by Amy Andrews
He took a step towards her. ‘Jules.’
‘No.’ Julia scrubbed at the tears, holding up her hand in a stopping motion, dragging in oxygen, panting it out again. ‘No. You’re wrong.’
But she knew he was right. God knew she’d given Ten enough reason to want to hurt her, but he wasn’t a callous person. He wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.
Why? Why had Poppy said that? Why would she want to be alone for that?
‘Jules,’ he said, taking another step towards her, his voice thick with concern. ‘I’m sorry.’
Julia panted against the burn in her lungs and the pain in her chest as everything blurred in front of her, the tears flowing hot and acidic, burning a track down her cheeks. The mountains around them closed in on her and the ground beneath her wobbled precariously. Her hands shook, her vision greyed and narrowed.
The whole world seemed to tilt on its axis.
‘Julia?’ Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her in tight, and she struggled against their bonds, panicked. ‘No.’ She flailed her arms. ‘No.’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got you, Jules,’ he whispered. ‘Breathe.’
Julia was breathing; she just couldn’t seem to get any oxygen in. ‘She can’t d-do that,’ she said, looking up at Ten even as she resisted, trying to shake him off.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’
And suddenly the pain in her chest and the burn in her lungs gave in and the fight went out of her, and she was crying great racking, choking sobs, burying her face in his shirt, oblivious to the goggle-eyed spectators taking it all in behind them.
She cried like she hadn’t cried since the beginning. Sobs that shredded her lungs, wrenched at her diaphragm, tore at her throat.
Loud, hiccupy crying. Messy, red-eyed, snotty-nosed crying.
Julia didn’t know how long she went on for. She just knew it felt alternately good and horrid and one hundred percent necessary. Vital. The tears had been building for so long, hidden behind and coloured by a huge block of rage. Sure she’d let a few out from time to time, when she’d been alone, or fucking too-cocky, sweaty, slutty drummers. But not like this.
They’d been angry tears. Tears for Poppy and the heinous unfairness of it all. Not the-world-is-nigh tears. Not completely, utterly, helpless tears.
Tears for Julia.
And it felt sooo damn good she let every single one of the suckers out.
‘I h-h-hate this,’ she hiccuped into his shirt when the tears finally started to wane.
She felt his head nod against the top of hers. ‘So do I.’
‘It’s … it’s so … so fuck … fucked up.’
His arms squeezed tighter. ‘Yes.’
‘She ca-can’t do this, Ten. We c-can’t le-let her.’
‘I know.’
It was then that Julia realised he did know. That he was the only other person who truly knew. Not even Scarlett knew. Scarlett had chosen India. But Ten was here. And she could yell at him in the middle of a mountain range and then cry all over his shirt because he knew what she was going through.
And because he loved Poppy, too.
He may not have loved her for as long as she had, but that didn’t diminish his feelings. He loved Poppy and he was here.
And when Julia put aside all her petty jealousy and anger at him over crashing her love-in with her best friend, she could see that he’d been good for Poppy. Finding her one great love at this time of her life had sucked so badly, but Poppy had lived more with Ten in the last eight months than she had the previous twenty-nine years of her existence.
He had gone fearlessly with her, supported her in everything, refused to treat her like she was dying, and given her a reason to keep going.
And he hadn’t walked away – yet.
Poppy had needed him and he had stepped up to the mark.
But it was even more shocking for Julia to admit here in this barren, rocky place that she also needed him. Because he knew.
These last months had been rough. But it was going to get rougher and he was the one person she could turn to who understood that. Ten, alone, was always going to understand the toll of these last months. They’d forged a terrible, sacred bond.
Julia had always thought she was a strong person. Everyone in her life had told her so. But she wasn’t strong enough for this. Glancing up at Ten now, looking miserable and wretched, she doubted he was strong enough either.
But together … maybe they could survive this together.
