Special Delivery

CHAPTER 43

Mary died during surgery. The news hit like an earthquake. According to the doctor, there were complications from the anaesthesia. Terms like ‘circulatory collapse’, ‘hypovolaemia’ and ‘benzodiazepines’ swam past her, her brain refusing to latch on to them, her denial receptors working in overdrive. Mary had to wake up. They were supposed to have tea and jam drops.

Next door, the blinds were closed, the lights were off and the junk mail was piling up. Poppy left it in a neat pile at Mary’s door because she knew how much her neighbour loved the catalogues. It was stupid, no-one would read them, but every day she added another catalogue to the pile. She couldn’t do anything else, so she did this.

The funeral was horrible in the way they always were: the worst-timed celebration of someone’s life. Why couldn’t it have been held two weeks ago, when Mary could have sat up the front and marvelled at the slideshow, pointing out her favourite hairstyles and the cake she’d baked for her daughter’s wedding? It was a sickening irony; everyone Mary loved was there but she wasn’t. Poppy sat at the back, Maeve in the pram, both wearing navy because the only black clothes Poppy owned were leggings. By the time the service finished, Maeve was crying and ready for her morning sleep, so Poppy drove straight home and put her to bed. James wouldn’t have known she was there.

As she pushed the pram out of the driveway, down the road and past the oak tree, everything reminded her of James and Mary. Poppy had offered the family her help, but no-one needed it. They had each other. She’d texted James and heard nothing back. Kate had responded to her message with a heart emoji. It was like she was on the edge of their vortex and no-one would let her jump in and feel the grief with them. She wanted to be useful, she wanted to cry with them, she wanted to tell them how much Mary had meant to her, but what right did she have? She hadn’t even known Mary a year. They might be blaming her for all she knew. Poppy cursed herself again. What selfish idiot expects an eighty-nine-year-old woman to wait on them? She should have boiled the kettle, she should have made the tea, she should have baked the fucking jam drops!

To make matters worse, she really missed James. She wanted to comfort him, but she couldn’t get close—he was keeping her at arms’ length. She wanted to give him space but she didn’t know how much he needed. Would it be weird to keep texting? The unanswered calls and messages were banking up and yes, there were mitigating circumstances, but at some point she’d have to ease up on the one-sided texting or be forever known as a psycho.

She took a deep breath and focused on the footpath ahead. The air smelled of wisteria. The Bustle, her walks, the unmown garden next door; everything reminded her of him. She wished they still hated each other so she wouldn’t care, but as soon as that thought surfaced she knew it was a lie. She’d loved hating him almost as much as she’d loved liking him.

More blossoms were appearing each day; pompoms of pink and white and ruby had brought the cul-de-sac back to life. She was living in a pastel pink paradise and she’d never been more miserable. Maeve wasn’t crawling yet, which was another thing to feel anxious about. Yesterday her daughter had almost managed a forward-shuffle and the elation Poppy felt was quickly matched by her dejection at realising no-one else but her mother would care. Dani and April would pretend to be excited but only because they were good people. Their kids were already walking and everyone knew that as soon as your child moved on to the next milestone you instantly forgot (and stopped caring) about any beforehand, because: brain space.

Mary would have been ecstatic. James would have been excited too. He would have high-fived her and told her it was proof Maeve was a genius. Mary would have said the same.

A ding in the cup holder interrupted her thoughts so Poppy stuck her hand in and pulled out her phone. The name on the screen made something heavy flip over in her rib cage. James. Equal parts eager and petrified, she opened the message.

Cleaning out some of Mary’s stuff today. Will you be home?

Poppy began typing immediately. Yes!! How are you? I’ve left all the junk mail at the doorstep, should I get rid of it? Hope you’re ok. Would love to see you. I can help if you need anything. Honestly .

Then she deleted everything. Maybe a thumbs-up emoji would suffice? But she had so much to say. She needed to tell him how much she was missing Mary and what had really happened with Henry. Hell, she needed to tell him she’d watched the Scott Cam interview on 60 Minutes . More than anything, she wanted to see that smile spread across his face and his eyes light up and know it was because of her. There was no point in pretending.

Yes, will be home all day , she wrote. Would love to see you xx . She clicked send. No chance of him misunderstanding that.

Her footsteps lightened. She would be seeing him soon and even though it would be sad and awkward, she would apologise again and again until he understood how sorry she was, and maybe—hopefully—they could start again.

There was a quiet knock at the door and Poppy raced to open it.

