Polly (29 page)

‘For the love of Jesus!' Megan exclaimed, crossing herself and dropping her head to her hands. ‘
Max?
' Polly nodded. ‘You sure they were – they had – that it
wasn't
the boiler?'

Polly nodded.

‘Bastard,' Megan spat. ‘Bitch,' she hissed.

Shit, are we responsible in some way? Did we encourage Max? Jen? I mean, I never meant this to happen, of course.

‘No,' said Polly in a quiet, hollow voice.

‘No?' Megan jerked, ‘hey?'

‘It's my fault.'

‘Don't you go blaming yourself,' Megan chided, poking Polly on the arm while quoting silently the dictum that had helped her through her early twenties:
all men are bastards
.

Polly smiled resignedly. ‘It
is
my fault,' she said, with conviction. ‘I was feathering my bed – but really I was making it and now I must lie in it.'

Megan had no idea to what she was alluding but she didn't ponder Polly's words for long; she was too busy thinking of the ways in which she could wring Max's neck and punish that Bloody Carter Woman. It would appease her own guilt.

Maxanpolly. Oh God, I don't want there to be no Maxanpolly. Mine is not to judge but to comfort. She needs to be soothed.

‘Polly,' Megan said in a voice which suggested her friend had it all wrong, ‘not Max?'

‘It bloody was,' Polly retorted, crossing her arms and frowning.

‘I mean,' Megan pondered, taking Polly's hands quite insistently, stroking them rhythmically, ‘it's not Max's
style
. You know what I think? I think he was probably thinking of his age and his future – you know, with you. Well, I think he acted on the huge notion of both – but especially the forever-and-ever-amen business.'

‘He needed to have a little taste just to convince himself he wouldn't like it?' Polly suggested.

‘Precisely,' said Megan.

‘He needed to visit America to satisfy himself that England is his home?'

‘As it were,' said Megan.

Polly smiled at the irony to which her friend was blissfully ignorant. ‘The smell of danger is an aroma most intoxicating.'

‘Exactly,' said Megan, stroking Polly's thigh and tapping her knee cap.

Polly shook her head and laughed through her nose. She could hear Megan breathing. Louder still, though, she could hear Kate's words.

‘Oh Megan,' said Polly forlornly, taking her friend's hand and holding it against her own cheek, ‘I must go.'

As fast as Polly had quit Belsize Park, she walked back very slowly indeed. Megan had told her it would be safe to return, that Jen was taking an afternoon flight.

We should have crossed in mid air. In fact, our paths shouldn't have crossed at all.

Polly went into a newsagents in Swiss Cottage and bought two packets of crisps and a bumper-size bag of Maltesers. She stuffed her face. In public. Against school rules. So what. She felt sick but still she felt hungry. Her mind was as full as her stomach seemed empty. Both appeared to be whirring.

What did Jen and Max do exactly? And me? Me too? What does all this mean? Is there really a possibility that Max and I might not end up together? If we were to – would we have done all this?

When Dominic returned home, Max was there even though it was Saturday and he had latterly taken to working weekends.

‘Hey.'

‘Hey.'

‘You OK?'

‘I've fucked up, Dom, big time.'

‘I just saw her – Polly – going to Meg's.'

‘She tell you?'

Dominic nodded.

Tell me you did it because you wanted to – that I didn't push you into it. If I sowed the seed in your mind, Max, it only germinated because the bed was fertile.

‘What have I done?'

‘No Max,' Dominic said quite sternly, ‘ask yourself the reason why you did it.'

Actually, Dominic felt proud of Max, for having asserted himself, for thinking with his prick but also for his prick having a conscience. And yet Dominic felt proud of Polly too, for he saw how she knew her suffering to be of her own making. Living and learning and tasting the bitterness of one's own fuck-up.

There's a fair bit of me in Polly – how many times have I been there, done that? But, unlike Polly, I've never had the same done to me. Perhaps I should've. But the thought of it makes me shudder. The irony is, she needed it to see the error of her ways, I wanted her to be taught a lesson – but her hurt and panic is god-awful. Max caused it – but while I'm satisfied that he has now regained his dignity, which I felt Polly was abusing over Christmas, he is suffering too, and I can't stand that. And what about poor Jen? She's the true innocent here, just some pawn who's on the board temporarily. I think it's temporarily. It's all a bit of a mess, really. What if it's all fucked up for good – and I've played a part?

