CHAPTER 25
The Bustle was heaving. The food festival always brought a few thousand interlopers into town who worked their way through a checklist of Orange’s most Instagrammable hangouts. Winery with Shetland ponies: check. Pub with open fire and Chesterfields: check. Coffee-shop-slash-art-mecca: check. There was a distinctly Sydney vibe in the air. The leather caps and Balenciaga sneakers were a dead giveaway.
‘Reckon it’s worth trying Coffee Bucks?’ Henry was standing by her shoulder in an olive green wool jumper.
‘Depends. Are you comfortable with arsenic in your coffee?’
‘Fair comment. I rue the day I was introduced to good coffee. I never used to mind a Coffee Bucks flat white. Amazing how they could press a button and that frothy goodness would magically appear.’
‘I hear they have a vegan menu now. You could try that out?’
‘Nah, if I went back, I’d have to go a vanilla slice, for old time’s sake. Sometimes I actually miss that taste of rubber.’ Henry sighed. ‘I guess I’ll have to wait in line like the rest of these Eastern Suburbs plebs.’
‘Did you have a good Easter?’ asked Poppy as they waited.
‘Nice enough,’ replied Henry. ‘Mum made too much food. Dad fell asleep watching television, snored like a foghorn, got grumpy when we tried to wake him up. Pretty standard Marshall behaviour really.’
‘Did Willa enjoy it?’
‘Oh.’ Henry paused. ‘She had Easter with her family. Not married yet, so we decided to divide and conquer before the “one-off-one-on” starts for good, you know?’
‘Of course,’ Poppy agreed, her brain replaying that look of unease which had flitted almost imperceptibly across Henry’s face. What was going on there?
‘What about you?’ asked Henry. ‘Did you do the obligatory photo shoot of Maeve wearing bunny ears? My feed was clogged with stacks of that content so I might have missed your post.’
‘Shame,’ deadpanned Poppy. ‘We went the whole hog. Got Maeve in a bunny suit, in an Easter basket, surrounded by live ducklings, doves flying overhead.’
‘Gutted I missed it.’
They grinned at each other; another one of those ‘I know you get it and I love that you get it’ moments that always gave her a slightly teenage rush.
As was their rhythm, they neutralised the moment by moving on to generic topics: Henry’s nieces and nephews becoming extremely hyperactive and then sugar-crashingly depressed after gobbling all their chocolate; modern kids getting fruit from the Easter Bunny; the guesstimated annual turnover of Coffee Bucks. After they’d finally ordered coffees, they went to find a table.
‘You’d think we were at a yacht club,’ said Henry, looking around at the crowd as he sat down and Poppy parked the pram. ‘I’ve never seen so many pairs of white jeans in a confined space.’ It was true; there was an excessive amount of slim-legged white denim surrounding them. ‘Are they the people who actually buy this stuff?’ he asked, tipping his head towards the artwork-laden walls. ‘Most of it looks like a four-year-old painted it.’ He pointed at a canvas on the wall behind them, a jungle of pink lines on a lime green backdrop. ‘I could do that in ten minutes. It looks like fingerpainting.’
‘As if, Henry,’ said Poppy. ‘That composition is genius. And besides—who cares if it looks like a four-year-old painted it? Maybe that’s the point.’
The art was one of the main reasons Poppy kept coming back to The Bustle. It was like having coffee in a gallery without all the self-conscious white space and echoey austerity. Looking at the canvases was meditative and restorative somehow, like therapy by osmosis.
Henry looked confused. ‘I don’t get it. Why would you buy something that looks like a kindergarten project?’
‘Because it speaks to you. Art doesn’t need to fit a definition, Henry. It’s about how it makes you feel .’
She glanced at one on her left which she was desperately hoping no-one would buy. It was a swirl of pink, orange and yellow on a crimson background. The colours were startling but beautiful and the lines were hypnotic. Sometimes she thought it looked like a giant flower in the breeze; at other times it looked like a cyclonic whirlpool. Blossoming, drowning, it was all so similar.
‘My feeling is that someone is making a lot of money ripping off kindy kids,’ said Henry. ‘I will save my money for a framed Wallabies jersey, thanks.’
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘Then I sincerely hope Willa is in charge of your home decorating.’
Henry smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Definitely.’
Poppy’s phone pinged with a new message and it vibrated across the table.
