Polly (38 page)

‘What shall I do?' she asks, sitting on her heels and picking at bark. ‘What
can
I do? What's going to happen to me?' She listens hard but hears no advice.

I had it all worked out – without really thinking, actually. There'd be Max. Max and me. Now there isn't. At all. I've lost sight of all I used to see. Now I don't even know what to look for.

‘What's going to happen to me?'

The trees rustle very softly in night's slim breeze but no one answers her. No one can tell her what to do or what will happen. She daren't predict the future, not even what she would like to happen.

I did that before. Look where it landed me.

Having no inkling of her fate is fundamentally the most frightening thing. And it is very much a ‘thing', not a thought, for it is her current reality and she has created it for herself.

S
o, Polly has started truly to see the error of her ways. Chip is in Chicago and no longer a member of our cast list. And Max feels that a trip to America might be in order. Eight chapters to go and everything is heading towards a neat and tidy ending.

As long as Max can book a seat. As long as he still wants to. As long as, if and when he makes it there, he and Polly are indeed reconciled. Two weeks have passed and Megan's travel-agent friend's number still lies on top of the Post-it pad, by the phone in the kitchen, becoming ever more sploshed as the days go by.

Anyway, am I not forgetting something? Of course. Forgetting some
one
. Jen. Not really a memorable character but a key figure in this tale none the less, and still a potential spanner in the works. Has she had enough Chips in her life for a nourishing diet of Max to be what she desires? Will she hold on to him a little longer, with his permission? Maybe she won't let him go, certainly not on a peace mission to the States, maybe she'll entice him to stay.

So, Jen remains on the scene – how can she not? In Belsize Park, cat- and flat-sitting for Polly and taking her classes? And Polly torments herself that Jen may have appropriated Max too. Megan is a little concerned as well.

‘I guess you guys know?' Jen had said through the corner of a smile which, though small, was delineated with triumph. ‘About Max and I?' It was first break. First day of the summer term. Jen looked tanned and radiant, leaner than when she left, blonder too.

‘Me,' Megan had replied with a swift smile that was wholly non-committal. ‘Max and me.'

‘You?' said Jen.

‘Grammar,' shrugged Megan. The staff room was not a fitting location for such a conversation (well, with Polly, then perhaps; with Jen, certainly not) and, just then, Megan realized that she was not an appropriate participant.

Poor Jen Carter Woman. My loyalties are with Polly. I do not want the blonde statue to smile so connivingly. I will not help the foreign lesion. I don't want to know what's going on – if it is. Is it? Still? Should I tell Polly? Nope; change of slant.

‘Chip,' Megan said with confidence, as if the name Max belonged to no one she knew, so why should she even consider it.

‘History,' Jen replied, with a wink. ‘Max has seen to that. I owe it all to him. Can't wait to see him.'

Megan cleared her throat but found neither voice nor idea what to say. She couldn't even say ‘Max?' in a carefully contrived vague tone. Instead, she looked at her watch, rifled through a clutch of exercise books and did a good act at suddenly being most preoccupied with some fine detail of the Lower Fourth's homework.

‘Catch you later,' said Jen. Megan watched her leave the staff room.

Is that a swagger? Sweet Mother Mary help us, Polly especially, for I think it is.

‘Dom, I'm seriously worried; honestly, seriously – gravely.'

‘Megan, inamorata fantastico, what on earth about?'

‘Your brother – my alpha man supremico.'

‘Max?'

‘No, you.'

‘Hey?'

‘
You're
my main man magnificat. But I'm
worried
about your brother.'

‘Max?'

‘And Polly's locum.'

‘Jen?'

‘Yes. Worried. I am. Very.'

‘Why?'

‘Two things. Firstly, though I try to loathe her, to see her as the baddy, actually I feel for her, as well as feeling a bit guilty that we had some part in all of this. Secondly, I don't think once was enough for her – Jen. And I fear she has persuasively long legs, an influentially fit physique.'

‘I know what you mean.'

‘About her legs?'

‘Idiot woman. I feel uncomfortable too.'

‘Jen seems pretty set.'

‘I don't think Max wants more.'