If Dominic told Max of the state Polly was in, it would merely increase Max's turmoil. And yet he knew he had no right to inform his brother that Polly had basically confirmed his suspicions. That would pain Max even more. He had privileged information but under the restriction of secrecy.

I feel a little like, well, Puck. Or, more specifically, some mythical overseer, a Greek chorus of one. But I must not interfere. There is a limit to the extent to which I may guide, that I may assist. It is not for me to restore amends.

I know how I'd like the story to end – but it's up to the hero and the heroine to provide the conclusion that will be. Maybe it won't correspond with that which I have in mind. That would be a pity. But it's up to them.

P
olly? Where are you? How are you?

I'm here. In my bedroom. Trying not to sob or feel quite so sick. I'm watching cars, trying to focus. I'll just wait for three consecutive red cars to come down the street and then I might go downstairs. Do something.

Are you just waiting for cars?

Where's Max?

Are you waiting for Max?

Is he coming? Do you know, I know a Beetle's engine off by heart. I keep imagining I can hear one.

You OK?

Polly?

Answer?

Leave me alone. I can't stand this silence. I want to whistle but I can't pucker my lips. They only tremble if I try. I can hum but I can't seem to do so in tune, it sounds ugly. Maybe silence is better. Somehow, though, it's deafening. But there again, maybe I'd rather not hear myself think.

Polly?

You OK?

Hey?

Leave me alone. I'm going to hum ‘So Lonely' by the Police. Appropriate.

Polly?

You at a loose end?

Been sitting there for almost two days?

Not quite sure what to do?

I don't want to think about it. Go away.

Max?

Where are you?

Trying to work, don't distract me.

It's Sunday.

So?

‘Hey.'

‘Oh. Dom. I'm trying to work, don't distract me.'

‘Sorry, but I'm going to. It's my job.'

‘No, your job is as a photographer – go click your camera and coo “Give me sexy” or “Watch the birdy” to some dim model. Say cheese. Leave me alone. Fuck off. Please.'

Dominic observed his brother who, in just two days, looked visibly thinner and immensely tired; deflated, somehow. While Dominic made a quiet tour of his studio, he observed his brother focusing hard on the infuriating blank whiteness of his drawing board. He could see that Max's concentration was not directed at what to draw, but on blanking Dominic, stonily ignoring his existence, pressurizing him to go.

‘You working?' Dominic asked as he neared Max, as if he had not heard a word of Max's diatribe or felt the vibes of hostility.

‘Trying to.'

‘Want me to piss off?'

‘Yes.'

Dominic laid a hand on Max's shoulder and gave a short, strong squeeze. ‘Sure,' he said and headed for the door.

‘How could I have done such a thing?' Max suddenly heard his own voice call after his brother. Dominic took his hand from the door knob and retraced his steps measuredly. Max was turned away from him, sitting quite still, head in his hands. Dominic pulled up a stool and faced his brother. Max's eyes were smarting. It unnerved Dominic, who never cried and was not prepared to see or accept his brother doing so. He hadn't seen Max cry since he didn't make the Colts Fifteen when he was twelve. It was something you grew out of. It wasn't necessary. Weakness. Get a grip.

‘How could I?' Max repeated, imploringly; blinking hard and twitching his cheek muscles.

‘Wait,' said Dominic carefully, relieved that his brother had successfully sucked and swallowed back the tears, ‘can we talk hypothetically?'

Because breaking down means you've lost it. I must make you reason and think.

‘What's the point?' Max said in a hollow voice, his throat tight and aching as it had not done since he didn't make the Colts when he was twelve.

‘Well,' Dominic explained, ‘nothing can undo what's done, but concerted analysis might help you fathom how you
should
be feeling, what you're entitled to feel – and the best course of action for you now to take.'

Max shrugged.

‘Firstly,' Dominic started, ‘did you enjoy yourself?'

