CHAPTER 13
The next few days passed at a pace that was either dizzily fast or agonisingly slow. What was she doing apart from walking, breastfeeding and sneaking in a coffee with Henry? Nothing, it seemed.
On Monday, James was waiting by the oak tree again. It was sunny and his hair was scattered with threads of gold. He was optimistically wearing rugby shorts. It somehow made him look more muscular, which made Poppy even angrier. She strode past without greeting him and James fell into step with her. It was infuriating how he was basically strolling, his strides long and languid while she was puffing away as she tried to walk faster.
‘Is this the part where I ask about the weather?’ he asked.
Poppy shot him a withering look. Just thinking about him waiting at the oak tree so presumptuously made her feel physically violent. In the pram, Maeve’s hands were clasped as though in prayer. Poppy’s mind scrolled through futile escape plans. He looked too sturdy to be waylaid by an ‘accidental’ karate kick. She couldn’t use speed to her advantage either. She had no chance against those damn legs. Deciding to try the opposite approach, she slowed subtly, hoping James might overtake them. When she got to bridal procession pace and registered she was still shoulder to shoulder with James, she snuck a glance leftwards. The corners of his mouth were struggling to stay neutral. Huffing furiously, she resumed normal pace.
When they passed the golf course entrance James inquired about what music she liked.
‘Death metal,’ she retorted sarcastically.
‘I like everything,’ said James. ‘But not death metal.’
‘Then someone needs to explain the definition of everything to you.’
James shrugged. ‘Maybe I need to give death metal more of a chance,’ he mused, as if he hadn’t heard her.
Poppy sniggered.
‘What?’ asked James.
‘You wouldn’t like it. You’re too …’ Too what? Too clean maybe. Too polo-shirty. ‘You don’t fit the mould,’ she muttered.
‘What mould do I fit?’
Ralph Lauren model sprang to mind but she sure as hell wasn’t verbalising that.
‘Country music fan,’ she said flatly. It was the first thing that popped into her head and she instantly regretted it. She loved country music and she didn’t want this sacred subject tarnished with his douchey opinions. Still, she hoped he was offended. Patrick would have been offended.
James spun towards her, bright-eyed. ‘I deadset love country music!’
Poppy side-eyed him, her neck muscles tensing as Maeve squealed spontaneously. Seriously? He was choosing this moment to reveal he had a mode other than bored-to-smirky? Country music was her thing. She shouldn’t have opened her stupid mouth. It was infuriating how his AI brain could read her mind just to piss her off.
James scanned their surroundings. ‘What’s your favourite type of, um … tree?’
Poppy levelled him with a scowl. What did he expect her to say? Oh, I’m partial to a paperbark but a river red gum really floats my boat . Good lord.
‘This’—she waved her hands between them to indicate the gaping absence of passable conversation—‘is terrible. This is possibly worse than the silence.’
‘I thought the silence was fine,’ muttered James, shaking his head.
‘Nope. That was terrible, this is terrible. You need to try harder.’
James rolled his eyes. ‘Or what?’
‘Or else,’ Poppy retorted. Damn it . Her sass was always so excellent in her daydreams but here she was sounding like an evil dictator about to mwahaha as she pressed the World Detonate button with a menacing pinky finger.
James raised an eyebrow. ‘I think you can do better than that.’
‘You think too highly of me,’ she snapped.
He gave a low chuckle. ‘I doubt that.’
Poppy glared at him. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Maeve’s hand brushed the tail of the dog and her daughter giggled in delight.
‘We’re reverting to silence,’ Poppy ordered.
James flexed his wrist to tighten his hold on the leash. ‘Whatever you say.’ The smile in his voice was as clear as a bell.
That afternoon, as she sat in her parents’ garden and watched her mum pull weeds out of the garden bed, James’s voice kept interrupting her thoughts like a skipping CD player. I deadset love country music! Maybe everyone here liked country music. In Sydney, she’d been the only one who annoyed DJs by requesting Luke Bryan and took over the aux cord to play old-school Taylor Swift. It was her schtick and now he’d stolen it. God, he was infuriating.
In her hot-pink shirt and tailored floral shorts, her mum looked like a Bible Belt frat boy on spring break. Poppy sat on a chequered rug next to the Chinese elm with Maeve lying next to her, her frog-like arms and legs curled into her torso, one cheek pressed into the rug.
‘I don’t know why you do that,’ said her mum, nodding her head towards Maeve. ‘When you were born, we never had to do that and you turned out fine.’
Her mum was full of wisdom like this: care less, do less, and your child will turn out better.
