Page 4 of Special Delivery
‘No, Mum, we did not discuss my situation. It’s the twenty-first century. I am not the first woman to become a single mum.’
‘I know,’ her mother replied, ‘but I thought they might encourage you to reconnect with Patrick. Or invite him to the birth?’
‘Mum! Why would they do that? I saw a midwife, not a relationship counsellor!’
‘Yes, but you know those airy-fairy job descriptions these days. Everyone does a bit of everything. I thought they might recommend it. He could just be busy with his job, you know. He was always working such late nights. Have you tried to—’
‘Mum,’ warned Poppy.
Thwarted, her mother relented. ‘I’m just trying to help.’
‘I know,’ Poppy said. ‘But trying to convince me to get back together with Patrick is not helping.’
‘Wait!’ cried her mother. ‘I just remembered—I have more good news for you!’
Poppy groaned. ‘Better than the Rockmans sale?’
‘Yes!’ said her mother, oblivious to the joke. ‘Henry Marshall has moved home!’
Poppy felt her throat constrict. ‘Mum! Stop this right now! I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant. I am looking for breast pads and nipple gel and one-size-fits-all undies that don’t strain my vagina! I am not looking for a man!’
‘Darling, don’t yell “vagina”. You sound a bit crass.’
Poppy almost screeched with exasperation. Her mother, who loved to tell her friends she had read theKama Sutra(‘a fascinating read—quite intellectually stimulating’) could also be a real pearl-clutcher. Her contrariness routinely drove Poppy insane.
‘Mum, I don’t care that Henry has moved home. I don’t care that Patrick has no interest in being a dad. I literally just care about getting through the next few days without wetting my pants. Now, I am going to go and try to put together a flat-pack cot, so I am saying goodbye and I will speak to you later.’
Her mother was quiet at the other end.
‘Mum?’
‘I was just trying to—’
Poppy softened. ‘I know, Mum.’
‘But, darling …’
‘What?’ asked Poppy cautiously.
‘Darling, if you want some help with the flat pack, call me and I’ll drag your father away from the sports channel and send him over with the drill.’
Poppy smiled. ‘Thanks, Mum. I love you.’
Poppy’s phone dimmed to black and she considered the flat-pack box in the corner. Frankly, she’d never intended to put it together without her father’s help, so she unlocked her phone again. Opening Facebook, she typed two words into the search bar:Henry Marshall.
CHAPTER 3
The expected cool change had not materialised, so Poppy once again found herself driving with her arms in chicken wing stance to reduce the chance of underarm sweat. While she was grateful to her parents for lending her the old LandCruiser, the lack of air-conditioning meant that she was permanently slicked in perspiration. It brought new meaning to the term ‘pregnancy glow’.
Poppy pulled up at the supermarket and killed the engine. Sliding down from the driver’s seat, she readjusted her sundress. Today’s plan was simple. Buy enough food to stock a pantry, then cook and freeze, ad nauseum.
The cool air of the supermarket prickled the back of her neck as she grabbed a trolley and manoeuvred it down the aisles. After the sauna of the car and the radiating heat of the car park, the temperature inside was magnificent—almost orgasmic. Poppy bit her lip to stop from laughing at the idea of an aircongasm (an airgasm?) when she realised she was staring at a guystacking the shelves. He gave her an awkward wave.Oh crap!What was his name? He’d been in her year at school. Big intoDungeons & Dragons. Gosh, she’d need to control the accidental sex faces in this town. Who knew who else she’d run into? Poppy gave him a double eyebrow raise, intended to translate as a casualwhassup. D&D Guy smiled and wandered off. She couldn’t for the life of her remember his name. Was it Martin? He looked like a Martin.
Before moving back to Orange, Poppy had done a granular social media deep dive on as many former classmates as possible. Turned out she wasn’t the only one who’d resolved to get the hell out of town post-graduation. Of the fifty or so people in her year, there were only a handful left in Orange. A few guys were working in the mines, the vice-captain had taken over his family farm, one guy was an accountant. As far as she could tell, none of her female classmates were still in town. They’d all moved on to much cooler locales, which objectively made Poppy the biggest loser of their cohort.
She was pondering this depressing reality when the front right trolley wheel caught on a sticky part of the linoleum floor. Before she knew it, the trolley had careened into a shelf, sending bottles of pasta sauce flying.
‘Fuck,’ she whispered, looking around. Three bottles had smashed and red passata was everywhere. A giant red splotch had landed on her dress, smack bang on her groin.Fuckity-fuck.
