CHAPTER 27
Poppy ran to the mirror for a quick check. Her hair was loose over a cashmere-blend jumper that she had paired with her ‘good’ leggings. She was aiming for casual, but not slobby, but still kind of attractive and, you know, clean. Cleanliness was a seriously hard vibe for new mums to nail.
‘Pizza delivery,’ called the voice behind the door.
‘Shush,’ Poppy said, opening it. ‘You’ll wake Maeve.’
‘Shit, sorry,’ said James, looking around as if Maeve might be asleep somewhere on the verandah. ‘I’m just excited about super supreme with extra olives.’
‘You won’t regret it,’ said Poppy, moving aside to let him in. ‘The veggie to meat to olive ratio is perfect.’
James walked into the kitchen and put the pizza boxes on the counter. ‘I got garlic bread too,’ he said, fishing an aluminium-wrapped roll from a bag on his elbow. ‘And this.’ He handed her a bottle of red.
Poppy inspected the label. ‘Nice. Your choice?’
‘I know you like your drinks guava-flavoured, but I wasn’t sure how that would go with pizza. And the pepperoni is a red meat so I figured a shiraz would be a good match.’ He spoke in that almost-smiling way she was getting used to. ‘Maeve go down alright?’
‘Oh, you know, with a complex combination of milk drunkenness, swaddling, patting, rocking and singing. Piece of cake. Actually, she slept through until four this morning. That was a record. By the time I’d finished feeding her it was five and I was so well rested I kind of thought of staying up. I didn’t, obviously, that would be dumb, but I can tell you, four am wake-ups are actually amazing after months of broken sleep.’
‘Wow, go Maeve!’ said James. ‘Who knows? Maybe tonight she’ll sleep through till four thirty.’
‘Don’t jinx me!’ hissed Poppy.
‘Forget I said anything! This conversation never happened. Quick, change the subject!’
Poppy chuckled. ‘It’s fine. I should stop talking about our sleep patterns anyway. Sorry for boring you.’
‘Not at all,’ said James. ‘It’s my industry and Maeve happens to be one of my favourites, even though I am duty-bound to love all babies. But Maeve and I bonded, so we’re tight.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. During her post-birth routine tests she was staring at me with those piercing eyes and I swear she looked deep into my soul.’
Poppy laughed. ‘She does have piercing eyes! Sometimes she looks at me and I feel so intimidated, like she already knows her mum is a bumbling fool. Poor little Maeve. She’s already past the ignorance-is-bliss stage.’
‘Don’t read into it too much. She’s just a little girl with beautiful eyes.’ James tipped his head towards her. ‘They’re exactly like yours.’
He held her gaze for a beat and Poppy felt her cheeks start to flush. She turned away and picked up the pizza. She was not going to overthink that accidental-but-maybe-not-accidental compliment. ‘Shall we relocate to the TV?’ she suggested.
‘Definitely,’ said James, checking his watch then grabbing the wine and garlic bread. ‘The spectacle is about to unfold. We can’t be late.’
James settled himself on the couch and began fiddling with the remote while Poppy fetched plates, cutlery and wineglasses. This was definitely the weirdest thing she’d done in a while. ‘Channel Nine and chill,’ Dani had dubbed it. She’d texted Poppy every day this week with obnoxious tips on how to make it a successful night (hence the eggplant lurking in her recent emojis). The advice ranged from Buzzfeed articles on ‘10 Hot Things Scott Cam Does With His Hands’ to: Put frankincense in ur essential oil diffuser for hypnotic properties. Handy in case u want light bulbs changed, beer refilled, sexy times with evil sexy man etc. etc. (NB making assumption this guy is sexy.) Please confirm/deny? Send pics if poss .
‘It’s starting!’ called James.
‘Coming!’
Poppy settled herself on the armchair, tucking her feet underneath her as Scott Cam appeared on screen in a Bisley work shirt. James sat on the couch.
The show itself was objectively terrible. So much contrived banter, so many toothy veneers, and way too many thick-framed glasses used to convey quirkiness. The contestants were so blandly typecast it felt satirical. James relished it all, nodding with satisfaction at the liberal use of power tools. His knee bounced reflexively to the determinedly upbeat soundtrack. It was a damning indictment of his cultural inferiority, she decided. A six-foot-four guy who was trained to care for vulnerable women and deliver babies was bound to have a chink in the armour somewhere.
When the final house sold for a cool $3.4 million and the camera zoomed in on the contestants popping a bottle of champagne, James grabbed the remote, dialled the volume down and turned to her.
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘Can we agree that was epic?’
Poppy chortled, which made her choke on her wine. ‘Sorry!’ she gasped, trying to clear her airways and stifle the laughter that was fizzing up inside her. It was a losing battle. The giggles were shaking her whole body. ‘Sorry!’ she repeated. ‘It’s just … well, I think we can agree that was epic, but in a terrible way. Right?’
James stuck out his lower lip. ‘I bare my soul to you through the medium of commercial TV, Poppy McKellar, and this is how you treat me?’
Poppy angled to face him properly and stretched her legs over the armrest of her chair. ‘You give me wine and I will bare my soul in return. And my soul tells me that I never need to watch that ever again so long as we both shall live.’
