CHAPTER 37
A week had passed since the races and Poppy was an island. Not a tropical island with all-inclusive pina coladas; she was a solitary Nigel-no-friends island in a giant ocean of shame and anxiety. She was down to her last packet of pasta, and, in a town where every supermarket trip was a potential minefield, she was terrified to go shopping.
Poppy pushed the pram past an abandoned warehouse in Orange’s industrial backstreets. The sharp smell of petrol filled her nostrils. Avoiding the leafy golf course loop felt like penance.
She’d tried her dad a couple of times, hoping he’d take a Switzerland-like approach to the whole thing, but even he was screening her calls. The only person she’d actually spoken to in the last five days was the comms manager from Region Building Australia, whom she’d cold-called in sheer desperation for human contact. It turned out they’d already filled the advertised role, but it didn’t matter because Comms Manager was a human—and someone left on this planet who would still speak to her. They nerded out on marketing case studies, their discussion dipping and rising in all the right places with the light and shade of a Caravaggio masterpiece—but when Poppy concluded a hilarious story about doubling digital sales through a strategic Betoota Advocate partnership and Comms Manager had chortled, ‘With that kind of ROI, I think Poppy McKellar will put Sarah Jones out of a job,’ Poppy had realised Comms Manager wasn’t called Comms Manager at all; she was called Sarah Jones. She was a real person with a real job. Poppy was leading this woman on too. She was pretending she was a competent adult who was ready for work but it was all lies. She didn’t even have child care sorted.
As they passed a derelict building site, Maeve let out a mournful yelp from the pram. The blueness of the sky was doing nothing to soothe Poppy’s soul. The loneliness was corrosive.
A week of introspection had confirmed, unsurprisingly, that she was a conflict-averse coward, and that all the crap in her life had one common denominator: her. Pretty much everyone important to her hated her right now, and she hated to be hated. She needed to start apologising. She just didn’t know how to begin.
Henry was one of her oldest friends, and even though she was still furious with him, she knew he needed her right now if he wanted to win Willa back, because he was clearly bloody clueless when it came to understanding women.
James was … well, whatever he was, he was special. The James compartment in her brain had a big red label that said Handle With Care .
The breeze whipped at the thin cotton covering her ankles. She dolefully recalled her mother’s recommendation she buy thicker socks. Chrissie’s silence had been deafening. She was either extremely angry or extremely disappointed, or both. Gardening tiffs aside, her mother was generally known for her obnoxiously glass-half-full approach to life. She was the kind of person who’d start telling you about her flat tyre and end in raptures about the helpfulness of the NRMA man. She even enjoyed going to the dentist. (When else did she get to read the Reader’s Digest ?) For Chrissie to dip below anything but mild annoyance for more than thirty seconds was rare, hence Poppy’s current state of paralysis. How would she come back from this?
Without being conscious of where she was going, Poppy turned a corner and realised she was at the rugby field. Hundreds of cars were parked on the grass, most of which would stay there all weekend. Maeve’s ears pricked up at the clack-clack-clack of football boots on bitumen. It was the sound of Poppy’s childhood.
The old men at the gate waved her through cheerfully and Poppy pushed the pram towards the clubhouse. The stands were full of puffer-jacketed supporters, bracing themselves against the wind. On the field, players heaved themselves into each other and the mud. A whistle sounded and a sea of voices jeered at the ref. Poppy had no idea why. She’d been watching rugby her whole life and still couldn’t understand the rules.
He was sitting in the grandstand. She spotted him immediately. If he wasn’t going to take her calls, she’d have to ambush him.
She parked the pram next to the canteen. The place smelled of damp earth and frying sausages. Hoisting Maeve onto her hip, she slowly climbed the concrete stairs. He didn’t turn when she sat down, his eyes following the action on the field, a paper program folded in his hands.
‘Dad.’
‘Poppy,’ he replied, eyes still on the game.
‘I tried to call you.’
‘I saw that.’
‘You didn’t want to call back?’
‘I figured you didn’t really want to chat to me.’
‘No?’
‘I thought you might be trying to get hold of your mother.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes.’ He turned and smiled at his granddaughter, who reached out to grab his finger. ‘She’s quite upset. I think she’d appreciate a call.’
