Numbered

by Amy Andrews

  Julia was relieved when Spike stepped back. ‘You’re not going to smack anyone?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll give Blondie a wide berth. I promise.’

  He laughed. ‘Okay, then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Julia said.

  Spike shrugged. ‘Anytime you want a shoulder to lean on or a drummer to screw, I’m your man.’

  Julia laughed. ‘You’ll be top of my list.’ And just because she knew he was watching, she put some extra swing in her hip as she walked away.

  * * *

  Two hours later they were home, and Poppy was on such a high it was easy to forget for a heartbeat that she had a terminal disease. The band had given her a microphone and a stand and she’d sung backup for all of their last set and she was high and humming as Julia slid the key into the lock. Her eyes shone and her skin glowed and it was easy to imagine in that moment before they stepped through the door that they were all normal twenty-somethings coming home from a club, buzzed on music and tequila and absolutely ravenous.

  Apart from the fact that it was barely ten because it was vital that Poppy got adequate rest.

  ‘I want salt-and-vinegar popcorn and marshmallows,’ Poppy announced as she danced through the door into the hallway.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ Ten said, following close behind. He’d been a permanent fixture at Julia’s since a few weeks into Poppy’s chemo. He hadn’t exactly been invited, he just hadn’t gone home one night.

  ‘You hear that, Madam Curie?’ Poppy called as Ten headed for the kitchen and she shimmied into the lounge room with Julia in tow. ‘We’re having a party.’

  But Scarlett sitting on the lounge with two bags at her feet brought Poppy to an instant standstill. ‘Mum?’ she said, her fake eyebrows crinkling together in her bald forehead.

  Scarlett crossed to Poppy and gave her a hug. ‘You look like you had a great time, darling.’

  Julia looked at the bags then at Scarlett then at Poppy as something hard and heavy sank in her stomach. Not now, Scarlett, not now. ‘Poppy was da bomb,’ she said, keeping her voice peppy. ‘She looked like a country go-go dancer with her bob and the silver lame. You’d have loved it, Scarlett and—’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Poppy interrupted in a flat, toneless voice. ‘We don’t leave for Italy until tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’ve decided I’ll catch you up later in the trip. In Paris. I have to attend to a situation that’s arisen—’

  ‘You’re going to India,’ Poppy interrupted again.

  It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Actually, it sounded pretty much like an accusation to Julia’s ears.

  ‘Yes.’

  Poppy crossed to the nearest lounge chair, all the glitter and glow fading from her face. She looked pale and thin again. Ravaged. ‘To the orphanage.’

  ‘Yes. Well not just there, but … yes.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to spend this time with me?’

  Scarlett shrugged and her bangles tinkled. ‘I’ve been to Italy before and you’ll have much more fun without me anyway.’

  Poppy didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared at her fake liquid-silver fingernails. Finally she looked up at Scarlett. ‘Why do you always chose India over me?’

  Julia shut her eyes as the plaintive question, which she knew came from deep inside Poppy’s heart, punched her square in the gut. All through their friendship Poppy had asked the same question. Had wondered why a bunch of orphans on another continent were more important than her school recitals, her broken collarbone, her birthday.

  And Scarlett was doing it again? Now?

  Julia wanted to shake Scarlett. But right now Poppy needed her more. She crossed to the lounge and sat beside Poppy, grabbing her hands.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ Scarlett said, taking a few paces towards her daughter. ‘I’m not. I need to do something there. It’s very important.’

  ‘More important than me dying?’ Poppy demanded. ‘Do you think it could wait till after that?’

  ‘No. Stop it.’ Scarlett stomped her foot and glared at Poppy. ‘I won’t hear you say that. I won’t. You’re not dying.’

  Julia gaped at the bald statement. She knew Scarlett had struggled to accept Poppy’s conventional-medicine path and then her terminal status. But this was more than that. This was denial.

  Poppy looked at her mother in disbelief. She reached for her wig and tore it off. The overhead light shone off Poppy’s bald head, belying Scarlett’s assertion. Scarlett looked away.

  ‘Look at me,’ Poppy said, and when Scarlett didn’t she stood and yelled, ‘Look at me.’