‘Luckily for you and unfortunately for me, we now have to wait a whole six months before the next season. Thanks for reminding me of that demoralising reality, Poppy. What will I do now at seven thirty every night? And don’t you dare suggest MasterChef .’ He picked up the empty bottle of wine. ‘Damn, I need to drown my sorrows a bit more.’
Poppy sprang up. ‘Hold on, I can help with that.’
She went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine and a block of chocolate from the pantry and a punnet of strawberries from the fridge.
‘Dessert,’ she announced as she handed the bottle to James and put the chocolate and strawberries on the coffee table.
‘Mmm, some nice aphrodisiac treats you’ve offered up here, McKellar,’ said James, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Poppy waggled her eyebrows back. ‘Ha! Glad you like Aldi chocolate. I aim to impress.’
‘Clearly. I will assume this is your signature move. Ply a guy with red wine and then get him over the line with below-market-price chocolate.’
Poppy laughed. It was so far from the truth it was actually hilarious. She’d been with Patrick for so long, she had zero skills in the seduction game. She didn’t have a Bumble profile, let alone a playbook for how to impress a guy. Come to think of it, maybe she should do more googling of that stuff. It would be a refreshing change from googling sleep regression articles. She may as well have it tattooed on her forehead: Don’t mind me, I have no moves .
Although, it seemed she had said that last bit out loud.
‘What do you mean you have no moves?’ asked James. ‘Everyone has moves. Even if they’re crap moves, everyone has moves.’
‘Not me. I’ve never needed moves so I never developed any. I am a woman without moves. No seductress potential here; everyone can keep calm and carry on.’
James was refilling their wineglasses. ‘Didn’t you have a boyfriend for almost a decade though? How did you nab him, if not with your seductive moves?’ He looked at her and waggled his eyebrows again. For a good-looking guy, he looked embarrassingly stupid pretending to be sexy.
‘We got together when I was twenty-two. We basically got drunk at a bar and went home together and then kept doing it until it became habit, so unless you count drinking my bodyweight in overpriced Jaegerbombs, I think I can say with confidence that I have no moves of the seductive variety.’
James peered at her over his wineglass. ‘I don’t believe you. You need moves even when you’re in a relationship. How else do you get what you want?’
‘Nope,’ Poppy insisted, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘I never needed to be sexy—just needed to know the routine. Tuesdays, Thursdays, weekends. Never after footy training, never after a three-course dinner. Super predictable, super easy—just a bit of him on top, me on top, maybe some doggie, then—’
‘Stop!’ cried James, covering his ears. ‘Okay, you win, you have no moves. I don’t need to hear about your past sex life!’
Poppy laughed, vindicated. How good was wine for eliminating oversharing anxiety? ‘You asked for it. And that proves my point. I can’t be sexy, so you are in no danger of being seduced while hanging out with me.’
James cocked his head. ‘I don’t think that’s true.’ He didn’t waggle his eyebrows this time. He held her eyes for two long seconds and Poppy stopped laughing. A heat was creeping up her neck but also down to other body parts that hadn’t felt like this in a long time.
James grabbed the remote. ‘What are we watching now?’
Poppy exhaled and felt the adrenaline subside. After that moment, she would happily watch another twenty-four hours of soul-destroying reality TV if it kept things in neutral territory. ‘Channel Nine and chill’ was anything but chill.
As the credits began to roll after the re-run of Happy Gilmore , James stood. ‘I’ll clear up,’ he announced.
With another bottle of wine under their belts, the conversation had flowed easily through the ad breaks. They’d magnanimously shared the last row of chocolate and thankfully there’d been no more talk of past sex lives. Poppy must have been imagining the earlier frisson. There was definitely none now that James had described cutting Mary’s toenails.
‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ said Poppy, jumping up, but James was already on his way to the kitchen with the pizza boxes and plates.
She found him with the dishwasher open, pulling out the clean plates.
‘Here, let me,’ said Poppy, trying to wedge herself in to help. The 1980s kitchen wasn’t made for more than one user, especially if the second user was the size of James.
‘I’ve got it,’ James insisted. ‘You relax.’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘You can sit here and order me around.’ He picked her up by the waist and lifted her onto the kitchen bench as casually and effortlessly as if she were a clean Tupperware container that he was unloading from the dishwasher. In the scheme of what usually went on in her kitchen, it was outrageously sexy. Poppy hoped her breathing wasn’t as heavy and obvious as it sounded in her head.
She watched as he put the clean cutlery in the drawer and started opening cupboard doors to find her crockery shelves. The back of his t-shirt rose above his belt to reveal his toned back and Poppy’s wine eyes enjoyed not looking away. When he began rinsing the dirty plates before putting them in the dishwasher, Poppy actually grinned. This guy , she thought. This is the kind of guy who so many women would get off on. Handsome, house-trained, looks after his grandma . She could imagine her mum foaming at the mouth with delight if she ever brought him home. She wondered if he liked watching sport as much as he liked playing it. She could picture him sitting in her parents’ floral armchairs watching the cricket with her dad.
