by Amy Andrews
Behind him, Julia groaned and he just knew she wanted to kick him. But Poppy’s mouth twitched.
Dr Dreads was losing patience. ‘Let’s make a decision here, broos,’ he barked.
Quentin worked hard to bring it home. ‘Poppy love, I know you want to do this alone.’ He put on his best puppy-dog face. ‘I know you feel like you need to do this alone. And I get why. But maybe …’ He shrugged his shoulders, like he was just piecing it all together as he spoke. ‘Maybe this is like another thing you need to do – help me towards a higher level of musical development.’ He swallowed with difficulty. ‘Help me realise my full potential.’
Oh, god, he hoped like hell that she could not hear the bullshit in this, because otherwise he was going to have to wrestle her out of that cage and he was almost certain that Dr Dreads, Scarlett and Julia would get in his way. He was pretty sure he could take the poser South African and the old lady, but Julia was likely as not to kick him in the balls and throw him to the sharks. He just knew, now, that he absolutely could not let her go down there alone. There was no way in hell he could be up here while she was down there, tiny and alone.
And dying, his brain snarled at him.
Fuck off, he snarled back.
Letting her go would be pure torture.
Quentin figured he had put up with a lot, holding Poppy’s hand while they stuck all manner of pointy instruments and bad chemicals into her. He’d seen her sick and crying and even bleeding. He’d sung to her, made jokes and stayed strong and positive while she’d cried on his shoulder. But for fuck’s sake, a man had his limits. Feeding her to the sharks was a bridge too far.
‘Tell you what,’ Quentin said, his mind hitting on the perfect solution. ‘How about we play a game? You win, you go be shark meat solo. I win, I get to come.’
Poppy’s eyes narrowed. Oh this was good. Poppy loved a game. He could almost smell her competitive juices starting to flow.
‘What game?’
The South African groaned. ‘I don’t have time for this shit.’
To Quentin’s surprise, Julia stalked over to the guy working the controls. None of them had failed to notice how impressed Dr Dreads had been by the buxom redhead’s retro black-and-white spotted bikini. Dreads smiled appreciatively as she made her way over.
But she wasn’t headed his way for any flirtation.
‘Listen, arsehole,’ she spat at him. ‘Mind your own business, right? You’re being paid a ridiculous amount of money for this shit – whether she dives, he dives, or we decide to hold a naked dance party on your boat instead.’
Dr Dreads’ eyes widened like he was hopeful such a spectacle might eventuate.
‘You are not the boss here,’ she said, making sure he understood the pecking order. ‘I—’
She stopped, checking herself, and then stabbed a long red fingernail in the direction of Poppy. ‘She is the boss. She wants to play a game, she plays a fuckin’ game. She wants the whole fuckin’ lot of us to go down in that cage with her, we do it. She wants shark fuckin’ soup for dinner, she gets it. Do we understand each other?’
Dr Dreads nodded his agreement, but Quentin was sure he remained more interested in the contents of Julia’s bikini top than the content of her monologue. He made some incomprehensible noise that sounded suspiciously like a drool.
Poppy grinned wider. ‘What game?’ she repeated.
‘Queen for a Day,’ he said, issuing a challenge with his eyes.
Hers narrowed even further. ‘Who judges?’
Quentin took a gamble. He knew they were firmly in Poppy’s camp, but he hoped they might cut him a break with this. Surely they didn’t really want her to swim with the sharks all alone either? ‘Them,’ he said, motioning at Scarlett and Julia.
Poppy chewed her lip. ‘And him,’ she said, gesturing towards Dr Dreads.
Quentin almost swore. That guy hadn’t liked him from the start. He was too used to being the eye candy; he didn’t like another young guy along for the ride.
Damn Poppy; she was trying to stack the jury.
‘Okay,’ he agreed, knowing she’d snookered him, like she always did. He was going to have to play really hard.
‘Good,’ she sniffed, motioning to Dr Dreads to raise the cage. ‘You remember the rules?’
