A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  'Don't be dumb, Flint! She'd like to see some more of my films. Wouldn't you?' He turned to Polly who nodded enthusiastically. 'She can give me your twenty dollars then, too. Then we'll all be happy. He beamed at her, and, speechless with joy, she beamed back.

  By now they had reached the heavy front door. Flint opened it and firmly pushed Polly out on to the front steps. He turned back to his friend in the hall and she heard him hiss, 'For God's sake be careful, Dex. You don't know anything about this kid. You don't want to be saddled with some mindless flake who could become a nuisance.'

  'But she's a honey!' Dexter protested. 'Besides, I need a bit of extra admiration these days. The grind of this damn movie is really getting to me.'

  'Well, don't say I didn't warn you. She strikes me as the type that's hard to get rid of.'

  Polly felt the rosy colour flood her face, staining even the tips of her ears. If she had a gun she would have had no hesitation in shooting this hateful man dead on the spot!

  However, Dexter Grant paid no attention to his friend. He came out on to the steps and put his arm round her shoulder. Walking with her to the waiting cab he made a handsome, but incongruous figure in his short black judo robe.

  'Sunday then, sweetie!' he said, 'about threeish. Okay?'

  'Fine… wonderful…' she stuttered. She wondered how she would have reacted if someone had told her earlier that before the night was out Dexter Grant would have his arm around her shoulder. She would have laughed, probably, for it was beyond her wildest imaginings that she would even meet her favourite movie star… and now he had invited her to tea!

  She climbed into the back seat of the taxi and gave her address to the cabbie. Rolling down the window, she said, 'Thank you for the drink… and everything. It was almost worth being run down, just for the pleasure of meeting you.' She pointedly ignored Flint, who was standing on the top step, with his hands jammed into his pockets, his face like a thunder cloud.

  'You're a honey, Pretty Polly! Take care now. Ciao!' The actor waved and went up the front steps to where Flint was waiting.

  As the cab drove off Polly twisted in her seat to catch a last glimpse of her favourite star, but she was out of luck. All she saw were Flint's broad shoulders and gesticulating arms as he said something—almost certainly unpleasant—to Dexter's retreating back. She gave a sigh of exasperation, then brightened. Never mind! She had Sunday with her idol to look forward to. It was unlikely she would run across Flint McGregor again, and as far as she was concerned that was just fine! She would forget him. Put him out of her mind.

  But to her annoyance that was easier said than done, for every time she conjured up an image of Dexter, Flint was there too. Like a testy ghost who refused to be exorcised.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The time until Sunday passed on two levels for Polly. One fast, and one excruciatingly slow. She seemed to be collecting her last pay-packet and becoming unemployed again in no time flat, but the days until the moment when she would see Dexter dragged. But at least, she comforted herself, it gave her injured knees a chance to heal.

  When Polly had arrived home the night of her accident Marjorie had not yet returned, so she had been able to get to bed without having to face her mother. In the morning, disguising her stiff legs as best she could, she made light of the incident, telling Marjorie that she had met with a minor accident on her bike, and that "some people in a nearby house" had assisted her. She didn't go into any more details, and Marjorie didn't press her. Marjorie was still annoyed with her daughter, and was punishing her by putting her in a conversational deep freeze. If she had only known this suited Polly very well, since it left it her time to daydream about Dexter and Sunday's meeting!

  The heat had been building all week and by Sunday it was both hot and humid, with a sky the colour of dirty linen. After her usual gloomy examination of her wardrobe she settled on her denim wrap-skirt and a brown cotton blouse, because it was the coolest thing she had. She had toyed with the idea of buying a new dress for the occasion, but had felt it would have been too extravagant in view of her unemployed status. She had washed her hair that morning, but the damp air had made it so curly she could scarcely tug her comb through it. In an attempt at tidiness, and in a effort to stay cool, she plaited it into a thick braid that hung down her back in a gleaming rope. Then she polished her sturdy black leather sandals, slung her nylon bag over her shoulder, and set off, feeling quite numb with expectation.

  At the entrance to Dexter's house she stopped in her tracks. The drive was clogged with parked cars, people spilled out of the house and sprawled on the lawn, and the swimming-pool echoed with splashes and laughter.

