Polly (27 page)

‘Why shouldn't it be?' Dominic replies. ‘What's the harm and where's the temptation?'

‘True,' says Megan, her mind now meandering on to all the tempting things she could do to Dominic once they'd walked off the pancakes.

Jen and Max sat and watched the ten o'clock news.

‘Hey, I gotta get going,' Jen said, when the news came to a feature on public utilities privatization, ‘it's a school night, after all.'

‘You can't go now,' Max remonstrated, ‘we have to wait for
And Finally
.'

‘And finally,' said Trevor MacDonald, right on cue, ‘don't turn your nose up at mould. Thomas Wilson, a mechanic from Seaton in Devon, has found that it can form the basis of a fabric close to cashmere. Jenny Logan reports.'

Max and Jen regarded each other, wrinkled their noses and shook their heads.

‘I'll walk you back,' said Max.

‘No problem,' said Jen with a nonchalant shrug.

‘I insist – anyway, I have a gut full of pancakes to walk off.'

‘Heck – and I thought you were just being gentlemanly.'

‘Did you take Jen home?' Dominic asks the next evening, juggling hot baked potatoes from oven to plate.

It's an innocent question.

‘Yup. We walked,' Max replies, with no aside.

‘Nice girl,' Dominic says.
Come on mate, respond
.

Max nods behind his hand, fanning the scalding potato which fills his mouth and makes speech impossible.

‘Why don't we all go to the films on Saturday?' Dominic proposes lightly.

It's an innocent suggestion.

‘That'd be fun,' says Max slightly breathlessly, having downed a pint-glass of water in one.

Quite the cosy little foursome.

W
ho is Jen Carter? This Jen Carter Person who slept with Max behind our backs? Or rather when we were preoccupied watching other things. Who is the person behind the tall and good-looking exterior: straight, tanned figure, straight white teeth and straight blonde hair? You'll find a good teacher, a great athlete and a friendly personality but you won't find much more. There's little to dislike about Jen but there's not much to go wild for either; she's amicable without being enchanting, she's easygoing but not dull.
Nice
is the most appropriate word because, like Jen, it is rather ordinary, a little unimaginative, not hugely expressive and oughtn't to surface too often.

She's a deceptive strawberry, is Jen Carter. You'd pick her from the punnet, with her promising exterior, but a bite reveals a taste that is merely pleasant. Often the smaller fruit, even that with a touch of greenness around the outer edge, will offer such sweetness to make your jaw sting. Sometimes, though, that's just too much; sometimes a non-committal taste is all that is desired. At least you know where you stand with
nice
.

And Chip?

They've been together since summer term last year.

That
long
?

Is she really Mr Jonson's type?

Jen Carter was indeed easy prey. But, you see, she is also a fabulous lay. Once he had her, Chip didn't have to try very hard to keep her; she wouldn't be going anywhere, Why should she? She felt that. He knew that. Like mint-choc-chip ice-cream – if you like it, why bother to taste a different flavour? Stick with MCC. Like Nike Air trainers – if the fit is good, why change to Reebok? Like teaching English at Hubbardtons Academy – if you enjoy the job, why should you want to look for another elsewhere? Jen is not apathetic, she's simply nice and uncomplicated and that's how she likes her life to be too. She's always veered away from complications in favour of what's known.

Why meddle if it ain't broken, hey?

Say they're out of mint-choc-chip ice-cream?

Never gonna happen.

Say your feet change and Nike are no longer comfortable.

My feet won't change – they're my feet for Chrissake.

Say your contract at Hubbardtons Academy is not renewed.

Why wouldn't it be? Everything's cool.

That's probably the problem – a little too cool. And yet she sparkled at Max Fyfield, she made a bee-line for him in Budgen's. Ask her why and she'll just shrug and say he's a nice guy, he's cute.

Even Megan, initially keen to find fault in this girl proposing to masquerade for a year as Polly, found nothing to dislike apart from elements of pronunciation and these were more of an irritant anyway. Megan was pleased for Jen to join her, Dominic and Max for Sunday strolls, Monday movies and sometimes supper on Saturdays. She was happy to share her space in the staff room with her and was grateful for the education in low-fat matters and conversion to decaffeinated coffee.

