Polly (12 page)

‘Silly,' Polly laughed, ‘you don't tap for sap till March.'

‘OK,' Megan reasoned slowly, ‘you came across him chopping wood – all divine forearms and moppable brow?'

‘Meg-an!'

‘Well then, where is he? And who?'

‘He's the Athletic Trainer,' Polly explained openly.

‘Tom Cruise?'

‘Meg, you're a sick woman. Not Tom Cruise but On A Par With.'

‘A-ha!' Megan declared, hamming up her ignorance for Polly's pleasure.

‘He's amazing and gorgeous.'

What did Polly just say?

‘What? How?' Megan asked sternly, a little confused. ‘Quantify, please?'

‘Well, I suppose he's an easy six foot and devastatingly brawny because of all the sport – you know the type: wide shoulders, tapered waist and neat bum?'

‘I know
of
the sort,' qualified Megan ruefully, ‘but I've never had the precise pleasure.'

‘Well, he has a very handsome face – aesthetically chiselled with pool-deep eyes, neat ears and expert lips.'

‘How on earth do
you
know if they're expert!' Megan snorted.
You're far too Maxanpollified to comment on the kissability of any other male
.

‘I'm guessing,' said Polly with a shrug that Megan, to her relief, could hear.

‘What's his hair like?'

‘Light brown, short and cropped.'

‘Yuk – US Marine style?'

‘No.'

‘Brad Pitt style?'

‘Yes?' said Polly tentatively, trying quickly to recall Mr Pitt's diverse coiffure without frustrating Megan further. Megan, however, was already groaning her approval.

‘Has he a name?' she asked breathlessly. ‘This On-A-Par-With?'

‘Chip,' Polly answered, ‘Chip Jonson.'

Megan was struck speechless and felt uneasy at once.

What? Who?

Jen's Chip?

Doesn't Polly know? Who's keeping what from whom?

‘I know his name's, er, odd,' Polly continued, misreading the pause, ‘but it's a very, very minor glitch, I assure you. Do you know, when you know him, you see that it actually rather suits him. Hullo? Meg? Have you fainted from some sort of Tantric orgasm already?'

‘No, no,' Meg said quietly, catching a drift of danger but unsure who the victim was, ‘almost.'

‘You'd love him,' Polly declared, feeling rather proud.

‘Sounds like you're rather taken with him yourself!' Megan said as lightly as she could. ‘Sure there's room for me?'

‘
What?
' Polly laughed in amazement.

‘All this praise,' Megan reasoned, ‘and superlatives. Sure you haven't fallen for him? Wouldn't rather have him for yourself?'

‘Me?' Polly declared, ‘don't be daft!'

The thought hadn't entered Polly's head. Megan, however – and however inadvertently – had placed it there. And there it lingered. In a far, dark corner. Half hidden.

Dominic and Max are putting the finishing touches to a sizeable lasagne. Dominic is enveloped in the scent of Calvin Klein aftershave. Max, who has tomato paste smeared on his denim shirt, grates Parmesan over the surface of the pasta.

‘Now smell your hands,' Dominic says gleefully. Max takes them to his nose.

‘That's never cheese!' he groans, wrinkling his nose at the sourness and scrubbing his hands energetically. Dominic passes him a bottle of sun lotion which is in the cutlery drawer and is the closest thing the Fyfields have to hand cream. Max inadvertently squirts out too great a quantity and offers his palm to Dominic that he might take some. His brother refuses, saying it would produce an olfactory clash with the Calvin Klein.

‘Vain dick,' says Max, adding the excess hand cream to the tomato paste on his shirt, taking it off and bundling it into the washing machine. Dominic flicks his hand through his hair and holds his head haughtily.

‘I got it,' he says with a shrug, ‘I flaunt it!'

The doorbell rings. Max rifles through a pile of still-to-be-ironed laundry for the least crumpled shirt. It belongs to his brother whose permission is neither sought nor needed. The doorbell sounds again. Dominic rubs his hands, a lascivious smile inching its way across his lips.

‘So I'm having the choice of a blonde or a brunette – that right?'

‘Dominic,' Max declares, putting on the shirt, buttoning it up out of sync but not noticing, ‘you're incorrigible. Both girls are invited for each other's safety.'

