, gentle son." She stopped. I didn’t answer—I didn’t trust myself to. Whatever was on my face made her look away, folding in on herself a little. "Like I said," she went on, "you wouldn't understand."

I studied her, eyes narrowed. I shivered, and not because of the cold draught at my ankles.

"Have. Not had, have. You have a lovely, sweet, gentle, courageous child." My voice was crisp. "She loves you. So much so, she put herself in the line of fire." Lauren opened her mouth, but I wasn't done. "When I first met her, her main mission in life was to blend into the background. To disappear. To hide." I gave a quick snort. "A sweet, gentle chameleon. No one saw her: not her classmates, not Roger."

I paused.

The kettle clicked.

The sound of bubbling softened. Then stopped.

"And, not me," she said.

My head snapped back, my lips a hard thin line. I rose and poured boiling water over my teabag, glancing at her hunched-over form at the table.

“Careful,” I said.

Lauren looked up.

I dunked the teabag twice, harder than necessary. “Don’t make that pretty, either.”

Her face changed. Not offence. Weariness.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “You’re trying to turn it into one clean failure. One sentence. I didn’t see her. Very tragic. Very tidy. Very mother-at-the-window.”

Lauren’s eyes sharpened a little.

Good. There she was.

I carried the mug back to the table and sat opposite her this time, not beside her.

“You didn’t see her,” I said. “Fine. Put that on the list. Roger didn’t see her. School didn’t see her. Half the world would have walked past her if she’d set herself on fire in the corridor, provided she did it quietly.”

Lauren flinched.

I let her.

“But that is not the same as losing a son.”

Her mouth trembled once, then steadied.

“I know what you’re going to say,” she muttered.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Because you’re still trying to make this about what changed.”

I wrapped both hands around my mug. The heat bit into my palms.

“It isn’t about what changed. It’s about what finally stopped changing.”

Lauren stared at me.

“She was a chameleon,” I said. “And that was a problem, not a solution. She became whatever kept the room calm. Quiet boy. Helpful boy. Sensitive boy. Harmless boy. Don’t look too closely boy. Don’t ask for anything boy. Don’t make Dad angry boy. Don’t make Mum worry boy.”

Lauren’s face went pale.

I lowered my voice, though not by much.

“No identity. Just camouflage.”

The kettle ticked softly behind me as it cooled.

“And camouflage is not proof an animal belongs in the scenery,” I said. “It’s proof something in the environment is dangerous enough to require hiding.”

Lauren looked down at her tea. I gave her a moment. Not mercy, exactly.

Space.

Then I said, “Look at her now.”

She didn’t answer.

“No, properly. Look at her now. She stands—differently. Speaks differently. Argues, when she has to. Chooses things. Tests things. Makes mistakes in public and survives them.” I gave a short, humourless laugh. “She wears clothes that fit, for crying out loud. That alone should have rung church bells.”

A small sound escaped Lauren. Not quite a laugh. Not quite pain.

“Charlotte is not less gentle,” I went on. “She is not less sweet. She is certainly not any less yours. She is more visible." My head went to one side. "Tell me: what exactly are you grieving?”

Lauren’s eyes filled.

I leaned forward.

“It seems to me you are grieving the child who made it easy not to know.”

That landed. I saw it land.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then Lauren whispered, “That’s cruel.”

“Yes,” I said. “And accurate.”

She closed her eyes.

I softened my grip on the mug.

“Lauren, I’m not saying you meant harm. I’m saying harm doesn’t require intent. Sometimes it only requires everyone in the room being very comfortable with a lie because the lie keeps the furniture where it is.”

Her hand moved to the edge of the table.

“I thought she was just… delicate.”

“Mm.”

“And Roger thought—”

“Roger thought whatever made Roger feel least inconvenienced.”

Lauren looked at me, her expression closed around something I couldn’t name. I held her gaze.

“There’s one receipt I haven’t shown you yet.”

She went still.

I took a sip of tea. Too hot. I swallowed it anyway.

“Outcomes.”

Lauren frowned. I set the mug down.

“You want proof this wasn’t some derailment? Some terrible wrong turn? Some bit of youthful nonsense everyone should have stopped? Look at the result. Not the theory. Not the fear. The result.” I counted on my fingers. “Confidence. Competence. Belonging. Better posture. Better voice. Proper eye contact. Better temper, actually, which is inconvenient for the rest of us but good for her.”

