Her wardrobe is as limited as her funds. Occasionally she goes to the frock shop up at the junction, where Daphne will often have something set aside for her, but even then she can’t always afford to buy the garment.
‘You want to have others, though, don’t you?’ Lavinia asks gently.
‘Yes, of course!’ Margot loves clothes, revelling in the creative expression that can be achieved with them, and she adores the fashion magazines that Daphne gives her each time she visits. Looking at those clothes is as close as she will ever come to having them, though.
Lavinia takes her hand and Margot’s breath catches because her aunt looks so serious.
‘We don’t have any money,’ Lavinia says, her voice soft but her grasp firm.
‘I know,’ Margot says, as if it’s just a simple fact they should both accept.
‘Margot, we need some.’
Margot sighs dramatically and looks out the window again. The view is more pleasant to contemplate than the truth.
‘How are we supposed to get some?’ she asks eventually.
‘You need to find a job.’
Margot blinks several times. ‘A job?’
She knows people have jobs, of course. But she’s not skilled at anything, as Lavinia knows. She could have been. The early signs were there in her schoolwork. It’s just that since her parents died, the concentration she had throughout her school years has proved elusive. She hasn’t been able to stick at anything.
Lavinia mentioned secretarial school once and Margot looked into it, she really did, but the idea of being cooped up in a room learning to type, then, worse, cooped up in an office having to take dictation from some boss made her feel nauseated. She wasn’t made for that. She was made for gardens and flowers and birds and boats and dresses and views.
‘I can’t do anything,’ she says to Lavinia. ‘I don’t know how.’
‘You’re young enough to learn. You’re only thirty-six.’
Margot chews her bottom lip, mulling over the possibilities for a woman of her age to find employment and failing to latch onto anything.
‘What about working in a shop?’ Lavinia suggests.
Margot doesn’t like the idea of having to talk to customers but she doesn’t have an alternative to suggest.
‘Perhaps,’ she offers.
‘I’ll think about which sort of shop.’ Lavinia seems somewhat mollified.
‘All right,’ Margot says.
She looks down at the lace dress again, seeing – for the first time – that it is, in fact, a little too old to be worn outside the house.
‘I’ll go and change for my walk,’ she says.
‘Lovely, darling.’ Lavinia smiles vaguely and goes to turn on the radio. She loves listening to the talkback in the afternoon.
Margot does not, so she slips upstairs and puts on her simplest dress before heading out for a stroll.
CHAPTER SIX
Oh god, oh god, oh god.Christina moans as she rolls over and sees bright sunlight coming through her bedroom window. She’s slept in. Again. And she can’t blame jet lag any more.
It’s been two weeks since she returned to Sydney and her mother’s house on Kurraba Road in Neutral Bay. She hasn’t stayed here for this long since … When? She sighs and squints into the light, then makes out the lemon tree that has always been there.
Since she moved out. That’s how long it’s been.
There have been visits for Christmas but they’re usually short, Christina always claiming that there’s somewhere else she needs to be. It’s almost always true. Her life is odd and changeable, and there are people who want her for things, and other people who need her for things, and other people who believe they want or need her for things. That’s what happens when you choose a profession that puts you in the newspapers and on magazine covers and, most of all, on movie screens.