‘You sure? Really? Thank God you think so. I was—'

‘Er, so I'm sure it's fine and innocent that he's gone over to Jen's. I'm sure it'll be a perfectly platonic dinner. Megan? Hey? You OK?'

‘I'm going home. Alone. How dare you? It's Polly's! It's
Polly's
place – not Jen's.'

As Max walked down Haverstock Hill to Belsize Park, he realized that the spring in his step was not so much in anticipation of seeing Jen, but from relief that Dominic had neither pried, nor judged, nor even employed anything but a totally normal tone of voice to say ‘OK, have a good evening'. As he neared the Screen on the Hill, Max wondered about suggesting the Woody Allen movie currently playing. As he passed the cinema, he decided against it. He was looking forward to seeing her, looking forward to company. He nipped into Budgens in search of flowers, or chocolates, but eschewed the browning carnations and cheap selection box for a tin of condensed milk for Buster. Smart. Subtle.

When Jen heard the doorbell, much anticipated, though Max was absolutely on time, she gave a little jump, checked her reflection though she knew it needed no attention and then went to answer the door with her most comely smile fixed in place and for the duration of the evening.

‘Hullo,' said Max, holding the tin of condensed milk aloft as if it was some password for swift entry.

‘Hey there,' said Jen, taking it from him, placing a hand on his shoulder and kissing him softly right on the edge of his mouth.

‘Evening, Miss Klee,' said Max as the old lady tottered her way down the stairs, obviously having been in as much anticipation of the doorbell as Jen herself.

‘Please,' she said, ‘to help me? What is this? What must I do? Should I phone this number? How much do they want me to pay?'

Max took her bundle of correspondence and leafed through it. Kindly, he laid an arm across her shoulders and explained that one was a bank statement two years old, another was a gas bill already paid and the pizza delivery service flyer needed no response unless she fancied a margherita with extra mushrooms. He led her back up to her flat, checked her radiators, unasked, and made sure she locked the door behind him. Emerging out on the landing, Max was faced with Mrs Dale and her face of thunder. She was livid enough not to speak – and why shouldn't she be, the communal lights had been on for at least five minutes. She knew so, even through the solid door to her flat. What are peep holes for?

‘Drunk!' was all she could finally find to hiss. Max tried not to smile but when she followed this with a venomously spat ‘you little sod', he could not help but laugh. However, the resultant whack from her bunch of keys, gathered together on a dangerously long shoelace like some cat-o-ninetails, was not expected and not amusing at all. Max was caught on the jaw bone and it hurt. Instantly, though, he knew not to touch his jaw or make a sound. He observed her with infuriating kindness while she panted with perverse excitement.

‘You,' he said, in a calm voice, ‘need help. I think I'll call Camden Council. But first, the police.' He had no intention of doing either but Mrs Dale wasn't to know and she scurried up to her flat in a whirl of colourful language muffled only once she had slammed the door. The communal light, however, remained on. Miss Klee, whose hearing was as sharp as her fleshless shoulders, was so excited that she ordered a pepperoni pizza by telephone and wrote a cheque to the gas board while she waited.

Jen guided Max into the flat.

‘You live in a madhouse,' he marvelled.

‘Here, let me see,' she murmured, her lips in line with his jaw. ‘Does it hurt?' She took her fingertips to it and left them there.

‘Ish,' Max reasoned, taking her wrist and gently removing her touch.

‘You want I fetch you some ice?'

‘Ice,' conceded Max, ‘would be nice. Please.'

Jen went to the kitchen and Buster, having regarded Max most witheringly, sauntered over to the cat flap. With a hearty headbutt, he heaved himself through, a disdainful flick of his tail being his last communication to Max that night. Max was alone, just for a moment, but for long enough to wonder whether he was alone at Jen's or at Polly's. Jen appeared from the kitchen, as if to answer his conundrum. She had mashed the ice, though he had not heard, and presented it to him, wrapped in a tea towel.

‘Here you go, poor baby.'

‘Thanks, thank you. No, it's OK, I can do it. I know where it hurts.'

‘I'll go see to the meal.'

