A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  Flint asked sharply, 'Are you any good?'

  'I've not had any complaints,' she said.

  'You are looking for a job though?' He poured boiling water into a modern glass teapot and set it on the table. 'What kind of work are you looking for?'

  'I do temporary work. "Office Overload" jobs. Typing mostly,' unconsciously she quoted her mother, 'while I sort out what to do with my life.'

  Flint sat himself down opposite her. 'It is possible?' he said, looking at her speculatively. 'I wonder…'

  Polly's hackles rose. What did that mean? Did he query that fact that she might have a future? She glared across the table at him and said, 'It's my ambition to become a qualified cook.'

  'Then why don't you?' asked Flint, pouring tea into two white mugs and passing one to Polly, 'if that's what you really want.'

  'My mother doesn't want me to,' Polly confessed. Too late she realised that this sounded incredibly juvenile. Her normally pink cheeks flushed red. 'She doesn't think it's—well—good enough for me,' she explained, feeling disloyal to Marjorie now, as well as childish.

  'You know, sweetie,' Dexter smiled over the rim of his glass, 'I've always been driven by ambition an' I gotta tell you something,' he finished his rum in one gulp and banged the glass dramatically on the table. 'You pay for ambition with your blood! I know—I've been there.' He smiled muzzily, satisfied that the conversation was again about himself.

  'Talking of blood,' Flint remarked, 'National World Magazine will have mine if I don't get my Nepal article in by the end of the month. Which brings us to my problem—'

  'Havin' trouble writing it?' Dexter cut in nastily. 'It figures. I always thought it was a dumb move—you leavin' the fashion field.'

  Flint didn't rise to the bait. 'My problem is merely technical,' he said. 'My one-finger typing is too clumsy and slow. I need someone to type and correct my manuscript if I'm to make my deadline in time.'

  'You've got someone,' said Dexter. 'Some hairy Amazon who lives near you.'

  'I'm sure Mrs. Jeffers would be thrilled by your description,' Flint smiled, 'but unfortunately she moved, with her equally hairy husband, to Halifax, so I'm really up the creek. I thought you might know of someone among your scintillating acquaintance who could type. That's why I dropped by today. I realise it's a wild chance, but I'm desperate.'

  'Not so wild now that you've met Polly,' Sable pointed out. 'She can type and she's looking for a job.'

  'Oh, I don't think I'd suit Flint!' said the horrified Polly. The very idea made her hair stand on end!

  'Believe me, I'm desperate! I'm not looking for perfection,' Flint assured her ungallantly. 'And I'm willing to pay well.'

  Polly looked daggers at him. Her eyes had turned dark gold with anger. 'It's not the money,' she spat. 'I don't think we'd suit each other… temperamentally.'

  'I agree that we don't seem to hit it off too well,' Flint said with maddening reasonableness, 'but it is only typing, and I need someone by tomorrow.' He gave her a crooked grin. 'I'm willing to control my nasty nature, if you'll do the same.'

  She ignored this unexpected charm and said, 'Why don't you go to one of the agencies in town?'

  'It would take too long. I've already told you, I need someone to start tomorrow.' In spite of his promise to control himself, there was an edge to his voice.

  'You'd better meet that deadline on time, Flint,' Dexter said sharply. 'You're to start that photo-story of me at the beginning of next month. I don't want to put it off. I'm due to start rehearsals for that new play in England, and I want to take a vacation first.' He appealed to Polly. 'Why don't you say yes, sweetie? As a favour to me. I'd really appreciate it.'

  'Don't beg her,' said Flint, his lips set in a grim line, but Polly paid him no heed. Dexter had asked her to do it as a favour to him, and as far as she was concerned that was enough. She was more than willing to put up with a few days' unpleasant working conditions for the sake of her hero. If she worked for Flint, surely it was possible that she would see Dexter again! It was worth a try at any rate.

  'I'll do it,' she said, and allowed herself to smile across the table at Flint. 'After all, it's only a temporary job, we're not bonded for life.'

  Flint, who was beginning to wish he had never mentioned needing a typist, looked at her glumly. 'I don't know,' he said, 'on second thoughts, maybe it's not such a great idea. Do you have a car?' he asked, and when she shook her head he said, 'you see, I live in Caledon. It's too far to commute by bike. You'd have to move into the farm.'

  'Well what's wrong with that?' Dexter said, 'you've got plenty of room.'

  But Flint still looked doubtful. 'What about your mother?' he asked. 'If she won't let you become a cook, how will she feel about this?'

  'Well, Cakey's there, for heaven's sake,' said Sable. 'Mrs. Cakebread is Flint's live-in housekeeper,' she explained.

  'For God's sake!' Dexter exploded. 'You've got plenty of action in that department without abducting Polly.'

  Flint finally gave in. 'Well, I guess it's worth a try,' he said. 'If it doesn't work out we can call it quits and no hard feelings. Okay?'