  Julia stood, too, sliding her hand into Poppy’s, as Scarlett turned, her face ashen, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’m dying, Mum. Don’t you get it?’

  Scarlett shook her head vehemently. ‘No.’

  Poppy nodded hers just as vehemently. ‘Yes. If I’m lucky I have two or three months and let’s face it,’ she snorted, ‘I’ve been shit out of luck for months now so it’s probably going to be more like weeks.’

  Scarlett shook her head again, the metal bangles jangling as she wiped angrily at her tears. ‘Unless we try something different, Poppy? I’ve sat and I’ve watched them stick needles in your arms and reservoirs in your head and pump you full of toxic chemicals and you’ve refused to do it any other way. But there are other ways.’

  ‘Oh, god, not this again. I’m done, Mum. It’s over.’ Poppy’s voice cracked and Julia squeezed her hand. ‘And I want to spend what time I have left with the people who mean the most to me. Strangely enough, I thought that included you.’

  ‘It does.’ Scarlett wrung her hands. ‘But I just have to do this first, darling. You’ll see why. India is such a special place and I need to go there now more than ever. I’ve lived my whole life following my gut, and the universe is telling me I need to do this.’

  ‘Well hey,’ Poppy said, her lips twisting. ‘Why didn’t you say so? If the universe is telling you, then that makes all the difference.’

  Scarlett made a distressed noise at the back of her throat at Poppy’s sarcasm. No matter how much Julia wanted to bash some sense into Scarlett right now, she also felt sorry for her. Scarlett’s huge humanitarian heart made her very good at seeing the big picture but lousy at seeing what was right in front of her.

  ‘Poppy … please …’

  Scarlett’s plea clawed at Julia’s gut. It wasn’t fair of Scarlett to do this, to ask her dying daughter to understand. But then nothing about this situation was fair.

  Poppy stared at her mother for long minutes and Julia could feel the steel in Poppy’s frame as she vibrated with the kind of resentment born from years of disappointment. She waited for Poppy to finally tell her mother to fuck off – something she’d never done despite considerable provocation. But she didn’t. She just sagged and Julia guided her gently back down to the couch.

  ‘I guess you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, Mum,’ Poppy said, and she sounded so weary, so old, Julia was frightened she was going to die on the spot. ‘You always have.’

  ‘Poppy …’ Scarlett knelt in front of her daughter, putting her hands on Poppy’s bony knees. ‘Come and see it,’ she pleaded. ‘After Tuscany, come to India. Come to the orphanage. You’ll love it there, too, I know you will. You’ll get it then.’

  A blaring horn blasted into the silence that followed. ‘That’s my taxi,’ Scarlett announced, squeezing Poppy’s knees. ‘Think about it, darling?’ she murmured.

  Poppy shot her mother a weak smile and Julia admired the hell out of her for it. Even at the close of her life as Scarlett deserted her yet again, Poppy knew and somehow accepted that Scarlett was never going to be a conventional mother. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she whispered.

  Scarlett leaned forward and gathered Poppy into a hug. ‘I love you, darling and I’ll see you soon.’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Yes.’

  To Julia it sounded completely non-committal, but it seemed to satisfy Scarlett,
who kissed Poppy on the forehead before standing and sweeping out of the room, followed by a bewildered Ten, who had just joined them and had no idea what was going on but helped her out with her bags anyway.

  The front door clicked shut and Julia hugged Poppy into her side as she gathered herself to do what she’d always done – make excuses for Scarlett.

  ‘She does love you. In her own way.’

  ‘I know.’

  The acceptance in Poppy’s voice yanked at Julia’s heartstrings and she held Poppy tighter, feeling the individual ruts of her friend’s ribs beneath her hand. ‘She’s in denial.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Maybe India will help her with that?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe … maybe she just can’t …’

  A lump in Julia’s throat stopped her from going any further. Stopped her from saying maybe your mother can’t watch you die. But Poppy didn’t need her to complete the sentence. She merely nodded, a tear falling down her cheek. ‘I know.’

  Julia pressed her temple against Poppy’s and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to have to watch it either.

  The difference was she’d never not be there for Poppy.