He goes to answer the door while Dominic checks his reflection and gives himself an approving wink.

The meal was a resounding success. Everybody laughed at Dominic's jokes and he dispensed his great smile freely and equally to Megan and Jen. Jen opened up after a mouthful or two of lasagne and amused them with tales of Hubbardtons: school, town, river and mountain. She and Megan then regaled the boys with the antics of the BGS girls over the past weeks. Megan asked Dominic to show them his recent work and the gasps of admiration that his photographs received from the girls were soon bestowed on Max's creme brulée. Polly was mentioned in passing. Chip wasn't mentioned at all. There was too much else to talk about, in Hampstead, in the here and now. Furtive smiles and glances criss-crossed the table. People that perhaps shouldn't have seen, saw; the actual subjects, for the most part, were oblivious.

‘Well,' said Max later, washing while Dominic wiped, ‘which is it to be, blonde or brunette?'

Dominic wound the tea towel around his hand and flicked it at his brother, sharply, while he pondered. At the beginning of the evening, he might have chosen the blonde. But there again, that could jeopardize the future ambitions he had for Miss Reilly. Anyway, he'd observed the American, once or twice, cast her gaze in his brother's direction. Not that he'd be telling Max. Not fair on Polly. No point anyway.

‘Very, very nice,' Dominic mused, returning the tea towel to its more usual function.

‘Which?'

‘Both. But Megan's my girl – she lives round the corner.'

‘I think you'll find Belsize Park's nearer than Kilburn,' Max reasoned.

‘Lower West Hampstead, according to Meg,' Dominic cautioned. ‘Furthermore, Megan won't be buggering off back to the States.'

‘True,' said Max, ‘plus the fact that Jen already has a boyfriend back home.'

‘Does she?' Dominic asked, putting away the last of the plates.

Doesn't act like it.

‘Yes,' Max confirmed, pulling the plug and rinsing around the sink, ‘she told Megan.'

But she hasn't told you
, mused Dominic.

A
n excess of physical perfection can be a hazardous thing. The possessor, becoming accustomed to the myopic flattery of admirers, inevitably considers himself worthy of such regard. Those wishing to be possessed by him heedlessly presume that a beautiful soul is in accordance with such a seemly exterior; even if all evidence is to the contrary.

Physical perfection can pose a trap for all concerned. It is laid by the possessor – unintentionally initially, soon enough consciously – and it can lure even the seemingly resilient. Once the possessor sees how effective his snare can be, setting it can become quite addictive. Avoiding it – even for those utterly aware of its existence, its whereabouts, its repercussions – becomes impossible. Consenting prey. Willing captive.

‘Hey Kate.'

‘Hey Chip.'

‘Polly about?'

‘Sure – I'll just go call her. Po-lly!'

‘Oh, hullo Chip.'

‘Hey Polly. Want to take a walk? It's a beautiful evening.'

‘A walk? Urn. OK. Why not?'

Why not indeed.

They invited Kate too, but she declined. They asked Charle(s), who sat at the kitchen table writing to his wife and daughter, and he accepted. A pang of disappointment hit Polly but she reprimanded herself instantly.

Of course Charle(s) is welcome. It's a walk, for heaven's sake.

Chip was not so much disappointed as annoyed at Charle(s)'s acceptance. Had he not fixed him a twitch of his mouth and a darkening of his eyes in warning while he asked? Didn't gesture and expression transcend language barriers? Obviously not.

And Charle(s)? Charle(s) himself is innocent. He'd love to go for a walk on a beautiful night. Furthermore, he felt it a duty to his knowledge of Max and Jen's existence to accompany Polly and Chip. He could finish his letter later; in fact, a paragraph describing the night sky in America might be a very good addition. His wife would like that.

In the event, the walk was genial and innocent. All three admired the stars and pointed out the constellations they knew. Polly breathed deeply, standing still every now and then to implore the men to agree that it was a perfect night – wasn't the air pure, didn't the sound of tumbling Hubbardtons provide a super soundtrack, didn't the mountains look velvety? Chip asked pertinent questions about how Charle(s) felt to be in America, how it compared with China, what did he miss and what did he now feel he could not live without. Charle(s) said ‘Hershey bars' and they all laughed. By the time they arrived back, an hour later, Chip had Charle(s)'s seal of approval and when Chip visited a few nights later, and a couple of times thereafter, Charle(s) felt fine about declining the invitation for a stroll. In Chip's hands, Charle(s) decided, Polly was safe to revere her surroundings and wax lyrical about nature. He was not needed.

