Page 102 of Special Delivery
‘Shhh,’ hissed Poppy, tilting her head to where Maeve was still asleep in the pram.
James stepped forward and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m James, a friend of Poppy’s,’ he said.
Patrick turned, his expression bemused, and gripped the proffered hand so tightly a vein pulsed in his neck. ‘Patrick.’ The handshake seemed to last longer than it should and there was zero shake.
‘You okay, Poppy?’ James asked quietly.
‘What’s that supposed to mean, bro?’
‘It means I know who you are,’ replied James, not looking at Patrick.
‘And what’sthatsupposed to mean?’ Patrick demanded.
‘Can we please keep it down?’ begged Poppy. ‘Maeve’s not due to wake up for another fifty minutes.’
Patrick turned back to her and smirked. ‘Never picked you as a routine type, babe.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she hissed.
James cleared his throat. ‘Uh, Poppy, I think I’ll give you two some privacy. I’ll be next door if you need me.’
Poppy spun towards him. ‘James,’ she began, but he was already moving towards the door. She wanted to cry,Stay, I need you, I can’t do this alone—but she knew with an exhausting inevitability that she had to.
‘Does he clean your gutters or something?’ asked Patrick, not waiting for a reply as he began walking to the pram.
Poppy moved to intercept him. ‘Patrick, what are you doing?’
‘I’m waking up my daughter,’ he replied, as though that should be self-evident. ‘This is a big moment for her.’
‘No, no, no!’ whispered Poppy. ‘You can’t wake her up. She’s not due to wake up now, and I’m the one who will have to deal with an overtired baby.’
‘Babe, relax.’
‘NO!’ Poppy whispered more forcefully. ‘You are one thousand per centnotwaking her up. Sleep is actually pretty important for nine-month-old babies—not that you’d know, given that you’ve never taken the slightest interest in any child, let alone your own daughter.’
‘Whoa, babe, where’s my chill girl?’ asked Patrick, his mouth quirking. ‘Where’s my girl who was up for anything?’
Poppy felt every muscle in her body become tense. ‘You think it’s stupid to care about what my daughter needs?’ she hissed. ‘What am I supposed to do, Patrick? Pretend I’m still twenty-two and get hammered every night?! Every single kid in the entire world has a routine, which you might actuallyknow if you cared even one iota about your daughter. Seriously why are you even here?’
‘I’m here to be a dad,’ he said, spreading his arms wide, his palms to the sky. It was one of his favourite poses.
‘Patrick, you didn’t even text.’
‘I know, babe, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.’
Poppy pressed her fingertips to her temples. Her gut was a writhing mess of confusion and rage and sadness. She’d longed for this for nine months, and now that he was finally here, everything felt off. The bleached white of his t-shirt, the Bondi tan, the weirdly perfect beach body achieved through an obsessive gym regime. Against the backdrop of her 1980s suburban rental, nothing about Patrick felt real.
‘But why today?’ she sighed. ‘Why now?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I thought it was time.’
Poppy felt the air seep from her lungs like deflating balloons. She recognised that expression. He was Maeve’s dad. Maeve was half him. Maybe underneath that shiny Eastern Suburbs veneer, he was just a guy who’d taken nine months to realise he’d been an absolute dickhead.
Patrick continued. ‘I want to get to know my daughter. Learn about her. I want her to run into my arms and call me Daddy.’
Poppy stifled a grimace. ‘She’s only nine months old. She can’t walk and talk yet.’
‘Really?’ Patrick scratched his neck. ‘She’s not, like, slow or anything, is she?’
