CHAPTER 28
It was raining for the third day straight and, completely out of the blue, Patrick had texted.
Hey marketing pigeon. Is TV advertising still worth the money?
Poppy couldn’t make sense of it. She felt like a Swiftie with an indecipherable Easter egg; like, if only she was better at code-breaking she could land backstage passes and solve world peace. Was ‘marketing pigeon’ an insult or a nickname, or an insult wrapped up in a nickname, or vice versa? Was it supposed to soften the blow that he’d reached out for work advice—again—like she was of no more value than her former career? The timing of the message was unsettling too. Sent at 3.34 am. That was a whole lot of context. It was a time for sleeping (or breastfeeding). It was not a time for making good decisions. It was booty-call hour.
Most likely, he’d been soaked in vodka trying to close a deal at the casino and wanted urgent advice from an obliging source, she told herself. Nothing more.
She gazed out the window at the August rain pelting her garden. It was showing no signs of easing and Poppy was suffering from extreme cabin fever. Maeve was suffering from it too—she was lying on her play mat grizzling for no apparent reason. It could have been her teeth, but how would you know? Ever since Maeve had been two weeks old, every time she grizzled someone would say, ‘Teething?’ Poppy wanted to shake each one of them vigorously to convey how unhelpful she found that question. Yes, it could have been teething, but it could also have been the weather, the food, the lighting, the company. She’d never know until a) Maeve was old enough to tell her or b) a tooth popped up.
Against her better judgement, she’d committed to going to the mothers’ group catch-up today. She’d missed the last few due to various reasons (appointments, family lunches, downright avoidance), but she needed a reason to get out of the house and stop spiralling over this Patrick text and the fact that James had gone completely off the radar after Kitchengate.
She’d waited for weeks to run into him on the golf course loop. She knew his shifts changed on a two-week cycle, so it was completely possible he wasn’t avoiding her, but then she’d clocked a whole month with zero James sightings and had been forced to conclude that hospital rostering wasn’t the reason. Maeve’s sleep times had changed too, so now they were walking after lunch instead of the mornings, but it didn’t matter anyway because somehow—in this town where everyone’s paths tangled like the cords behind the TV—James had managed to neatly Ctrl+X himself out of her life.
So, mothers’ group it was. Mary had been the one to suggest it. Poppy and Maeve had popped in yesterday to deliver some misdirected catalogues and then somehow stayed for two hours. As they gossiped with woollen blankets on their laps, Maeve’s fingers poking through the crochet holes, Mary had asked about the next ‘mummy catch-up’.
‘There’s one tomorrow, but I haven’t been in ages,’ confessed Poppy. ‘I missed a few, and now I feel like I’m out of the group .’ She used air quotes on the last bit, even though she wasn’t sure Mary would understand what she was doing. As a woman in her thirties, it felt juvenile to talk about ‘groups’ despite it definitely still being a thing.
‘How can you be out of the group ’—Mary used air quotes too, which was both unexpected and yet completely predictable from her—‘when the only entry requirement to the group is having a baby, which you do?’
On cue, Maeve laughed delightedly. The woman had a point.
Three mums were already there when she arrived and they eagerly made space for her and Maeve among the melee of prams. ‘So good to see you!’ they chorused as Poppy sat down and plonked Maeve on her lap. They sounded similarly starved of a social life.
As more mothers arrived, Poppy found herself breathless from chatting, surprised at how much she had to say. It was a relief to talk about the crazy things she regularly googled during night feeds (namely: is a three-month regression a thing ; is a four-month regression a thing ; is a five-month regression a thing ).
At one point, a couple of women started squealing with laughter about a husband gaffer-taping bottles to his chest to convince his son to drink formula. As the group laughed, Poppy hugged Maeve tighter, that familiar twinge of otherness clouding her vision. It wasn’t shame, but it was a little bit of shame, and it wasn’t anger, though it was a little bit of that, and it wasn’t sadness, though there was a tiny bit of that rolled in too. It was a wistful alienation. She’d never be able to join in these conversations.