Poppy felt her eyes well up. ‘I didn’t know if she’d want to talk to me.’
‘Oh, Poppy.’ Her dad smiled sadly. ‘Don’t be daft. She’s been moping around like a cat without her cream. She’s desperate to hear from you. She just didn’t want to—what was the word she used?—ah yes, she didn’t want to interfere .’
An ulcer of guilt burst in Poppy’s stomach. ‘I never meant to …’ she began, her voice cracking.
‘I know, Pops,’ he said gently.
‘I just …’
Her dad patted her knee. ‘I know.’
They watched the rest of the rugby in silence. It was the way her dad liked it and she didn’t have much to say anyway. At the final whistle her dad turned to her, his face ruddy from the wind, and asked whether she wanted a lift home. Poppy gave him a hug goodbye instead. She hoped he felt that her grip was tighter than usual.
Two days later she pushed the pram through the doors of The Bustle. Bankers and real estate agents in country chic corporate wear were lined up for caffeine like it was sacramental wine. There was a possibility Henry had been avoiding The Bustle, but Poppy doubted it. With his office being almost next door, it was home turf for him. She glanced at her watch. He was due in any minute now.
The door squeaked behind her and a cold gust of air blasted in. She jerked her head around and there he was, as she’d expected. His curly hair was in need of a trim and there were bags under his eyes, but he was still as handsome as ever in his uncomplicated, happy-go-lucky way.
He glanced over and she held his gaze. A slight nod of the head invited him over. She wondered if they’d be able to communicate wordlessly like this forever.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ he replied, looking nervous.
‘I’m sorry!’ they blurted in unison.
‘Jinx,’ said Poppy, a cautious smile emerging.
Behind them, a courier carried in a giant paint-spattered artwork. Henry probably thought there’d been an explosion at the Dulux factory. They watched the courier for a second before Henry grabbed at his curls. ‘Pops, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I was such a dick. I’ve been hating myself since it happened. I can’t believe I was such a fuckwit. Of all people to piss off, you didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry.’
Poppy took a deep breath. ‘Henry, I’m sorry too. I should have …’ She trailed off. To admit what she’d done—even unconsciously—would make it real, and she didn’t want it to be real. Was she really that woman who flirted with guys who were engaged? If so, she hated herself.
‘Poppy, you didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘No, I did,’ said Poppy, wincing in shame at the memory of the polka dot dress. ‘I overstepped some boundaries and I shouldn’t have. I feel terrible.’
Henry looked as anguished as she felt, which was gratifying in some ways, but she was about to make this so much worse.
‘Henry, I also need to apologise for what happened ten years ago.’
‘Poppy, you don’t need to—’
‘I do,’ she interrupted.
Poppy had thought of that starless night more times than was healthy. The memory of Henry’s face in the shadows, the hurt in his eyes. She’d never forgive herself for that moment.
Henry had been about to leave on a twelve-month secondment to his firm’s London office. His employer had offered to put him up in a Sydney hotel before he flew out but Poppy had convinced him to crash with her. It had been one of those weekends when she’d offered her couch and he’d accepted, both knowing they’d end up in bed together after too many drinks at the Sheaf. Dani found it problematic, but that was because Dani didn’t understand. What Poppy and Henry had was deeper than any normal friendship. It was basically no-strings-attached sex because it was Henry and he lived in Brisbane and he was moving to London , and they’d known each other for so long it was easier to be together than not be together. She was already excited to take him to the airport and be the last person he’d hug in Australia. She loved being that person for him.
But then Patrick appeared. They were at the Sheaf, and Patrick was wearing what she soon learned was his Double Bay drinking uniform: chinos and a Ralph Lauren shirt. This particular night he’d accessorised it with a pink baseball cap worn back to front. If there was ever an item of clothing more useless than a back-to-front cap, Poppy didn’t know it, but at the time, the guy in the neon-pink cap had seemed so cool . It was a classic peacock move and she fell for it. For some reason, this confident guy with the loudest laugh had asked her to dance, which never happened. Guys like that went for flashy girls with Blake Lively hair and tiny bodycon dresses, not girls like her.
