Numbered

by Amy Andrews

  * * *

  A low mist hung over the silent mountain village early the next morning, draping a gossamer veil across the entire valley below. Julia couldn’t help but think how very bridal it was as she stood on the wooden deck of the dorm and breathed in the sweet, clean air.

  Poppy was getting married today.

  She sucked in a deeper breath, refusing to let the hot ball of emotion rise from her belly to her throat – this was a happy day. But breaking down in front of Ten on that mountain pass seemed to have opened the floodgates and Julia was finding it harder and harder to block the emotion, to switch it off and put on her game face.

  Maybe it was the sucker punch of Ten’s revelation that had done the damage to her usually iron-clad emotional control. Learning that Poppy didn’t want her – or Ten, or Scarlett – there at the end had been battering against her brain like a pair of insect’s wings ever since. Quiet but deadly, always there, beating away incessantly, driving her slowly insane.

  If she hadn’t wanted her, if she’d only wanted Ten or even, peculiarly, just Scarlett, then Julia would have understood. She’d have hated it, but she’d have understood that Poppy was entitled to die as she’d lived – with her free will intact.

  But with nobody?

  It had killed her not to say anything. Not to yell and cry and demand that Poppy explain herself. To cajole and plead until Poppy changed her mind. But she’d made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t say anything until after the wedding. Poppy was excited about it and that had been infectious. It wasn’t, after all, every day that a girl got married. She hadn’t wanted to rain on Poppy’s parade or taint the lead-up. Poppy had so few days left, Julia didn’t want to ruin the ones that should be extra special.

  But after the wedding – they were going to have this out.

  ‘Hey.’

  Julia turned slightly to see Ten approaching with two steaming mugs of what she assumed was tea. There was no shortage of tea in India. ‘Morning,’ she said as she took hers, grateful for the warmth in the cool mountain air.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he said as he joined her at the railing.

  Julia blew on the hot brew. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  She didn’t have to ask to know he hadn’t been able to sleep either. Between Poppy’s deathbed edict, bittersweet thoughts of the approaching nuptials and worry over rabid, water-born amoeba multiplying in Poppy’s gut, slumber had been elusive.

  Thankfully, though, Poppy had slept. After her rough time on the train, it was good to see her relaxed and peaceful.

  ‘It’s beautiful here,’ Ten said, staring out over the vista. ‘I can see why Scarlett loves it so much.’

  Julia nodded. It was very beautiful. She could imagine finding inner peace or nirvana or whatever kind of spiritual bullshit people craved in a place like this.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.

  ‘The wedding.’ The lie slipped easily off her tongue. She didn’t want to talk about Poppy’s deathbed decision – it was, after all, Ten’s wedding day, too, and she was sure he thought about it enough without her bringing it up again on the morning of his nuptials. ‘About … how this is so far from the weddings we’d pictured having when we were kids.’

  Because it most definitely was the polar opposite of what they’d whispered to each other in the dorm late at night.

  ‘You pictured your weddings?’

  Julia rolled her eyes at him. ‘Of course.’

  He shook his head. ‘I never pictured you as being the marrying type.’

  ‘What can I say? I was twelve. My illusions hadn’t yet been shattered.’

  ‘So India wasn’t on the agenda then?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I wanted to get married on a beach with a garland of shells in my hair, because even at twelve I figured that would annoy the crap out of my parents.’

  He laughed. ‘And Poppy?’

  ‘Poppy wanted a full-on church wedding. The priest, the bridesmaids, the meringue dress. Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Her father escorting her down the aisle. The whole shebang.’

  ‘Because that would annoy the crap out of her mother?’

  Julia smiled. ‘I think that had a lot to do with it.’

  ‘A priest though.’ Ten blew on his tea. ‘I find that hard to believe given Poppy’s atheist tendencies?’

  ‘It wasn’t about God,’ Julia said. ‘Poppy’s always craved … normalcy, and tradition. That’s what it was about.’

  They were both quiet for a while, contemplating the view. ‘I could’ve given her that,’ he murmured into the hush.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The whole white-wedding shebang.’