‘Of course,’ Quentin breathed, relief flooding his system as he hauled her out of the cage and onto the deck.
She was safe, for now. As safe as a woman with brain cancer living on borrowed time got, anyway.
‘Three things you would change if you were in charge for a day,’ he said. ‘Just tweaks, no magic.’
Poppy gave him a smile that lit her up from the inside and he almost swooned. She was so beautiful with her mask framing her perfect face. All that black – the wetsuit, the tank, flippers – only underlined the fragility and paleness of her. He felt like he’d passed some kind of test. Like he always felt with her. It should annoy him, but every time he passed, he felt like punching the air in victory. It never stopped amazing him. She saw something in him, something beyond the flash and glitter, the guitar and the voice. She really liked him.
‘Good,’ she said.
‘Ladies first,’ he said, inclining his head to her.
‘Okay.’ Poppy sank down onto a small crate and began to chew her lip again. Man, Quentin loved watching this girl think. She was beautiful, like a custom-made Washburn 22 series Hawk. Compact, smart and operating on a whole other vibration.
Scarlett, Julia and Dr Dreads pulled up crates in front of Poppy and Quentin. He had the most terrible feeling he was going to get creamed. Oh well, if that happened, he’d try another tactic. For now, all that mattered was that she was out of that cage. And he wasn’t going down without a fight.
‘Right,’ Poppy said, holding up one finger. ‘Number one. Politicians who are found to have misled parliament have to stand on a street corner cleaning people’s windscreens. Double-time sentence if they lied to or about poor people.’
Scarlett and Poppy clapped. Dr Dreads grunted his agreement.
‘Second,’ Poppy continued, extending her next finger. ‘Condoms, lubricant, contraceptive pills and sex toys should be available free to all men who can pass a simple test about the location and correct use of the clitoris.’
The audience laughed and Dr Dreads whistled. Quentin didn’t even want to think about the South African near anybody’s clitoris, but he started to feel worried. The tiny smile on Poppy’s face was her tell. She was sure she had him on the ropes.
‘Three,’ she said, shooting him a wait for it look. ‘Terminally ill people should have free access to flights, hotels and attractions for a two-month window.’
All was silent on the boat. Two months. That was the very longest Dr Dick had thought the intrathecal therapy could give Poppy.
‘After all,’ she went on like she was explaining an algorithm, ‘I can afford a proper bucket-list assault, but lots of people couldn’t.’ Then she assembled her features into a sad little smile, and Quentin felt like he could hear the hearts of everyone on the boat break cleanly in two.
Damn her, she was totally playing them. Poppy hadn’t spent a single moment of what was left to her in self-pity or dwelling on what was coming. This was pure theatre.
She leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek, whispering in his ear as she did, ‘Now you’re fucked.’
Quentin knew she would expect big things, so he marshalled his resources and consulted Lead Singer 101. Make every single member of the audience feel like you’re performing for them alone.
Three answers; three audience members. He was going to bring this baby home.
‘Okay,’ he drawled, regarding Scarlett intensely. He’d learned a lot about Poppy’s hippy mother over the last six months, so he went straight for the jugular. ‘Number one, CEOs of companies that test products on animals should be required to test the products on themselves first.’ He looked beseechingly at Scarlett from under his long fringe. ‘That shit is
just unacceptable.’
Scarlett sighed and applauded wildly. The other two remained unmoved. The South African may even have mumbled something about big game being fair game.
Poppy scowled at Quentin. ‘No scruples,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Next,’ Quentin said, settling into the game and deepening his voice as he caught Dr Dreads in his practised audience-hypnotising gaze. ‘The government should recognise that tourism is the sustainable backbone of this country and grant tax-free status to sole operators, as well as residence and citizenship rights to foreign nationals who come here to help grow the industry.’
Dr Dreads whooped in appreciation.
Quentin turned to Julia, who he already knew would be his toughest critic.