‘Lovely,' said Max, thinking fleetingly of the nape of Polly's neck until the sight of Jen's bottom, just about clad in a small token of lycra, brought him back to the present with a bump – in his boxers. He went over to the mirror to scrutinize the damage. His jaw looked no different but, catching sight of his eyes, he could see the true damage quite clearly. Jen's call that dinner was ready rescued him away.

The pasta was very nice, the wine crisp and light, the Häagen-Dazs predictable but welcome.

‘So,' said Max, biting the bullet as he sucked on a lump of pralines and cream, ‘how did it go? When you were home? Did you see him? Chip, I mean?'

Jen replaced the spoonful nearing her mouth and regarded Max squarely.

‘Sure, I saw him – and realized what a total jerk he is. Damn hot to look at, but, like, a total no-brainer. I don't need him in my life.'

‘No regrets?' said Max through a suddenly raised pulse.

‘No siree,' said Jen, pulling her bottom lip very slowly through her top teeth.

‘Good,' said Max, a little awkwardly, ‘pleased to hear it. You deserve somebody really, you know, good.'

‘Know what? I guess I do,' said Jen in a soft drawl, as if the notion was new and very appetizing. Her lips were wet. Max tried not to notice. ‘I owe a lot to you, Max Fyfield,' she continued, venturing her hand to his wrist. Max tried not to hear and, as soon as Jen touched down, he took his hand to the back of his neck for an urgent rub of an imaginary itch.

‘Coffee?' she asked, though she might well have said ‘Cunnilingus?' for all Max's urgent protestations about it being late (just ten o'clock) and he was very full (supper had been Californian light) and that coffee might impede a much-needed good night's sleep (all caffeinated products were anathema to Jen). Max, however, had no excuses when a glass of juice was offered instead. Jen led him back to the sitting-room, swaying languidly as she went; Max followed, taking care to scrutinize the skirting boards and not the skirt. Kicking off her shoes, Jen coiled herself sinuously on the settee and patted the cushion for Max to sit himself beside her.

‘And Polly?' Jen asked, after a few minutes of silence save sipping.

‘In America,' Max stated.

‘You guys OK? Sorted stuff out?'

‘Well,' said Max with a sharp intake of breath, ‘if you can call taking a break a way of sorting stuff out, then yes, I suppose we are OK.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' said Jen genuinely, ‘real sorry.' She laid her hand very gently midway up Max's thigh but he could not decipher between sympathy (with which it was intended), and desire (the intention he imagined). ‘Oh well,' Jen continued, ‘I'm sure things'll work out for the best, hey?' She gave his leg a friendly squeeze, misread by Max as a suggestive clasp. He left the settee rather quickly and fiddled with the first thing that came to hand, a plunger corkscrew with unfortunate thrusting action.

‘Max,' Jen cooed, ‘you seem awful tense. Something up?'

‘Actually,' Max said clearly, ‘yes.'

‘Go ahead,' said Jen, relaxed and settled where she sat.

‘Look,' said Max, taking his seat beside her again and taking her hand between both of his, ‘I find you immensely attractive – a veritable magnet.'

‘Wow,' said Jen, highly flattered and licking her lips with delight. Max paused, as often he did, enabling him to compose his sentence so that, when spoken, its meaning was not misconstrued. His pause, however, lasted long enough for Jen to interject.

‘I owe so much to you,' she murmured with unbridled admiration, darting her eyes all over his face, his skin scorching wherever they alighted, ‘I don't know how I'll ever thank you.'

‘You can't,' Max responded immediately, ‘I'm sorry, I mean, don't worry about it, you know?'

‘Know what?' said Jen.

‘I mean,' Max said, ‘
I
can't. I
can't
. It was a one off. I'm sorry. I don't want to – again.'

Jen regarded him unflinchingly, scanning and scouring his face, unsuccessful in raising his downcast eyes. Then she laughed. She giggled. It was unaffected and infectious and spread relief through Max until he ventured his eyes to hers, his soft gaze requesting her explanation.

‘Oh Max,' Jen laughed, ‘
I
can't, also.
I
don't want to, either.' She took the corkscrew that Max still held and played with it subconsciously.

‘Pardon?' said Max, wondering how best to interject and proclaim his intentions – or lack of – in black and white, capital letters, once and for all.