  Had she mistaken the day? No way! "Sunday… threeish" was engraved on her heart in letters of gold! Her first instinct was to turn and run, but practicability stopped her. She needed her bicycle. She couldn't afford to go on taking public transport. Steeling herself, she made her way to the open front door. A girl dressed in white satin shorts, a wisp of turquoise cotton over her small breasts, was coming from the area of the kitchen. Her brown midriff—the colour of ancient Etruscan terracotta—looked very familiar.

  'Can I help you?' the girl asked, her dark eyes sweeping over Polly, taking in the stiff blue skirt and mannish shirt.

  'Is Mr. Grant anywhere around? I've come about my bike…' Gone were all thoughts of invitations of tea.

  'Your bike?' The girl raised her beautifully pencilled eyebrows.

  'Yes, it's been repaired… I had an accident.' Suddenly Polly knew why this lovely girl's middle was familiar. This was the girl in the suntan advertisement! The advertisement that was on every subway station in Toronto. The advertisement that had driven Marjorie into a frenzy of spray-painting!

  'Dex!' the girl shouted back into the region of the kitchen. 'Dex! There's someone here to see you about a bicycle.' She looked back at Polly. Her gaze wasn't unfriendly, but she didn't invite her to cross the threshold.

  Dexter Grant, two tall frosted tumblers in his hands, backed out of the kitchen swing-doors. He passed one of the tumblers to the dark girl. 'Here you are, Sable—your rum and O.J. Now, what's this about a bike?'

  The girl indicated Polly standing hot and embarrassed on the doorstep. 'She says she's come to pick up her bike.' She giggled, 'What have you been up to, Dexter?'

  The movie star took a step towards Polly, and to her dismay she could tell from the blank look in his eyes that he didn't remember her from a hole in the ground! Cheeks burning, she said, 'Remember, Mr. Grant? I was run down outside your house. You sent me home in a taxi, and—'

  'Sure! I remember now!' The penny had dropped. 'You hurt your knees. Er…' he scrambled desperately for her name, 'Dolly, isn't it?'

  'Polly—Polly Slater. I'm sorry to disturb you, but—'

  'Hell, you're not disturbing me, sweetie! Grab yourself a drink and join the party.'

  'No, really—I'll just get my bike.' Under the disappointment she was beginning to feel a slow burn of indignation.

  'I wouldn't know where it is, honey.' She should have known that he was above such mundane things. 'Wai might know, but he's cooking right now. Go and get a drink like a good girl, and when he's finished you can ask him. Sable will show you where the bar is.' He flashed his famous smile at the willowy brunette and returned to the kitchen, leaving the two women alone in the hall.

  'Honestly! He really is the living end!' the girl exclaimed. She came closer, and with a pang Polly saw that she was about five foot ten, slender as a thread, and much, much more beautiful than she appeared on the billboards. 'My name's Sable Winter,' she said, smiling, 'and you're Polly—right?' Polly nodded. 'You must excuse his lousy manners,' she jerked her head back towards the interior of the house. Her jet black hair was cut short in a sleek cap. 'I don't think he's ever been properly house-trained. And of course he's an actor! Need I say more?' she smiled. It was an infectious grin, and in spite of her disappointment Polly grinned back. She liked this lovely girl, who was very friendly, now
that the first cautious introductions had been made.

  'Let's go and get that drink,' suggested Sable. She led the way across the lawn, her long brown legs scissoring to and fro.

  'No—really. I don't think…' Polly bleated as she tried to keep up. Chasing after this glorious creature, she felt like a tug wallowing behind a sleek liner.

  Sable disregarded her protests, and soon they passed through the gate to the pool area, where the bar was set up. 'Here we are,' said Sable, 'name your poison.'

  The man behind the bar was stooping to open a crate of soft drinks, so that all Polly could see at first was a pair of wide shoulders and a glint of red hair. Then he straightened up. A pair of electric blue eyes looked straight into Polly's.

  'Well, well, well!' Flint said, 'if it isn't demon biker!'

  'Oh, you've met, have you?' said Sable. 'Then I'll leave her in your care, Flint, and go help Dex in the kitchen.' For all her friendliness she seemed very anxious to get away. 'Bye, now!' she trilled, waving an exquisitely manicured hand.

