Page 27 of Special Delivery
Her mother pulled a giant weed from the soil. ‘Have I told you Martha and Peter are re-landscaping? They got an arborist in to cut down that tree like I told them to, and next thing you know, they’re talking to a landscape designer and all hell has broken loose.’
Poppy was confused. Was this a big deal? Her mother’s tone warned her it was.
‘Martha mentioned they’re thinking of getting rid of the magnolia. The magnolia!’
‘Mum, it’s their garden, who cares what they do?’
‘I do, Poppy! If they rip out all their crabapples, where do you think the rosellas will go for food? Here, that’s where! The apricot tree will be ripped to shreds! And I may as well say goodbye to the camellias now.’
‘What? Why? Do rosellas eat camellias?’ (Poppy had no idea why she was attempting to find logic in this conversation.)
‘Ideally not, Poppy,’ huffed her mother, as though explaining an adult concept to a small and fundamentally unintelligent child, ‘but for lack of better options they probably will, once Martha pulls everything out.’
Her mother eased back onto her haunches, wiping her brow. ‘Let’s not talk about that or I’ll give myself a panic attack. Have you caught up with any of your old schoolfriends yet?’ She looked at Poppy with pursed lips. This topic came up every time they talked, no matter how often Poppy explained none of her schoolfriends still lived in town.
‘Did I tell you I saw Maddie Harrow at the nursery the other day?’ continued her mother. ‘She was always such a bright spark. Four kids now, too! Lots of the girls from that year are still in town. Maybe you could catch up with them?’
Maddie Harrow had been the ultimate cool girl in high school. A few years older than Poppy, she had married her high-school sweetheart and ended up back in Orange where she could continue to rule her cool girl empire. Poppy had seen her gaggle around the place, all wearing the latest fashions from The Bustle, never seen without a pair of expensive hooped pearl earrings. On average, it seemed they had a million kids each, and when they weren’t coordinating adorable family photo shoots they were holidaying in Noosa.
‘Mum, I hardly knew her at school.’
‘Yes, but you might—’
‘I don’t think we’d have much in common.’
Poppy’s mum looked at her sharply. ‘What does that mean?’
Poppy shrugged.
Chrissie pointed her finger dramatically. ‘You’re not better than those women just because you had a high-flying Sydney career, Poppy. I’m worried about you. You need some friends here.’
Poppy flicked a clod of soil off the picnic rug. She didn’t need to be reminded of her acute friendlessness by her own mother. ‘I have some friends,’ she mumbled.
‘Who, Poppy?’
‘Mary.’
‘Your eighty-seven-year-old next-door neighbour?’
‘She’s eighty-nine, but yes, Mary and I are great mates.’
‘Anyone else who was born after World War Two?’
‘Henry.’
‘Henry Marshall?’ Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t know you’d been seeing him. Do you know he has a fiancée?’
‘God, Mum—yes!’ Poppy cried, turning away as she felt a mortifying heat creep across her cheeks. ‘Can’t two old friends catch up and people not read anything into it?’
Her mother gave an irritatinghmmmand turned back to her weeds. ‘I suppose we should organise a dinner then. I could invite his parents and fiancée. I’ve heard she’s a paediatrician with the most lovely skin, and itwouldbe good to meet her. A dinner together would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
Poppy waved a fly off Maeve’s back. She knew what her mum was doing. She was laying a trap. Either commit to a dinner that already made her feel queasy or decline and be forced to admit why she didn’t want to go. Well, her mum didn’t have a newborn; she forgot that Maeve provided an excuse for flaking on everything.
She wasn’t concerned about seeing Henry. Their conversations at The Bustle were the highlights of her day. The awkwardness of the first meeting had eased into a warm familiarity. She had no problem with him; it was Willa whowas the wild card. Poppy didn’t want to hang out with them as a couple. The current arrangement suited her fine.
‘Dinner sounds great, Mum,’ she said with feigned brightness. If the past few months had taught Poppy anything, it was that she was excellent at lying.
CHAPTER 14