Lauren’s mouth moved, but no words came.

“She is not shrinking,” I said. “She is growing.”

I let that sit between us.

“People don’t thrive in a false self, Lauren. Not properly. They perform in a false self. They survive in one. They become charming little ghosts in one.”

Lauren’s eyes dropped.

“But thriving?” I shook my head. “Thriving is evidence.”

The wind at the front door made it thump.

“And I’m sorry,” I said, less sharply now, “but the evidence is not on your side.”

I rose and chucked another log on the low flames in the fireplace. Sparks flew.

This was going to be a long night.

“Do you remember the rungs?”

“Rungs?”

“First rung: be seen and don’t let it knock you over. Second rung: someone talks to you, you keep your hands. Third rung—”

“Someone says something stupid,” Lauren said quietly.

“There you are.” I looked back at her. “Do you remember how proud you were of her?”

Lauren said nothing.

“You were proud. Let’s not pretend you weren’t.”

“Of course I was.”

“Good. Now, let’s not pretend it was only about professionalism.”

Her mouth tightened.

“What else could it be?”

There it was. Still not seeing it.

I breathed out through my nose and made myself stay seated.

“Lauren, it was about not disappearing.”

She blinked. The front door thumped again.

“When I first met her, she was already a good worker. Careful. Polite. Well behaved.” I let the words sit there, because they were not compliments, not entirely. “But she would vanish at the drop of a hat. One wrong look, one raised voice, one man taking up too much room, and she was gone.”

Lauren’s face changed, but not enough.

“The ladder changed that, because it taught her she could be seen and still keep doing what she was doing. She learned she didn’t have to disappear just because someone noticed her. She didn’t have to abandon herself because someone spoke to her. She didn’t have to drop the work because someone said something stupid.”

Lauren stared at me.

“She kept her hands.”

The words sat between us, plain as crockery.

I tapped two fingers against the table.

“That was the lesson. Keep your hands. Keep the work. Keep the standard. Let people look. Let them think what they like. Let them mutter. Let them misname the thing if they must.” I held her gaze. “But don’t drop what you know how to do.”

Lauren swallowed.

“You thought she was only learning Wardrobe,” I said quietly. “Stays. Pins. Lacing. How to stand still while women with cold hands corrected her posture. And she was learning that. But not only that. Underneath it all, she was learning something cleaner.”

I picked up my tea, then put it down again.

“She was learning that being seen did not have to end her. And once she had that, it didn’t stay at the fitting table. Because of course it didn’t. Skills don’t behave themselves like that.”

Lauren’s eyes dropped. Her hand moved around her cup.

“She had learned not to disappear there,” I said. “So she started learning not to disappear everywhere else.”

Lauren was very still. Her eyes had gone wide.

“So she was hiding,” she said. “Even from me.”

I gave the tiniest nod.

“Yes.”

The word hurt her. I saw it. I let it.

“When Charlotte saw that not just work, but life was possible without disappearing, she, well, yes, chose.”

Lauren’s mouth tightened.

“So she did choose.”

I looked at her then.

“Careful.”

“But you just said—”

“I said she chose to stop disappearing. She didn't choose to be Charlotte. She was Charlotte already.”

Lauren’s relief collapsed.

“That is the difference people keep pretending not to understand.”

We sat for some time in silence, listening to the snapping in the fireplace and the wind thumping the living-room window. I rose and pulled the curtain. Outside, a Pathfinder four-by-four growled down the road.

I settled near the warmth of the fire, looked at Lauren, and patted the couch beside me.

She rose stiffly and came over. For a beat, she stood looking down at me, lost in thought.

"Cuddles?"

She sank into the couch beside me. I put my arms around her and felt her warmth come through.

"Should I get counselling, Sarah?"

I wanted to scream yes.

"It might help."

I felt her nod.

---

Scene 22

🥧 Want to Know Why 🍒

[ Celeste ]

The unmistakable aroma of shepherd's pie eased something in my shoulders as I pushed the door open. The hinge complained and I reminded myself to give it a bit of attention that weekend.