‘Unknown number,’ Henry said, pushing her phone back towards her.
Poppy picked it up.
Hi Poppy. James here. Been on night shifts so haven’t been doing the golf course loop but realised the Block finale is this Sunday. Let me know if you’re keen to watch. J
Another message buzzed: PS Got your number from Mary .
Poppy bit her cheek to stifle a reluctant smile. Mary!
‘Spam?’ asked Henry, as she put the phone facedown on the table.
‘No, a friend,’ said Poppy. ‘Need to save his number.’
‘His?’ asked Henry.
‘Yeah, this guy I know is obsessed with The Block and wants me to watch it with him.’
‘ The Block , like the TV show?’
Poppy nodded. Was Henry prying?
‘Sounds like a very lame attempt at getting you to hang out with him, if you ask me.’
‘Oh, it’s not like that at all,’ Poppy said in a rush. ‘We’re hardly even friends; he’s just random like that. We spent Easter together and somehow we got talking about The Block and he said I should watch it. As I said, he’s a bit random.’
Henry’s brow creased. ‘So you’re not really friends, but you spent Easter together and now you’re pretty much making plans to Netflix and chill?’
‘Yes … and no,’ said Poppy, feeling her neck redden. ‘It’s just a dumb show. And he’s clearly not interested in me, so it’s nothing like that … if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Jesus, how did this conversation end up here?!
‘Is he gay?’
‘No—well, I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. But then again, maybe. Why?’
‘Then how do you know he’s not interested?’
‘Well, he clearly isn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘I’m too, you know …’ She gestured at Maeve, who was watching the whole exchange, fascinated. ‘He wouldn’t be interested in me … in this. That would be ridiculous.’
Henry levelled his gaze at her with disconcerting force. ‘Poppy, you’re single and attractive, and believe me, men aren’t always good blokes—no matter how much crap reality TV they watch. Just be careful, okay?’
‘I’m not … you’re being …’ Poppy trailed off as the waitress arrived with their coffees.
Henry stood up and grabbed his takeaway cup. ‘I’m being a friend,’ he said. ‘You need to watch out for yourself, Pops.’
Poppy watched him weave his way to the door through the throng of white-jeaned women. Henry was being ridiculous. James was a good guy. Like, sure, he could be dickishly robotic sometimes, and on first impression he’d appeared devoid of basic social skills, but she knew him better now. He wasn’t an arrogant, unfeeling prick. Underneath that coolly self-confident exterior, he was a guy who twirled his cousins around a campfire dancefloor just to make them laugh. And besides , even if he was an infuriating robot man at times, what did it matter? He had no interest in her beyond sharing his love of Scott Cam.
And also , thought Poppy frowning angrily into her mug, Henry had no right to be so annoying about who she hung out with. He was still in his engagement love bubble with Willa. Why should he care about who she was spending time with? He hadn’t shown much interest in the last ten years.
That’s because you didn’t let him , squeaked a voice in her head.
What did ‘be careful’ mean, anyway? Be careful of what? Men in general? Bad reality TV? Getting carried away, getting hurt? She wasn’t likely to fall in love, for god’s sake. There were certain babies who would get in the way of that, and it wasn’t as though anyone would be seeking her out for some torrid one-night-only-style bedroom action. Lord knows, the nursing bras would turn off even the keenest bloke. James was a single guy with great shoulders and great hair in a town of single women. If he wanted a steamy night in Orange, there were much younger, hotter prospects on the Royal Hotel dancefloor every Saturday night who came with much less baggage and much better grooming.
Everyone could settle down. James had no interest in her—he had made that clear enough at the dam when he’d pretty much cricked his neck trying to get away from her after their dance. Henry had nothing to worry about and therefore she had no need to be careful . Her nights were free to spend as she pleased (minus the breastfeeding, obviously).
She texted back: Sounds good. But can we do it at mine so I don’t have to organise a babysitter?
See? She had just invited a handsome guy over to her house with no pretext other than watching crappy TV. She would not overanalyse this invitation; it could be read as intended, and if it wasn’t, then, whatever. She was Zen; she was not overthinking this.
A text buzzed back instantly.
Sounds great. J x
Poppy shoved her phone in the nappy bag and stood up to go. It was great she wasn’t overthinking things or that ‘x’ could have really messed her up.