CHAPTER 14
The next Wednesday, Poppy almost didn’t go for her daily walk. There was a biting wind and, frankly, she was concerned for the state of her molars, which were the innocent victims of anger-induced grinding whenever James appeared. But it had been raining for two days and this was her neighbourhood and her baby’s schedule. She was going to walk whenever and wherever she goddamn pleased.
When she reached the oak tree, James was waiting for them. There was a devilish gleam in his eyes.
‘What?’ she challenged him as he matched her stride.
He put his hand into his puffer vest and pulled out a neon yellow deck of cards, patterned with tiny stars. ‘A solution to our problem,’ he announced, holding out the packet. The cursive font was embossed in gold foil: HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND IMPRESS ACQUAINTANCES; 100 NAUGHTY AND NICE CONVERSATION STARTERS .
Poppy’s eyes snapped to his. If he thought he could hide his smile just by tightening his jaw, someone needed to tell him his glinting eyes were a dead giveaway. ‘No way,’ she said.
‘Yes way,’ James replied, looping Eileen’s leash around his wrist. He pulled the cards from the cardboard case. ‘Choose one.’
Poppy ignored his outstretched hand. ‘Where did you buy those?’
‘I didn’t buy them. I borrowed them.’
Oh, right. They were yellow. He’d probably swiped them post-coitus from Miss Yellow Bikini’s bedside table.
‘So are we doing this?’ He held the pack out. ‘Or are we resuming the death metal chat?’
Poppy sighed and plucked a card from the deck. ‘ Tell me about your most embarrassing sexual experience ,’ she read aloud. Thanks, universe .
James laughed and yanked the card away. ‘No way, José. Choose again.’
Blushing, Poppy snatched another card; the last thing she wanted was another sex-themed conversation with this man. ‘ Tell me about your favourite person in the world .’
‘Good one,’ he said. ‘I would say it’s a tie between my mum and my sister. Mum is a crazy high-school teacher who wears those long maxi-dress thingies. My sister, Kate, is a crazy high-school teacher who gets around in sports gear. Other than that, they’re pretty much exactly the same.’ He nodded as if pleased with this summation. ‘Do you want a go now?’
Poppy sighed. ‘Do I have to?’
‘In order to have a conversation , Poppy, there have to be two people involved.’
‘Fine,’ she said, reaching for the cards. ‘Give me one.’
‘Nope,’ said James, pulling them away. ‘First you tell me your favourite person.’
‘Who came up with these rules?’
‘Me.’ He flashed her a sarcastic smile. ‘So? Who is it?’
Poppy glowered at him. ‘Dead or alive?’
‘Alive, obviously.’
Poppy’s mind drifted to Dani. Sparkling, bubbly Dani, who could read her like a book and make her laugh like a hyena. Jeez, she missed her. Then she thought of her parents. Her mum would probably be offended if she didn’t choose her. Oh shit , she thought as the realisation hit her. Maeve! She’d forgotten about her own daughter. God, she was a terrible mum. She definitely had to choose Maeve as her favourite person. Then again, maybe babies didn’t count.
‘Can I choose a baby?’
‘Nope,’ replied James, as though these rules were actually real.
‘Okay then, I choose my best friend, Dani.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s a legend.’
‘How so?’
‘Because …’ Poppy’s mind struggled for words. She was hilarious, empathetic, pragmatic, a great dancer, an amazing mum, she had helped Poppy study for her final exams and then taken her out for five-dollar schooners when she failed statistics. She had a great dress sense but never worried about how she looked because she always looked banging. There were no words to convey how utterly great her best friend was. ‘She’s my everything,’ she said simply.
A moment passed, the silence feeling a little less combative than usual. ‘She sounds … important,’ said James quietly.
‘She is,’ Poppy agreed, tears suddenly welling behind her eyes. She blinked them away, embarrassed. She was so lucky to have Dani on speed dial, but it couldn’t replace a cuppa in her kitchen or a walk through Centennial Park. It had been four long months and her best friends in this town were an eighty-nine-year-old widow and a fourteen-week-old baby who routinely shat herself.
‘Shall we do another one?’ she asked, hoping he didn’t hear the wobble in her voice.
James’s eyes met hers briefly. ‘I’m happy with silence.’
To their left, a ride-on lawnmower buzzed over the fairways and a lone golf ball sailed through the cloudless sky. Poppy swallowed her tears and a huge wave of relief.
The next day, James and Eileen were back by the oak tree, which was a blaze of red and gold. The grass around them was still wet from the morning dew.
‘What are you wearing?’ asked Poppy.
‘Hello to you too,’ replied James.
‘You know I don’t waste time on pleasantries with you.’
‘I do know that,’ admitted James, shifting to the left so the pram could have the bulk of the footpath.