Charlotte's back faced me in the kitchenette. In fact, all I saw was denim curves and steam from the oven.

"Hi."

She straightened.

"Hey, petal," she said cheerily. "Dinner won't be long. Can I get you anything?"

I stared at her. No words. Her brows rose a little. She said nothing—with a tiny shrug and pursed lips she turned back to the stove.

I continued to gaze at her for a moment.

Finally, I went into the bedroom and sank down on the bed, my eyes a bit out of focus.

I love that girl!

Why?

Those thoughts had been at the centre of everything that afternoon. I was accomplishing tasks by rote, unfocused. I'm sure Mara noticed—her look was a bit sharp when she left. Mara always notices things, especially when someone is not one-hundred percent in the task.

I closed my eyes.

And opened them again—there was a sound at the door. Charlotte's smile was peeking around the corner.

"Dinner's ready?"

My smile was thin.

"I'll go wash up."

Charlotte was no chef, but her simple meals were always satisfying. I had contemplated having a glass of Sauvignon Blanc but decided against it. Not having alcohol mid-week. I finally leaned back in my chair.

"You've been rather quiet," I said.

"I thought you sort of needed a bit of quiet at the moment."

I gave a tiny nod, fixing the flaky crust with a concentrated stare, listening to the solemn tick of the kitchen clock.

I finally glanced up at her. She was looking at me with her usual mixture of 'not-quite-certain' and adoration. I smiled, a bit more openly now. And saw her shoulders visibly ease.

"You know I love you, don't you?" I said, my voice soft.

Her look warmed, and her shoulders eased more.

"I know."

"And you know me enough to know that I over-analyse everything."

She suppressed a smile and made as if to speak.

I held up my hand.

"Hear me out. One afternoon, recently, I had a front-row seat to your encounter with your dad." A small cloud crossed her face. "I watched a man lose... everything."

Charlotte's eyes cooled.

"You can't lose what you never—"

"I agree," I cut in. "But that's not the point. He thought he had the basic structure of an ideal family. A home. A wife." I paused. "A son."

Charlotte waited. A certain tension had returned.

"Come to find out, the home became just a pile of bricks and peeling paint and used picture frames when his wife and child no longer lived there." I pursed my lips. "His whole life evaporated because he had made one enormous mistake: taking what was the most important in his life for granted."

I rocked slightly in my chair, my hands between my thighs, staring at the crust again.

"When he looked at you—recognised you—that was the moment he realised he'd lost it all a long time ago. I could see it in his eyes."

I licked my lips.

My hands trembled a little.

Finally, I looked up to meet Charlotte's wide-eyed gaze.

"Anyone can grow accustomed to things being done for them. After a while, you stupidly start to put it down to nature, not work. The trivial tasks done carefully go unrecognised because they're… trivial. It's a—slippery slope."

For a long beat, neither of us spoke. Finally, I leaned forward, putting my elbows on the table and my head in my hands.

"I love you, Charlotte." She sat motionless, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I just want to know why I love you," I said finally.

Her gaze faltered, and she looked down at her half-eaten dinner.

"My cooking?" she offered timidly.

Charlotte wore that same innocent, hopeful 'she-has-the-answers' look I'd found so intriguing in the girls' loo. I reached out and placed my hand on her cheek.

"You are so lovely."

Her look softened slightly.

"Here's the thing, Charlotte. I love you, genuinely love you… and also, at the same time I realise that I have really come to depend on you. I guess I didn't realise how much I would come to depend on you when I told you back then you were most useful by being a wife. I certainly didn't think that I would come to need that wife as much as I do. Need you!"

Charlotte shook her head slightly.

"And that bothers you?"

I shrugged.

"I know it seems weird now for me to question the whole 'wife' idea—now, at this late date—but when I saw the emptiness in your dad's eyes I realised he and I were two different pieces of cloth looking at the same seam."

"You're nothing like my dad!"

"I didn't say I was. We're only similar in this one inescapable fact: we both need that seam. Your mum had provided that for him. Your dad confused need with longing, dependency with love. I don't want to make the same mistake."

Charlotte grimaced, almost a smile.

"You won't."

"And how do you know?"

"You're not male. You're not entitled."

"So, you think women can't be entitled?"

Charlotte sighed.