‘What's coffee without caffeine?' Max queried with visible horror which he hoped was not impolite but which he could not help anyway.

Like a log-effect gas fire. Or skimmed milk. Or strawberry flavouring.

Now, Chip might be the epitome of Cute, but how Good he is, is a matter of some debate. He told Powers Mateland that he and Jen had broken up long before he informed Jen of the fact, but just before he jumped into the hydrotherapy pool with Polly (or, rather, jumped Polly in the jacuzzi). When Jen phoned him a week before the end of term to give him her flight details, he decided that now was as good a time as any. First, though, he would tell her about his new job in Chicago. He congratulated himself, thinking this very diplomatic, believing the one substantiated the other and would therefore lessen the blow each might have on Jen.

‘I'm going to Chicago.'

‘You can't meet me at Logan?'

‘Sure, I can meet you – but I'm going to Chicago. I got a great job there. I think we should break up.'

‘Hullo?' said Megan into her telephone receiver. ‘Hullo?'

‘Who is it?' Dominic whispered, sidling up to her on the sofa, wondering what should crease Megan's lovely forehead so. Megan shrugged and smiled. ‘Hullo?' she said again. She heard scuffling and a gasp. ‘Look,' she barked, ‘if this is some heavy-breathing effort, it's pathetic and it isn't working – you sound more like a snivelling child.'

‘Do you want me to—?' asked Dominic, gesturing the cutting of a throat. Megan shook her head but held the receiver out a little so he could hear for himself.

‘Megan?'

‘Hullo?'

‘It's Jen.'

‘God, I thought you were a heavy-breathing snivelling kid.'

‘I'm snivellin' all right. I got no heating and no boyfriend.'

Megan listened patiently to a round of heaving, shivering sobs.

‘Do you want to come over?' she asked gently, surprising herself that actually she wouldn't mind.

‘No,' Jen sniffed.

‘Would you like me to come over to you?' Megan prodded, realizing that she did feel for the girl.

‘No,' Jen wailed.

‘Would you like Max to come and fix your heating?' asked Dominic, taking the phone.

‘Yes,' sobbed Jen, ‘I'm so damned cold.'

Megan went to put the pasta on while Dominic dialled Max's studio.

Chump – or whatever his name is – chucks Jen. Polly's not been heard from for three weeks. Polly and Chunk are in the same place. Max the Forgotten and Jennifer the Jilted are in the same place too.

Nah!

Too corny to be credible.

‘Max?'

I shouldn't encourage. It's none of my business.

‘Dom.'

‘Heating's down in Polly's flat.'

Go and make Jen feel warm. It'll do you good too.

‘Shit. Did you tell her to tap the boiler to the rhythm of
Another One Bites The Dust
?'

‘No – I couldn't remember which Queen tune it was – I was going to suggest
We Will Rock You
.'

‘Wouldn't work – I went through their entire backlist until I struck success. OK, I'll go and give the boiler a whack.'

‘Cheers.'

‘You home later?'

‘Depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On what Megan has to offer for pudding.'

Max had the boiler working and his idiosyncratic technique soon had Jen smiling. Max regarded her; eyes red and hair hanging limply, smile worn on the exterior of her face alone. She looked vulnerable and tired and he felt compelled to stay; just a while. It was nine o'clock. A quiet chord chimed somewhere at the back of his mind.

‘You OK?'

‘Sure,' said Jen, turning away.

‘Sure?' Max pressed.

‘I got chucked,' Jen explained, holding aloft a jar of coffee and raising her eyebrows at Max. He could see that it was decaffeinated but he accepted with a gracious nod, knowing that Jen was offering the beverage in return for an understanding ear. ‘You know?' she said. ‘Ditched. Chip finished with me. He's going to Chicago.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Max said kindly, hoping that lots of milk would make up for the lack of caffeine. ‘Was it out of the blue?'

‘I guess,' said Jen, ‘I mean, he's been a little distant – hardly phones, doesn't write much. But, like, he swore things were cool. And, heck, I believed him – had no reason not to.'