Suddenly one of the mums spoke above the group. ‘Sorry, April. We should stop with our boring husband chat.’
‘ De nada, de nada ,’ replied April, who Poppy recognised from the first mother’s group catch up. She had a ginger bob and the most dazzling emerald eyes. April waved her hands in a ‘carry on’ gesture. ‘Being a single mum, I love hearing about how husbands add minimal value. Makes me feel so much better about my life choices.’
‘Wait,’ gasped Poppy. ‘You’re a single mum?’
April nodded. ‘Correct.’
‘But you’re so …’ Poppy was momentarily lost for words. ‘Clean!’ she said finally. She realised she sounded like a lunatic, but this woman had glossy hair and shining eyes and an adorable baby who looked chubby and healthy and content. She looked like a woman on top of things. She did not fit Poppy’s mental picture of the single mum brigade.
April shrugged. ‘I did shower yesterday … I think.’
The other women looked on blankly, apparently bamboozled by the exchange.
Poppy backtracked. ‘I only say that because I’m a single mum too and I’m a hot mess. I’m a hot, steaming, sweaty mess, despite living in pretty much the coldest town in Australia. Look at me!’ She lifted her arm to reveal the crusted-on Weet-Bix on her jumper that she’d only noticed when parking the car. ‘I’m barely fit to be seen in public!’
The other women at the table laughed generously and Poppy felt a lightness she hadn’t known in ages. No-one seemed scandalised, no-one seemed pruriently intrigued. Instead there was casual surprise and a rapid pivot to the next topic: when to start weaning on to cow’s milk (answer: ages away).
Over the stories of exploding formula bottles and prince-ling babies refusing anything but freshly expressed breastmilk, April nudged Poppy. ‘Should we start a single mums’ club? Badass mums living in sin?’
Poppy glowed. ‘Sign me up. I’ll order the t-shirts.’
‘Cool, I’ll bring the beers,’ said April. She hoisted her son onto her lap and pushed a teething ring into his mouth. ‘So, you single by choice … or not?’
‘Cutting straight to the chase!’ Poppy said with a laugh.
‘Would’ve got there eventually.’ April shrugged. ‘I already know you pushed a baby out your vag, so we’re past the smalltalk stage.’
‘True,’ Poppy conceded. She paused to consider April’s question. It had been her choice to break it off with Patrick but he had forced her hand. ‘A bit of both, I guess.’
‘Same,’ April said. ‘I couldn’t meet the right person and I was always going to have to do IVF to have a baby, so I decided why wait? IVF is fucking expensive, but I tell you what’s more expensive: my ex-girlfriend. She was obsessed with home decorating. Now I get to eat my solo girl-dinners, I don’t have random West Elm orders bleeding my bank account dry and I still get to have a baby. It’s a win-win-win.’
‘That’s brave,’ remarked Poppy.
‘Woman, please. I’m not brave. I’m so scared of commitment, I decided to have a lab baby.’
Poppy laughed.
‘Are you going okay?’ asked April.
‘We have our moments,’ replied Poppy automatically, ‘but we’re fine.’ It was what she told anyone who asked.
‘I bet you say that to every random in the street,’ said April. ‘My line is: The days go slowly, but the weeks just fly . Like, ugh, am I a Hallmark card? Would I actually ever say that? Obviously not. But random old women in the supermarket want to know how I’m going, so that’s the line I feed them. Hallmark quotes are like crack for the over-sixties.’ She took a sip from her latte and looked Poppy directly in the eye. ‘Single mother to single mother, how are you actually going?’
‘I’m okay,’ insisted Poppy. ‘I mean, I am okay at this very specific point in time. Don’t ask me about yesterday when the dryer blew up and I cried, and don’t ask me what I’m going to do if I can’t find a job before my maternity leave payments run out, but at this particular moment, sitting in an awesome art-filled cafe with a hot soy cappuccino in front of me, I can almost confidently say I am okay. Almost.’
