Page 62 of Special Delivery
James’s fingers spread out slowly to cup her butt and slide her across the bench towards him. This couldn’t be happening. And yet itwashappening. And whatever it was, she wanted it. She was sure of that. It wasn’t just the wine speaking. She was a girl, he was a guy—a good guy who she’d once thought was a bad guy but now knew was fundamentally good—it made sense on so many levels, and yet … was this really going to happen with Maeve sleeping down the corridor?
Oh fuck it, said the wine.You’re a cool mom, not a regular mom.
Poppy giggled and James moved his head closer.
‘I love your laugh,’ he breathed, his lips millimetres away from hers. He moved his hand to her head and his finger slid down to stroke the skin behind her earlobe. Poppy inhaled sharply.
‘Poppy.’ He said it like a dusting of icing, it was so light and delicious. He leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers and both their eyes closed reflexively. Poppy felt herself sink, letting James absorb her, grateful for the bench propping her up. From the lightest touch, her whole body began to hum. Every part of her wanted him.
James pulled away slightly and Poppy opened her eyes. Their lips were still so close they would connect at the slightest tremble. His dark eyes were searching hers and she knew why. He was asking her,Are you okay, is this okay?Poppy’s body responded on her behalf. She gripped his shoulders and slid her hands down his back, pulling him closer. She was basically straddling him now. Thank god for the wine; she didn’t want to consider the inelegance of this because fuck it was hot.
Satisfied with her response, James leaned in again and this time his mouth parted. His tongue slid over hers and she felt like sugar caramelising under a flame. There was no going back from this. She was kissing James. James was kissing her. All she needed to remember was lips, pressure, release, again. Maybe forever. She could do this forever.
She brushed away the thoughts trying to distract her:You’re on a kitchen bench with a baby down the corridor; this guy delivered your baby; this guy knows you’re an insecure psycho.
His mouth moved to her neck and a warm ripple of pleasure rushed through her core.
Shut up, she told the voices in her head. This was nothing more than kissing, and oh god, after months in a barren wilderness, it feltgood.
As if reading her mind, James moved his lips back to hers, soothing her with his mouth. He slid his hands up her legging-clad thighs and Poppy felt herself shift nearer to him. She could feel every part of his body pushing through his jeans to her. She tightened her thighs around him, her pulse spiking as he pulled their bodies flush. His hands roamed across her curves as their lips melted against each other. Suddenly she wanted this to be more than kissing. She wished she wasn’t wearing her leggings and that his hands were sliding up her bare skin; she needed to be as close to James as possible.
Her mind performed some rapid calculations. Maeve wouldn’t wake for at least another four hours, and their bedrooms were at opposite ends of the house. Conclusion: there was nothing to stop this moving to the bedroom and moving there fast.
She pulled away. ‘Should we …?’
James blinked, his eyes searching her face. He exhaled. ‘Yeah, I guess we should stop … right … okay, right, let’s stop then.’ He was babbling, breathless.
She stared at him, lost for words.
No!she wanted to say.Keep going. Let’s never stop this. But her mouth wouldn’t work. Her eyes were locked on James, willing him to understand, but he was looking away now, running his hands through his hair.Speak!she admonished herself, but it was too hard. Everything she said now wouldmake it clear that she wanted something more when his automatic reaction had been to stop.
‘I’ll go then,’ said James, straightening his t-shirt. ‘I’ll get a cab.’ He put his hands on her shoulders briefly then let them drop. ‘Bye,’ he said with a weak smile. He grabbed his keys from the bench and the clang of the metal was like a steel gong in her ears.
What the hell had just happened? How had that gone so stupidly fucking pear-shaped so quickly? Why wouldn’t her brain connect to her stupid voice box? For Christ’s sake, normally she couldn’t shut up and then at this once-in-a-lifetime kitchen-bench moment she becomes a dithering mute?!
As she heard the front door close, Poppy rubbed her arms where James had touched them. The crackling warmth from his grip had vanished and she suddenly felt a desperate, chilling cold.
CHAPTER 28
It was raining for the third day straight and, completely out of the blue, Patrick had texted.
Hey marketing pigeon. Is TV advertising still worth the money?
Poppy couldn’t make sense of it. She felt like a Swiftie with an indecipherable Easter egg; like, if only she was better at code-breaking she could land backstage passes and solve world peace. Was ‘marketing pigeon’ an insult or a nickname, or an insult wrapped up in a nickname, or vice versa? Was it supposed to soften the blow that he’d reached out for work advice—again—like she was of no more value than her former career? The timing of the message was unsettling too. Sent at 3.34 am. That was a whole lot of context. It was a time for sleeping (or breastfeeding). It was not a time for making good decisions. It was booty-call hour.
Most likely, he’d been soaked in vodka trying to close a deal at the casino and wanted urgent advice from an obliging source, she told herself. Nothing more.
She gazed out the window at the August rain pelting her garden. It was showing no signs of easing and Poppy was suffering from extreme cabin fever. Maeve was suffering from it too—she was lying on her play mat grizzling for no apparent reason. It could have been her teeth, but how would you know? Ever since Maeve had been two weeks old, every time she grizzled someone would say, ‘Teething?’ Poppy wanted to shake each one of them vigorously to convey how unhelpful she found that question. Yes, it could have been teething, but it could also have been the weather, the food, the lighting, the company. She’d never know until a) Maeve was old enough to tell her or b) a tooth popped up.
Against her better judgement, she’d committed to going to the mothers’ group catch-up today. She’d missed the last few due to various reasons (appointments, family lunches, downright avoidance), but she needed a reason to get out of the house and stop spiralling over this Patrick text and the fact that James had gone completely off the radar after Kitchengate.
She’d waited for weeks to run into him on the golf course loop. She knew his shifts changed on a two-week cycle, so it was completely possible he wasn’t avoiding her, but then she’d clocked a whole month with zero James sightings and had been forced to conclude that hospital rostering wasn’t the reason. Maeve’s sleep times had changed too, so now they were walking after lunch instead of the mornings, but it didn’t matter anyway because somehow—in this town where everyone’s paths tangled like the cords behind the TV—James had managed to neatly Ctrl+X himself out of her life.
So, mothers’ group it was. Mary had been the one to suggest it. Poppy and Maeve had popped in yesterday to deliver some misdirected catalogues and then somehow stayed for two hours. As they gossiped with woollen blankets on their laps, Maeve’s fingers poking through the crochet holes, Mary had asked about the next ‘mummy catch-up’.
‘There’s one tomorrow, but I haven’t been in ages,’ confessed Poppy. ‘I missed a few, and now I feel likeI’m out of the group.’ She used air quotes on the last bit, even though she wasn’t sure Mary would understand what she was doing. As a woman in her thirties, it felt juvenile to talk about ‘groups’ despite it definitely still being a thing.
‘How can you beout of the group’—Mary used air quotes too, which was both unexpected and yet completely predictable from her—‘when the only entry requirement to the group is having a baby, which you do?’