‘And finally,’ he said, being careful not to do what Julia called his rock-star eyes, of which she was deeply suspicious. ‘In recognition of the critically important role played by best friends, there should be a national Best Friends’ Day, on which best friends who have displayed superhuman loyalty, strength, and,’ he smiled at Julia, ‘tolerance of irritating boyfriends, are recognised in a national Hall of Fame.’
Poppy swore and Julia inclined her head towards Quentin, her eyes twinkling. Like she knew she’d been played but she didn’t care.
* * *
Poppy had requested they change the recording, even though Dr Dreads had insisted the great whites went mad for AC/DC.
Poppy said she thought Rachmaninoff’s Piano concerto no. 3 in D minor was the most fitting. She had, of course, brought her own copy. Poppy was nothing if not prepared. For his part, Quentin was sure she was trying to undo him. Poppy had introduced him to the Russian composer recently, and now it was impossible to hear it without thinking of her naked, which had to be ten kinds of inappropriate floating about in a cage waiting to be headbutted by some trained killers.
The concerto started slowly, flirting with them as the cage lowered. Quentin squeezed Poppy’s hand and worked hard not to let his utter terror show through his mask. He made a supreme effort to unclench each contorted muscle group, one by excruciating one. Poppy grinned at him through her mask.
He was right; she was glad to have company down here.
As the water covered them over and the music took on a different, more magical quality, Quentin couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She floated and played in the cage, and she looked like a mermaid – her slender body skittering about, her selkie-like deep-brown eyes darting around, watching for the things she wanted to see.
Quentin consoled himself with the thought that they might not come. After all, the South African had said they preferred hardcore rock’n’roll. He decided to sit back and enjoy it for the time being – the relative quiet, the precious solitude (he had never imagined a bucket-list trip could be so damn crowded with best friends and mothers and various support crew), and the music that wrapped him up in Russian passion. And, of course, Poppy. It was romantic. If you could screen out the cage and the cancer.
Quentin motioned to Poppy and as she drew closer he grasped her shoulders. He just wanted to stay still for a second so that he could look at her. She smiled as he did it, but it was an impatient smile, like she was eager for what was about to come.
It frustrated him. He just wanted to look at her. To underline his point, he grasped her shoulders more firmly and tried to communicate with his eyes that he needed a minute. She settled under his hands and looked back at him.
Man, there were things he wanted to tell her, but it was so tricky to unravel them all. This girl – this spirited, brilliant, unpredictable girl – he’d never met anyone like her and he never wanted to again. He just wanted to wrap her in his arms and run away – somewhere so far and so safe nothing bad could touch them. He wanted to watch her face while she talked, and hold her hand and kiss those expressive, mobile lips for the rest of their lives. As the thought landed in his brain, Rachmaninoff kicked up his angst another notch and the bottom fell out of Quentin’s stomach. The rest of their lives. Some fuckin’ joke. He felt like screaming at the universe, asking whether this whole deal was some sick joke, or worse, some divine retribution for all the girls he had so casually known, dated, loved and moved on from. A lesson to teach him the brutal possibilities of human emotion.
What did he want to tell her, looking at her like this? He saw a flash of something in her eyes, and she gestured quickly to him. A finger wag – a clear message.
Nothing mushy, you know the drill.
He didn’t get it. She was dying. Surely when you were dying you wanted people to tell you how they felt about you? He felt like doing it anyway; like signing it with his hands. But then her eyes widened, and it was game on.
He swivelled in the direction she was facing and the first hunter was upon them. Quentin wrapped his arms around Poppy and prepared for the impact. He had seen the videos, he knew that the sharks could become curious, or frightened, or angry at the intrusion into their domain, and start to attack the cage in a desperate attempt to get at what was inside. So he squeezed her tightly, waiting for the first assault.
But the creature swam closer, its tail moving minimally, the whole machine imbued with clinical grace. It slid past, and neither Quentin nor Poppy breathed as it stared at them before sliding away again to regard them from a little further ahead. Quentin’s skin tingled in his wetsuit and the urge to cover Poppy with his body was so strong he was afraid he might suffocate her. She wriggled uncomfortably in his grasp and he forced himself to release her from his arms. It was very difficult to do.
