CHAPTER 10

There is plenty to witness when you spend eighteen years living with the same people. Such as, watching them evolve from loving The Wiggles to loving Wilco and thinking that is an extremely individual act, along with approximately three million other teenagers at the time. If you are lucky, your siblings are the only people you ever really belt, that you fight with so ferociously there is hair and bits and skin scattered down hallways for months. Offspring watch their parents eternally commit the sin of being imperfect. Even though their humanness is demonstrated almost daily, the older you get, it still comes as a shock.

When you grow up with people, as opposed to just live with them, when you love them enough to show how enraged you are at their bathroom transgressions, then an unavoidable consequence is knowing them. Really knowing them. A move­ment of the mouth, the way a hand brushes away a bit of hair, the way their shoulders are set. Undetectable to most, but to those who truly know them, who have grown up with them, the way someone moves their eyebrow can say a hundred different things. I’m mad. I’m sad. I’m bored. I don’t like this person. I am attracted to that person. Entire moods can shift within families on the way one of them has moved their hand. There is nowhere to hide from your siblings, from your parents, from your children.

This is how Claudia knew Poppy was going to be a complete cunt at her dress fitting.

Claudia was already standing with Nora in the light-filled upstairs room of the dress shop when her younger sister arrived. The pair were idly flicking through wedding magazines, trying to deduce the differences between the forty-five or so strapless white gowns filling the pages, when the door swung open. Claudia looked up and locked eyes with Poppy and knew. Poppy had her mouth closed, one of the sure signs of her infamous foul moods. It wasn’t just closed, it was shut with purpose. She bowed her head slightly as she entered and leaned against a wall after giving her sister and friend a slight wave. She was wearing a short black skirt and a shirt with the logo of a band that had been in their prime when she had been in nappies, but it was her thongs that provided the most extreme visible provocation. She knew Claudia hated thongs. She also knew the final wedding-dress fitting was an event that merited actual shoes. But there she was. She raised her phone and started scrolling through it. Claudia glanced at Nora: beautiful, oblivious Nora. ‘Hey Poppy,’ she said cheerily. Her enthusiasm was rewarded with silence. Poppy looked Nora up and down, drinking in her ironed white-collared shirt, her espadrilles, her tapered dark jeans, cutting off neatly just above the ankle. She raised an eyebrow but – luckily – she didn’t have the kind of cruelty in her to make a seemingly offhand remark that would have the victim thinking about it for three days, that would make someone weep into their pillow at three a.m. while the tormentor forgot what she had said almost immediately. That was Zoe’s specialty.

As a silence was settling between them – one Claudia would call uncomfortable, Nora would call innocuous and Poppy wouldn’t even notice – a cascade of red tulle entered the room.

It stopped in front of Claudia and the head of a doll emerged from the top of it. It took the trio a moment to realise it was just the woman at the centre of the red tulle dropping her enormous skirt now that she had stopped.

‘Clauddddiaaaaaaa,’ she squealed.

‘Amelia,’ Claudia responded meekly, while grasping for something else to say. ‘Mum isn’t here yet.’ Claudia stepped back involuntarily. There was just so much of Amelia; she filled the room.

She wore a ball gown. A red ball gown with a full tulle skirt she had to lift so high when she was walking that it obscured her head, bringing to mind visions of a classic seventies crocheted toilet doily, with its dress billowing out just below its plastic bosoms. The bodice was fitted to her waist and there seemed to be at least three petticoats underneath. An intricate, gold-thread diamond pattern was punctured by different jewels. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun and she wore full make-up of red lipstick, foundation that was half a shade too dark, cat-eye eyeliner, bronzer and blush, both in shades slightly too dark and slightly too bright for her skin. The overall effect left one wondering if she was quite mad or if she was so lacking in personality that this was her way of making up for it.

‘It’s so refreshing to have a bride who doesn’t feel the need to diet before her wedding,’ Amelia said with a bright smile while looking Claudia up and down.

Amelia was a bitch.

Nora opened her mouth and then quickly closed it again, the manners so ingrained into her as a child once again short-circuiting her stinging response. Poppy snorted while Claudia, in the absence of any appropriate comeback, just thanked the boutique owner.

‘I don’t think we should start until Mum gets here,’ Claudia added.

Amelia’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘This is a very busy shop.’

‘We can see that,’ Nora said, looking around the space that was entirely empty except for the four women.

‘It’s okay, Mum would’ve been out the door but just wanted to put on a load of washing,’ Poppy said, speaking for the first time. Claudia looked to her hopefully but Poppy was scrolling on her phone again. Like a menacing stray cat, her crankiness had looked around the room and settled in, making itself comfortable on the green velvet chaise longue. It was here for the morning.