  Chapter Nine

  Quentin poked the tomatoes and breathed in garlic and basil, feeling all the cells of his body roll over and sigh contentedly, the way they always did when he had a wooden spoon in his hand. He grinned at Poppy over the huge pot, as she brushed yet another smear of flour across her face, a determined little frown creasing her forehead. She and Julia were wrestling with the pasta maker. He wanted to go over and help, but he knew better. If Signora Rosa didn’t bust his balls for trying to take over her class, Julia was sure to shoot him one of her fuck you glares. And even for someone with an ego as healthy as Quentin’s, those glares were becoming a bit much.

  He was finding himself increasingly fond of the incendiary redhead over the last month, but the feeling was most definitely not reciprocated. It seemed to Quentin that his presence was like a splinter in Julia’s heel – what had been a minor irritant at first was rapidly deepening to an unbearable agony. She was working hard to pin on a brave face, making sure her irritation didn’t peek through when Poppy was watching. But Quentin wasn’t entirely sure he could take one more of her martyred sighs without snapping and spitting at her to get down off her crucifix.

  A noble man would have bowed out, given the two women some alone time in Poppy’s final weeks. But the last time Quentin had been anywhere near nobility was a gig in Sydney when he’d played support for a hot new band from the US and they’d given him a Duane Noble custom hand-built acoustic to play.

  Julia scowled at him now as she caught him watching them with the pasta machine. She poked her tongue out at him, and he raised an eyebrow back at her.

  Really?

  This was a whole new level of juvenile, even for Julia, and his face flushed. Juvenile was usually his department. His father had once told him he deserved an honorary doctorate in juvenile. If there was one thing Quentin resented more than anything else right now (and god knew he was resenting a helluva lot), it was being out-juveniled. Lately, he’d been having the most horrible creeping feeling that this whole thing, this thing with Poppy (and Julia), was some sick experiential learning gig set up by a whacko god to teach him to grow up. Talk about overkill.

  Before he could poke his tongue back at Julia, Poppy looked up, flicking a glance over them both, and Julia blew him a kiss. ‘How’s it going over there, Ten?’ she asked sweetly. ‘That ragu going to be good enough to grace our perfect pasta?’

  Quentin forced a smile onto his face and let out a long whistle. ‘I think so, Ms Julia. Question is, will your pasta be man enough for the job?’

  He’d chosen his words deliberately, knowing Julia’s sensitive radar for sexism. To divert attention from his needling, he leaned forward and scooped some ragu onto a spoon, breathing on it to cool it a bit before tasting its rich sweetness. But when he looked up again, all innocence, Poppy was facing him, hands on her hips. She was wearing a simple turquoise headscarf today, turban-style. It set off her brown eyes and lent her a strange grandeur. Poppy was fearsome generally, but over the last month she had assumed a whole other level of don’t-fuck-with-me.

  ‘Cut it out, you two,’ she hissed. ‘You’re like children. So competitive over every little thing. Grow up.’

  ‘Competitive?’ Julia arched a perfect eyebrow and swept her fierce gaze over Quentin. ‘That’s ridiculous, Poppy. For me to be competitive, Ten would have to represent some competition.’

  Poppy flashed Julia a hard glare.

  Quentin gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘No competitiveness here, Pop.’

  * * *

  Quentin gripped the spoon firmly. He was going to whip Julia’s arse if it was the last thing he ever did. She would be eating his dust in about thirty seconds.

  ‘Isn’t this a great idea?’ Poppy’s eyes were bright, and twin spots of colour burned in her cheeks. ‘I reckon it’s a fabulous way for you two to have some fun together. Signora Rosa is the best, isn’t she?’

  Quentin nodded and forced a smile. Just swell.

  Poppy and her bloody games. The only reason he was getting involved in this ridiculous charade was so he could teach Julia a lesson. If Julia was a guy, they could have settled this the easy way, with a minor dust-up and a beer afterwards. But it didn’t matter. Quentin knew public failure would be far worse for the superior redhead. And if it took an egg-and-spoon race for Quentin to put Julia in her place, well so be it. He’d lowered himself further than this for far smaller prizes.