‘I didn’t want to—’ James was pointing at the doorbell. He was dressed in jeans, an old jumper and work boots.

Poppy smiled gratefully as she ushered him in. ‘Thank you. Maeve’s still asleep in the pram.’

They moved quietly to the kitchen. Her chest was a bubbling cauldron of feelings and words threatening to spit out. She wanted to jump up and fling her arms around his neck and wrap her legs around his waist. She wanted to say everything that had been running through her head on repeat since that night at the races. Sorry sorry sorry, I miss you I miss you I miss you . She was so profoundly happy to see him, she wanted to show him her real self—especially since he’d helped her find it—but she didn’t know how to start. Eventually she whispered, ‘I’m so glad to see you.’

James nodded, said nothing, and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. His gaze darted to the pram, which was parked in the corner with Maeve hardly visible as she slept under a striped cotton blanket.

Poppy swallowed the scraping lump in her throat. It was now or never. She needed to look him in the eye and tell him how she felt.

‘Hello-oooo!’ boomed a voice in the distance.

Poppy’s and James’s eyes met. There was a moment of confusion. It wasn’t her mum or her dad or Henry or April or Dani or anyone else who would or could or should be there. It was the sound of a war cannon, a crack of thunder that seems too close.

Then Poppy gasped. What the hell? Her heart lurched as she swept past James and ran to the window and— oh god . A giant SUV was parked on her driveway, its logo glinting in the sun. Poppy’s stomach plummeted. No-one in this street drove a Tesla.

‘Um, James—’

She heard the metallic clang of her front gate first, saw the shadow behind her front door. Her larynx compressed, her skin tightened around her whole body. Oh no . The door handle was turning; he was letting himself in.

‘Babe!’ exclaimed Patrick, striding through her front door and into the kitchen. ‘It’s been so long!’ His long arms grabbed her in a crushing hug, his metallic watch band snagging on her hair. He still smelled exactly the same: of Burberry Hero, post-gym bodywash and his overpriced laundry service.

‘Patrick, what … what are you doing here?’ she stammered, recoiling. The white of his t-shirt was blinding and matched the whiteness of his socks and sneakers.

‘I came to see my daughter,’ he said as his gaze roamed over her kitchen-living area before landing squarely on James. She saw Patrick assess his outfit—from the threadbare jumper to the well-worn work boots—then he turned to Poppy and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Who is this?’ he asked, as if James wasn’t there.

‘Shhh,’ hissed Poppy, tilting her head to where Maeve was still asleep in the pram.

James stepped forward and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m James, a friend of Poppy’s,’ he said.

Patrick turned, his expression bemused, and gripped the proffered hand so tightly a vein pulsed in his neck. ‘Patrick.’ The handshake seemed to last longer than it should and there was zero shake.

‘You okay, Poppy?’ James asked quietly.

‘What’s that supposed to mean, bro?’

‘It means I know who you are,’ replied James, not looking at Patrick.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Patrick demanded.

‘Can we please keep it down?’ begged Poppy. ‘Maeve’s not due to wake up for another fifty minutes.’

Patrick turned back to her and smirked. ‘Never picked you as a routine type, babe.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she hissed.

James cleared his throat. ‘Uh, Poppy, I think I’ll give you two some privacy. I’ll be next door if you need me.’

Poppy spun towards him. ‘James,’ she began, but he was already moving towards the door. She wanted to cry, Stay, I need you, I can’t do this alone —but she knew with an exhausting inevitability that she had to.

‘Does he clean your gutters or something?’ asked Patrick, not waiting for a reply as he began walking to the pram.

Poppy moved to intercept him. ‘Patrick, what are you doing?’

‘I’m waking up my daughter,’ he replied, as though that should be self-evident. ‘This is a big moment for her.’

‘No, no, no!’ whispered Poppy. ‘You can’t wake her up. She’s not due to wake up now, and I’m the one who will have to deal with an overtired baby.’

‘Babe, relax.’

‘NO!’ Poppy whispered more forcefully. ‘You are one thousand per cent not waking her up. Sleep is actually pretty important for nine-month-old babies—not that you’d know, given that you’ve never taken the slightest interest in any child, let alone your own daughter.’

‘Whoa, babe, where’s my chill girl?’ asked Patrick, his mouth quirking. ‘Where’s my girl who was up for anything?’