‘Are you going to offer us some tea? Maybe some champagne?’ Nora asked, inherently scary by the sheer neatness of her clothes and hair. She was trying to fill the room with her 48-kilogram frame, to show Amelia she was committing the most heinous of sins – being a bad host. She wanted Amelia to feel small.

‘Oh of course,’ Amelia said breezily. ‘I just thought since the appointment was for nine thirty a.m. we would have everyone here at nine thirty a.m. and I could offer refreshments at nine thirty-five a.m. Now I think of it, it’s been so long that the tea I prepared for you might be cold. Eeeessssiiieeee,’ she called.

A plain woman in her fifties appeared, hair cropped, rimless glasses on, holding a tray with five crystal glasses of champagne, a teapot and five mugs.

‘Help yourself while we wait,’ Amelia said, cocking her head to emphasise the wait. Nora defiantly picked up a champagne glass and found a spot on the chaise longue. Poppy jumped away from the wall, an animation brought to life.

‘Hold on! Let’s get a photo before we drink them,’ she said, reaching her phone out awkwardly in front of her and sitting down so close to Nora she was almost in her lap. She grabbed a champagne glass and beckoned to Claudia.

‘I’m not drinking this morning,’ her sister said.

‘That’s okay, just hold the glass for the photo.’

‘What is this photo for?’

‘Just Snapchat; we don’t have a money shot for Insta yet.’

It was on the tip of Claudia’s tongue, so close that the way she clamped on it was almost violent. But she didn’t say it. She picked up a glass and sat on the other side of Nora, tilting her head just so for the photo.

Poppy returned to her sulk corner as soon as she’d uploaded it. Nora took a swig of her champagne. Claudia’s chest tightened as she tried to think of something to say to pull Poppy from her mood. Amelia continued to glare.

Finally, finally, finally, after a century had passed, after the tides had adjusted to a new distance from the moon, after dynasties had risen to power and died out due to infertility, after another planet had been discovered and dismissed from the solar system like an unwanted child, the door opened.

Rachel never apologised for being late. Not because she thought it was not her fault, or because she thought of it as a power play, or because it was so rare. She never apologised because it never occurred to her it was rude to be late – or even that she was tardy at all. She was such a chronically late person it was as if the concept of seconds, minutes and hours did not apply to her: like someone in a pulp sci-fi novel she was exempt from time’s terrible, inexorable powers. And if it did somehow apply to her, then nobody else’s time would be more valuable than hers anyway.

Trailed by Zoe, she walked in, as excited as Carole Middleton on learning who else would be going to St Andrews.

‘She had to hang some washing out before we left,’ Zoe said dryly, looking Poppy up and down. Zoe nodded towards Claudia, holding eye contact for a moment and a half. That was the length of time it took to convey, ‘Don’t blow up at Mum; at least we aren’t here an hour late. I see Poppy is in a foul mood so this is going to be a fun morning, but at least I am here for you, don’t worry.’ If she’d had the time she would have also set her face into delivering an addendum: ‘I don’t know why you have to bring Nora everywhere when you have me,’ but, mercifully, she broke eye contact.

‘Hello sweeeeetie,’ Rachel said, giving Poppy a hug before the bride, which they all knew meant she had registered Poppy’s cloud of scorn as well.

‘Aw shit, man, I wish I was dead,’ Zoe said, staring Poppy straight in the eyes.

Amelia finally interrupted.

‘Let’s get in this dress, shall we?’ she said sharply.

Nora looked from Amelia to Claudia to Rachel and, after being certain nobody was looking, picked up a second glass of champagne.

Claudia had disappeared, whisked away to a changing room, pulled away by a tide of red tulle. Rachel faced the other women and weighed up her options: she was now bored with Zoe and, after quickly noting Poppy’s combative stance, turned to Nora.

‘It’s so nice you could come, to be here in the days before it really gets manic,’ she trilled, unable to help herself. ‘Claudia needs all the support she can get.’

Nora, having known Rachel for years, knew that all that was required of her was a nod and smile. Conversation with the matriarch did not need a verbal participant, just some faint sounds of agreement and an adequately interested-looking face.

Zoe cut her eyes at her mother in warning. But Rachel forged on obliviously in her bid to pull her youngest daughter out of her scary funk, while bypassing the well-worn path of confrontation, screams, tears and apologies.

‘Have you seen the veil we think will go perfectly with the dress? Poppy made it! She’s so clever. Claudia wants flowers in her hair, for some reason. I think it looks so common; you can wear flowers in your hair to your birthday party, why wouldn’t you wear a veil on your wedding day? You only get married once – well, that’s the ambition. She wasn’t letting go of this flower idea and I said why don’t you try a veil with a little bit of flower embroidered on it? Well, Amelia said that was impossible to get, that she would order it in for about $220 but Poppy said to leave it with her. Why should tulle be so difficult to sew into? And she did it! She’s so clever. Aren’t you, Poppy? Just watched a video on the internet, it looks so beautiful, but I haven’t seen Claudia try it on yet. It was only $11 to make!’