‘Good for you,’ said April. ‘If it makes you feel better, last week my bedroom light blew and I still haven’t replaced it. I just use the light from my phone like a true Millennial.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Are you going okay?’
April smiled back. ‘I eat cheese and Sakatas for dinner and my iPhone fills any partner-shaped voids in my life. My son is alive and thriving, and I love him so much it makes my heart hurt. I am okay too.’
Poppy raised her cappuccino. ‘To being okay.’
April picked up her son’s bottle and clinked it against Poppy’s coffee. ‘To being okay,’ she echoed.
It was 11.30 am by the time the mothers’ group disbanded. There was a blizzard of sleet outside but The Bustle was toasty warm, so Poppy decided to hang around in case Henry popped in for a second coffee. She opened her phone to check her messages. Patrick hadn’t sent a follow-up text but he might not have remembered sending the first one. On her lap, Maeve’s body was slackening with sleep. Poppy lifted her carefully into the pram and covered her with a thick blanket. Then, on a cappuccino-fuelled high—before she could second-guess the impulse—Poppy deleted Patrick’s text. If he couldn’t be bothered asking about his daughter, who looked like a living angel sleeping so divinely under the pale pink blanket, then he didn’t deserve a response.
She pulled her laptop from the nappy bag and opened it on the table. Her fingers tapped the keyboard, the spinning wheel of death took its sweet time, the blue-and-pink Seek logo appeared, and everything felt strangely normal. There was no plague of locusts, nor a biblical rain of fire. She’d just deleted a text from Patrick and the world didn’t care.
‘I found a job,’ Poppy announced when Henry walked in ten minutes later. ‘Well, it’s a job ad, but I reckon I’m qualified so I sent in my résumé. It’s with Region Building Australia—the government agency. They’ve got a marketing and digital team.’
‘That’s great news,’ replied Henry. ‘The usual?’
Poppy gave him a thumbs up and he headed to the counter to order, poking his head under the pram hood to smile at Maeve as he passed. Poppy grinned at her laptop screen. Everything was turning out dandy.
‘Poppy?’ said a voice behind her. A queasy rush of adrenaline immediately saturated her nervous system. In this too-tiny town, it had only been a matter of time.
‘James!’ Her voice was an octave too high. He was standing there in his scrubs with a takeaway coffee. She hadn’t seen him walk in; she must have been engrossed in her laptop. His hair was as lustrous as ever and his scrubs stretched taut across his shoulders. Why did he always have to look like this? Three months of no contact other than a texted gif of Scott Cam dancing. She’d responded with three laughing-face emojis and that had been it. The whole exchange had felt cheap and frankly sad after the highs of the kitchen bench encounter.
‘It’s been a while,’ she said, glancing at Maeve, who was still serenely asleep.
James shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yeah, I’ve been studying heaps. Haven’t really seen anyone. I’ve been working, studying, working, studying. Bit of coffee in between. Not much else.’
Poppy’s jaw tensed. What was she supposed to say?
‘I’ve been coming here hoping to run into you,’ James said quickly. ‘I should have called or texted, but I left it too long and then I convinced myself that it would be better to have a conversation in person but …’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s proven trickier to run into you than I’d thought. Have you stopped walking the golf course loop?’
Poppy narrowed her eyes. Where was this going?
James spoke in a rush. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That whole thing in your kitchen—I got carried away and I don’t want you to think I planned it or I was trying to take advantage of you.’
I wish you’d taken advantage of me , said Poppy’s mind traitorously. She’d told herself again and again that breaking off the kiss had been the best outcome. She didn’t need distractions; she needed to focus on her daughter. But then he turns up with his puppy dog eyes and his apology and her brain capitulates instantly. How embarrassingly un-feminist.
