Page 21 of Special Delivery
‘Here you go, Poppy,’ said her waitress, reappearing from nowhere. She placed the coffee on the table with a flourish and looked at Poppy expectantly.
‘Oh, er, yes,’ Poppy stammered, trying to get her brain into gear. ‘Um … thanks … so much.’
Henry’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, so that he appeared to be one long line of checked shirt and moleskins. No limbs, just a monolith of man.
The waitress looked between them, realisation dawning on her clear young face. ‘Oh, you two are friends?’
Poppy was mute. She couldn’t answer. Were they friends? They had been the very best of friends, but that was a lifetime ago. Poppy waited for Henry to respond, but he looked as tortured as she felt.
‘Old friends,’ said Henry eventually, nodding at the waitress as if that were her cue to leave.
‘That’s awesome,’ said the waitress, cheerfully immune to his hint. ‘I love how everyone here knows each other. It means you can’t get away with anything though. That was never an issue in Perth.’ She flashed them a smile and bounced back to the counter.
Tracey from Perth! That was her name!
‘Thanks, Tracey,’ called Poppy meekly. The waitress’s perkiness—and obliviousness—was overwhelming right now. Warily, she turned back to Henry.
‘Poppy McKellar,’ he said slowly, the syllables heavy in his mouth. ‘It must have been, what, nine years?’
‘Almost ten,’ Poppy confirmed too quickly. Not a word of contact since that night.
‘And wow, I see …’ He nodded towards the pram. His voice was friendly but his face was tight.
‘Yes.’ Poppy nodded. ‘This is Maeve.’ Her daughter had fallen asleep and was sucking the fabric cuff of her onesie. She hoped Henry wouldn’t think that was disgusting but he wasn’t looking at Maeve. His eyes were fixed on her.
‘I guess … Patrick?’
Poppy winced. She had never wanted to have this conversation. Those worlds had collided once and it had not been pretty. ‘Yes … Patrick. He’s the father. But we’ve … separated.’ The word felt sandy on her tongue. ‘Separated’ sounded closer to ‘divorce’, which sounded simultaneously more grown up and more hideous. But she didn’t want Henry to think she and Patrick had merely broken up, as if their relationship had been just a summery, drunken whim. Of all people, she didn’t want Henry to think that.
‘And you’re …’ She pointed towards his hand, which was still bare. ‘Oh—I mean you’re about to, um, marry?’
About to marry?!She sounded like an Edwardian princess.
‘Yes,’ said Henry, his expression unchanged. ‘Engaged a few months ago actually. Very … exciting.’ If it had been ten years ago, Poppy would have burst out laughing at how unexcited he sounded. Now, his emotionless voice was excruciating.
‘I hear you’re taking over the family business?’ Poppy continued, attempting some semblance of a normal conversation.
‘Yes.’ Henry brightened slightly. ‘Dad’s over it. Reckons financial planning’s a dying craft in the age of crypto, so he’s busting to hand it over. Basically mailed me the keys when I was still in Brissie.’
Poppy smiled gently into her coffee. Henry’s dad had a thick handlebar moustache which, in high school, they had decided was the source of all his powers, like a middle-aged dad version of Thor’s hammer. His dad had a similar Thor energy: he was gruffly passionate about everything from rugby to business to a good pub lunch.
‘I can’t imagine him ever getting sick of it,’ she said to her cup.
‘I know,’ said Henry, reading her mind. ‘Who’s he going to rant to now? Mum? She’ll go insane.’
Poppy looked up to meet Henry’s eyes and understanding buzzed between them. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, they were still like this. They thought the same, theykneweach other. A chain between them, which had laid loose and dusty in the dirt for ten years, was suddenly pulled taut.
Henry must have felt it too. He changed the subject. ‘What are you up to these days? Apart from the obvious.’ He gestured towards the pram.
‘Well, theobviousis actually taking up a fair bit of my time.’
Henry chuckled, and Poppy’s heart lifted slightly, glad he could still recognise her jokes. ‘You’re living in Orange?’ he asked. ‘Long term?’
Truthfully, she had no idea. Sydney rent was out of the question at the moment, but once Maeve was older she’d be stupid not to consider it.
‘I’m finding my feet,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’m looking for jobs but not looking too hard at the moment. I’ve got a few things I need to sort out before I can start working again: child care, sleep, stopping breastfeeding, that kind of thing.’
Henry’s cheeks reddened slightly. Poppy registered that she probably shouldn’t have mentioned her breasts, but she talked about them so much these days she’d forgotten it wasn’t part of normal conversation. It was all she talked about now: boobs, and poo.