‘So enlighten me,’ Poppy said. ‘Do you not own pants?’
James was wearing a pair of rugby shorts over compression tights.
‘This is a look,’ he argued. He pronounced it like leeeewk .
‘Says who?’
‘The Sydney Swans, the Parramatta Eels, the Wallabies, the Western Sydney Wanderers. It’s a high-performance look. Would you prefer I wore tights without the shorts?’
‘No way,’ Poppy said firmly. She had witnessed too many misguided old men in Centennial Park who favoured the tights-only look for their weekend walks. The memory of their jiggly ball sacks was burned into her retinas.
James shrugged. ‘That’s a bit sexist, if you ask me. You wear tights every day.’
‘Yeah, but when guys wear tights it’s too revealing.’
James’s eyes skimmed across her backside. ‘I hate to break it to you, Poppy, but tights are revealing on anyone.’
Poppy felt an unwelcome heat creep up her neck. She ignored it. ‘Where are your cards?’
James pulled them from his pocket. ‘You sure you don’t want to keep talking about my fashion choices?’
‘I’m picking.’ Poppy reached over and plucked a card from the deck.
‘ Tell me about your greatest fear ,’ she read.
‘Heavy stuff,’ said James. ‘Wanna pick again?’
‘You’re not game to tell me?’ What was this sadistic part of her that liked seeing him squirm?
‘Okay,’ said James slowly. ‘My greatest fear is … spiders.’
Poppy raised her nose. ‘Cop out.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll be serious. I just need to think.’ He furrowed his brow and gazed into the distance. ‘Alright, I’ve got it. You ready?’
‘I can barely stand the suspense.’
‘Okay, I don’t really know if this is a good one, but I think it’s kind of—’
‘Hurry up, you’re annoying me.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘Just being honest.’
‘It’s one of your best traits.’
‘Actually it’s not. I’m normally an overly nice people pleaser and avoid confrontation at any cost, even with my best friends and parents. I’m not this honest with anyone else.’
‘Lucky me.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment,’ said Poppy. ‘Stop stalling and spill.’
‘Okay.’ James looked straight ahead and spoke. ‘My greatest fear is … settling.’
‘Like settling down?’
‘Well, kind of. It depends, I guess. I don’t want to wake up one day and realise I’ve wasted years of my life by blindly settling down. I want to choose my life.’
They walked in silence for a few moments.
James turned to her. ‘Was that answer acceptable?’
Poppy considered this. ‘It’s passable, I suppose, but it does make you sound like a douchey bachelor.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your greatest fear is commitment? That’s some A-grade douchebag shit.’
James shook his head. ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant I don’t want to settle for just anything. I don’t want to drift along and find myself somehow living a life that’s not what I want. If I do settle down, it’s going to be my choice, and with someone who is really, properly amazing.’
‘So essentially your greatest fear is not marrying a Victoria’s Secret model?’
‘I think you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’
‘Whatever,’ shrugged Poppy.
‘What about you then?’ asked James. ‘What’s your greatest fear?’
Poppy gave a bitter laugh. ‘Easy. I’m afraid of being a bad mum.’
‘Poppy—’
‘I’m not fishing for compliments,’ she interrupted. ‘I know I won’t be a bad mum in terms of brushing her teeth with Coca-Cola or anything. I’m just …’ She paused, registering she should probably stop before she revealed her greatest insecurities to the most unempathetic human in the world. But really, if there was anyone whose opinion she couldn’t care less about, it was the man next to her. ‘I’m worried I won’t be enough,’ she sighed. ‘I mean, Maeve only has me. I worry enough about whether I can be a good mum, let alone whether I can be a good dad too. I mean, seriously, I’m shit at sport.’
‘Maeve’s dad isn’t around much?’ James’s voice was quiet.
‘No,’ she said flatly, a vision of the labour ward flashing behind her eyes: James holding her hand, Patrick hundreds of kilometres away in Sydney. ‘You already know he didn’t even come to Orange for the birth. He had tickets to the Test.’
‘He missed the birth of his child for a cricket match ?’
‘And he hates cricket,’ Poppy said. ‘It was just a convenient excuse. He didn’t want to be at the birth. It would have made it real to him and he’s more of a fantasy-land kind of guy.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered James. ‘He sounds like an arsehole.’ He looked at her quickly. ‘Sorry, he was obviously great if you were with him …’
Poppy laughed darkly. ‘Don’t worry. He is an arsehole. I just assumed he’d grow out of it. Like, when we were younger, he’d come back from the pub with all these crazy stories and I just thought it was funny. Now, I’d be like, “Dude, you’re thirty-five—go home.”’
James shook his head.
‘I don’t want your pity,’ Poppy muttered.