Poppy felt every muscle in her body become tense. ‘You think it’s stupid to care about what my daughter needs?’ she hissed. ‘What am I supposed to do, Patrick? Pretend I’m still twenty-two and get hammered every night?! Every single kid in the entire world has a routine, which you might actually know if you cared even one iota about your daughter. Seriously why are you even here?’

‘I’m here to be a dad,’ he said, spreading his arms wide, his palms to the sky. It was one of his favourite poses.

‘Patrick, you didn’t even text.’

‘I know, babe, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

Poppy pressed her fingertips to her temples. Her gut was a writhing mess of confusion and rage and sadness. She’d longed for this for nine months, and now that he was finally here, everything felt off. The bleached white of his t-shirt, the Bondi tan, the weirdly perfect beach body achieved through an obsessive gym regime. Against the backdrop of her 1980s suburban rental, nothing about Patrick felt real.

‘But why today?’ she sighed. ‘Why now?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘I thought it was time.’

Poppy felt the air seep from her lungs like deflating balloons. She recognised that expression. He was Maeve’s dad. Maeve was half him. Maybe underneath that shiny Eastern Suburbs veneer, he was just a guy who’d taken nine months to realise he’d been an absolute dickhead.

Patrick continued. ‘I want to get to know my daughter. Learn about her. I want her to run into my arms and call me Daddy.’

Poppy stifled a grimace. ‘She’s only nine months old. She can’t walk and talk yet.’

‘Really?’ Patrick scratched his neck. ‘She’s not, like, slow or anything, is she?’

‘No, Patrick.’ He didn’t need to know Maeve wasn’t crawling yet.

‘I’m so glad I came.’ His eyes were dancing now, his pupils dilated and glossy. ‘I’ve had the biggest few days. Massive work conference, and then last night we all ended up at the casino until four am and I woke up this morning and I was so bummed you weren’t there. Remember how you used to buy me blueberry Gatorade when I was hungover? And then I thought about the fact that you had a kid now, and I was like, man, I should be there. Like, I should be with you and this kid—’

‘She’s not some kid ,’ Poppy interrupted. ‘She’s your daughter . Her name is Maeve.’

Patrick waved her quiet. ‘Yeah, totally, babe, I know—but what I’m saying is, I just knew I needed to be here. Like, I just woke up and I was like, imagine if I could just wake up with you and this kid, who just loves me and wants to give me all these cute cuddles. Like, wouldn’t that be the best thing ever? To wake up after a massive bender and just have all this love surrounding you? Like, isn’t that the dream?’

Poppy blinked. Were these words actually coming out of his mouth?

‘And then, like, I realised it didn’t have to be a dream,’ Patrick continued. ‘I could literally just have that as my life. So I just got up and jumped in the car and started driving. Like, man, maybe I was still drunk, but I needed to get here and see you guys. And now I’m here, and’—he paused dramatically as if readying himself for the finale—‘we can be a family.’

‘I …’ Poppy hesitated, taking a rare second to consider exactly what she wanted to say. She needed these words to match her feelings. This was not a time for word vomit. She needed to be thoughtful, deliberate. Her eyes landed on the door where James had walked out moments before.

‘What?’ asked Patrick, sensing her hesitation, his gaze following hers to the door. Poppy flinched slightly and a blush swarmed up her cheeks. Patrick’s eyes were narrowed in confusion and then, slowly, they widened and he began to laugh. It was a low and menacing sound. ‘No. Fucking . Way. That guy that was here—the gutter boy. You’re fucking him?’

‘Patrick!’ cried Poppy.

Maeve suddenly wailed from the corner, woken by the noise.

Poppy rushed to her, tears forming in her eyes. ‘How dare you storm in here and speak to me like that!’

‘So you’re not?’

Poppy glared at him as she lifted her daughter to her chest.

Patrick snorted. ‘After me, I thought you could do better than him, babe.’

‘STOP CALLING ME BABE!’ she cried, her daughter still bawling in her arms. ‘You lost that privilege a long time ago, Patrick. I do not answer to you. I answer to no-one but Maeve, and that’s only because I choose to. You had a chance to be involved in her life but you ignored me. You ignored us! Do you not even understand how one single call in those early days would have helped me when I was drowning in loneliness, trying to parent by myself? And now you rock up here saying you’re ready to be a dad. Do you even understand what that means, Patrick? It’s more than a bloody Instagram post. It’s cleaning shit off everything, it’s waking up a million times in the middle of the night because she’s lost her dummy, it’s rewiring your whole brain to work according to her schedule, it’s giving yourself to someone completely because their happiness matters more to you than anything else in the world. Do you think your ego could cope with that, Patrick?’