"Well, also because you're aware, you're thinking about this. I doubt my dad had any of those thoughts at all."

"I only had those thoughts after seeing his face."

Charlotte huffed, but then, her eyes lit up.

"Do you actually think—" she paused. "Look, anyone can be guilty of taking a person for granted. Just because we're good at infrastructure..."

"It's not the same."

"Except it is. Expectations and routine make us less able to see changes when they happen, especially when those changes are unexpected. Mum held the home together, kept everything running, but she saw a story in her head, not me. Expectations and routine." She grimaced. "I think she's still not come to terms with 'Charlotte'."

I drew my lips together with a slight frown.

She had a point.

"Look, I want to try something," Charlotte said. "Something we do every day. Or at least three times a week."

"I'm listening."

She looked down at her plate, gathering courage from mashed potato and mince.

“So, it's only one thing.”

“One thing?”

“One thing you noticed. About me, I mean. Not whether dinner was good, or whether the floor was swept, or whether your shirts came back from the line looking like I'd ironed all afternoon. Something you actually noticed about me.”

I went very still.

Charlotte glanced up, then away again.

“And I do the same for you. One thing I noticed, about you. One thing that wasn’t just… useful.”

My throat tightened before I had time to arrange my face. She pushed a small piece of crust around with her fork.

“And maybe one thing we needed and didn’t say. Not every time. Just when there is one.”

I studied her.

“You’ve given this some thought, haven't you?”

“Not in a clever way.”

“That is usually the cleverest way.”

A faint smile touched her mouth.

“I don’t want to be thanked for every little thing,” she said. “That would be awful. I don’t want to become a list of services rendered.”

I gave a small nod.

“But I don’t want to disappear into usefulness either.”

The words landed quietly. Precisely. Like pins set through cloth.

I folded my hands under the table because they had begun to tremble again.

Charlotte looked embarrassed now, as if she had accidentally spoken above her station.

“Maybe we just say one thing we noticed. Properly noticed. Not something useful. Not something we’re grateful for because it made life easier. Just… one thing about the other person we might have missed if we weren’t paying attention.”

I held her in my gaze, gently enough not to startle her.

And there it was.

Wow.

For the longest moment, the kitchen clock was the loudest thing in the room.

Apart from the pounding in my ears.

---

Scene 23

💧 The Truth Is in How It Deforms 🩸

[ Charlotte ]

I stood looking intently at nothing while Brittany adjusted the jacket across my shoulders.

“Take in a breath.”

I took in a breath.

“Good. That smooths the back a little.” She watched the cloth settle, then glanced up at me. “How does it feel across there? Tight anywhere?”

I closed my eyes and let myself listen to the garment.

The shoulders moved comfortably when I brought my arms forward. I pulled them back again, straightened, and followed Brittany’s gaze down to my chest.

Her lips pursed, then slid sideways.

“Well,” she said. “You’re not exactly giving us nymph-line data anymore, are you?”

Heat rushed into my face. I shrugged.

“I suppose I might be taking after Mum. I just didn’t think it would happen quite this soon.”

Brittany’s grin softened before it became a tease.

“Congratulations and commiserations. We’ll update the ledger.” She bent slightly to inspect the lower edge of the jacket. “Peplum?”

I gave it a firm tug, tipped my head, and lifted my thumb.

“Good. That was not coming off unless someone brought tools.”

A quiet snort came from the far side of the table.

Mara had appeared there without any of us hearing her arrive.

“We’re giving the nymph-line testing to Lily,” she said.

The door opened.

Lily stepped into Wardrobe as if summoned by policy. Behind her came Bree and Mum, carrying a heavy-looking box between them.

Mara’s attention left Lily at once and fixed on the box.

“A new coffee machine,” Bree said, puffing slightly.

“Well, new to us,” Mum added quickly. “Before anyone asks, yes, it counts as workplace infrastructure.”

They lugged it into the tearoom and set it down on a cleared section of bench with one last, heroic effort. Bree stripped away the cardboard with a flourish.

Chrome gleamed beneath it.

The room seemed brighter.

Mara breathed out slowly, her face arranged into the expression she used when numbers were about to become moral.

“Before you say anything,” Mum said, eyes twinkling, “the staff all chipped in. It is not coming out of the operating budget.”

