Polly (14 page)

Suddenly, he pulled out, panting. They watched as his cock leapt and danced in dry ecstasy.

‘Quick.' He sounded hoarse.

She wriggled free of her knickers. The skirt could stay, it was small and flimsy and wouldn't get in the way. Its presence also made her seem all the more naked. She lay back, opened her legs and closed her eyes, anticipating the long overdue sensation. There. She could feel the head of his prick poke gently at her before easing its way in a little. Here.

God, it's been so long. It feels like it won't fit.

She felt tight but it served only to increase the exquisite intensity. She wondered if he was all the way in. He pushed.

Ah, not quite.

He thrust.

Oh God, there.

He held the top of her head while she wrapped her arms around his waist, grabbing her wrists securely. Their bodies were intertwined and absolutely glued. They humped into and against each other, grinding down, bucking up. He was so hard she swore she could feel his prick right in her stomach. She felt so tight and dark that he was sure he was within her for good. What a place to be! His head pushed into her neck, her lips at his shoulder. Their breathing was tense and audible and further increased the eroticism. As she came, she bit into him and cried out. It triggered his climax and his cock seemed to thrust itself even deeper, plunge even higher in its final drive.

It looked as if their bodies were to be eternally in spasm; the pleasure was so intense they wouldn't have cared if they were. They could see themselves in the mirror, in the reflection of the television too, in the panes of the glazed door and they watched awhile, marvelling. It was as if their bodies had been frozen in their final, orgasmic buck. They regarded themselves joined at the groin, heads locked together, mouths merged; space between their stomachs and torsos, legs all over the place.

‘Polly Polly,' he said, ‘welcome home.'

Polly opened her eyes. For an instant he did not know them, nor, it appeared, did they know him. Only for a moment, though; soon enough they melted into a rich olive green. Quick enough for him to discredit that second when they were strange and he was a stranger.

‘Hey Max,' she said.

‘He's missed you so, so much,' said Megan, spooning mounds of cappuccino foam into her mouth, ‘I think it's quite taken him by surprise – you know, the intensity of his longing.'

‘Bless,' sighed Polly gently, wondering which end of the chocolate éclair looked the most appetizing.

‘Want to go halves?' Megan asked hopefully, proffering the towering
mille-feuille
for Polly to assess.

‘Sure,' said Polly, her eyes sparkling. The éclair was far easier to divide than the
mille-feuille
so they devoured it swiftly before launching into Megan's plate with forks and fingers nimble.

‘'Sgood to be back,' said Polly quietly, looking around the West Hampstead coffee shop, their old haunt; smiling at the waitress, accepting a welcome-back wink from the owner.

‘It's probably what's kept you going out there,' Megan reasoned, ‘imagining how sweet the reunion would be. Was it dreamy?' she asked, bringing her head close, her eyes soft and hopeful. Polly nodded and then motioned to the waitress for a third round of cappuccinos. Megan retrieved her pocket diary, put on her glasses and ruffled through the pages; twiddling a biro in her lips, ‘so how long do you have?'

‘A fortnight,' Polly told her, taking the diary and starting from the back, ‘I go back on January the 4th. Here.'

‘Next year!' Megan proclaimed. ‘There – makes it sound an age away.'

Polly nodded but Megan found the gesture illegible.

I've never seen her so quiet. Can't still be jet lag?

‘Tell me about school,' said Polly, eager for a change of topic. She settled into the chair, took a sip of coffee and gazed at the passers-by scuttling along West End Lane under umbrellas. God it was dreary.

Where are the mountains? The colour? The vastness? The energy?

‘School,' pondered Megan, ‘is pretty much as you left it. They revarnished the floor at the beginning of term but sixty assemblies later it's sufficiently chipped and dinted to warrant redoing already.' Polly smiled as a clear picture of Lucy Howard's fingers ploughing the floor during prayers came to mind. Megan continued, telling her which teachers had been reduced to tears by Upper Four, how many detentions she had dished out and how many C-minuses she'd given in the end of term reports. ‘I gave Fanny Balcombe a D bracket-plus which was by far the most pleasurable thing I've done in ages, and I had to give Jenny Newman an A minus which was rather galling – she may be the most mischievous student in the school but her work is faultless. How about your young yankee doodles?'

Images of AJ and the two Bens, of Heidi and Forrest, of the Keats-weary seniors, the Dickens-wary Junos, the slang-ready seraphims, the angelic freshers, embraced Polly.

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, loading 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.