Max wondered whether the milky coffee was the cause of his sudden queasiness. He usually took it black. Caffeinated. Real and strong.

‘If it's any consolation,' he said quietly, ‘Polly's been a little, um,
off
too, recently.'

‘Yeah, but is she moving to Chicago?'

‘Er, no.'

‘And has she finished with you?'

‘Well, no.'

Jen shrugged and rested her case, resting her head in her hands. Max wanted to reach to her, to offer some comfort but stopped himself in favour of decorum and a hopefully soothing, ‘Poor you – it obviously wasn't meant to be.'

‘I don't want to go home,' Jen rued, ‘can you believe that?'

Max considered this and then nodded. ‘I can understand – because, I suppose, it's where the reality of your life is indisputable. And that very fact is probably what most frightens you – am I right?'

Though Jen's smile was still small, it ran a little deeper. She took her hand to Max and he placed his other over the top of hers in comfort and support.

‘Thanks Max,' said Jen, a slight sparkle temporarily lifting the dullness of her eyes.

Max Fyfield is the hero of our story. At this stage, Polly is merely our female lead for there is little heroic to commend her or elevate her status.

Max had no idea that, four days after holding Jen's hand over Polly's pine table, he would be having sex with her. And on the pine table too. He had no idea because he had no premeditated desire to, he had hatched no plan, no notion tickled his fancy. That's Max all over, honourable and trusting, fancying only Polly and hanging on patiently until he can tickle her fancy again. There is no ounce of scheming within him, not a bad bone in his body apart from his collar bone which he has broken twice in rugby. Perhaps it is because Max is so trusting that those around him trust him so, that he is revered and adored and gravitated towards. Max is so strong, isn't he? That's why those close to him know they can turn to him in their hours of need. Max doesn't have hours of need, does he? Doesn't need them. He's far too capable, mature and steady. Good job, really, because it would be absolutely devastating to see him otherwise. It would be like seeing your father cry. It would be like a king saying he couldn't cope. It would be like a fireman announcing he had lost his nerve. It would be unthinkable. Max is dependable, all who know him depend on it.

Now Polly we know to be inherently good, we know her potential to flow with love and passion, but she needs to shape up, she needs to be shown the error of her ways, she needs to feel utterly wretched; moreover, she deserves to. And yet, because it is Polly who has come across Max
in flagrante
, ironically – and perhaps unfairly – it is Max who will initially suffer sickening guilt. He will torment himself: how could he do this to her? He will chastise himself: what has she done to deserve it? He will feel utterly wretched. That Max will suffer is patently unfair, but the knowledge of his pain should hasten Polly's recovery, her restoration.

Would it appease his guilt if Polly was to admit to her crime? Or should she heed Kate's caution at all costs? What should she do? What are they going to do? What's going to happen? What do we want to happen? Wait. First, Max's interlude with Jen must be given appropriate lineage. We owe it to Max. He has every right to have his sexual prowess chronicled. From Polly's passion for Chip, one might very well wonder if Max's bedroom manners are somehow lacking. This is certainly not the case. Just ask Jen.

‘Thanks a bunch, Max,' said Jen as she saw Max to the door; the flat and her spirit now sufficiently warmed.

‘No problem,' Max responded. He smiled benevolently. ‘You look after yourself – just call if you need anything, honestly. I'm a good listener
and
a good plumber.'

‘Hug?'

‘Sorry?'

Jen shrugged and cocked her head, ‘I could sure use a hug,' she repeated, turning the palms of her hands for emphasis.
Hug
was a word Polly never used, she favoured
cuddle
, invariably requested in suitably babyish tones. Max was taken aback – not so much at the concept but at the sudden fact that a hug with Jen was actually very appealing and cuddles with Polly were at once dismissed.

Jen and Max hugged tenderly for a moment before Max made to pull away, presuming the action to be as short as the word, certainly a single gesture. However, the slightest pressure at the back of his neck from Jen's wrists invited and decided him to stay put a while longer. He closed his eyes and made an involuntary murmur in his throat which, to his relief, also sounded deceptively like platonic comfort. He stroked Jen's back in a consoling kind of way, while subconsciously logging the feel of her for future contemplation.