Page 20 of Special Delivery
Poppy glared at him. Even shirtless, he was so obviously lacking a normal human level of self-consciousness. He had the smooth, honed ridges of a swimmer and his chest was firm and taut. He looked like he could perform tumble turns under the pressure of Olympic glory and then sell you a box of Nutri-Grain. Poppy’s skin tingled with a sensation that was foreign to her, as though someone had double-bounced heron a trampoline and statically charged her with electricity—angryelectricity. Her eyes flared as she spoke. ‘I’ve never met someone whoseissuewas being so unfriendly.’
‘I’m not your friend,’ he snapped. ‘I’m your midwife.’
Poppy bristled, feeling the static electricity transmute into something more flammable. ‘Newsflash,James, I stopped being your patient three months ago, so you can stop being a condescending prick.’
‘I’m maintainingprofessional boundaries.’
He was half-naked.
‘You’re maintaining a pole up your arse.’
He thrust his t-shirt at her. ‘Take this.’
Poppy snatched it. ‘Turn around.’
They turned their backs to each other and Poppy tore off her soiled layers and grabbed more baby wipes to clean her stomach. She pulled his t-shirt on and—oh, sweet Jesus—she could breathe normally again. The cool autumn air flooded her nostrils, spiked with that same aftershave scent she remembered from the hospital. The cotton was still warm from his body.
When she turned back, James had zipped his puffer vest over his bare torso. His arms were rippled with goosebumps. ‘You’re lucky I had this vest.’
‘Yeah, I’m solucky,’ Poppy replied sarcastically. ‘You and your dog have ruined my only decent sweater and because I forgot to buy laundry powderagain, tomorrow I’ll have to start wearing hand-me-downs from my mum fromRivers! Do you realise how embarrassed I feel on a daily basis, without having to wear my sixty-three-year-old mother’s hand-me-downs? As if I wasn’t deep enough in battler mode, this isreally going to tip me into ultimate loser territory, so yes, James, I feel so incredibly fortunate!’
Fluttering at their feet were mountains of used wipes which would have to be bagged up and binned. (Oh, the landfill! Oh, the guilt!) Poppy leaned down and began scrambling to scoop the wipes into plastic bags, which she heaped into the base of the pram. There was no way she could finish this walk now.
She spun the pram to face the opposite direction, at which point, Maeve began screaming and Eileen responded with her own wolverine howling. Over the cacophony, it briefly occurred to her to say sorry, but then she remembered she hated this guy and he knew it and, oh, what a relief not to care about hurting someone’s feelings.
‘Later!’ she called over her shoulder, in what she hoped he would recognise as the verbal equivalent of the rude finger.
She stormed away, her blood boiling at everything: his smirk, his nappy-changing skills, the perfect tessellation of his chest muscles. She could feel a bruise forming on her butt cheek, and as Maeve continued to scream Poppy bit her cheek to keep from joining in.
Rounding the corner back into her cul-de-sac, the woman from number five was carrying a sud-filled bucket to her car wearing nothing but a yellow string bikini and pair of rubber gloves (also yellow). The sight was a welcome distraction from the thundering rage still battering her rib cage.
‘Hi!’ called the woman, her pert breasts shaking as she waved. Her legs were impossibly long and cellulite-free and her long, glossy hair swirled in the breeze. She was almost astall as … oh, of course, James. Poppy smirked wryly, remembering how he’d arrived for her home visit after a mysterious ‘personal engagement’. He must have been visiting this Bella Hadid clone.
Poppy waved back and smiled, a smug understanding blossoming in her chest. Just as she suspected—James was as unoriginal as an Ikea flat pack, shipped straight from the factory floor. Good-looking men made such obvious choices.
CHAPTER 10
The Bustle had quickly become one of Poppy’s favourite places in town. A converted Masonic hall, its cathedral-like walls housed a café, a homewares shop and a fashion boutique, all nestled together in an energetic jumble. Floral installations hung from the ceiling and the white-painted brick walls were decorated with a rainbow of artworks. Shelves were heavy with jewel-toned crockery, cushions and other trinkets, while reams of vibrant outfits weighed down the clothing racks. Light streamed in from skylights and the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the place in a phosphorescent glow. It was so different from anything else in the wind-bleached town and so unapologetically colourful compared to anything in Sydney that it felt like an escapist dreamland.
Parking the pram next to a duck-egg blue table, Poppy settled herself into a chair and pulled her laptop out of the nappy bag. After a quick shower at home, she’d changed out of her saggy-bummed leggings and was now wearingher denim shorts in steadfast denial of it already being jeans season in Orange.
‘The usual, Poppy?’ asked a twenty-something waitress in a Breton-striped t-shirt.
Poppy loved that the friendly waitress (whose name she had awkwardly forgotten) already knew her order by heart. It made her feel like a cast member ofHome & Away.
‘Yep, soy cap for me,’ she replied, smiling brightly to compensate for the forgotten name.
‘Coming right up.’
The waitress left and Poppy opened her laptop, sliding her fingers across the touchpad to bring up Seek. In her weekly budget, she could justify the daily coffee by using her time at The Bustle to search for jobs.
Engrossed in her browsers, she didn’t register the footsteps shuffling closer until a shadow fell over her shoulder. ‘Poppy?’
She turned, and her heart fell through her stomach with a painful jolt.
‘Henry?’
It had been almost a decade and Henry Marshall looked exactly the same. His hair still curled over his ears, his cheeks were still dimpled, his nose was still smattered with freckles. He still had all the requisite features of a typically cute country boy.
