Page 86 of Special Delivery
Making it worse in a financial sense was the handyman who’d arrived that morning to install the dryer. Since the shelf was still off-kilter, he’d cheerfully informed her he’d be charging an extra two hundred and fifty dollars to fix that too, and then had the gall to confess it was an easy job that she could have done herself.
Realising she was hovering around the handyman like a neurotic blowfly and suffering from a combination of irrational rage and self-induced claustrophobia, she’d invited her mum to coffee that afternoon. She couldn’t show her face in The Bustle, obviously, so they’d agreed to meet at Coffee Bucks.
Looking around when she arrived, no-one seemed even vaguely familiar, which was perfect. The divide between the cafes of Orange was alarmingly wide. She pulled a plastic highchair from the corner and placed Maeve inside. Next to her, two old ladies with blue rinses were poking at a factory-made carrot cake and trying to catch her eye. Poppy knew their type. They were hankering to say something highly unoriginal like, ‘Wait till you have the next one! Har har har!’ Poppy stared resolutely at her phone. She felt only marginally better than yesterday, which is to say she felt like shit. Her skin was grey, her hair was unwashed and her mind was playing a pitiless reel of James–Henry–James–Henry lowlights, sending her ever deeper into two-day-hangover oblivion. She’d only decided to meet up with her mum in the hope it would distract her fromthis spiral of despair. If anyone could be absurdly distracting, it was Chrissie McKellar.
‘My darlings, hello!’ bellowed her mother as she swooped towards the table, wearing a violet rollneck and matching scarf. She placed her giant magenta handbag on the spare seat and uncoiled her scarf in an expansive looping motion while updating Poppy on her brilliant reverse park. (‘Just outside! Better than valet!’) People at tables across the room all turned to look at them. Her mother had that effect.
‘Tell me all about the races,’ she said as she sat down. ‘What did you wear? Did you see anyone fun? Anyone I know?’
Mercifully, Poppy’s dad had dropped Maeve back home yesterday so she hadn’t had to endure this interrogation at the peak of her hangover. Poppy’s dad had only wanted to know which horses won. When Poppy confessed she had no idea, he nodded as though he’d expected as much and said nothing more.
‘I haven’t been to the races in ages, darling. Tell me all about it!’
Poppy coughed, a burning sensation building in her throat. ‘It was … cold.’
‘Yes, of course it was cold, darling. ItisOrange. I hope you wore stockings.’
Poppy let her eyes lose focus as her mother launched into a monologue on the merits of wool versus man-made fibres and where to shop for the best-value thermals. (Her vote was the merino wool range at Best & Less, which Poppy already knew because her mother spouted these opinions at least once a quarter, even in summer.)
Maeve began slapping the table in front of her and Poppy lurched back to reality.
‘And you need some good winter boots,’ her mother concluded.
‘Mum, my shoes are fine.’
‘Then shall we get you some thicker socks?’
‘Mum, I’m an adult. I can dress myself.’ She’d had this conversation so many times but it was grating even more than usual today. She fished in the nappy bag for a Tupperware container of parsnip and apple puree. When she saw it, Maeve’s eyes lit up and she slapped the table harder.
‘Better you than me, Maevey darling,’ said Poppy’s mum, crinkling her nose. As the waitress approached she said, ‘I’m going to have the vanilla slice. What are you having, darling?’
Nothing in the sweaty glass cabinet appealed to Poppy. The slices had a waxy, synthetic sheen and the muffins looked like dry boulders.
‘Just a peppermint tea, Mum.’
Her mother looked disappointed but she ploughed on as the waitress left. ‘Who was at the races?’ she asked again. ‘Did you see Martha? Did I tell you we’re not talking? Last week they ripped out the hedge, and do you know what they’ve planted along the fence? Jasmine! It’s basically a weed, Poppy! Not to mention the ghastly scent. Thank goodness I’m not asthmatic or I’d have to do my gardening in a gasmask.’
Poppy couldn’t decide which would be worse: validating her mum’s garden drama or steering the conversation back to the races. Poppy took a deep breath. ‘I went to the races with Dani and some of the mothers’ group girls … Henry was there too.’
‘How lovely!’ exclaimed Chrissie, her garden rage instantly forgotten as a vanilla slice arrived at the table. ‘Did you meet Willa?’
Poppy cursed inwardly. Why had she mentioned Henry? She’d gifted her mum this conversation starter on a platter.
Poppy shook her head. ‘No, Willa wasn’t there.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said her mum, looking at her carefully.
Poppy used a serviette to wipe some stray puree from the table and passed Maeve a teaspoon to use as a drumstick.
‘But speaking of Henry, I was talking to Peggy last week and we decided on Friday the eleventh for that dinner. We’ll have it at the Marshalls. So it’ll be you, Henry, Willa and both sets of parents. Does that suit?’
‘Ah …’ Poppy hesitated.
‘I know you said you weren’t going to the night markets so I assumed you must be free.’
‘Mum, I can’t.’
‘Why not, darling? If this is to do with your hang-up about being a single mother, you need to get over that because no-one else cares. Honestly, darling, it’s the twenty-first century and single girls get pregnant every day while their ex-boyfriends go on to marry doctors, and—’