Chip Jonson had ulterior motives, of course he did. He wanted the thrill of the chaste. The longer the phase lasted, the more delicious the result. The carefully contrived innocent edge to his flirting flattered Polly. She looked forward to his visits, and she felt and liked the lift that a nod from across the hockey pitch could give her during her day.

‘He's such a nice bloke,' she said to Lorna, who bore witness to one such greeting, ‘don't you think?'

‘Jen Carter seems to think so,' Lorna advised for safety's sake.

‘
My
Jen Carter?' Polly asked, wondering what her replacement had to do with the merits of Chip's character.

‘Sure – they've been going together since last spring.'

‘Really?' Polly asked, elongating the word.

Why had her heartbeat picked up?

Why do I feel slightly embarrassed? Straighten my brow. Why should it wrinkle?

‘Sure,' Lorna shrugged easily.

Actually
, thought Polly later on as she propped herself up in Great Aunt Clara's bed, pen poised over a pad which had read ‘Darling Max' for two days,
it makes me feel rather safe. Poor chap must be lonely too
.

Which chap?

Chip chap. He's obviously comforted that I have a love over the sea and far away as well.

Does he know about Max, then?

Doesn't he?

Have you told him?

Do you know, I don't think I have! We're going to go for a drink in Grafton tomorrow. A group of us, you know. I'll tell him then, so everything can be out in the open and we can get on with being good friends.

Just good friends.

Of course.

It wasn't a question, Polly. It's a cliché.

The group for Grafton dwindled to just two and you can guess who they were. Chip hadn't actually asked anyone else, so when Polly attempted to confirm their company she was met with apologies and excuses.

Shame
, she thought,
but never mind
.

You're relieved. You're excited.

No, no. OK then, but I mean why shouldn't I be? It really doesn't matter if it's one or many – these are my friends, my new community.

‘Hey Charle(s).'

‘Chip, a good evening.'

‘Want to join us for a drink?'

‘Thank you kindly but accept my apologies, I am tired tonight and, as you see, my students' homework is plentiful.'

‘Sure,' said Chip, flicking through sheaves of Physics as if they were a lifestyle magazine, ‘another time.'

‘Certainly,' said Charle(s).

‘Looks like it's just you and me, Fenton,' Chip shrugged to Polly. ‘Want to take a rain check?'

Oh. Doesn't he want to go? I like it that he's taken to calling me Fenton. He drops the ‘t', like he does for ‘mountain'. It sounds nice. Fen'un. Doesn't he want to go for a drink then?

‘I'm easy,' Polly shrugged back, dipping her finger into Marmite and dabbing it on to her tongue. She offered the jar for Chip to try. He contorted his face and did strange things with his lips while groaning. Polly laughed. So did Charle(s). Kate said, ‘Hey, go easy there, we're waiting on a shipment.'

‘That stuff is gross,' Chip said hoarsely. ‘But hey, No Weakness, I always say.' With that, he dabbed his finger into the jar and then sucked on it hard. He performed a similar sequence of facial gymnastics, this time accompanied by appreciative humming. ‘Actually, it's kinda OK, an acquired taste, I guess. Anyways, something you've never experienced before always takes a little getting used to.'

‘Yes,' said Polly, screwing the top firmly on the jar, ‘I suppose it does.'

Polly, don't you dare start reading great significance behind the fact that Max can't abide Marmite but Chip has already trained himself to like it.

The old coaching inn at Grafton provided Chip and Polly with dark-green leather armchairs, a roaring fire and discreet staff.

‘Does this remind you of back home?' asked Chip, motioning to the surroundings with two glasses of Jack Daniels in his hands.

‘Actually, not really,' Polly confided, a clear image of the Holly Bush pub, all smoky, noisy and cramped, in her mind's eye.

I'll just quickly tell him about back home.

Why's he looking at me like that? Have I something on my nose?