Page 101 of Special Delivery
Poppy nodded. As she let him walk off with her daughter in his arms, she stifled a sob. She really needed a hug too.
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 herdaughter’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?Sheshould have boiled the kettle,sheshould have made the tea,sheshould 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? Hopeyou’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 on60 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 repeatsince 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 orshouldbe 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 herin 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.