  Julia shrugged. ‘She was twelve years old. Trust me, she’s moved on.’

  ‘But still … here. This place,’ he said. ‘India – not a lot of happy memories for her here, are there?’

  ‘No. But I think finally coming here has been good for that. I think she can see why Scarlett was drawn to this country so much, why she felt so … compelled. And I think there’s a nice serendipitous feeling about it. Like she and Scarlett have come to a greater understanding, like they’ve come full circle.’

  Ten nodded. ‘I guess …’ he said, taking a sip of his tea. ‘It would’ve been nice to give her something traditional.’

  ‘It would have. But then I don’t think her being weeks away from death was on her agenda either, so as His Holiness said to me, you play with the cards you’re dealt.’

  Ten raised his eyebrows. ‘The Dalai Lama told you that?’

  ‘Well.’ She grinned. ‘I’m paraphrasing. And anyway, we can still add some tradition.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what Scarlett’s got in mind. And, you know, we’re in the middle of India.’

  ‘Scarlett knows what Poppy wants. More than that, she knows weddings are all about the bride. This one even more so. Poppy wants traditional, Poppy gets traditional. Or as traditional as possible anyway in this faraway land.’

  He looked at her for long moments then suddenly nodded. ‘You’re right.’ He pulled out his phone and checked the clock. ‘I’ve got time.’ He tossed his tea over the edge. ‘I’ll be back. Don’t start without me.’

  Julia frowned at him but he was already walking away. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Trust me,’ he threw over his shoulder. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  Julia felt weirdly comforted by the fact that she did actually trust him as he pounded down the stairs and in the opposite direction to where his wedding was being held in a few short hours’ time.

  * * *

  ‘How do I look?’ Poppy asked five hours later as she appeared from a clutch of colourful saris and fussing brown arms. Julia drew in a ragged breath, pressing her hand to her chest as tears welled in her eyes. ‘Poppy,’ she whispered. ‘You look …’

  Julia glanced at the eager smiling faces all around waiting for her proclamation, but she just didn’t have the words. Poppy had been transformed. She still looked fragile but it only added to the ethereal vision of her.

  The bodice and the petticoat of the exquisite cream traditional dress were heavily beaded with deep garnet and creamy pearls. The beading was repeated in the diaphanous swathe of cream fabric that wrapped around the skirt and covered Poppy’s shoulder, the trim of which was a heavy garnet brocade. Her arms, from wrist to elbows, were covered in multi-coloured thin bangles and a simply stunning choker of red and gold sat around Poppy’s slender neck and draped beautifully onto her chest.

  But the absolute pièce de résistance was the intricate henna tattooing that covered Poppy’s bald head. Women from the village had come early to perform the ritual. Julia had sat and watched them in awe, barely even registering the shy young woman who had busily decorated her hands for the ceremony. And yes, Julia loved how her hands looked, but they had nothing on the breathtaking mastery of Poppy’s tattooing.

  There wasn’t a spare centimetre of scalp on view as an intricate pattern of peacocks and
marigolds all linked together in a kaleidoscope of light-brown swirls. The convoluted pattern dipped down onto Poppy’s forehead like the scalloped edge of a veil, forming a radiant sun in the very centre.

  And that was exactly how Poppy looked with this superb piece of art adorning her on this special day – she looked radiant. Julia didn’t look at Poppy and think she’s dying like she had for so long now. Instead, she thought she’s glowing.

  ‘Well?’ Poppy prompted. ‘I’m dying over here.’ And then she grinned at her own joke. ‘Compliment me already.’

  Julia swallowed the gargantuan lump in her throat. ‘You’re … an absolute vision.’ The dozen women all around broke out in smiles and nods. The whole village had come together to see that Poppy had a wedding to remember, and these amazing, artistic women were the tip of the iceberg.

  Poppy grinned at her. ‘I’m getting married. Like, now!’

  A tear slid from Julia’s eye as she nodded. ‘It’s really happening.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Poppy said, moving over to Julia and grabbing her hand. ‘Remember what I said last night? No tears. Not today. Plenty of time for them. Whatever the circumstances of how we got here, it’s my wedding day.’