‘But who hates cricket? I can understand indifference, but hate ?’
Poppy repressed a sardonic smile. Her dad used to say the same thing.
The distant purr of traffic hummed around them as the pale sun filtered through the clouds. They walked the rest of the loop in silence to the metronome swish of Eileen’s tail. For some reason, it felt less suffocating today.
Before they parted, James paused for a moment. ‘If it makes you feel better, my dad wasn’t around growing up and I turned out fine.’
Poppy stilled the pram and glanced at him. His eyes looked almost earnest but it was hard to tell when she’d become so used to his smirk. Maybe after prolonged exposure to him, she’d just recalibrated her sense of social propriety. She narrowed her gaze sceptically. ‘By whose definition of fine?’
James smiled. ‘Well, my siblings turned out fine. See you tomorrow.’
He raised his hand in a wave as Poppy pivoted back towards her cul-de-sac, a confusing mist suddenly clouding her brain. Thoughts were trying to form but were fading like holograms before she could grasp them. A faint uneasiness settled in her gut. She didn’t like talking about Patrick—that must be it. And then James had started saying things like ‘catch you Monday’ and ‘see you soon’. She couldn’t decide whether it gave her the ick.
The breeze whipped against her neck as she rounded the corner into their street. Her daughter’s arms were thick with woollen layers, giving her the appearance of a knitted teddy. Poppy wondered whether it would be overkill to buy a point-and-shoot thermometer to check whether Maeve was cold on these walks. Would that be helicopter parenting or good parenting? The line was so blurry.
‘Poppy, love!’ called a voice up ahead. ‘Want to pop in for a cuppa?’
Poppy could see Mary’s hand waving over the hedge.
‘Love to!’ she called back.
Even though the wind was getting icier, her neighbour still spent her days sitting on her verandah. According to Mary, there was no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing choices. Today, she wore thick stockings under her arrow-print shift dress, with a quilted flannelette jacket over the top.
‘Morning, Mary,’ Poppy said, pushing the pram through her neighbour’s gate and levering it up the verandah steps. ‘Thanks so much for the cardigan. Maeve is better dressed for this weather than me now.’
‘My pleasure, love.’ Mary glowed. ‘As I told you, my great-grandchildren are too old now for anything I knit. They’re addicted to rugby league–branded polyester.’
From her vantage point on the verandah, Mary had quickly worked out Poppy and Maeve’s daily routine and had taken to exploiting it for her own social enjoyment. She was constantly inviting them over for a cup of tea and a jam drop.
‘See anything interesting on your walk today?’ asked Mary. She always began with the same question, eager to fill any gaps in her neighbourhood knowledge.
‘Not today,’ replied Poppy. ‘Just the regulars out and about.’
‘No dog poo, then?’ asked her neighbour. Dog walkers who didn’t pick up after their pets were a particular bugbear for Mary, even though she rarely walked the footpath herself. It was the principle of the matter. She had written to council about it.
‘None today,’ said Poppy. James was always militant about picking up after Eileen.
‘That’s good, I suppose,’ Mary said, disappointed. ‘Well, I’d best put the kettle on.’
Poppy sat down on the wicker chair on the other side of the table as her neighbour heaved herself up and pushed through the squeaky door to her hallway. Despite Poppy’s offers to help prepare the tea, Mary always refused. Even now, with the weather cooling, Poppy was never invited inside.
Mary returned to the verandah a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers, a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate of jam drops. The tray rattled onto the table and Mary eased herself back into her chair. ‘I’ve got a blanket down there if you need it,’ she said, pointing underneath the table.
Poppy pulled out a thick crochet blanket and spread it over her lap. ‘Thanks, Mary.’ She poured the tea then put two jam drops on her plate.
‘Have you had one of those mummy meetings yet?’ asked Mary.
‘I had the first mothers’ group yesterday actually,’ replied Poppy. ‘It was’—she swallowed a mouthful of biscuit—‘okay.’
Mary noticed her hesitation. ‘What was the problem?’
Poppy wasn’t sure how to answer this. There was no specific problem; she just didn’t see the point. After agonising over whether she should arrive slightly early or slightly late, she had arrived at the community health centre right on time—a feat in itself, considering the punctuality handbrake she’d given birth to.
It had been stupid, really, to care so much. It was just a bunch of women sitting in a circle on plastic chairs, like they were at Alcoholics Anonymous, but the only addiction they suffered was clicking ‘add to cart’ at 3 am. They were all just tired and tender and probably a bit hungry.
It was fine. So, so, so fine. But … it wasn’t. These women weren’t like her. If she was still with Patrick, she would have been exactly like them, but she definitely wasn’t now. They reeked of normality with their husbands and mortgages and Mazda CX-5s. They had shiny hair and wore fashionable activewear. Poppy picked up the milk jug and poured a generous slosh into her tea. ‘I think the other mums are a bit different from me, that’s all.’