Patrick had hardly glanced at his daughter. ‘Babe, you need to calm down.’

‘Patrick!’

‘I mean Poppy , not babe.’ He spread his arms wide again in his so sue me pose. ‘You know I’m a creature of habit.’

Every bone in her body was almost vibrating. Maeve was still crying on her chest. Patrick still hadn’t asked to hold his child.

Poppy turned and walked to the lounge room. She placed Maeve on the play mat with some cushions behind her in case she fell, then spread a collection of her favourite toys in front of her, watching her daughter’s tears subside as she picked up her favourite rattle. This would keep Maeve amused for a little while, and Poppy only needed five minutes, max.

She strode back to Patrick, tilted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. All those months she’d spent waiting for this moment and it had finally come. All those mornings and nights when she’d wished for an extra pair of hands or fretted about Maeve not having a father. Every unanswered text that had wrecked her with anxiety. Every minute she’d spent worrying that she wouldn’t be enough for her daughter, that she couldn’t do it by herself, that she was condemning her daughter to a subpar life, and the solution had landed in her kitchen, just like this.

‘Get out,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me, Patrick. I said get out.’

‘But, babe—I mean, Poppy!—didn’t you hear me? I said I’m ready to be a dad. I’m ready for us to be a family. The whole shebang!’

Every word he said only strengthened her resolve. She didn’t need him to complete their family. He wasn’t the missing link. There was no missing link. Maeve and Poppy, they were a family by themselves, just the two of them. They didn’t need each other for Instagram likes; they needed each other in a visceral way, like atoms need electrons. They were the same matter, the same blood, extensions of each other. Patrick had played a role in Maeve’s conception, but he wasn’t needed now, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk in here and blow up everything that she’d worked so hard for.

‘Maeve and I are more than a hangover cure, Patrick. We’re not just here to pep you up when you’re feeling sorry for yourself. If you can’t see that, then you don’t deserve us.’

‘Poppy, seriously, stop being so hectic.’ His eyes were darting wildly around the room as though looking for someone to back him up. ‘You’re talking like some whingeing bitch on Dr Phil . Just listen to me—’

‘No, you listen to me,’ blazed Poppy. ‘You come into our home, disrespect me, practically ignore Maeve and then have the gall to confess you want me back because I buy you fucking Gatorade when you’re coming down off god-knows-what. You show no inclination at all to interact with your child or call her by her name and assume with all your characteristic bloody egotism that she will automatically adore you. You offer zero apologies for ghosting me—and Maeve, your own flesh and blood—for the last nine months. I am well within my rights to kick you out of my house, but I am asking you nicely, for the sake of Maeve in the other room, to get out.’

Patrick looked murderous. ‘And what happens then? You never hear from me again?’

‘Ideally yes.’

‘So, what? You’re going to raise this kid by yourself?’

‘That’s exactly what I have been doing, Patrick, so yes, I think that’s a safe assumption.’

‘And what happens when she goes to school and realises all the other kids have dads and she wants to find hers?’

‘Then I will tell her that her father and I have not spoken since that time he rocked up to my house and called me a whingeing bitch.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘I actually don’t care what you meant, Patrick. I just want you to leave.’

Patrick slammed his hand on the kitchen bench. ‘Jesus, Poppy! You’re being an idiot!’

‘Get out, Patrick.’

‘Fine!’ He balled his hands into fists and walked to the door. As he turned the handle, he spun back to face her. ‘You’ll regret this Poppy. Your daughter will hate you for doing this.’

‘Her name is Maeve, Patrick. And somehow I don’t think she will.’

‘Don’t come crying to me when everything turns to shit and you need help.’

‘Trust me, I won’t.’

He yanked the door open and Poppy watched him stomp back to his Tesla. At her front gate he turned to look at her again, his features contorted in an ugly rage. ‘And another thing,’ he spat. ‘Blueberry Gatorade tastes like shit.’

Poppy smiled with grim satisfaction. ‘I know, Patrick.’

She closed the door.

In the lounge room, Maeve was still sitting on her play mat, passing the rattle between her chubby hands. At the sight of her mother, Maeve’s face broke into a wide smile and Poppy’s heart lifted. She would never know for sure if she’d made the right decision, but at this moment, her gut told her she had. Patrick didn’t belong here. He was too impetuous, too self-centred, too frenetic and too vain. He needed everything to be orbiting him, as though he was the star and everyone else a member of the supporting cast.

