Page 25 of Special Delivery
‘So how do you plan to get your ideas out to the market?’ Poppy asked.
Henry chuckled. ‘I haven’t thought about the marketing yet. Always a one-track mind with you, though, isn’t it?’ He paused and winced. ‘Sorry, that’s not how I meant it.’
Now Poppy blushed. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, waving the comment away. ‘But I’d be happy to help. You know, if you need it.’
‘Thanks.’ Henry shifted his feet. ‘How have you been?’
‘Since yesterday?’
‘Well, yes. But also, like, generally. I think I forgot to ask that yesterday, sorry.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Good, I guess.’ She pointed to Maeve lying in the pram sucking on her fingers. ‘We’re settling into a bit of a rhythm. I’ve got the house set up now. We’re getting a bit of sleep. It’s not too bad.’
Henry peered at Maeve, whose eyes darted around the contours of his face. ‘She’s very alert, isn’t she?’ he said, staring at her.
Poppy nodded. Maeve’s eyes had also been described as wakeful, beady and restless, but alert was her preferred term. It implied intelligence.
‘And jeez, her nose is really—’
‘Yes.’ Poppy cut him off, knowing exactly where he was going with that. She happened to love Maeve’s tiny ski-jump nose. It was perfect on her.
Henry’s ears turned pink again and he glanced at the floor.
‘How’s your mum enjoying having you back in Orange?’ Poppy asked, retreating to safe territory.
‘Over the moon, as you’d expect. We’re already locked in for dinners almost every night of the week. And she keeps popping around to the office to drop off things she thinks I need. RB Sellars polos, handwash, that kind of thing. She’s forgotten I have managed to dress and wash myself for more than a decade without her.’
‘What about those undies she used to send you? Don’t tell me you started buying them yourself?’ At uni, Henry had firmly refused to buy his own underwear, complaining the price per square centimetre of fabric was absurd. Thiswasn’t an issue because his mum sent him care packages every six months, always containing three new pairs of Bonds briefs. Both Henry and his mother considered this a logical arrangement.
Henry laughed. ‘She started giving them to me in bulk as Christmas presents, so I think that’s fair enough?’ Poppy giggled and he grinned appreciatively. ‘I knew you’d find that funny. As soon as I opened that Christmas present, I knew you’d tease me.’ His smile faltered. ‘Well, anyway, that was a while back.’
He was right. Poppy would have crowed with laughter if he’d told her.Henry Mummy’s Boy Marshall: it was one of her favourite jokes. It made her hurt to realise he hadn’t been able to tell her, to pick up the phone slightly tipsy after Christmas lunch and gleefully recount his reaction and his mother’s satisfied smile. She could imagine it so clearly. Had it been a couple of years ago? Or was it long before that? She wished she knew.
‘I’m glad to see my good friend Henry Marshall is growing up.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ he replied, motioning to the scene before him: Poppy, Maeve, the colours and sounds of Orange through the window. It was all so different now; gentrified, glossier, busier. The sleepy town of their youth was long gone—just like their stupid teenage dreams.
CHAPTER 13
The next few days passed at a pace that was either dizzily fast or agonisingly slow. What was she doing apart from walking, breastfeeding and sneaking in a coffee with Henry? Nothing, it seemed.
On Monday, James was waiting by the oak tree again. It was sunny and his hair was scattered with threads of gold. He was optimistically wearing rugby shorts. It somehow made him look more muscular, which made Poppy even angrier. She strode past without greeting him and James fell into step with her. It was infuriating how he was basically strolling, his strides long and languid while she was puffing away as she tried to walk faster.
‘Is this the part where I ask about the weather?’ he asked.
Poppy shot him a withering look. Just thinking about him waiting at the oak tree so presumptuously made her feel physically violent. In the pram, Maeve’s hands were clasped as though in prayer. Poppy’s mind scrolled through futileescape plans. He looked too sturdy to be waylaid by an ‘accidental’ karate kick. She couldn’t use speed to her advantage either. She had no chance against those damn legs. Deciding to try the opposite approach, she slowed subtly, hoping James might overtake them. When she got to bridal procession pace and registered she was still shoulder to shoulder with James, she snuck a glance leftwards. The corners of his mouth were struggling to stay neutral. Huffing furiously, she resumed normal pace.
When they passed the golf course entrance James inquired about what music she liked.
‘Death metal,’ she retorted sarcastically.
‘I like everything,’ said James. ‘But not death metal.’
‘Then someone needs to explain the definition ofeverythingto you.’
James shrugged. ‘Maybe I need to give death metal more of a chance,’ he mused, as if he hadn’t heard her.
Poppy sniggered.