Mara closed her eyes and shook her head.

“How much?”

Sarah swung down from her perch, wearing the grin of someone about to light a fuse.

“You know, these run five or six thousand new.”

For a moment, the loudest thing in Wardrobe was the steam press.

Mara opened her eyes. Mum held out an invoice.

“Fifteen hundred,” she said. “Yes, it’s a bit more than that thing you and I looked at the other day at The Good Guys, Mara, but this is an Italian-made espresso machine. It’s a tank. They build these machines to last. It will outlive us.”

Mara took the invoice as if it might bite. Her expression softened by one carefully rationed degree.

“Anyone here know how to use it?”

I raised my hand.

Every face turned.

Mara looked at me.

“Nightingale?”

Mum was already filling the reservoir while Bree found the grinder and Sarah, uninvited and inevitable, opened cupboards in search of cups. I checked the bean hopper, adjusted the grind, and flicked the switch.

The machine woke with a low, expensive growl.

“How do you take your coffee, Mara?”

Mara looked from me to the machine, then to the invoice still in her hand.

“Almond latte,” she said.

Mum smiled as if some private theory had just been confirmed.

“Thought so.”

Mum stayed beside me after the others drifted back to work, her cup held in both hands though she had already finished the coffee.

“I didn’t know you knew how to make cappuccinos,” she said.

“It’s not cooking, mum.”

“No.” Her mouth twitched. “Apparently that distinction matters.”

“It does.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite hold. Her gaze moved toward the machine as it ticked and settled on the bench, all chrome and heat and faintly scorched coffee. Then she reached out and brushed a thread from my sleeve.

There was no need to do it. The thread was barely there.

“You’ve always done that,” she said.

“What?”

“Made yourself useful before anyone thought to ask.”

I looked down at my cup.

“Mum.”

“No, don’t rescue me.” Her voice was soft, but firm. “You do that too.”

That made my throat close before I had decided whether I wanted it to. I glanced at her—quickly, then away again—and suddenly found my thumbnail fascinating.

The silence was broken by the sound of her cup being set down.

Carefully.

Too carefully.

“I’ve been trying to find a clean way to say this, and—” She swallowed. “Every version sounds like something from a sympathy card.”

I gave a small laugh, because I had to do something with my face.

“I’m not good at this,” she said.

I looked at her, finally, and bit at the edge of my nail.

“You’re my mum.”

She shook her head.

“That doesn’t make me good at it. It only means I should have tried earlier.”

Her eyes were bright, but she wasn’t crying. She was holding herself the way she did when something mattered too much to be allowed to spill everywhere.

An ache grew in my throat.

“Over these last few weeks, I’ve been thinking that I’d lost something,” she said. “A son.”

She stopped. Grimaced.

“No. Not a son—an idea. A shape I’d got used to. Which was just—selfish of me.” Her hand opened slightly, helpless and beckoning at once.

“You were standing in front of me the whole time.”

I couldn’t answer.

Her warm fingers touched my arm again.

“I don’t want to make this about me, or about guilt,” she said. “I won’t ask you to carry this for me. I just want to say it as plainly as I can.”

She swallowed. Closed her eyes as if the words hurt to bring into the open.

“I’m sorry you had to wait for me... to see you.”

The room blurred.

“Mum, I—”

“No.” She shook her head once. “This is on me.”

That undid me more than the apology.

I stepped into her because I had no language left. She caught me at once, one arm around my shoulders, the other hand settling at the back of my head—I was still small enough to fit there. Her blouse smelled faintly of washing powder and coffee, and under that, simply Mum.

“I am so lucky,” I whispered, though it came out muffled against her.

Her breath caught.

“So am I,” she said. “My lovely girl.”

She held me only a moment longer, then gave my shoulder a practical squeeze and reached for a tissue from her handbag.

“Blow,” she said.

I stared at her.

“Charlotte, you are allowed to be transformed and still have a runny nose.”

That made me laugh properly, wetly, disgracefully.

The door creaked behind us.

Lily stood there, wide-eyed and horrified by her own timing.

“Sorry,” she said. “Mara said you were going to teach me how to test.”

Mum handed me the tissue, then gave Lily the calm look of a woman restoring order to a room.