  ‘Oh, Pop,’ Julia said, struggling for composure. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the circumstances.’ Well, not all to do with them anyway. ‘I would’ve cried on your wedding day regardless.’

  Poppy squeezed her hand. ‘And I on yours.’

  Julia smiled, biting the inside of her lip hard to stop the sob sitting at the back of her throat from coming out. They both knew Poppy would never be there for Julia’s big day.

  ‘Well.’ Julia cleared her throat and reached for every ounce of bluff she had left inside her. ‘C’mon, then. Your mother and Ten are waiting. Let’s go get you hitched.’

  * * *

  ‘Oh … it’s so beautiful,’ Poppy murmured to Julia as they walked the short distance to the clearing at the edge of the village that looked over the valley. The mist had lifted and the entire expanse of lush green foliage was laid out like a jewel in front of them.

  Julia was pretty sure Poppy wasn’t referring to the view, but rather to the gathering of the entire village. From the women who had fussed over Poppy today, to their elegant men, and the bright garlands around the necks of the children from the orphanage, it was a riot of vibrant colour. From the saris to the aisle the crowd had formed and strewn with marigold petals, it was like walking into a Bollywood rainbow.

  Julia heard the excited ‘Poppydevine, Poppydevine’ whispers first. The children had formed a kind of guard of honour, and then everyone’s head was turning and the entire village was beaming at both of them as they reached the start of the aisle.

  Scarlett and Ten stood at the other end. Scarlett, like Julia, was wearing a sari. Ten was dressed in his usual jeans but, surprisingly, he also wore a white linen shirt with long, loose sleeves that looked a bit on the hippy side with a row of embroidered flowers along the rounded neckline and the cuffs. It wasn’t something she’d seen him in thus far and certainly not one she’d have ever imagined him wearing – it wasn’t very rock’n’roll.

  It must have been what he was up to earlier.

  Two garlands of yellow-and-orange marigolds were slung around his neck and Poppy leaned in and whispered, ‘Huh. Look at that. Who knew a man wearing flowers could be so damn sexy?’ She smiled up at Julia. ‘I’m a lucky girl.’

  Julia forced another smile onto her face as she drew in a deep, slow breath. Poppy was the very definition of unlucky. ‘Yep,’ she agreed, reining in the roar of unfairness that was beating against her larynx. ‘He’s a hottie. Not too late to back out though. We could make a run for it?’

  Poppy grinned. ‘Take me to my husband.’

  Julia and Poppy walked down the aisle, hundreds of petals soft and cool on their bare feet. When they got to the end, Ten held out his hand and Poppy took it as Julia stood to the other side of Scarlett.

  ‘Ready?’ Scarlett said to both of them.

  ‘Yes,’ they said in unison.

  Scarlett smiled at them. ‘Friends and family. We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Poppy Devine to Quentin Carmody. But first, I have to ask, who here gives Poppy to Quentin?’

  Scarlett had been astonished last night when Poppy had discussed the fairly stock-standard, traditional way she wanted her mother to run the ceremony. Scarlett had been a celebrant for many years and Julia had heard enough of Scarlett’s whacky wedding stories to know that she’d never been hired for her conventional style.

  But Julia hadn’t been surprised. And Poppy had been adamant with her mother. And, to give Scarlett her due, she was embracing it with her usual panache.

  ‘I do,’ Julia said, smiling at Poppy as that damn lump grew bigger in her throat.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ten murmured, and Julia glanced at him, their gazes locking for a shared moment of miserable solidarity.

  Scarlett continued then, going through the usual stuff covered in a wedding service, and it was as if the whole mountain had fallen silent to bear witness to the sacred event. The only sounds that could be heard across the entire valley were the clear, crisp notes of Scarlett’s voice. No birds called, no insects trilled, no restless babies or impatient children murmured in the gathering.

  ‘Time for the vows,’ Scarlett announced. ‘Poppy? I think you wanted to go first?’