Poppy’s life now was not uncomplicated, but it was slower and more predictable in a way that nourished her. And that was what she and Maeve needed at the moment: predictability.

Poppy sat down opposite her daughter. Afternoons like this, sitting on a play mat watching her daughter’s eyes sparkle as she tinkered with her dollar-shop rattle, were what she wanted. She picked up the rattle and shook it at Maeve. Her daughter reached her arms towards it happily. With a tumbling motion, she fell forward and raised herself on her hands and knees. With a giggle, she lurched herself forward and crawled straight into Poppy’s lap, seizing the rattle between her chubby fingers.

Poppy gasped. ‘Maevey, you crawled!’ She picked up her daughter and laughed into her neck, smothering her with kisses. ‘My clever, clever girl! I am so proud of you, Maevey!’

She scooped Maeve up and ran outside with the timid hope of the morning blossoming again in her chest. James would be so happy to hear the news. ‘James!’ she called across the hedge. ‘James! You’ll never guess what just happened!’

Mary’s front door opened and James came outside quickly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m fine! Everything’s good!’ Poppy rounded the fence and walked up Mary’s front path. He was so close now she could almost reach out and touch him. They were together again—geographically, if nothing else. She could apologise properly and things could go back to how they were before. She beamed at him, radiant with hope.

James turned to look at the closed door, his forehead creased. ‘Mum’s inside packing up. She’s pretty distraught.’

‘Oh …’ Poppy faltered. Fuck.

James gazed back at her, expressionless, and a tiny bead of fear crept into Poppy’s stomach. She wanted to reach for him but it was as though he was standing purposely just out of her grasp.

‘I wanted to tell you …’ It seemed so stupid now. Why would he care about this when his grandma had just died? What sociopath would think a crawling baby trumped that? Poppy looked at the ground. ‘Nothing, it’s just, um … Maeve crawled for the first time.’

The corners of James’s mouth tilted ever so slightly upwards for a second and then straightened. ‘That’s great, Poppy.’ He sounded tired and, worse than that, he sounded sad.

‘I’m sorry, James,’ Poppy said abruptly. She needed to get this out before he could stop her or get away. ‘I’m so sorry for that night after the races. I shouldn’t have let Henry come home with me but I promise it wasn’t what you think, and nothing happened. And I would never want it to, because’—she swallowed—‘I only want to be with you.’

There, she’d said it. He couldn’t unhear it now. She may as well have offered herself up naked on a sushi platter.

James looked at her intently, his black eyes penetrating hers. She searched him for clues—a smile, a glimmer in his eyes, a twitch of the lips—but his face was a mask.

‘Poppy, we can’t.’

‘We can!’ she insisted. ‘I know this is a hard time for you, but I’ve realised whatever comes will come, and we can just enjoy being with each other now. We’ve wasted so much time already, why waste another minute?’

James grabbed the back of his head and sighed. The tiny bead of fear in her abdomen swelled.

‘Poppy, it’s too late. This whole thing with Mary … it’s been another massive reminder that life doesn’t go to plan. I have to go to Melbourne. I can’t stay here and let life pass me by.’

‘But you got accepted into the med program at CSU Orange too,’ stammered Poppy. ‘What if it’s a sign you don’t need to go to Melbourne?’

‘What if getting into Melbourne is a sign I should go there, Poppy? Life isn’t some secret code from the universe that we have to decipher. I can’t trust fate to sort my life out for me. I have to make my own decisions. That’s why I’m going to Melbourne.’ He didn’t need to add without you .

Poppy shook her head. She needed to jolt him out of this and make him laugh and remember who they were together but it was like trying to cup water in her hands. The more he spoke, the further away he slipped, sliding through her fingers like liquid.

‘But you asked if I was okay,’ she said quietly.

‘What?’

‘Back at my place, you asked if I was okay. I thought it meant you cared.’

The mask on James’s face flickered for a millisecond and was back just as quickly. ‘It doesn’t matter if I do, Poppy. You have an ex-boyfriend who wants to get back together with you and another ex-boyfriend who hits on you when he’s drunk. There’s too much standing in our way.’

‘This is stupid!’ cried Poppy. ‘Of every relationship I’ve been in, this is the one that feels like it could be … I dunno, good. Awesome, even. It feels real. Don’t you feel it too? We just match.’