In Max's silence, an image of Jen's breasts solicited him, unbeknown to Dominic.

‘Was it good?' Dominic pressed.

Max stared at him blankly. He remembered the feeling of his climax, he saw an image of his groin wedged up against Jennifer's arse. Slowly he nodded.

‘Yeah,' he said, a wry smile slipping out involuntarily.

‘It was good?' Dominic prompted.

‘Mindblowing,' Max confirmed, regarding his brother squarely.

‘Do you want more?'

‘No,' Max said decisively, his stare unflinching.

‘Would you have wanted more if Polly hadn't found out?'

Max thought a moment but the answer was easy. ‘No,' he said, ‘I knew exactly what I was doing. It was equal footing for both. It would not have happened again.'

Dominic doffed his head and said
Perfect sex, lucky sod
to himself. ‘Secondly,' he continued out loud, ‘would you be feeling like this if Polly
hadn't
come across you?'

Max snorted, tossed his head. He shrugged. Dominic did not mind that Max had not answered specifically. ‘Thirdly,' he picked up, ‘have you wondered
why
?'

Max started and regarded him warily.

‘Why what?'

‘Why you did it?'

It would take a while for Max to grasp Dominic's point and Dominic knew instinctively it was time for him to leave his brother to his thoughts. Max would know now that his brother had only his best interests at heart. If he needed Dominic, he'd come – the notion was comforting for them both. Dominic rose to leave; gently he kissed the top of his brother's head.

I don't think I've ever done that.

He's never done that before.

Max didn't mind if his rolling tear was seen.

‘Phone!' Polly sings, scrambling from her bed, ‘Max! Phone.' She flies down the five steps and dives for the phone, holding it to her breast as she catches her breath and collects herself. ‘Please please please. Darling boy,' she whispers. Closing her eyes, she takes the handset to her ear.

‘Hullo?'

‘Hey sweetie.'

Polly cannot answer.

‘You OK? Was it OK for me to call? I couldn't
not
, if you see what I mean. Polly?'

Polly clears her throat, bites her cheek and swallows a sob.

‘Hullo Megan.'

‘You OK?'

‘I think I should keep the line clear.'

‘OK – I'm here for you, whatever the time and whenever you need.'

‘Thanks,' Polly says, ‘I'd better go.'

She replaces the handset slowly, dreading the silence and solitude that will smother her once she has done so. Breathing is almost painful, for her throat hurts, her chest is tight and her stomach is working hard to make sense of an inordinate amount of adrenalin. Sourness permeates her mouth but swallowing is difficult. She paces the room, chanting, stopping still every now and then to bite a nail, scratch her neck, tug at her hair, alternately slap or stroke herself.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck what have I done oh God what have I done Max oh my God Max Max Max.

What about what he's done, Polly?

No no no ssh ssh music quick music what though what.

INXS, very loud and gloriously inappropriate, provides temporary distraction.

Go away, Miss Klee. Stop tapping at the door. I'm not going to tell you what day it is. I'm not going to turn the volume down.

‘It's eight o'clock, Sunday March 30th,' says Polly suddenly, pinching away the brown tips of her spider plant leaves almost vindictively. ‘No, it's
almost
eight, that's good, that's good. I bet Max'll phone in the next half hour. Yup. Yes.'

He doesn't.

‘He'll be here, then, nine – nine fifteen.'

It's nearing ten and he isn't.

Polly is on the verge of panic; she can feel it welling, like a drum roll becoming ever louder and more frenzied, like a bottle being filled from a too-fast tap. If she doesn't keep her mouth closed, she'll scream; if she cries, she will be unable to stop; if she stops to think, she will implode. So she paces; pacing's safe. Up and down the five stairs, in and out of rooms, into the toilet for no reason, opening the fridge door for no purpose.

Oh Godjesus fucking fucking Christ. What is going to happen? What happened? This wasn't supposed to happen. Max wasn't meant to be unfaithful. I never thought he would. Didn't know he could. Has he done it before? Might he do it again? Why hasn't he come? Called? Written? Maybe he's not sorry, maybe he wants me no more. No no no, it's not to be over. It can't be. That wasn't the idea, the plan.