Numbered

by Amy Andrews

  He sucked his finger into his mouth then stuck it out through the large diamond-shaped holes of the wire cage. Julia rolled her eyes. Jesus. This time last year she and Poppy were putting up the Christmas tree and scheming how to get Julia out of the full-on turkey- and-plum-pudding Christmas lunch/guilt trip with her parents. She couldn’t believe how much could change in so short a time.

  How could she face Christmas without her best friend? Every crappy carol in the shops, every house decorated with lights, every glass of mulled wine she drank was going to remind her of Poppy.

  It was going to suck.

  Maybe she’d fly to the Maldives and stay at one of those secluded over-water bungalows and ignore it altogether. Watch tropical fish and get a tan.

  She looked at Ten, who was now apparently satisfied with the wind direction. ‘What are you doing Christmas Day?’ she asked.

  ‘Spike and I usually hang out. Drink beer. Watch the cricket.’

  ‘Come to my place. Drink beer and watch cricket there.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Julia nodded vigorously. Yeah. There may have been a time when she’d considered paying a hit man to rub Ten out, but they were bonded now whether he liked it or not. Bonded through grief and tragedy and circumstance. And through love.

  Things really had changed!

  ‘You like the cricket?’

  ‘Good god, no.’ She shuddered. ‘But it’s a step up from football. And I like beer. And Spike. And it’s Christmas.’

  She’d never screw Spike again, but she’d always be grateful to him for being there, for letting her use his body, when she’d needed it most.

  Her phone beeped at her and she pulled it out of her back pocket. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, looking at the text message.

  ‘Spike?’

  Julia nodded. ‘Just letting me know he’s been and checked on Madam Curie and thrown her some dead baby rodents. It should do her till we get back.’

  ‘I told you Spike’d take good care of her.’

  Julia nodded. ‘I should employ him to be her primary carer. The thought of having to feed – having to buy – packets of those …’ She shuddered again.

  ‘I doubt Spike would mind. You seem to have him wrapped around your little finger.’

  ‘Humph,’ she said non-committally, ignoring his leading comment. ‘I still reckon he’s probably taking her to gigs and wearing her around his neck so he looks all Alice Cooper bad boy for your groupies.’

  Ten laughed. ‘I can’t see that somehow.’

  Julia laughed too, trying to picture it. ‘I can’t believe I’ve got her for maybe two decades … why couldn’t Poppy have wanted an animal with a shorter life span?’

  Ten gave a fond smile, but Julia could see how much it hurt just thinking about Poppy and she almost bit off her tongue.

  ‘She knew her mind, didn’t she?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ Julia said, her hand slipping onto his forearm. ‘She did.’

  ‘Tell me a memory,’ he said. ‘Something I haven’t heard before.’

  Julia swallowed the big ball of emotion trying to lodge itself in her throat. The way the chilly wind buffeted her neck, it was as cold as a block of ice. Ten had asked for this every time he’d seen her since the funeral, and she was more than happy to oblige.

  Thinking about Poppy hurt but not thinking about her hurt more.

  ‘When we were fifteen we wagged school for the day. We went into the Dendy cinema in the city and watched Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me.’

  ‘Oh be-have,’ Ten mocked in his best Austin Powers impersonation.

  ‘Yes, we were real rebels. We even ate the popcorn.’

  ‘Oh that is bad. That stuff was renowned for its general crapness.’

  Julia smiled at the memory. They’d felt so adult. ‘We were fearless that day,’ she said quietly, looking down as she became all misty-eyed.

  She could see the white of Ten’s knuckles as he clutched the urn so hard she was afraid it was going to shatter. ‘Easy,’ she said with a raspy laugh, taking it off him. ‘I’m not sure that urn is at all up to international crematorium standards.’

  Ten’s laugh was suspiciously husky too. ‘Scarlett really outdid herself with that, didn’t she? It’s possibly the ugliest piece of pottery I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s like a blind, dyslexic, fingerless person made it.’

  ‘It’s come from India so that’s probably exactly who made it. You know Scarlett, it’s all about the journey, not the end result.’

  They both stared at the urn’s wonky, uneven surface before bursting into laughter. Julia laughed until tears rolled and almost froze down her face, and it felt good to feel something other than overwhelming sadness even if it was just for a short while.

  ‘Well …’ she said, sobering. ‘It was important to her that Poppy’s ashes go into it and I figured it wasn’t worth the fight. Not when Poppy had made peace with her and never cared about that superficial crap anyway. Put my remains in this ugly sucker on the other hand and I will come back to haunt your sorry arse.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ Ten said. He switched his attention to the Seine below as the sun valiantly tried to struggle out from behind the grey curtain of cloud. ‘How do you think Scarlett’s doing?’ he asked.

  Julia shrugged. Who knew? ‘She’s in India. Her spiritual home. She finds a peace there that I don’t think I’ll ever understand even if Poppy tried to really valiantly at the end. I mean, it’s beautiful there sure, but … I doubt I’ll ever go back again.’

  ‘Is it terrible to admit that I’m pleased she’s not here?’ he said.

  ‘Nope. You got on with her remarkably well during Poppy’s illness and I know that was challenging for you considering you wanted to slap her fifty percent of the time because of how much she’d hurt Poppy in the past. It’s perfectly fine to admit relief at her not being here. I think Poppy would want it to be only us anyway.’