‘You make it sound so simple Poppy, but it’s not.’

‘We can make it simple,’ Poppy argued. ‘This doesn’t have to be anything more than what it is right now. We can be happy right now .’

A beat passed between them and Poppy wished she could read his mind like he could read hers. On her hip, Maeve shifted to lay her head against Poppy’s chest and a horrible thought occurred to her.

‘It is because I’m a single mum? Is it because of Maeve?’

The hurt in his eyes was instant. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You know I think Maeve is amazing. It’s just—I’m moving to Melbourne. And you … you’re not going anywhere, are you?’

For a moment Poppy imagined herself in Melbourne. Shushing Maeve at cool cafes in graffitied laneways, ending up in the hook turn lane, the pram getting stuck in the tram tracks. Sure, there would be good coffee, designer baby shops, the pleasant anonymity that came with city life, but she’d have to hustle and grind and always pay for parking and, at this point in her life, that was a giant negative.

In Orange, she had her parents, she had April and the mothers’ group girls, the baristas at The Bustle knew her coffee order. Every member of the golf club mafia knew her life story, but she knew they’d protect her and Maeve like their own. When people said it took a village to raise a child, they forgot to mention it took a village to raise a mother, too. This town with its wide streets and colourful seasons had sheltered her when she needed it. Orange had become home again. ‘You’re right,’ said Poppy quietly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

James shifted on the balls of his feet. ‘You and I are in different lanes, Poppy, and that’s a fact we can’t change, no matter how we feel.’

‘How do you feel?’ she asked softly. There was something underneath that mask. He was hiding something and she knew it.

‘Poppy, at this point, how I feel won’t change anything. It’s not as though this is a Netflix special and all you need is love.’

‘Love?’ whispered Poppy.

James’s face flickered again. ‘Figure of speech,’ he said weakly.

Poppy was suddenly furious. Love?! He drops the L-word and then insists they can’t be together?! He was so bloody infuriating! Couldn’t he see he was making the wrong decision? ‘So that’s it?’ she asked. ‘We’re done?’

‘We could be friends?’

‘We tried that,’ said Poppy hotly, her body livid at the memory of James undressing her in a stable.

‘What do you want me to say?’ asked James. ‘That we should never speak again?’

‘I want you to admit you’re being stupid!’ If he was going to outright reject her, he was going to have to try harder. She didn’t care if she seemed psycho or needy or pathetic. James made her shameless. He was her kryptonite.

‘I’m not being stupid!’ James protested. ‘It’s easier this way, Poppy. I’m leaving next month. Why start something now? It’ll be easier on both of us if we stop this now.’

‘Before it’s even begun? You talk about wanting to live your life and here I am, trying to be part of it, and you’re running away.’

‘We’ve never even been on a date!’ cried James, losing his patience. ‘I’m making it easier for you.’

‘Oh my god,’ fumed Poppy. ‘If you think you’re going to break my heart because we go on a couple of measly dates then you have a grossly overinflated sense of your own charisma.’

James threw his hands in the air. ‘Do you even want to go out with me, Poppy?! Because I’m picking up on a lot of negative energy!’

Poppy glared at him. James glared back, and then, infuriatingly, he began to smile. It was small at first, creeping from the corners of his lips to his cheeks—and then a triumphant grin enveloped his whole face. He started to laugh. And damn it, now she was laughing too. She hadn’t laughed since before Mary’s accident and it was like the pressure of the past weeks was exploding from her like water from a fire hydrant. They were laughing so hard tears were streaming down their faces. James was doubled over and Poppy’s abs were aching. Every time they made eye contact they’d convulse again. Maeve looked between them, delighted and confused.

‘I honestly think this is dumb,’ said Poppy when she’d recovered her breath.

‘Agree to disagree,’ said James, wiping his eyes.

Poppy stuck out her lower lip. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘Same,’ said James. He was serious now.

‘I don’t think I can do the friends thing with you,’ admitted Poppy. ‘At least not for a little bit.’

James nodded. ‘So what do we do?’

‘Nothing.’ Poppy sighed. ‘Go to Melbourne. Buy a trendy Akubra. Start drinking oat milk piccolos. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine. We don’t need anything—no texts, no calls. At least not for a while, until my head descrambles.’

James’s lips were clamped shut. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually.

‘Okay,’ replied Poppy. She wanted to reach out to him for one last hug but that would delay the inevitable. It turned out their story had ended weeks ago, and she hadn’t even realised.