Polly (15 page)

He made room in the freezer for the Justins.

If I know Polly, she's probably just sad and worried that she'll have to leave again so soon.

He reorganized the spice rack, then he squeezed gently at the existing tomatoes and discarded any that wrinkled.

She was so emotional to be back. Strange squeaks was all I could make out as she came hurtling through Customs to cling on to me, her face buried in my neck. ‘Can't look at you,' she pipped, ‘don't know what to say.'

He regarded three open cartons of milk, sniffed at each and poured two away.

It was a funny journey back. She'd gabble nineteen to the dozen and then fall silent for ages. When we arrived at her flat, she walked very quietly around each room. It was as she'd left it – good old Jennifer C. When Buster sauntered in, she regarded him in utter silence; it was only when he turned on his tail with eringly that she fell on her knees, scooped him up and squeezed him until he yowled.

He took down his copy of Delia Smith and checked off the shopping against her lists of ingredients.

And then we made love. On the settee. And then at last she looked at me and said my name. She's still tired and, OK, a little distant – I know that. But I reckon, of all people, I can tell between jet lag and some underlying issue. Polly's exhausted and disorientated, that's all.

He put Delia Smith back on the shelf, between the lava lamp and Dominic's litre tankard from Germany.

We need more cookery books.

P
olly was indeed exhausted but jet lag was no longer accountable. It was the deluge of confused emotion threatening to consume her which she found so depleting. She felt shy of Max, that if she let him look into her eyes for any length of time he would surely see her contemplated infidelity written there. She tried not to give too much thinking time to Chip, but he popped up regularly in her mind's eye and she was slow to send him away. Nothing of consequence had passed between the two of them by the end of term, the smiles and walks and easy conversation continued in much the same way. Chip had not yet set his trap, for he esteemed timing and location greatly – and neither the one nor the other had been hitherto compliant. For her part, Polly felt safe being alternately appalled and titillated by her lust in utter privacy, and did not speak aloud of it, not even to herself.

Now, back in London, she would imagine Chip to be by her side as she walked or pottered about, and she spun elaborate fantasies; romantic films in miniature, complete with close-ups and score. And yet the one night she spent alone since her return, she thought only of Max and sobbed for him well into the early hours.

He's all I have.

The next day she clung to him; turning up at his flat at breakfast-time, begging him to let her sit quietly in his office and give her small errands to run; resting her head against his back with her arms about his waist as he did the washing up, snuggling up to him in the bath, on the sofa, in bed. Saying very little, looking very small.

The truth of it was that Polly felt totally disorientated being back in England and the emotion was new and utterly bewildering.

But I'm meant to love England without even thinking about it. Born and bred here, to live, love and die here – surely? Why's the place irritating me then? Why is it all so dull and dreary? Is my country to be my life?

Strangely, after comparatively so short a time, America seemed somehow preferable and Polly could convince herself quite easily that she was eminently more suited to life over there, a life far away from London and those who knew her.

But wasn't the Polly Fenton we first met proud to carry the Union Jack over the Atlantic in a breeze of floral cotton and a blaze of beautifully enunciated jolly goods, frightfullies, and super-dupers? Wasn't she the one so utterly committed to the life she was temporarily leaving? Didn't she positively thrive on the love and company of her friends, her surrogate family after all? Didn't she want for nothing but the security of her friendships and the certainty of Max, the love she felt and received? Wasn't being the life and soul a core part of her happiness and proof of her sense of belonging?

It continued to be, but somehow a secret part of her wished to trade communities. In England she now felt swamped and wary; in America she had felt capable, independent and vibrant. It took but a term to learn that not only could she survive all by herself in a foreign country and among strangers, but that she could actually have a rather wonderful time doing it. Suddenly, she found it a burden to be Polly Fenton amongst her established crowd in England, for she understood how they were utterly dependent on her being bright and breezy, chatty and open and, of course, unconditionally in love with Max Fyfield. As she'd always been; as, surely, she could only ever continue to be.