  Julia braced herself as Poppy nodded and smiled at her mother. The vows were the one thing that Poppy had wanted to freeform and it didn’t take a shrink to know that they were going to be difficult to hear.

  Poppy turned to her fiancé, their hands clasped. ‘Quentin … Q … my Number Ten.’ She smiled and Ten smiled back. ‘I wish I could promise you that things will be better and not worse. That your days will be richer from the get-go instead of poorer. That there will be health instead of sickness. I wish I could promise that there will be no death do us part for many, many years and that we’re going to grow old together, but—’

  A tear rolled down Ten’s cheek and Poppy’s voice broke off as a matching tear rolled down hers. Julia squeezed her eyes together tight as a ton of grief smacked her in the chest.

  ‘But … I can’t,’ Poppy continued, her voice tremulous. ‘I’m sorry, I know you got the rough end of the deal. But I give thanks every day for this cancer because—’

  ‘No,’ Ten whispered fiercely, interrupting her with a crack in his voice and tears flowing freely.

  Julia almost choked on the sobs demanding to be given voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said, nodding her head vehemently. ‘Yes. Because without it I would never have met you. I’ve lived more with you and because of you in the last months than I have in the last twenty-nine years of my life and I know I will leave this earth having known my one true love.’

  ‘Poppy, no—’ Ten’s voice, thick with grief and anguish, broke on whatever it was he was going to say and it speared right into Julia’s heart, piercing her resolve to hold it together. The tears came, a sob slipped out and she gave in to them both.

  Poppy shook her head to silence him and she smiled up at him through glassy eyes. ‘So this is my promise to you today. My ­solemn vow. I promise to love you for whatever time I have left and after that I promise to love you for all eternity.’

  Then she reached up onto her tippy-toes and embraced him and they stood there in front of everyone, Ten quietly crying, Poppy letting him. Julia cried, Scarlett cried. Half the gathering, who were complete strangers, cried.

  Poppy pulled back after a while, her cheeks damp as she reached up to wipe the tears from Ten’s face. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Scarlett said, dabbing at her eyes and drawing in a shaky breath. ‘Quentin?’

  Julia couldn’t even begin to imagine how brutal this must be for Ten. She’d wasted a lot of time and effort disliking him and now her insides were just one big squishy ball of hurt for him.

  ‘Poppy.’ He stopped and clea
red his throat of the emotion that was clearly still threatening to crack it wide open. Then he smiled at her because Poppy hadn’t wanted this to be a sad occasion and Julia could tell it cost him to do that – it cost him a lot. ‘All my life I’ve been good with words. I could talk myself out of most situations. I’ve written stories and pick-up lines and limericks and angsty teenager poetry and, even if I do say so myself, some pretty damn good lyrics.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘But finding the right words for today, for the most important moment in my life, has completely eluded me. So I think I will stick to the tried and true. I, Quentin Arthur Carmody, take you,’ he drew Poppy’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, ‘Poppy Alice Devine, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness—’

  Ten’s voice fractured and for a second Julia thought he was going to lose it. But he took a shuddering breath and ploughed on. ‘And in health. To love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do us part.’

  Poppy smiled up at him, wiping away the tear that trekked down his face. ‘An oldie but a goody.’

  ‘Poppy, I’ve been called a lot of names in my life. A talented screw-up, a gifted cook, a crap surfer … but today I am taking the name I am most proud of. Today I take the name husband. And I promise to be there for every week, every day, every minute, every second of our time together.’

  Julia scrubbed at her face as Ten finished and he and Poppy embraced again. The horrifying fact was that this was how ­Poppy’s life was measured now. Weeks, days, minutes, seconds.

  ‘Now for the exchange of rings,’ Scarlett murmured once the almost-newlyweds parted.

  ‘Oh no,’ Poppy said, frowning at her mother. Julia frowned too. What was Scarlett doing? They’d been over the order of events about a dozen times. ‘No rings. Just move on to the husband-and-wife bit.’

  ‘No,’ Ten said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two gold rings, placing them in the flat of Scarlett’s palm. ‘I have rings.’

  Poppy blinked up at him. ‘You do? But … how?’