‘It’s called tummy time, Mum. It’s to build up her core strength. Maybe you should have tried it. Maybe that’s why I’m terrible at sport.’
‘Nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘Besides, Maeve is half Patrick, which means she has fifty per cent more sporting genes than you were blessed with. Have you spoken to Patrick yet?’
Poppy grunted noncommittally. No, she had not spoken to him, and she resented the implication that she should be reaching out to him . She had a lot on. ‘Garden’s looking great, Mum,’ she said, desperate to change the subject.
Her mother gave a laboured sigh. ‘Oh, it’s a disaster.’
‘What do you mean? It looks fantastic.’
Her mother pulled a giant weed from the soil. ‘Have I told you Martha and Peter are re-landscaping? They got an arborist in to cut down that tree like I told them to, and next thing you know, they’re talking to a landscape designer and all hell has broken loose.’
Poppy was confused. Was this a big deal? Her mother’s tone warned her it was.
‘Martha mentioned they’re thinking of getting rid of the magnolia. The magnolia!’
‘Mum, it’s their garden, who cares what they do?’
‘I do, Poppy! If they rip out all their crabapples, where do you think the rosellas will go for food? Here, that’s where! The apricot tree will be ripped to shreds! And I may as well say goodbye to the camellias now.’
‘What? Why? Do rosellas eat camellias?’ (Poppy had no idea why she was attempting to find logic in this conversation.)
‘Ideally not, Poppy,’ huffed her mother, as though explaining an adult concept to a small and fundamentally unintelligent child, ‘but for lack of better options they probably will, once Martha pulls everything out.’
Her mother eased back onto her haunches, wiping her brow. ‘Let’s not talk about that or I’ll give myself a panic attack. Have you caught up with any of your old schoolfriends yet?’ She looked at Poppy with pursed lips. This topic came up every time they talked, no matter how often Poppy explained none of her schoolfriends still lived in town.
‘Did I tell you I saw Maddie Harrow at the nursery the other day?’ continued her mother. ‘She was always such a bright spark. Four kids now, too! Lots of the girls from that year are still in town. Maybe you could catch up with them?’
Maddie Harrow had been the ultimate cool girl in high school. A few years older than Poppy, she had married her high-school sweetheart and ended up back in Orange where she could continue to rule her cool girl empire. Poppy had seen her gaggle around the place, all wearing the latest fashions from The Bustle, never seen without a pair of expensive hooped pearl earrings. On average, it seemed they had a million kids each, and when they weren’t coordinating adorable family photo shoots they were holidaying in Noosa.
‘Mum, I hardly knew her at school.’
‘Yes, but you might—’
‘I don’t think we’d have much in common.’
Poppy’s mum looked at her sharply. ‘What does that mean?’
Poppy shrugged.
Chrissie pointed her finger dramatically. ‘You’re not better than those women just because you had a high-flying Sydney career, Poppy. I’m worried about you. You need some friends here.’
Poppy flicked a clod of soil off the picnic rug. She didn’t need to be reminded of her acute friendlessness by her own mother. ‘I have some friends,’ she mumbled.
‘Who, Poppy?’
‘Mary.’
‘Your eighty-seven-year-old next-door neighbour?’
‘She’s eighty-nine, but yes, Mary and I are great mates.’
‘Anyone else who was born after World War Two?’
‘Henry.’
‘Henry Marshall?’ Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t know you’d been seeing him. Do you know he has a fiancée?’
‘God, Mum—yes!’ Poppy cried, turning away as she felt a mortifying heat creep across her cheeks. ‘Can’t two old friends catch up and people not read anything into it?’
Her mother gave an irritating hmmm and turned back to her weeds. ‘I suppose we should organise a dinner then. I could invite his parents and fiancée. I’ve heard she’s a paediatrician with the most lovely skin, and it would be good to meet her. A dinner together would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
Poppy waved a fly off Maeve’s back. She knew what her mum was doing. She was laying a trap. Either commit to a dinner that already made her feel queasy or decline and be forced to admit why she didn’t want to go. Well, her mum didn’t have a newborn; she forgot that Maeve provided an excuse for flaking on everything.
She wasn’t concerned about seeing Henry. Their conversations at The Bustle were the highlights of her day. The awkwardness of the first meeting had eased into a warm familiarity. She had no problem with him; it was Willa who was the wild card. Poppy didn’t want to hang out with them as a couple. The current arrangement suited her fine.
‘Dinner sounds great, Mum,’ she said with feigned brightness. If the past few months had taught Poppy anything, it was that she was excellent at lying.