Dani was quick to nudge her in the ribs, urging her to accept, while Henry leaned in protectively. Their other friends looked from Patrick to Poppy, wondering whether this Eastern Suburbs playboy would pull it off. He looked like a brash idiot, the kind of guy who probably yelled at taxi drivers and flashed his parents’ Amex, but Poppy heard herself agree and she took his outstretched hand. As Patrick led her away, Henry caught her eye. ‘You sure?’ he mouthed. Poppy nodded. Why not?
Within an hour, Patrick had spun her across the dancefloor, bought her friends two rounds of shots and regaled everyone with a story from Yacht Week involving an altercation with a Croatian nun and a leg of jamon. Poppy brimmed with pride at the way he’d captured everyone’s attention. How on earth had he noticed her ?
After more shots and too many vodka sodas, Patrick took her hand and insisted they get a cab. They were making out before they got to the taxi rank, and by the time they got to her apartment, Poppy was completely and utterly drunk and in lust.
She ignored the sound of her phone buzzing in her handbag as she slammed the door shut and kept kissing Patrick, layers of clothing sliding off with slippery efficiency. They crashed onto her bed, grabbing at each other, and when the apartment intercom buzzed she paused momentarily, her eyes uncrossing slowly. Who on earth …? Shit! Henry!
She jumped off the bed and ran to the intercom phone in the kitchen. ‘Henry, you can’t come up!’
‘Poppy,’ Henry pleaded through the tinny speaker, ‘where will I sleep?’
‘Work it out!’ she hissed.
‘Poppy, don’t be stupid. Let me come up.’
‘Don’t call me stupid!’ snapped Poppy. In her drunken haze, she was resentful. Henry couldn’t just assume he was entitled to her couch—or her bed. In fact, he was probably the reason she’d never been hit on like this before. She was radiating taken vibes, even though they’d broken up years ago!
‘Poppy,’ Henry begged. ‘Please, my bag is up there. At least buzz me up so I can grab it.’
‘No!’ She was irrational now. ‘You’re a big boy. You can sort it out.’
From her bedroom she could hear Patrick calling to her. She stuck her head out the window and saw Henry near her front door. In his boots and checked shirt, he looked so naively country. Normally she found it endearing, but tonight she found it embarrassing. She grabbed his R.M. Williams carryall from the couch and yelled to him, ‘Henry, catch!’ She tipped his bag unceremoniously through the window and watched it hurtle through the air, landing with a muffled thud on the hedge below. Henry looked up at her and in one split-second she saw the confusion, the disbelief and then the hurt. From her bedroom, Patrick was calling more loudly. Poppy slammed the window shut and pushed Henry from her mind. She would call him in the morning and smooth it over. He had plenty of other friends in Sydney; he would find somewhere to sleep. It would be fine.
But she didn’t call him in the morning. Patrick stayed over and they went out for bloody marys and then gatecrashed a harbour cruise. She didn’t get home—or sober up—for another twenty-four hours. By that time, Henry was already in a different hemisphere. Poppy decided she needed to call at the right time, probably when it wasn’t morning for him. Then she decided she’d better call when it wasn’t Monday. Or when it wasn’t a weekday, or when it wasn’t a Saturday, and she probably shouldn’t call at night because he might be working late or recuperating after a busy day. And suddenly, weeks had gone by and she hadn’t called him. And then weeks became months and Henry never called either. Her shame intensified whenever she remembered that night—and the flashbacks occurred with alarming regularity—but, she reasoned, how would she apologise to him and then explain that she and pink-hat guy had become a thing? Better to wait for him to reach out, when he was ready. But he never did. And suddenly, nine years had passed. She could still remember every line and freckle on Henry’s face, how his eyes creased when he smiled, how his hugs smelled warm and comforting, like cinnamon. But they were just memories now—no more solid than the wind on her face.
Through those nine years, a thought often poked its way up and she’d clamp it back down and ignore it, but it was persistent, like a weed wriggling through the soil. Had she lost a soul mate? When she opened that window, did she not only throw out a bag, but throw out years of friendship and love? Did she throw out a future? She stayed with Patrick because the alternative was terrifying. To break up with Patrick would be to admit she’d made a horrible, unforgivable mistake and destroyed a relationship she valued more than any other. And she kept promising herself: One day I’ll apologise, one day I’ll make this right .