It seems there's so little about me that is sacred and private – admittedly, that's my own fault for loving my friends as deeply as I do and wanting to involve them in all aspects of my life and psyche. I mean, they're my family in all but flesh and blood. And yet, do you know, all of a sudden it's making me crave privacy. It's making me hold back.

Surrounded by those who adored her, Polly realized with horror that she dared not confide in any of them. Thus she felt more alone, here back home, than ever she had all the way over there. She knew that she was withdrawn and enormously tired, and was acutely aware and appalled that the combination created an unwelcome petulance about her.

‘Everyone's so pleased to see me,' she explained to the craved-for silence of her flat, ‘they're so happy to have me home yet I'm sullen, ungracious and distracted. Everyone's so interested in what I've been doing, who I've met, what it's like – and yet I curse them to myself and wish they'd shut up and leave me alone.'

How can they? When has Polly Fenton ever wanted to be alone and without attention?

‘But they fuss over me, brandishing maps and “gee, honey”s and preconceptions, misconceptions and “
Ooh! tell us all about It
”.'

Defining ‘it' and adapting her replies to suit the enquirer, was demanding. At a gathering organized by the Fyfields in her honour three nights ago, Polly steered right away from even mentioning her companions at Hubbardtons, in favour of informed treatises on the Vermont weather, financial analysis of the cost of comparable things, and detailed portraits of the school, landscape and environs. Everyone kept informing her how glad she must be to be back home, with Max, with them.

Like I'm incomplete without them. There's more to me, there is, I know it. I'm not just Max's girl, I'm not just their friend the teacher. I wish they wouldn't pressurize me so. I won't be the open book they take me for. An open book need not necessarily be a closed story.

Do you know, I think what I crave now is a secret of whose existence only I am aware. Like something hugely precious hidden in a drawer that only I know about, that I can literally take out, admire and enjoy, without anyone knowing about it, hurting no one. A private talisman, something of my very own that I can call on to give me pleasure and strength, to remind me of my success of being myself. A kiss from Chip would do. Undoubtedly.

Being back seemed only to make more of a muddle of it all. Yet how easily she could have opened up to Megan over the
mille-feuille
that morning. Instead, she had filled her mouth with cake and cappuccino to stop herself saying ‘Help me Meg, what should I do? I'm in a quandary; suddenly the man that I love is not the same as the one I desire.'

How would Megan respond, Polly wonders this afternoon, in the safety of being alone in her living-room. In her mind, she makes her confidante offer a whole host of supportive suggestions.

a) Compassion (a sympathetic hand on Polly's arm):
God, how awful for you. I don't know what to say. Just tread carefully. Be utterly sure that you can handle it. I don't want you to end up hurt. What a dilemma
.

b) Excitement (a lively smile and a friendly pinch):
Ooh! Tell me again what he looks like – define his level of gorgeousness. Describe his hands again, and his eyes. Tell me once more how you felt – and where – when he walked you to the covered bridge that night
.

c) Conspiracy (heads locked together, eyes burning and alive):
You wicked wench, you! Just a kiss? With a real-life Brad Cruise? Who are you trying to kid! I'd go for full-blown sex, if I were you. Get it out of your system, girl – do it now, before you commit to Max for good
.

d) Sensible (a tender squeeze and a rub to her back):
The thing is, Polly, you'll probably regret it if you don't – which could have far more serious consequences than if you do. You'll be able to forget all about it once you have. If it's just a taste that you want, then stick out that tongue. One kiss can't hurt. It can't hurt if you're sure that just the one will suffice.

There is point (e), of course, but Polly studiously ignores it because she has no control over it. She hasn't made that one up. It exists without her. Of course it does. I hardly need to disclose it.

e) Disgust: Megan's face criss-crossed with horror and utter bewilderment transcending the need for her to say
Are you completely mad, Polly? Could you really do that to Max? Jeopardize all that you have? You? Don't even think about it. Don't you dare
.