“She is,” Mum said. “And she’s very good at it.”

Lisa appeared at the tearoom door holding a dress in both upturned hands, exposing grommets, lacing, and a great deal of trouble.

I glanced at her face. Her mouth had gone sideways. This was about more than grommets and lacing.

She gave a small twitch—part snort, part laugh.

“Mara said zipper. Can you believe it?”

“No.”

We spread the dress on the table. I turned out the collar and checked the label.

“Twelve. Who fits a twelve?”

“You do,” Mum said behind me.

I was about to shake my head, but Lisa and Lily were already nodding at me as if the matter had been settled somewhere above my rank.

I shrugged and pulled the dress over my head.

Mum drew it down into place, then caught the lacing and gave it two firm tugs.

“Was I right?”

I straightened my back.

Lisa ran her fingers along a small ripple—not quite a crease—that began at one grommet and faded as it reached the side seam. Her eyes flicked up. She shook her head.

“We’d have to redesign this whole panel, wouldn’t we?”

I nodded.

“The mistake I made at Maleny was agreeing to a zipper when I already knew it couldn’t just be swapped in.”

“But it will work,” Mara said from the doorway. “If we stop pretending a zipper is decorative lacing and rethink the physics. Nightingale?”

I looked down at the front of the dress.

“When you lace, the load doesn’t land in one place,” I said. “You can take it first at the waist, then ease it through the lower chest and shoulders. The grommets share the work. The gap changes. The pressure moves.”

Lisa nodded slowly.

“But a zipper gives you one fixed line.”

“One fixed line,” Mum said, stepping closer. “And fixed lines are rude.”

Lily blinked.

Mum examined the panel beneath my bust. “Lacing negotiates. A zipper doesn’t. Bend forward, breathe hard, reach up—lacing adjusts by tiny amounts. A zipper just asks the fabric around it to suffer.”

Lisa touched the ripple again.

“So the fabric starts arguing instead.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“What about a side zipper?” Lisa asked.

Mara came closer, her eyes already measuring the seam.

“Far more sensible than a front one,” she said. “Hidden, for a start. Less offensive to the eye. But not automatically less troublesome.”

I turned slightly, feeling where the dress pulled under my arm and across the waist.

“It would have to carry stress without looking like it was carrying stress.”

“Everything in Wardrobe does,” Sarah said from somewhere behind us.

Mara ignored her, which meant she had heard perfectly.

“A side zip is worth trying,” Mara said. “But we reinforce the seam, stabilise the opening, and test it sitting, reaching, bending, and being yanked about by tourists with no manners.”

Lisa looked at the dress, then at me.

“So the truth will be in how it deforms.”

Mara’s mouth almost smiled.

“The truth is always in how it deforms.”

I turned to Lily.

“You want to focus on what changes when you move,” I said. “First wear the dress we already know works. Learn what normal feels like. Where it gives. Where it pulls. Where it doesn’t matter.”

Lily nodded, serious now.

“Then wear the altered one and look for the difference. A side zipper will tell a different story from lacing. The story usually begins at the waist. If the zipper gets confused there, an actress will be in here complaining before her shift ends.”

Mara shook a large drafting-paper pattern out of a cardboard tube and flattened it on the table.

Lisa, Brittany, Lily, and I leaned over it as Mara tapped one seamline with her finger.

“This is why I like lacing and hate zippers,” she said. “Lacing is polite. Zippers are rude. Lacing will negotiate. Zippers have their own ideas.”

Brittany grinned. “So we’re teaching the zipper manners?”

“We are teaching the dress to survive the zipper,” Mara said.

That settled it.

The door opened, and cold evening air followed Celeste in.

Mum and Sarah began gathering their things.

“Ready, Brittany?” Mum asked.

With a wide, toothy grin, Brittany threw on her caraco jacket.

“I am now. Night, all.”

On the way out, Mum gave me a squeeze goodnight.

“Love you, Mum.”

The words came out easily.

Celeste noticed. Of course she noticed. Her gaze moved from Mum’s hand on my shoulder to my face, and her smile softened into something almost private.

Outside, the blustery wind blew crisp gum-tree leaves against my legs as we walked to the car.

I didn’t feel cold.

Not really.

All I could feel was Mum’s warm hug.

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