‘Henry,’ she said now. ‘What I did that night was horrible, and that I never apologised is unforgivable. I’ve thought about apologising so many times and I’ve never been brave enough to do it, but now … well, I’m trying to be brave. I’m sorry, Henry—for everything, but I’m especially sorry for the last ten years. You’ve never stopped being one of my favourite people. I was just too selfish and scared to admit it.’
Henry tugged at his collar, his eyes downcast. ‘I missed you like crazy for months, Pops. Maybe years. And I hated that fucking guy so fucking much. I thought I’d got over it, but then seeing you again this year, I thought maybe I hadn’t …’
‘Henry, please—’
‘No, I need to say this too,’ Henry interrupted. ‘You broke my heart, Poppy. I know we weren’t even together, but it killed me when you did that. I was as broken as that stupid bottle of cologne that smashed in my bag. But it was my fault too. We were young and we loved each other but we were too dumb and proud to commit to anything. I had so many chances to tell you how I felt but I never did. We were so obsessed with having fun, we ruined any chance of turning what we had into something real, something that would last.’ Henry’s voice sounded heavier than she’d ever heard it. She wanted to take his hand but she knew she couldn’t. ‘And then I met Willa and I realised I could find someone just as amazing—not the same kind of amazing but a different kind. Someone who is amazing for who I am now, not the person I was when I was sixteen. She makes me feel so happy and alive and …’ His voice broke. ‘Fuck, Pops. She said it wasn’t working but I don’t understand. My life only works when I’m with her. How have I stuffed this up again? Am I fucking cursed? Or just dumb as dog shit?’
Poppy bit her lip, a smile twitching at her mouth despite the tears clouding her eyes. ‘Maybe both?’
Henry shook his head and smiled weakly. ‘Friends?’ he asked, proffering his hand. ‘I don’t want to waste another ten years.’
‘Friends,’ agreed Poppy, shaking it. ‘I couldn’t stand to lose you again, Hen. It was making me feel sick thinking we’d ruined everything.’
He smiled. ‘Same.’
They both looked at Maeve, her curious face a welcome distraction from all these complicated feelings.
‘So,’ Poppy said eventually, ‘do you need some help winning back a certain paediatrician?’
Henry’s ears reddened but his eyes lifted to meet hers. ‘Thank goodness, Pops. I thought you’d never ask.’
For the next twenty minutes, as Maeve chewed her way through two teething rusks, Poppy asked all the questions about Willa she’d been dying to ask for months. How they met (through mutual friends), their first date (the zoo), when they moved in together (after thirteen months), what her family was like (quiet, smart, extremely competitive in the Good Weekend quiz).
By the time Poppy had weaselled a full recap of their first date out of Henry (the zoo being an unusually bold choice for him), Poppy felt herself becoming enchanted by Willa too. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she donated money to the orangutans and her quiet equanimity was the perfect foil to Henry’s gregariousness. For Henry, she was perfect. Which begged the question: ‘Why did she fall in love with you ?’
Henry groaned. ‘I don’t know. Because I’m funny?’
‘Lots of people are funny.’
‘I’m a good bloke?’
‘My postman is a good bloke.’
Henry put his head in his hands. ‘Maybe it’s not something we can put into words. It’s just a feeling. Like, we just clicked. She’s clever and kind and witty, and I … I dunno, I balanced her. Like, when she got anxious, I could calm her down. When she was sad, I could cheer her up. When she was drowning in work, I was the one who’d make her come up for air, be spontaneous.’
And then it dawned on him.
‘Oh.’
‘Yep.’
‘Do you think …?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve been too obsessed with the business? I didn’t make enough time for her?’ The last question lingered unsaid: Do you think I spent too much time with you?
‘Yes to all of the above, Marshall. But the positive news is, it’s not too late.’
‘It’s not?’ Henry asked hopefully.
‘No. You still have a conscience, which confirms my theory that you are not a terrible person. You stuffed up, got carried away—we both did—but you can fix it. You just need to apologise and then you need to be better. For a long time. Actually, for forever.’
‘I can do that,’ said Henry, eyes lighting up.
Poppy smiled. ‘Then do that.’