Polly Page 11

  How can I begin to tell her?

  ‘Hey?’ Megan asked, taking her finger to the rim of the cup, scooping at the stubborn froth.

  ‘They’re something else,’ said Polly dreamily, shaking her head and smiling in a distant sort of way.

  ‘And The Lorna Woman?’

  ‘We’ve gotten quite close,’ Polly declared.

  ‘You’ve what!’ Megan exclaimed. Polly looked shocked and reached her hand to her friend.

  ‘God, it doesn’t belittle our friendship,’ she stressed.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Megan clarified, ‘it’s what you said.’

  ‘What did I say?’ Polly asked, racking her brains.

  ‘That word – you know – an American one!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Not that one – though you’re overusing that too, I might add – no, you said “gotten”. Gracious, Polly Fenton, scrub out that gob!’

  Polly laughed. ‘I like it,’ she justified. ‘Anyway, its origins are Old English so there. I’m talking fourteenth century.’

  Funny how over there I’m all BBC World Service – and yet back here, I’m pure Yankee Doodle Dandy.

  Megan conceded defeat graciously but shot a worried glance at Polly that went unnoticed.

  Quietly, she knew she could not continue to blame jet lag for Polly’s distance. So what was causing it?

  ‘Anyway,’ Megan continued brightly, ‘Max missed you to bits. I’ve spoken to him once a week on average.’

  ‘Buster hasn’t,’ rued Polly. ‘He asked me to marry him,’ she suddenly announced. ‘He proposed just before I left.’

  ‘Buster?’

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the Disciples!’ Megan exclaimed, standing up and then sitting back down, ‘why ever did you not tell me till now!’ She was beaming and her eyes watered. Polly smiled from one corner of her mouth.

  ‘It made me feel too far away whenever I thought about it,’ Polly replied truthfully. Megan considered this and then nodded. ‘So I am to be your bridesmaid, yes? Let’s see, I’d rather like shot silk in burgundy. A column of it – cut for maximum cleavage exposure. And I’ll wear my hair down and all gypsified. And I’ll carry a single ivory rose – I’m not really the posy type. Let’s go to Paris for your hen night. I’ll come to John Lewis and help you choose your wedding list – loads of Le Creuset and fine Egyptian cotton. Oh Polly! Polly Fentonfyfield!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Polly. Megan pulled Polly’s hair and pinched her on the arm.

  ‘Perhaps, she says! My arse!’

  ‘I have to accept first,’ Polly explained, ‘I have to say “yes” to Max.’

  ‘What! You haven’t said “yes”? When did he ask? Why haven’t you, you dizzy cow!’

  ‘I am a dizzy cow,’ said Polly forlornly. Suddenly she looked small, confused and sad. Weary too. It upset Megan, who was still flabbergasted that Polly hadn’t yet snapped the boy up with a million ‘yes please’s.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked quietly instead. Polly nodded and blinked away tears quickly, but not quick enough for Megan not to have noticed.

  ‘I’m just tired,’ Polly said. ‘Must be the jet lag.’

  Max and Dominic are in Waitrose. Extravagant, maybe, but Christmas three days away is reason enough. They cut a nice pair in this woman-dominant environment and housewives nudge each other as their trolleys pass.

  He could pick my fruit! He could stuff my basket! I’d like to take him down an aisle or two! I wouldn’t mind packing him! Bet he could deliver the goods!

  The boys are oblivious: there is a job in hand and they’ve forgotten their list though it took most of the previous evening to compile. Consequently, they are making slow progress up and down the aisles. They cannot distinguish between goods that they need and those which merely tickle their fancy. Thus a packet of Cape gooseberries, taste unknown, is chosen because Dominic, who is slightly dyslexic, misreads them as ‘syphilis’ and thinks them a hoot. They also fill a large section of the trolley with ‘something for Justin’. They often shop for Justin: just-in-case essentials, such as frozen pizzas, ready-made garlic bread, jars of Korma and Madras sauces and boil-in-the-bag rice.

  ‘Gotta hava boxa Bud,’ Dominic chants, disappearing down an aisle and out of sight, while Max stands in awe of the herb and spice selection. Max journeys on, choosing the darkest, cold-pressed olive oil because he’s well informed that it is worth the extra four pounds. And its colour reminds him of Polly’s eyes when she’s particularly tired. Or sad. Or angry. Or worried. He has also read his Delia Smith, has our Max, and the realization that cooking may not be as complicated as he previously thought is very pleasing. He’ll be cooking up a feast while Polly’s home, veritable banquets fit for his queen.