  As if she could read his mind, Poppy squeezed Quentin’s arm then looped her other arm through Julia’s. The redhead was sporting a Rambo-like black sweatband on her forehead and a look of determination that would have felled a lesser man. ‘Now you two know this is just for fun, right? You’re not taking it too seriously?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Quentin and Julia spoke simultaneously, giving Poppy matching wide-eyed smiles. But once she turned away and sauntered back to assume her spot on the picnic rug, Julia muttered under her breath. ‘Eat my dust, pretty boy.’

  ‘Not if it tastes as bad as your focaccia,’ he hissed back.

  ‘Ha,’ Julia returned. ‘Just remember: you can’t beat me, and you know it.’ She shot him an evil smile. ‘You can’t win because you can’t commit to anything, you wannabe rock-star dropout. No grit.’

  Even though she sounded like she didn’t really believe it anymore, like she was just rehearsing some line that made her world make sense, Quentin still wanted to reach over and throttle her. But as Signora Rosa ambled up to the starting line with her brightly coloured horn, he did something that he knew would irritate her far more. He made a huge deal of reaching over and shaking her hand with a big grin, in a deliberate show of ‘may the best man win’. He glanced back to check that Poppy had clocked his good sportsmanship. She gave him a warm smile.

  Julia swore under her breath and pulled Quentin into a friendly hug. ‘I see your fake nice and raise you one,’ she muttered into his ear, thumping him roughly on the back and earning a matching smile from Poppy.

  Quentin could hardly breathe after the assault.

  The little Italian woman with the big voice and magical way with tomatoes interrupted them. ‘Enough with ze wishing each other well, bambinos,’ she said, shooting them a shrewd look. She hadn’t missed a second of their rivalry in the kitchen and her heavily accented English didn’t mask her irony. ‘Time to race.’

  Quentin dug his heels into the soft grass and gently adjusted the spoon in his right hand, feeling its weight and balance. He shot a last sideways glance at Julia as he surveyed the terrain in front of him. She was entirely focused on the course as well, her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. The race would not be long, but it was perilous for those holding a raw egg balanced on a spoon. It required contestants to skirt two large trees and wade through a shallow pond to reach the finishing line
.

  Quentin briefly surveyed the other contenders. It was a small field. Most of the tourists doing the Two Days in Tuscany cooking course were lolling on blankets, revelling in their post-pasta glow. It was a perfect day, still warm; the grass was the impossible green of story books. Pitchers of fresh sangria stood invitingly on a long picnic table. And the smell of freshly baked bread wafted over the scene, coating them in an all’s-well-with-the-world dozy sort of peace.

  But five fools had taken up Signora Rosa’s challenge: Quentin, Julia, a set of blonde Californian twins, and one older bloke who looked like his arteries weren’t up to the challenge of heaving his considerable girth up Signora Rosa’s winding stairs, let alone facing off the rest of the field. Sizing them up, Quentin decided that while the two blondes looked fit enough, Julia was his only real competition. They didn’t seem to have her killer instinct. And they certainly wouldn’t have her motivation.

  Quentin just knew that Julia wanted to grind him into the Tuscan dust and work out the angst she had been building up over the last few weeks – the angst that seemed to have become almost solely focused on him. And if she could manage victory while also causing him some kind of injury as a bonus prize, he had no doubt she would.

  Rosa raised her megaphone and recapped the rules. ‘Drop ze egg, disqualified,’ she said, drawing out the last word theatrically. ‘Any body contact, disqualified,’ she continued, with the same flourish on the last word. ‘Any shortcuts, disqualified.’

  Okay, they got the picture. Quentin had no doubt the little Italian would be watching them like hawks. She didn’t tolerate miscreants on her watch.

  ‘May ze best cook win,’ she finished, blasting the horn and stepping away from the line.

  Every synapse in Quentin’s brain and every nerve ending in his body leapt to life as he charged forward as quickly as the delicately balanced egg would permit. This was not an egg-and-spoon race. This was not some bit of fun dreamt up by an Italian mama who had spent too many summers at British picnics. This was not an idle sunny-afternoon pursuit to pass the time while the pasta boiled.