She pulled out of his grasp and he let go, stepping back. She scrubbed at her face, wiping god knows what on the sleeves of her hoodie. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please come back. I know what I’m asking of you. I understand how hard it must be. But she needs you. And … so do I. I don’t want to do this alone either.’
His face was unbearably bleak and Julia swore she saw something die in his eyes, but he nodded and said, ‘Okay.’
More tears welled as she stepped back into his arms and hugged him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’
And an entire busload of people broke into applause.
* * *
Two and a half hours had passed by the time Julia and Ten arrived back. They’d barely talked on the much more sedate return taxi trip. But they hadn’t needed to. What had happened on that mountain had been cathartic and they’d reached a kind of understanding that didn’t need words.
‘I’ll leave you to have some time with her,’ Julia said as they entered the guesthouse.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you in there as well.’
Julia swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded as she unlocked the door to find Poppy in a ball in the middle of the bed.
‘Q?’ She lifted her head and her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was blotchy. But at least she was still alive. Julia had started to worry during the return journey that Poppy may have died from a broken heart while she’d waited.
‘I’m here,’ he said, striding over to her.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Poppy said, her voice cracking.
Ten kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers with her. ‘Hey,’ he said as he scooped her close. ‘Shh.’ He kissed her head. ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry, remember?’
Julia smiled at the line. It should have been corny. It wasn’t.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that. You’re right, the words don’t matter.’
Poppy pushed herself away from him. Julia was amazed at how strong she was sometimes despite outward appearances. ‘No. I was wrong. They do matter. I do love you, Q. Of course I do.’ She smiled tremulously, tracing his lips with her finger. ‘I’ve loved you from the minute you said “may the force be with you” as we jumped out of that plane. And I think we should get married. I’ve been lying here trying to make some kind of logical sense out of getting married as I’m about to die, but then you came back and … love isn’t about logic, is it?’
Ten smiled at her. ‘It’s logical to me.’
And then he raised his head and kissed Poppy and it was so tender Julia wanted to burst into tears all over again. The whole situation was poignant and wrenching. Achingly bittersweet. Screamingly tragic. But Julia doubted she’d ever witness anything this beautiful again.
She turned to go. She’d played her part and for this brief moment in time everything had turned out okay. They didn’t need her now.
And after the emotional upheaval she could murder a decent cup of coffee. That strong shit they sold here in tiny cups. Failing that, she’d go for that whisky she’d been hankering for earlier. She was going to need something to get her through while she figured out the logistics of a quickie wedding.
She was almost out the door when Poppy called out to her. ‘Julia?’
Julia turned. ‘Yes?’
Poppy had snuggled back down onto Ten’s shoulder, but she was holding out her hand. ‘Come and join us.’
Julia didn’t glance at
Ten for his permission as she had in Lapland, and it didn’t feel awkward to climb into bed with them. She just scooted in behind Poppy, feeling every notch of her spine as she spooned in close.
‘I’m getting married,’ Poppy whispered dreamily, lifting up her hand.
Julia smiled into Poppy’s neck as she threaded her fingers through the proffered hand, like they’d done as kids. ‘Yes.’
Poppy’s arm flopped down and their joined hands rested on her bony hip. Then Ten slid his big warm hand over the tops of theirs and Julia looked at the three of them joined together.
Julia and Poppy and Ten against the world.
Chapter Thirteen
The skinny dog with no fur licked Poppy’s hand and Quentin desperately wanted to reach for Julia’s hand sanitiser. Except Poppy was watching and he didn’t want her to think he was being uncool with the whole grotty vibe. After all, he’d told her about all the grungy shit he’d done over the last few years – all the scuzzy surfing holidays, all the dives he’d played for beer. It was just that he could only begin to imagine how many germs that skin-dog was carrying around on his drooling pink tongue, and he didn’t want a single one of them near his terminally ill fiancée.
Fiancée. Even now the word made him smile, two days and god knows how many kilometres of train travel later. It made him smile, and then the unfairness of it made him want to cry. Or vomit. But he wouldn’t think about that part.