  'As I recall, you drink Scotch and soda, is that right?' There was a glint of malice in Flint's blue eyes.

  Polly shrieked, 'No!' then recovered herself and added, with what she hoped was dignity, 'it's—er—it's a little too early for me yet. Maybe a ginger ale, or some soda water?'

  Flint poured the bubbly ginger ale into a long slim glass, dropped ice into it and handed it to her. She had to admit that if it hadn't been for his distinctive colouring she would hardly have recognised him. The beard was gone, and his wild mane, though not exactly sleek, had been cut and tamed into submission. He was dressed in a faded blue shirt and a pair of cream linen pants. Not exactly trendy, but pressed and crisp as newly minted money.

  'I can't offer you tea as promised,' he said, 'so this will have to do.'

  She was surprised that he had remembered. It was more than Dexter had done. 'I really only want to collect my bike. But nobody knows where it is. Oh, and to pay you back!' She fumbled in her purse and pulled out an envelope containing a twenty-dollar bill.

  'Thanks!' He stuffed the envelope into his shirt pocket. 'You got home all right, then?'

  Before she could reply, a bikini-clad girl came up to the bar. She held out her empty glass, and laughing up at Flint said, 'More of the same, please, Flint baby.' She did not acknowledge Polly's presence by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. 'When are you going to bare that gorgeous torso and join me in the pool?'

  'Not this time around.' He was pleasant, but not encouraging. 'I didn't expect a party, so I didn't bring swimming trunks.'

  'Swim without them, lover,' leered the girl. 'I won't object.'

  Flint started to pour from a bottle of white wine. 'Excuse me,' he said to Polly, 'I got stuck with this job when Wai went in to prepare the food, and it doesn't leave much time for socialising.'

  'I don't expect you to socialise,' Polly replied, walking away from the bar.

  Flint called after her, 'See you later!'

  'I doubt it!' She gave him a stiff little smile. 'As soon as I find my bike I'm off.'

  She marched resolutely through the chattering crowd. She was very upset. For some reason the discourteous behaviour of the scantily clad girl seemed to be the last straw, and Polly had to swallow hard to control her anger. She found a garden chair under a tree that grew close to the wall of the house, a good distance from the party, and she sat there watching the antics of the careless, beautiful people, who reminded her of a flock of brightly coloured birds as they laughed and played together.

  She was utterly miserable, her ginger ale tasted sickly, and the oppressive weather was beginning to make her head ache. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Her whole body felt sticky with the heat. And to think she had been dreaming all week of Sunday afternoon! She had imagined herself sitting again in the study, a tea-tray on the chrome and glass table between them, as Dexter told her of his experiences in the theatre. It would have been the beginning of a friendship between herself and the actor. With him as mentor and her in the role of adoring acolyte. Well, there wasn't much chance of that, he hadn't even remembered her name, let alone his invitation!

  Suddenly she made up her mind to collect her bicycle another day. She would leave—now! She wouldn't stay here another moment.

  She poured the ginger ale on to the ground, and, carefully leaving the empty glass on a nearby window-sill, she almost ran to the front gate, where she collided headlong with Flint McGregor.

  'Don't you ever look where you're going?' he said, steadying her.

  'Sorry—I was just leaving—I didn't see you.'

  'Did you find your bike?'

  'No… no. I'll come back another day and get it.' She tried to free herself, but he kept his hands on her shoulders and looked intently into her face.

  'Let's go look for it,' he said, turning her back to the house. She protested, but he merely tucked her arm firmly under his. 'Come on! Don't dawdle.'

  They entered the hall, which was carpeted with pale grey broadloom. A marble pedestal holding a large black onyx egg stood in a recess, but apart from this the place was stark and bare of ornaments.

  Flint pushed her through the swing doors into the kitchen. This room was as brightly lit as a lamp showroom. A track of spotlights was trained on the working area, and the illuminated chrome and steel made Polly blink with the reflected glare. An Oriental man, wrinkled as a walnut, was taking a tray of hot hors d'oeuvres from a wall oven. Dexter and Sable were sitting at the large glass kitchen table, which was loaded with an assortment of bottles and mixes—replenishments for the poolside bar, presumably. They looked up as Flint, pushing the reluctant Polly ahead of him, entered.