Rachel used the time she needed to draw breath and look at her two daughters. It was pathetic and desperate the lengths one would go to in an attempt to pull Poppy out of a mood while steadfastly maintaining the pretence that she wasn’t in one to start with. It was a complicated process. Often those involved would end up walking around her as if on an unpredictable platform of rotten wooden floorboards, gently testing where they could place their feet with each treacherous step.

Putting aside prior inclinations and private promises, Zoe joined in the pantomime. ‘I didn’t know Poppy made the veil!’

Which basically translated to: ‘Please crack a smile. Don’t you want to feel good? Please don’t ruin the afternoon. Please don’t ruin the week.’ It was half-begging, half-praying.

‘I just looked it up on YouTube,’ Poppy said, glancing up from her phone. ‘Hey, that’s a cool photo. You’re all at equal distance apart. Stay there.’

Rachel and Zoe didn’t move, but there was a certain eagerness to how still they stood. Nora turned towards the camera and Poppy took the requisite eight frames.

Oblivious to the desperate motivations behind the im­passioned interplay, Nora actually asked how long it had taken to craft the veil out of genuine curiosity rather than any desire to placate her. Nora didn’t even know Poppy had to be placated.

She did not get any response, though. Poppy was already hunched over her phone in a blur of thumbs, ticking sounds and raw intent.

Zoe felt her back pocket buzz with an Instagram notification.

@PoppyBangBang had tagged her in a photo. Zoe read the caption: ‘Dress fittings with my Ma and @noranotephron @ZoeYouShould for the most beautiful bride ever #forwhom thebelltulles’. The tips of Zoe’s ears went red.

‘Wow, that’s some real bullshit right there,’ she said, looking directly at Poppy while gesturing to the screen. ‘Why you gotta do that? Post a photo on social media like you’re having an amazing time when you’ve barely spoken to us the entire time. That’s some boring and clichéd bullshit there.’

Poppy raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, unlike you I’ve been to plenty of fittings, so excuse me if I’m not as thrilled by the novelty as you seem to be.’

‘You’re a real brat, you know that,’ Zoe shot back, pointedly ignoring her mother’s pleading glances. ‘A freakin’ class A, Mariah Carey ticket-holding, Prince George mimicking, Bieber entourage member brat.’ Zoe’s tipping point had been reached somewhere between Rachel’s obvious hand-wringing desperation and the delicate sugar-coating that everyone – except Nora – had been trying to apply to a benign discussion on bridal accessories.

‘Well, I’ve actually been here. Some of us don’t get to swan in with overpriced handbags, creating an illusion of a personality and then expect everyone to get along with us,’ Poppy replied, provoking a sharp intake of breath from Nora, the only reminder she was still in the room.

Zoe responded with the most infuriating thing a sibling can do during a violent crossfire of harsh home truths. She laughed. She didn’t think it was funny. It was merely a basic battle strategy, launched for maximum impact on Poppy’s fury.

‘Girls, girls, stop it, I swear to God, I will tell your father,’ Rachel whispered, invoking a long impotent threat that had survived the divorce and remained out of habit.

She was interrupted by the salon door swinging open. In the doorway stood the cheesecloth-clad figure easily capable of restoring Zoe and Poppy’s sisterly affection via a well of mutual spite. ‘Helllooo sweeeeties!’

‘Helllooo!’ Mary bellowed. ‘Rachel, I know this was a girls’ afternoon, but you told me about the fitting and I thought – well, I’m in the neighbourhood – I might as well pop my head in … And I’m a girl!’

Poppy’s eyes narrowed as Zoe muttered, ‘So your purpose for being in the neighbourhood is to crash things you were specifically not invited to?’

Rachel, who came from a long tradition of bestowing her best graces on those least deserving of them, hugged her sister, the previous shouting match now a distant memory. ‘Of course you’re welcome! Here comes Amelia; I think Claudie has just put on the dress.’

Zoe looked from Mary to the emerging Amelia in horror: she knew Claudia would be just behind her. Amelia did a dramatic bow, took a dainty sidestep and held out her arms for the bride to emerge. Nora idly wondered if the circus-master style that Amelia employed for such grand entrances was not the teeniest bit ironic in the current circumstances.

Claudia stepped out from behind the curtain, a vision resplendent in ivory. She glanced around the room and quickly clocked the distance between Zoe and Poppy, but it was only after she had registered Mary’s presence that her face really began to fall.

Poppy turned on her heel and left.

But Claudia was already in tears.

‘Why is Mary seeing my dress before Dad does?’