Page 89 of Special Delivery
‘I just …’
Her dad patted her knee. ‘I know.’
They watched the rest of the rugby in silence. It was the way her dad liked it and she didn’t have much to say anyway.At the final whistle her dad turned to her, his face ruddy from the wind, and asked whether she wanted a lift home. Poppy gave him a hug goodbye instead. She hoped he felt that her grip was tighter than usual.
Two days later she pushed the pram through the doors of The Bustle. Bankers and real estate agents in country chic corporate wear were lined up for caffeine like it was sacramental wine. There was a possibility Henry had been avoiding The Bustle, but Poppy doubted it. With his office being almost next door, it was home turf for him. She glanced at her watch. He was due in any minute now.
The door squeaked behind her and a cold gust of air blasted in. She jerked her head around and there he was, as she’d expected. His curly hair was in need of a trim and there were bags under his eyes, but he was still as handsome as ever in his uncomplicated, happy-go-lucky way.
He glanced over and she held his gaze. A slight nod of the head invited him over. She wondered if they’d be able to communicate wordlessly like this forever.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ he replied, looking nervous.
‘I’m sorry!’ they blurted in unison.
‘Jinx,’ said Poppy, a cautious smile emerging.
Behind them, a courier carried in a giant paint-spattered artwork. Henry probably thought there’d been an explosion at the Dulux factory. They watched the courier for a second before Henry grabbed at his curls. ‘Pops, I’m so sorry,’ he said.‘I was such a dick. I’ve been hating myself since it happened. I can’t believe I was such a fuckwit. Of all people to piss off, you didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry.’
Poppy took a deep breath. ‘Henry, I’m sorry too. I should have …’ She trailed off. To admit what she’d done—even unconsciously—would make it real, and she didn’t want it to be real. Was she really that woman who flirted with guys who were engaged? If so, she hated herself.
‘Poppy, you didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘No, I did,’ said Poppy, wincing in shame at the memory of the polka dot dress. ‘I overstepped some boundaries and I shouldn’t have. I feel terrible.’
Henry looked as anguished as she felt, which was gratifying in some ways, but she was about to make this so much worse.
‘Henry, I also need to apologise for what happened ten years ago.’
‘Poppy, you don’t need to—’
‘I do,’ she interrupted.
Poppy had thought of that starless night more times than was healthy. The memory of Henry’s face in the shadows, the hurt in his eyes. She’d never forgive herself for that moment.
Henry had been about to leave on a twelve-month secondment to his firm’s London office. His employer had offered to put him up in a Sydney hotel before he flew out but Poppy had convinced him to crash with her. It had been one of those weekends when she’d offered her couch and he’d accepted, both knowing they’d end up in bed together after too many drinks at the Sheaf. Dani found it problematic, but that was because Dani didn’t understand. What Poppy and Henryhad was deeper than any normal friendship. It was basically no-strings-attached sex because it wasHenryand he lived inBrisbaneand he was moving toLondon, and they’d known each other for so long it was easier to be together than not be together. She was already excited to take him to the airport and be the last person he’d hug in Australia. She loved being that person for him.
But then Patrick appeared. They were at the Sheaf, and Patrick was wearing what she soon learned was his Double Bay drinking uniform: chinos and a Ralph Lauren shirt. This particular night he’d accessorised it with a pink baseball cap worn back to front. If there was ever an item of clothing more useless than a back-to-front cap, Poppy didn’t know it, but at the time, the guy in the neon-pink cap had seemed socool. It was a classic peacock move and she fell for it. For some reason, this confident guy with the loudest laugh had asked her to dance, which never happened. Guys like that went for flashy girls with Blake Lively hair and tiny bodycon dresses, not girls like her.
Dani was quick to nudge her in the ribs, urging her to accept, while Henry leaned in protectively. Their other friends looked from Patrick to Poppy, wondering whether this Eastern Suburbs playboy would pull it off. He looked like a brash idiot, the kind of guy who probably yelled at taxi drivers and flashed his parents’ Amex, but Poppy heard herself agree and she took his outstretched hand. As Patrick led her away, Henry caught her eye. ‘You sure?’ he mouthed. Poppy nodded. Why not?
Within an hour, Patrick had spun her across the dancefloor, bought her friends two rounds of shots and regaled everyonewith a story from Yacht Week involving an altercation with a Croatian nun and a leg of jamon. Poppy brimmed with pride at the way he’d captured everyone’s attention. How on earth hadhenoticedher?
After more shots and too many vodka sodas, Patrick took her hand and insisted they get a cab. They were making out before they got to the taxi rank, and by the time they got to her apartment, Poppy was completely and utterly drunk and in lust.
She ignored the sound of her phone buzzing in her handbag as she slammed the door shut and kept kissing Patrick, layers of clothing sliding off with slippery efficiency. They crashed onto her bed, grabbing at each other, and when the apartment intercom buzzed she paused momentarily, her eyes uncrossing slowly. Who on earth …?Shit! Henry!
She jumped off the bed and ran to the intercom phone in the kitchen. ‘Henry, you can’t come up!’
‘Poppy,’ Henry pleaded through the tinny speaker, ‘where will I sleep?’
‘Work it out!’ she hissed.
‘Poppy, don’t be stupid. Let me come up.’
‘Don’t call me stupid!’ snapped Poppy. In her drunken haze, she was resentful. Henry couldn’t just assume he was entitled to her couch—or her bed. In fact, he was probably the reason she’d never been hit on like this before. She was radiating taken vibes, even though they’d broken up years ago!