  'Hi! Need more booze at the bar?' Dexter asked his friend.

  'I wouldn't know. I let some other sucker take over that job,' said Flint, 'I just dropped by for some advice originally, remember? I didn't know you were throwing a party.'

  Dexter corrected him. 'Not a party. Just a few guys over from the set.'

  'Some of the guys are wearing pretty neat bikinis,' Flint grinned. 'But before I go, Polly here wants to know what you've done with her bike.'

  'What I've done with it!' Dexter looked blank.

  Flint turned to the Chinese house-boy who was arranging the hors d'oeuvres on a silver platter. 'Do you know what's happened to it, Wai? Did you chop it up and use it in those things?' He indicated the tray of piping-hot goodies.

  Wai's grin nearly split his face in two. 'No, Mr. Flint. I not do that. Young lady's bicycle in garage behind car. These oyster patties not made with bicycles.' He giggled and held out the tray. 'Try one, Mr. Flint. They good.'

  'I can guarantee that,' Sable reached out her slender hand for one of them, then nodded to Polly. 'Try one. They're great!'

  But even though the flaky triangles made her mouth water, Polly was eager to get away. She shook her head determinedly, so that the thick braid down her back swung from side to side.

  'No, thanks. I really must be going.'

  But Dexter intervened. 'Aw, come on, sweetie! Try one,' he said, 'you'll hurt Wai's feelings if you don't.'

  'Thank you.' Polly took one and bit into it. It was like biting into a buttered cloud, the filling both creamy and aromatic. The cook in Polly got the better of her reserve. 'This is fabulous!' she spluttered with her mouth full, 'I've never tasted anything so delicious.'

  Wai grinned even wider and offered them all the tray again before leaving to distribute the appetisers among the guests outside.

  'You've made his day,' Sable remarked. 'He's very proud of his cooking.'

  Dexter was looking puzzled. 'What's eating you, Flint?'

  'No doubt it's slipped your famous memory that you invited Polly for tea today. Tea, and an orgy of taped performances by Dexter Grant.'

  Dexter asked Polly, 'Did I promise that?' and when she nodded shyly he looked at her as if she were the only person in the room and applied his well-known charm. 'Sweetie, I'm so sorry. I've just been so busy�
��will you ever forgive me?'

  This, from her idol, melted all Polly's resentment. 'It doesn't matter—really…' she glowed, brushing a flake of pastry from her shirt.

  'Really, Dexter!' Sable remonstrated. 'You are the pits! He does this frequently,' she explained, 'you mustn't take it personally.'

  'I don't,' Polly assured her. She was now filled with happiness. She even forgave Flint for his interference.

  'Nice performance, Dex!' The corners of Flint's mouth lifted sardonically. 'Now that's all settled I'll be on my way' He made for the door.

  'Don't rush away, Flint,' said Sable, sipping delicately at her rum and orange, 'we've not seen you for months. It's not friendly to go tramping off all over India for months at a time, and then be unsociable when you come home.'

  'It was Nepal, and it was only six weeks,' Flint grinned, 'but, okay, I'll stay for a bit. Do you still fancy a cup of tea?' he asked Polly. 'Because if you do I'll join you.' She nodded, and he went to the sink and filled the kettle.

  In spite of herself Polly was intrigued. What on earth had Flint been doing in Nepal? It sounded so adventurous, and was a far. cry from her first impression of him. She was about to ask him for details, when Dexter said loudly, 'You two can swill tea if you want, but I'm going to have another drink.'

  'I'll get it for you, Dex,' Sable said, taking his glass, and Polly noticed that she poured in a very small amount of alcohol before topping it up with orange juice from a thermos jug.

  'Thanks a bundle, Sable!' exclaimed Dexter. He reached across Sable to the bottle of rum and poured himself a generous tot in a fresh glass. There was a tense pause while the movie star took a deep swallow, smacked his lips appreciatively, then said to Polly, 'Do you work in our business, honey?'

  'Nothing as exciting as that. I'm a typist—at least I was. I'm looking for a job at the moment.' She felt dreadfully inadequate, admitting this, but Dexter hardly seemed to take it in. She was beginning to notice that Dexter asked personal questions, but he wasn't really interested in the replies.