But this was her moment.
As she danced over to the edge of the cage, two more predators joined the first and performed the same lazy reconnaissance of the cage. Quentin’s heart thudded painfully, every sense on high alert. The three sharks circled the cage, tails keeping time like metronomes as they motored effortlessly through the deep.
Several times they swam very close. Quentin forced himself to join Poppy at the cage’s edge, and after a while he settled somewhat. The creatures were joined by two more, then three. But whether it was the music or what was going on, they didn’t seem to see Quentin and Poppy as a threat. They simply circled them in an elegant ballet, sometimes brushing curiously against the cage’s edge, sometimes zeroing in to check out their human visitors.
And, Quentin had to admit to himself, this was pretty magical. There was something altogether clarifying about being deep underwater with only each other and half a dozen ancient beasts for company. The creatures were so huge, their jaws wide and wild and lined with long teeth, their bodies slick and elegant. It made Quentin feel small and vulnerable, and also bizarrely connected to the life surrounding them.
Poppy seemed particularly taken with them. It was as if she could not get close enough to the cage’s edge. She stared out at them, fixated, and Quentin wished he knew what she was thinking.
In the end, he just wrapped an arm around her and watched, the music and the moving sharks drumming his humanness and vulnerability into his brain.
He knew he would never forget this moment – these creatures, the music, and this altogether confusing, surprising and brave girl in his arms.
* * *
‘So,’ Poppy said, rolling in the bed and landing pressed against his chest. ‘Did you have a musical epiphany?’
Quentin grinned, relishing the softness of her skin against his chest as he leaned forward to breathe in her chocolatey goodness. ‘I’m thinking that concerto would sound awesome on a six-string.’ He paused. ‘Parts of it, at least.’
Poppy sighed against his chest like a delicate being he wanted to capture and press into a scrapbook. Things had been different since their cage had been dragged up. There was a new closeness between them, and he wanted to give it a voice.
‘Poppy.’
‘Shh.’ She pressed a finger to his lips. ‘There’s no need.’
‘Why not?’ He tried to keep the accusation from his voice. She didn’t owe him anything, but it sti
ll hurt. Couldn’t she see what this was doing to him?
‘What’s it going to achieve?’ There was a clinical detachment to her voice that he couldn’t bear. He knew that tone. It was the one she adopted when she was standing back, looking at a problem, examining its various edges and features. Looking for a solution. It was her mathematician’s voice.
Well screw her; he was not a problem to be solved.
‘Why does it have to achieve anything?’ He rolled away from her, staring out of the window at the lights of Port Lincoln. She couldn’t have it all. She couldn’t have his warmth and his comfort and his utter fucking devotion, and not let him say the words he wanted to say.
When she spoke, the mathematician was gone. ‘I feel responsible,’ she said quietly.
He rolled back to her, relieved to return to the zone of chocolate and watermelon and smooth skin and Poppy goodness. Any separation was miserable. ‘You feel responsible for me?’
He felt her nod in the darkness, and trace a finger over the pointy bone of his shoulder. He shivered.
‘It’s bad enough that we’re doing all of this, with what’s going to happen to me. If we talk about …’ She trailed off. ‘If we say the words …’
He grasped her face, the outline of which he could just see in the darkness, and pressed a firm kiss against those watermelon lips. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he breathed against her skin. ‘Whether we say them or not, I’m going to be fucked either way.’
She made a strangled noise and tried to move away, but he held her tight.
‘It’s true, Poppy, and so what? I’d still rather have known you than not. Sure, when you …’ He swallowed hard, and his spit tasted like acid and bitter rage. ‘When you go, I’ll be ruined. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’d do it again. I’d do it a thousand times over. And you know what?’
She shook her head.
‘I wish I could.’
She pressed her face against his chest and he ran his hand across her cheek, feeling the tears there. There was more that he needed to say.