Page 60 of Special Delivery
Poppy chuckled. ‘It’s fine. I should stop talking about our sleep patterns anyway. Sorry for boring you.’
‘Not at all,’ said James. ‘It’s my industry and Maeve happens to be one of my favourites, even though I am duty-bound to love all babies. But Maeve and I bonded, so we’re tight.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. During her post-birth routine tests she was staring at me with those piercing eyes and I swear she looked deep into my soul.’
Poppy laughed. ‘Shedoeshave piercing eyes! Sometimes she looks at me and I feel so intimidated, like she already knowsher mum is a bumbling fool. Poor little Maeve. She’s already past the ignorance-is-bliss stage.’
‘Don’t read into it too much. She’s just a little girl with beautiful eyes.’ James tipped his head towards her. ‘They’re exactly like yours.’
He held her gaze for a beat and Poppy felt her cheeks start to flush. She turned away and picked up the pizza. She was not going to overthink that accidental-but-maybe-not-accidental compliment. ‘Shall we relocate to the TV?’ she suggested.
‘Definitely,’ said James, checking his watch then grabbing the wine and garlic bread. ‘The spectacle is about to unfold. We can’t be late.’
James settled himself on the couch and began fiddling with the remote while Poppy fetched plates, cutlery and wineglasses. This was definitely the weirdest thing she’d done in a while. ‘Channel Nine and chill,’ Dani had dubbed it. She’d texted Poppy every day this week with obnoxious tips on how to make it a successful night (hence the eggplant lurking in her recent emojis). The advice ranged from Buzzfeed articles on ‘10 Hot Things Scott Cam Does With His Hands’ to:Put frankincense in ur essential oil diffuser for hypnotic properties. Handy in case u want light bulbs changed, beer refilled, sexy times with evil sexy man etc. etc. (NB making assumption this guy is sexy.) Please confirm/deny? Send pics if poss.
‘It’s starting!’ called James.
‘Coming!’
Poppy settled herself on the armchair, tucking her feet underneath her as Scott Cam appeared on screen in a Bisley work shirt. James sat on the couch.
The show itself was objectively terrible. So much contrived banter, so many toothy veneers, and way too many thick-framed glasses used to convey quirkiness. The contestants were so blandly typecast it felt satirical. James relished it all, nodding with satisfaction at the liberal use of power tools. His knee bounced reflexively to the determinedly upbeat soundtrack. It was a damning indictment of his cultural inferiority, she decided. A six-foot-four guy who was trained to care for vulnerable women and deliver babies was bound to have a chink in the armour somewhere.
When the final house sold for a cool $3.4 million and the camera zoomed in on the contestants popping a bottle of champagne, James grabbed the remote, dialled the volume down and turned to her.
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘Can we agree that was epic?’
Poppy chortled, which made her choke on her wine. ‘Sorry!’ she gasped, trying to clear her airways and stifle the laughter that was fizzing up inside her. It was a losing battle. The giggles were shaking her whole body. ‘Sorry!’ she repeated. ‘It’s just … well, I think we can agree that was epic, but in a terrible way. Right?’
James stuck out his lower lip. ‘I bare my soul to you through the medium of commercial TV, Poppy McKellar, and this is how you treat me?’
Poppy angled to face him properly and stretched her legs over the armrest of her chair. ‘You give me wine and I willbare my soul in return. And my soul tells me that I never need to watch that ever again so long as we both shall live.’
‘Luckily for you and unfortunately for me, we now have to wait a whole six months before the next season. Thanks for reminding me of that demoralising reality, Poppy. What will I do now at seven thirty every night? And don’t you dare suggestMasterChef.’ He picked up the empty bottle of wine. ‘Damn, I need to drown my sorrows a bit more.’
Poppy sprang up. ‘Hold on, I can help with that.’
She went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine and a block of chocolate from the pantry and a punnet of strawberries from the fridge.
‘Dessert,’ she announced as she handed the bottle to James and put the chocolate and strawberries on the coffee table.
‘Mmm, some nice aphrodisiac treats you’ve offered up here, McKellar,’ said James, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Poppy waggled her eyebrows back. ‘Ha! Glad you like Aldi chocolate. I aim to impress.’
‘Clearly. I will assume this is your signature move. Ply a guy with red wine and then get him over the line with below-market-price chocolate.’
Poppy laughed. It was so far from the truth it was actually hilarious. She’d been with Patrick for so long, she had zero skills in the seduction game. She didn’t have a Bumble profile, let alone a playbook for how to impress a guy. Come to think of it, maybe she should do more googling of that stuff. It would be a refreshing change from googling sleep regression articles. She may as well have it tattooed on her forehead:Don’t mind me, I have no moves.
Although, it seemed she had said that last bit out loud.
‘What do you mean you have no moves?’ asked James. ‘Everyone has moves. Even if they’re crap moves, everyone has moves.’