The crow’s feet around Mary’s eyes deepened. ‘How so?’
Poppy sighed. ‘They just seem …’
How could she explain it? They wore different clothes? They had nice hair?
‘They looked like girls who just happened to have babies. Like, their babies were just accessories or something.’ She was aware of how stupid she sounded, but the words kept coming. ‘They looked as though they had their babies and kept on being the same people.’ Expensive-athleisure-wearing people.
Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘What gave you that impression, love?’
Poppy looked at her daughter. She was so little and innocent. She had no idea she had such an insecure, ridiculous mother. ‘Their clothes?’
Mary’s other eyebrow rose.
Poppy changed tack. ‘I guess it felt a bit like high school.’
It had been eerily similar. The hard plastic chairs, the halogen strip lighting, the animal kingdom group dynamics. A community nurse led a conversation and, just like in school, some people spoke up confidently while others—like Poppy—were essentially mute, eyes flicking constantly to the clock near the door. When any of them made a joke about their partner’s inadequacies when it came to nappy-changing or night-feeding, the others laughed knowingly while Poppy stared at her shoes.
Poppy sighed into her teacup. ‘I know I sound like an idiot, but it felt like everyone knew how they fitted in apart from hot-mess Poppy over here.’
Mary chuckled. ‘You’re not a mess, love. You’re doing better than you think.’ She pointed to the pram. ‘Look at little Maeve. She’s as happy as any baby I’ve seen and you’re doing it all on your own, too. You should be proud.’
Poppy took a sip of tea. She was getting used to biting her tongue when people said things like this. ‘Doing it on her own’ was what she was most ashamed of.
‘Anyway,’ continued Mary, ‘I think these mummy catch-ups sound fantastic. When my four were born, no-one could care less about what I was up to. I just had to get back into it—cooking, cleaning, helping on the farm, squeezing in the baby stuff when I could. I would much rather have been sitting with my girlfriends chatting about nappies.’
‘They’re not my friends, though,’ Poppy pointed out.
‘They will be,’ said Mary. ‘Parenting gives you something to laugh about together, and if you’re not laughing together, you’ll be crying together. That’s what friendships are founded on.’
Poppy chewed her jam drop. She didn’t have the heart to argue. Mary meant well but she had no idea about how female friendships were forged in the twenty-first century. She didn’t know you needed to get inordinately drunk and harass DJs, and then wet your pants laughing together the next morning remembering the photoshoot with the bouncer, the decision to buy ten Snickers bars and almost tearing a hammy trying to do the worm on the dancefloor. That was how true adult friendships were formed.
‘Humans are social creatures,’ Mary went on. ‘And if I’ve learned anything from my eighty-nine years and my inspiration-of-the-day desk calendar, it’s that you need to have an open heart.’
Poppy swallowed the last of her biscuit and reached for another. Easy for the old lady to say. She’d never known the cesspit of Tinder or the feeling of seeing your friends tagged at a party you weren’t invited to. It wasn’t easy to have an open heart these days—especially when you were so out of practice. Poppy had been in a relationship for nine years and had hardly made a new friend since uni. Sure, she’d met some awesome people through work, but those relationships were sustained by water-cooler gossip—which suited her fine, because her books were already full. She had enough people to love and be loved by. She’d never needed more, which meant she didn’t need to be vulnerable. Pre-tween childhood, the start of high school, the start of uni: those were the occasions when it was acceptable to ask for friendship. If you missed those windows, you’d better be next-level charismatic, because it sure as hell wasn’t easy otherwise.
Poppy spent the rest of their tea date avoiding more inspiration-of-the-day advice by asking Mary’s opinion on the jazz playlist booming from number three (‘pretentious and tone deaf’ was her neighbour’s assessment). But while they debated the cultural influence of Elvis Presley and Austin Butler’s fake accent, Poppy couldn’t shake the words gnawing at the back of her consciousness: you need to have an open heart .
They were still there as she pushed the pram back around the hedge. You need to have an open heart . When they reached the front door, Poppy scooped her daughter from the pram and bumped the door open with her hip as her daughter’s head fell lazily against her chest. Maeve’s body was tired and sleepy against her own, her breathing deep and content, like she couldn’t be more certain of her place in the world, which was right here: her body moulded like latex against her mother’s frazzled heart. Poppy felt a familiar stirring in her chest. She loved this kid so much it made her want to cry sometimes. It made her want to give her anything, do anything for her.
As she shifted Maeve onto her hip and walked into the kitchen, Poppy whipped out her phone before she could second-guess herself. She needed to have an open heart.
FaceTime tomorrow? she wrote. Maeve would love to meet her dad .