Poppy turned to wave as her mother made her way towards them on the platform, hurrying along in a sari that some kindly Indian should tell her was really not the right look for a middle-aged white woman. Its voluminous fuchsia folds were decorated with gold-and-teal detailing and brilliant-purple splotches. Quentin understood the hold India had on some people; it was like a form of insanity. It seemed Scarlett was one of those with India fever. He groaned internally and turned to nudge the dog out of the way while Poppy wasn’t looking.
‘Shoo,’ he hissed at it, but it just looked at him like a groupie – huge eyes, desperate smile, too-skinny legs. It started to make its way over to Poppy again, some doggy sixth sense telling it she was the soft touch of the group, but Quentin couldn’t bear it. Every infection Poppy got was going to shorten her life. And when life was only measured in weeks, it couldn’t afford to get any shorter.
He resorted to guerrilla tactics while Poppy, Julia and Scarlett hugged noisily, pulling a peanut-butter sandwich from his backpack and breaking off a piece. ‘Here, boy,’ he whispered, showing the morsel to the dog and earning grateful eyes and a lolling tongue in return, before turning and hurling it towards the latrines. ‘Go get it, mate,’ he urged. The dog had no need for second invitations, dragging its battered body towards the bathrooms to retrieve the prize.
‘Scarlett.’ Quentin greeted his soon-to-be-mother-in-law as heartily as he could. Which wasn’t particularly heartily. The knowledge of how much she had hurt Poppy as a child still burned in him, and part of him wanted to pull her hair as he was wrapped into her diaphanous technicolour hug. But instead he used the opportunity afforded by the hug to pull her along with his arm around her, sure it was the best opportunity to break free of the attentions of the diseased canine. ‘Come on, good women,’ he enthused cheerily. ‘Onward to the chariot.’
‘What’s the rush?’
Damn Scarlett. She was always buggering things up, even his quick getaway from the Dog of Death.
‘I haven’t seen you all for ages. Since you got engaged. Let me look at you.’ She dragged Quentin to a halt in his forward momentum, and turned, making a big show of checking them all out. Except they all knew what she was really doing. Quentin looked over at Julia and realised she was mirroring his body language – arms folded, eyebrows raised at Poppy’s mother. If bodies really did have language, they would be saying the same thing:
Do. Not. Say. It. Do not make a single comment about how sick she looks.
For once, Scarlett took the hint. ‘Well,’ she said with a huge, over-bright smile. ‘You all look great. The lights and the Lama obviously agree with you.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Julia grumbled, rubbing her eyes blearily. ‘Come on, let’s blow this popsicle stand.’
Quentin couldn’t have agreed more. ‘Yeah. Quick sticks.’
Just as he was sure they were going to lose the skinny dog, it limped towards them, its face smeared in peanut butter and a whole new level of adoration reflected in its eyes as it made a beeline for Quentin. Poppy clapped her hands in delight, cooed adoringly and bent down to pat it. Quentin almost pushed her over in his hurry to keep the mangy creature away from her. ‘Sorry, Pop.’ He sighed, bending down to scoop it up. ‘It’s me the little champ’s got a thing for, haven’t you, mate?’
Poppy reached across to scratch its scabby nose and Quentin swung his body hard to the left so her fingers didn’t connect. ‘Er, I think I saw a lost dog owner over there.’ He pointed far away from their group, and as he turned back Poppy and Scarlett were eyeing him suspiciously while Julia smirked in understanding. He dropped the dog onto the concrete of the railway platform and patted its butt. ‘Be free, Fido,’ he sang cheerily, tossing the rest of his sandwich as far as he could down the platform.
Poppy scowled at him as Julia winked and hustled them out of the station. As he caught up with her, she handed him the sanitiser.
‘Nice job, Ten.’
* * *
Outside the station, the madness of the train and the platform seemed almost tranquil. The street was a teeming mass of people, animals and vehicles of every variety – from the downright ramshackle to the most luxurious – and it all pressed together on what should have been a road in a most disorganised and unseemly fashion. Julia looked like she was about to pass out. She leaned towards Quentin and whispered, ‘Can you imagine how many germs there are in this cesspit?’