‘Where do these go?’ James asked, interrupting her daydreaming. He held up two breast pump attachments.
‘Oh shit.’
James smiled. ‘I am a midwife, Poppy, and a modern man. I know these bear no relation to your cup size.’ He did the eyebrow waggling thing again and she rolled her eyes and laughed. She pointed to the bottom left drawer. She couldn’t help grinning as she watched him put them away.
‘What’s that look for?’ asked James.
‘Nothing. You’re just so …’ She trailed off. Who knew what the wine would let her say tonight?
‘I’m so …?’ James wiped his hands on a tea towel and stood in front of her. His mouth was turned up slightly at the corners and his dark eyes were full of mischief, baiting her.
‘You’re so … tall.’
James bent his knees until he was eye level with her. With a jolt in her stomach, Poppy realised that their lips were also now level.
‘This better?’
Poppy felt her hands rise to rest on his shoulders. ‘Yes, this is a good perspective.’
James came closer, nudging her legs apart. His eyes were locked on hers and the mischievousness had vanished. As he stood to his full height, his hands tilted her head towards his and then landed on her waist. Poppy’s eyes widened.
‘And this? Is this a better perspective?’
The wind flew out of Poppy’s chest. ‘Yes,’ she squeaked.
James’s fingers spread out slowly to cup her butt and slide her across the bench towards him. This couldn’t be happening. And yet it was happening. And whatever it was, she wanted it. She was sure of that. It wasn’t just the wine speaking. She was a girl, he was a guy—a good guy who she’d once thought was a bad guy but now knew was fundamentally good—it made sense on so many levels, and yet … was this really going to happen with Maeve sleeping down the corridor?
Oh fuck it , said the wine. You’re a cool mom, not a regular mom .
Poppy giggled and James moved his head closer.
‘I love your laugh,’ he breathed, his lips millimetres away from hers. He moved his hand to her head and his finger slid down to stroke the skin behind her earlobe. Poppy inhaled sharply.
‘Poppy.’ He said it like a dusting of icing, it was so light and delicious. He leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers and both their eyes closed reflexively. Poppy felt herself sink, letting James absorb her, grateful for the bench propping her up. From the lightest touch, her whole body began to hum. Every part of her wanted him.
James pulled away slightly and Poppy opened her eyes. Their lips were still so close they would connect at the slightest tremble. His dark eyes were searching hers and she knew why. He was asking her, Are you okay, is this okay? Poppy’s body responded on her behalf. She gripped his shoulders and slid her hands down his back, pulling him closer. She was basically straddling him now. Thank god for the wine; she didn’t want to consider the inelegance of this because fuck it was hot.
Satisfied with her response, James leaned in again and this time his mouth parted. His tongue slid over hers and she felt like sugar caramelising under a flame. There was no going back from this. She was kissing James. James was kissing her. All she needed to remember was lips, pressure, release, again. Maybe forever. She could do this forever.
She brushed away the thoughts trying to distract her: You’re on a kitchen bench with a baby down the corridor; this guy delivered your baby; this guy knows you’re an insecure psycho .
His mouth moved to her neck and a warm ripple of pleasure rushed through her core.
Shut up , she told the voices in her head. This was nothing more than kissing, and oh god, after months in a barren wilderness, it felt good .
As if reading her mind, James moved his lips back to hers, soothing her with his mouth. He slid his hands up her legging-clad thighs and Poppy felt herself shift nearer to him. She could feel every part of his body pushing through his jeans to her. She tightened her thighs around him, her pulse spiking as he pulled their bodies flush. His hands roamed across her curves as their lips melted against each other. Suddenly she wanted this to be more than kissing. She wished she wasn’t wearing her leggings and that his hands were sliding up her bare skin; she needed to be as close to James as possible.
Her mind performed some rapid calculations. Maeve wouldn’t wake for at least another four hours, and their bedrooms were at opposite ends of the house. Conclusion: there was nothing to stop this moving to the bedroom and moving there fast.
She pulled away. ‘Should we …?’
James blinked, his eyes searching her face. He exhaled. ‘Yeah, I guess we should stop … right … okay, right, let’s stop then.’ He was babbling, breathless.
She stared at him, lost for words.
No! she wanted to say. Keep going. Let’s never stop this . But her mouth wouldn’t work. Her eyes were locked on James, willing him to understand, but he was looking away now, running his hands through his hair. Speak! she admonished herself, but it was too hard. Everything she said now would make it clear that she wanted something more when his automatic reaction had been to stop.
‘I’ll go then,’ said James, straightening his t-shirt. ‘I’ll get a cab.’ He put his hands on her shoulders briefly then let them drop. ‘Bye,’ he said with a weak smile. He grabbed his keys from the bench and the clang of the metal was like a steel gong in her ears.
What the hell had just happened? How had that gone so stupidly fucking pear-shaped so quickly? Why wouldn’t her brain connect to her stupid voice box? For Christ’s sake, normally she couldn’t shut up and then at this once-in-a-lifetime kitchen-bench moment she becomes a dithering mute?!
As she heard the front door close, Poppy rubbed her arms where James had touched them. The crackling warmth from his grip had vanished and she suddenly felt a desperate, chilling cold.