  Ten nodded and neither of them said anything for long moments as they just watched the view. ‘I guess we should do this thing,’ Quentin said finally.

  Julia clutched the urn to her chest protectively. Now that it was actually happening, it seemed wrong somehow to be flinging Poppy off this very tall tower.

  ‘What if it’s not even her?’ she asked. ‘What if we got someone else’s ashes and they’ve got Poppy’s and they’ve spread her all over the local sports field?’ She looked at Ten. ‘She’d hate that. And that kind of shit happens all the time doesn’t it, in crematoriums? I’ve read about it.’

  ‘What? In the fucking News of the World?’

  Julia ignored his sarcasm, tightening her hold on the urn. ‘We should get this DNA tested before we do this, just so we know. For sure.’

  He looked at her patiently. ‘I’m pretty sure several thousand degrees Celsius destroys all DNA, Jules.’

  Julia nodded, knowing he was right, knowing it was absurd and preposterous, but … She looked up at him.

  ‘I don’t want to let her go, Quentin.’

  Julia started to cry and he pulled her into his arms, crushing the ashes between them. ‘What’s in that god-awful-looking urn is not Poppy, Julia. She’s inside us. You and me. And Scarlett. And everybody whose life she ever touched. She always will be. The ashes are just symbolic.’

  ‘I miss her,’ Julia sobbed.

  ‘I miss her, too.’

  They stood hugging for a long time. Somebody with a camera asked if they’d mind moving slightly to the side and Ten growled, ‘Fuck off,’ at them.

  Eventually, though, Julia felt strong enough to do what they’d come to do and she moved out of his arms.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  Ten wet his finger then stuck it in the air again, and despite the fact that she felt like crumbling in two, Julia found herself smiling at the absolute preposterousness of it all. ‘Okay, should be good to go if we open it here.’

  Julia removed the dodgy-loo
king cork stopper on the top and Ten stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder as she lifted it to one of the diamond openings and tipped it up.

  The grey ash joined the grey sky, the wind picking it up instantly, swirling it around and around then dispersing it. Julia poured until it was all gone, watching Poppy disappear into the sky.

  ‘Fly, Poppy, fly,’ she whispered.

  ‘We love you, Poppy,’ Quentin said softly.

  They both stood still and watched, long past the time they could see anything at all, the wind snatching Poppy away over the river and rooftops of Paris, claiming her quickly, as if it couldn’t wait to know her.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ Julia asked eventually.

  Ten shook his head, his arm snaking around her shoulders in a loose hold, his forearm brushing her neck. Neither of them took their eyes off the sky, as if they might catch one last glance of Poppy cavorting in the clouds.

  ‘We’ll live,’ he said. How could something so simple sound so bloody impossible? ‘I’ll play in the band and you’ll run your events company and I’ll come over and cook you dinner every now and then and you’ll come and listen to us play when you can and … we’ll live. It’ll be tough at first, but we have to live. For Poppy. Because she couldn’t.’

  A hot tear slid down Julia’s face. ‘And we’ll always have this memory.’

  He hugged her tighter. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’

  Julia smiled. And in the distance she swore she could hear Poppy laughing.

  Acknowledgements

  It seems very odd to say how much fun we had writing this book when it deals with such a serious subject. Few people get through their life without cancer touching them or their family in some way – we know this intimately – and we were very aware of this as the story progressed. But finding the light in the dark is one of the ways we coped, as so many others do, during a very tough time in our lives and it was important for us that our characters reflected our experiences and the gamut of emotions that come with a cancer diagnosis. We also just happen to crack each other up a lot of the time and writing a book with someone you love so dearly and who gets you so completely is fun no matter what the subject matter.

  Writing the acknowledgement section of a book is a great honour because there are always a lot of people to thank for getting the book on the shelf and into the hands of readers and, as the author/s, you want to be able to express those thanks publicly. It is also potentially quite fraught as you hope like hell you don’t leave anyone out. So, here goes …

  To all the team at Mira Australia who have worked on our book in any capacity but particularly to the lovely Sue Brockhoff who acquired Numbered and is possibly the sweetest, most savvy and least rufflerable (yes, not a word) woman one could ever hope to meet. Also to Annabel Blay for all her general corralling of us and Alex Nahlous whose line editing saved us (and you) from, amongst other things, excessive use of heads nodding/shaking and the word ‘just’.

  Also, of course, there are our families who deal with mothers and wives who aren’t normal. Whose brains ponder things like the temperature in Lapland in October, henna tattooing in India and the logistics of sweaty sex with drummers while helping with homework, attending P&C meetings and cooking the evening meal. To Jack, Claire, Saul, Quinn, Neve and Jem, you are the font of and the reason for our creativity. We’d probably still write without you in our lives but then what would be the point? And to Blair and Mark, two ever-loving, ever-patient men who know their lives would be easier with different women but infinitely poorer.

  An extra special thanks to Carita Birch who shared some of her experiences regarding the time her dear mum went through intrathecal chemo. And to everyone else (women and men) – be vigilant, check and know your breasts/body, listen to your gut and don’t take it’ll be fine for an answer if it’s telling you something different.

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  ISBN: 9781760374198

  TITLE: Numbered

  First Australian Publication 2016

  © 2016 by Amy Andrews and Ros Baxter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher:

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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