  Dominic returns, laden with a bumper-size carton of Budweiser beer. Max shoots him a withering look in jest and goes in search of Semillon-Chardonnay. When he returns, Dominic can hardly wait to show him the chocolate Rice Krispie cake he came across.

  ‘Remember these? Joy of holy joys. Polly coming Christmas Eve and Boxing Day too?’ he asks. Max nods. Dominic adds three more Rice Krispie cakes to the trolley for good measure and in spite of his brother’s raised eyebrow.

  ‘Are we agreed on wild mushroom risotto for Christmas Eve, duck on Christmas Day and, er, frozen pizzas and garlic bread on Boxing Day?’ he asks Dominic.

  ‘Agreed,’ his brother confirms.

  ‘I thought I’d try trifle,’ Max continues, ‘with this mascarpone stuff.’

  ‘Use whatever you like – just as long as it’s boozy,’ Dominic nods. ‘Where’s Polly today?’

  ‘With Megan. She’s meeting us at the flat for lunch.’

  ‘Megan too?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘The luscious Ms Reilly,’ Dominic muses, ‘will she be around over the festive period? Might this be my chance to wield my mistletoe with gay abandon in her direction? In her nether region? Might this be my chance just to take her out for a drink at any rate?’

  ‘I do believe she’s captured your heart,’ Max commented nonchalantly.

  ‘No,’ Dominic dismissed him, rather too breezily, whilst taking great interest in the Schwartz spices, ‘just my imagination.’

  ‘Well,’ Max said, ‘I’m afraid she’s going home to Limerick.’

  ‘There was a young lad called Max,’ Dominic begins, holding up a packet of iced buns for his brother’s approval, ‘what rhymes with Max?’

  ‘Fax,’ suggests Max, nodding vigorously at the cakes, ‘wax, tax, thorax.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Dominic muses. ‘There was a fine cad called Dom – who, da da da da – help.’

  ‘Aplomb,’ proposes Max, taking a packet of frozen spinach, removing the bag of fresh from the trolley and surreptitiously placing it amongst the sliced bread, ‘who seduced with panache and aplomb.’

  ‘He —’ Dominic stumbles, ‘go on?’

  ‘He thought with his dick.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Which soon made the girls sick.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘So they’d turn for their pleasure to Tom.’

  ‘Who the hell is Tom?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Max, ‘but he rhymes.’

  The Fyfields are at the check-out being checked out by the cashiers and customers alike.

  ‘There was a young girl called Polly,’ Dominic starts in a whisper, ‘Who at Christmas wore nothing but holly.’ Max chuckles as he unloads the trolley. ‘A sprig or two there,’ Dominic continues, ‘was all that she’d wear.’

  ‘She’d make your eyes water, by golly!’ Max concludes. It was so easy to imagine Polly decorated with the festive shrub, Max finishes the packing with a wry smile and a faraway gaze. Dominic prods him in the direction of the lift to the basement car park.

  ‘Not a lot rhymes with Megan or Meg,’ rues Dominic, bleeping the central-locking system of his Peugeot into life.

  ‘Just as well, really,’ says Max, load
ing the shopping into the boot.

  When the brothers arrived home, Polly had been and gone. She left a note apologizing for breaking their lunch invitation but explained that she was full of cake and all talked out. She’d gone back home for a rest, she wrote, and would return later. Dominic could sense Max’s disappointment. Historically, Polly would gladly await the return of the Fyfields from the supermarket because unpacking shopping was an activity she loved and they loathed.

  ‘Jet lag,’ he said to Max with a wise nod.

  ‘Yes,’ said Max quietly, holding the olive oil up to the light.

  As he unpacked the shopping, he reprimanded himself for his melancholia.

  It took a lot of bottle for her to go to the States in the first place. She was homesick at first, wasn’t she? She spent the rest of term working hard on acclimatizing and she succeeded – I know because her letters became so much more narrative and factual than the very early ones of scumbled emotions. And now she’s home, back where she started, back where she wants to be, but only for a fortnight.

  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.

  TWELVE

  Polly 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, som
ething 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.