Quentin didn’t even want to think about it, but Poppy, as ever, could read their minds and was determined to thwart their plans. She took one look at Quentin, longingly eyeing off a slick black Mercedes taxi, and turned towards the rickshaw stand. ‘Now that’s the way to travel,’ she declared with an excited squeal.
Oh my god, she was trying to torture him. As a bony, smiley driver waved toothlessly at them, Quentin closed his eyes and visualised every perilous bump between here and the backwoods village to which they were headed. He imagined the sickening crunch of Poppy’s fragile bones as they broke while she tried to hang on. Then he opened them and Poppy was looking at him with a challenge in her eyes.
‘It sure is,’ he said, summoning every ounce of the renowned cool that had somehow deserted him since his gorgeous girlfriend had become sick and he had somehow turned into the fun police. He nodded at Poppy and Julia. ‘Why don’t you ladies travel together; I’ll ride with Scarlett.’
Poppy narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Why?’
‘Simple matter of weight distribution,’ he bluffed, eyeing off the scrawny driver Julia was already haggling with. And there was something in that; after all, the best bullshit always contained a shard of truth. Julia and Quentin could have been brother and sister in that they were both giants compared to the smaller Scarlett and Poppy. Any shit-out-of-luck cycle-rickshaw driver who had to cart Julia and Quentin together was going to earn every rupee, and probably need to spend them and more on physiotherapy afterwards. Even the toothless grinner’s megawatt smile had dimmed slightly as he had taken in Quentin’s six-foot-six frame. ‘There’s no way you and your ma can travel together while Jules and I give some poor rickshaw driver a spinal injury. I’m almost positive these guys don’t get WorkCover.’
Poppy didn’t look convinced. ‘Why don’t you travel with me, then?’ she asked archly, and Quentin could almost see her trying to sniff out a plot. As Quentin and Julia had become more devious and united in their attempts to protect her, so Poppy had become more adept at identifying and disrupting their schemes.
Quentin blasted her with what he hoped was his best version of the old Q charm. ‘Thought you
girls might like some alone time.’
Poppy still looked mutinous, but Julia flicked a puzzled glance his way and bundled her into the nearest rickshaw. The toothless one grinned in relief, took one last look at Quentin’s gigantic frame, and shot the driver behind him a glance that clearly said: Bad luck, sucker.
Quentin gestured theatrically to the next rickshaw. ‘After you, Scarlett.’
Scarlett regarded him just as suspiciously as Poppy had as she climbed aboard in a flurry of colourful sari, but Quentin didn’t give a damn. He had things to say to this woman, and he was bloody well going to say them before she got a chance to hurt Poppy any more. And if it took being squashed against her in a rickshaw to achieve that goal, well, Quentin would suffer that for the woman he loved. His fiancée, he reminded himself, enjoying the warmth the thought of that label brought to him.
He waited until the rickshaw had cleared the mad noise of the city proper and was bumping nauseatingly along an unsealed road with rice fields on either side before he began. Scarlett was chattering away, pointing out various landmarks and explaining the activities of the people dotting the fields, when he did a careful reconnaissance to check Poppy and Julia’s rickshaw was still safely attached to the road ahead of them and there were no signs that Poppy might jump out and catch him in what he was about to do. You could never be too sure with that woman. Once he was certain she was not in hearing distance, and he was safe to start, he interrupted her.
‘Scarlett.’
It took a minute for her to notice his interruption, so intent was she on explaining the local attitudes to domestic violence. He nudged her with his elbow and tried again. ‘Scarlett.’
‘Hmmm?’ She turned away from her musings in the direction of the rice fields, a preoccupied half-smile on her face. ‘Ah,’ she said, the smile dying as she registered the serious look on his face. ‘I thought there was something. It’s about Poppy, isn’t it? How bad is it right now?’