Buster stomped into the room and Polly changed the subject, quickly. The cat wound his body around her legs and then slumped down at her feet, cleaning his anus meticulously. Polly sat alongside him and scratched his neck, causing him to change target and lick at her hand as if it was part of his own anatomy. She thanked him and called him charming.

‘Oh, cat,' she sighed, ‘I can't think what to do – about the here and now or about the there and soon.'

Buster regarded her sternly and then sauntered away to sit on the window-sill and concentrate on the rain outside.

‘It's not that I feel caught between two countries,' she said as she walked to the kitchen and put two slices of bread in the toaster, ‘or even two men. It's almost as if I am swaying between two notions of myself and am unable to determine in which one lies reality. Polly the known, dependable, lively, friendly teacher and gregarious appendage to Max Fyfield? Or a young woman, turning twenty-eight, a little confused but acutely aware that her strength, independence and self-awareness are to be discovered, treasured.'

She shivered and held her face close to the toaster until her eyes smarted and her nose tingled. At the back of her mind, Mick Jagger was singing ‘
You can't always get what you want
'.

‘I know,' she told him, ‘but you also said that perhaps if I try, I might get what I need.'

Damn. What is it that I need? A kiss from Chip? Can such a thing really be that weighty? Or do I need clarification that I do indeed want to journey into the sunset of my life alongside Max Fyfield?

Jim Morrison suddenly appeared to remind her that wishful was sinful.

‘Hypocrite!' she accused him. ‘If I told you someone's gone and lit my fire, you'd tell me to neither hesitate nor wallow.'

Now Mr Jagger was back, colluding with Mr Morrison, trying to gain her sympathy, to tempt her with their backlist of hits. Luckily, the toast popped up and came to her emotional rescue before she could break on through to the other side.

Marmite. Lots.

Have some toast with your Marmite,
Max would tease. Polly could hear him so clearly.

‘Ssh!' she protested, shaking her head to banish the image. She took the plate into her living-room and ran into Bob Dylan.

‘Go away!' she shouted at him before he'd even opened his mouth, but not before he'd struck a chord.

‘I need to update my record collection,' said Polly very loudly and with contrived breeziness, flicking the television on and then off again, having a quick sob with toast stuck in her throat.

‘K
eep still, stop bloody fidgeting!'

Dominic stepped in front of his tripod and regarded Polly with an expression so exasperated that she immediately begged forgiveness and promised not to move an inch. Polly frequently modelled for Dominic; never the main subject of his work, but as an accessory, a prop, for a variety of projects. Invariably, he required only parts of her and these she was willing to give because she loved his work and was flattered that he should want to use her body so creatively and with such an interesting use of focus and scale. Her knees had featured strongly in his last assignment, her earlobes and the nape of her neck in the one before that.

‘Better,' he said from behind the lens to a drum roll of clicks, ‘good.' He reappeared to rearrange her pose and she let him fiddle with her fingers and the lighting.

‘It's a series for my next show,' he had explained to her, ‘called “Time Pieces”. I want to do imaginative things with watches and clock faces and the human hand and eye. Time passing, life passing, faces and eyes as indicators of it all.'

‘And the fingers?' Polly enquired.

‘Because, quite simply, they're incredibly photogenic things. Just humour my bullshit-waffle – I make good photos in spite of it!'

Currently, Polly had an antique watch with a butter-soft leather strap twisted around her fingers.

‘OK,' said Dominic, ‘now pop it into the palm of your hand, close your fingers and then unfold them – just slightly – for a little peep. Look, watch me; like this. Excellent. Bugger,' he grumbled, ‘can't see the hands.'

‘Hey?' said Polly in disbelief, the camera appearing to focus on nothing else.

‘Of the watch,' Dominic explained, ‘can you move them so they read ten past one? Yes! Oh yes, lovely. Hold it. Great. That's it.'