Since that night she’d tried to banish all images of broad-shouldered, dark-eyed men from her thoughts. Time had been helping to blur the memory of his breath on her neck—it was almost as though it had been a really hot dream, just a figment of her touch-starved imagination—but seeing him here brought back the crashing, desperate reality: that kiss had been the best of her life. Such a shame it would never happen again.
‘Poppy, I’m really sorry and I really hope we can go back to being friends,’ said James. His dark eyes were searching hers.
‘Of course,’ said Poppy automatically. She didn’t need distractions, and his excellent kissing definitely qualified as that.
James breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m so glad. You have no idea how often I’ve imagined this conversation.’
I bet I imagined it more , thought Poppy dryly.
‘I’m not lying when I say I’ve spent a small fortune buying coffee here hoping to run into you.’ He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Controversially, I don’t get the appeal. I think the coffee’s better up the road.’
Poppy pursed her lips. ‘I come for the ambiance.’
‘I get that,’ said James, glancing at the walls around them. ‘The art is awesome. I wanted to buy some, but then I got targeted on Instagram and ended up buying these random prints from China instead. They took seven weeks to arrive and they won’t hang straight but they make me feel more worldly. Also, they cost twenty-seven dollars for four and you can’t put a price on that kind of bargain. Well, you can put a twenty-seven-dollar price on that, I guess—but you get what I mean.’
Poppy laughed despite herself. ‘Buying art is a very’—she searched for the right word—‘ mature thing for a grown male to do.’
‘I am mature,’ he said, smiling. ‘And tall.’
Poppy stared at him. Was that a reference to Kitchengate?!
‘Ahem, hi there.’ Henry was holding out Poppy’s coffee.
‘Thanks, Hen,’ she said, taking it. ‘James, this is Henry. Henry, this is James, my friend from—well, it’s a long story.’
‘I was her midwife,’ explained James, reaching out to shake Henry’s hand.
‘Her midwife, right,’ said Henry, brow furrowing as he worked through the implications of that. He returned the handshake. ‘Thanks for bringing Maeve into the world. We can’t imagine life without her.’
Poppy glanced at Henry quickly. We?
A slight crease of his forehead told her James had noticed too.
‘Henry is an old schoolfriend who’s moved back to Orange,’ she explained. ‘His office is around the corner so Maeve and I bump into him a lot when we’re here.’
‘Bit of a ritual for us,’ Henry said in a deeper voice than usual.
God , he was being so weird .
‘Henry’s engaged to a paediatrician actually. Willa Prescott. Do you know her?’
‘Oh yeah.’ James brightened. ‘I know of Willa. I haven’t met her, but the other doctors rave about her. Her referrals are the best apparently; very detailed. She’s been away for a while, though, right?’
A muscle tensed in Henry’s neck. ‘Yes, tying up some loose ends with her job in Brisbane. She’ll be back soon.’
Poppy glanced at Henry in surprise. He hadn’t mentioned that.
The two men looked at each other for a second too long.
‘I’d better be going,’ said James suddenly. He turned to Poppy. ‘Are you going to the races this weekend?’
‘Yep.’ Poppy nodded, feeling Henry’s eyes swivelling between them. ‘Mum is booked in to babysit.’ She turned to Henry. ‘Dani is coming down too.’
‘Great,’ said Henry in that weird deep voice. ‘It will be good to see her.’ He turned to James. ‘Another old friend,’ he explained.
James nodded. ‘I’ve heard lots about her.’
Henry’s jaw tightened.
‘Nice to meet you, mate,’ James said to Henry. ‘Great to see you, Poppy. I’ll call you.’ He leaned over to kiss her cheek goodbye. ‘Thanks for not rejecting me again,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Poppy spluttered. He had rejected her !
‘So glad we’re friends again.’ James smiled then left them, striding into the blizzard outside with the sharp-shouldered confidence of a Marvel hero.
‘What was he talking about?’ asked Henry, his voice back to normal, if not a tad too high.
Poppy stared at James’s disappearing silhouette. ‘No idea,’ she muttered truthfully.