  'No hard feelings at all,' said Polly, but she wasn't really paying attention, her mind was still playing with that nugget of information Dexter had let slip, about Flint's sex life. He appeared to her so abrasive, she couldn't picture him as a lover, although there had been glimpses of charm. She supposed some women might be turned on by his lean body and craggy face, but as far as she was concerned there was no comparison between Flint McGregor and his dazzlingly handsome friend. Now if she had been going to move in with Dexter…

  There was a rumble of thunder from outside, and the sound of the first heavy drops of rain pattering against the leaves. They could hear the guests shrieking and laughing, and the door burst open and people tumbled into the kitchen like apples being poured from a barrel.

  'My dears! The heavens are about to open!' gushed a beautiful young man. 'The sky is purple! I kid you not.' He smile brilliantly at this witticism and collapsed into a chair.

  'I'll go and give Wai a hand bringing the bar indoors.' Flint got up from the table. 'Then I'll drive you home,' he said to Polly.

  'But my bike!' Polly wailed.

  'We'll put it in the back of my car. You can't cycle in this.'

  He shouldered his way out of the kitchen. He was at least half a head taller than anyone else in the room. Not only that, he made them all look… dull… in spite of their fashionable gloss. There was a magnetic quality about him that she hadn't noticed before. She must have been crazy when she first met him to think he was a delivery man! Flint McGregor was no lackey delivering parcels. She was beginning to realise that he was a man to be reckoned with. She only hoped working for him wouldn't prove too awful.

  With the transference of the party to the house Polly again seemed to become invisible. People surged around her, getting drinks, opening the refrigerator door to look for ice, and all the time talking at the tops of their voices. No one took the slightest notice of her, so she got up from the table and stood by the big double sink, watching the mob, overwhelmed again by a crippling sense of inferiority.

  After a while Flint came back. His shirt was wet, and the rain water had soaked his coppery hair, turning it to a dark roan red. At a glance he noticed Polly standing in forlorn isolation by the sink and strode over to her.

  'The car's waiting at the door,' he said. 'Let's make our goodbyes and get out of here.' He put his hand under her arm and started to guide her towards the door. 'Your's bike's stowed in the back.'

  'Did it fit in?'

  'I had to buckle the wheel again, but I managed,' he teased. 'We're off, Dex!' he called to the actor, who to Polly's dejection was now draped over a particularly luscious red head. 'See you around!'

  'Sure thing, man… see ya!' It seemed to Polly that he was having trouble focusing, but she quickly suppressed such a disloyal thought.

  'Do you want a lift any place, Sable?' Flint asked the brunet
te beauty, who was regarding Dexter and his curvaceous companion, a wooden expression on her lovely face.

  'I think I'll stick around here,' she said, 'thanks just the same.'

  Outside the rain came down, straight and silvery like rods of steel. The orange BMW, its motor running, stood waiting for them, a haven from the deluge.

  'The doors are unlocked. Run for it,' Flint advised her, and she did, but even so, the shoulders of her brown blouse were streaked with rain, and her braid felt damp on her back.

  It was warm inside the car, and the windows were misted over. Flint turned on the fan and pushed a tape into the tape-deck. Neil Diamond's voice singing 'Suzanne By The River' filled the car. She gave him her address and fell silent, listening to the music and watching the rhythmic sweep of the windscreen wipers as if hypnotised.

  She now bitterly regretted her impulsive decision to take this job. There was no guarantee that because of it she would see Dexter Grant again. But she would see Flint. Living under his roof she would be forced to endure his sarcasm and the mockery in his blue eyes day after day. She must have been mad!

  Had she known it, her future employer was having similar misgivings. I don't know if this kid can really type or not, Flint thought. She may turn out to be more of a hindrance than a help. How had he allowed himself to be talked into such a scheme? Panic, that's how, he acknowledged grimly, because it was a very slim chance that he would find anybody suitable by tomorrow. Panic—combined with a feeling of sympathy for this wacky girl. Solitary, pathetic even, but with a shy kind of dignity that threw him a little off balance. Well, dignity or not, he just hoped she was competent at her job!

  It was still pouring when they drove up to Polly's house. Marjorie's Honda was standing in the drive. She was home! Polly leapt out of the BMW and wrenched the rear door open. 'I can manage,' she assured Flint, as she struggled with her bicycle, heedless of the rain that was soaking her hair and plastering her blouse to her full breasts. If she could just get her bike out of his car she could make a quick getaway and prevent him meeting her mother.

  He switched off the engine and joined her in the rain. 'Don't be ridiculous. And stop pulling like that, you'll tear the upholstery.' He leaned in to ease the bike out. In seconds his back was drenched. She could see the play of muscles over his shoulders as clearly as if he were stripped to the waist, and for one wild moment she felt an urge to trace the line of his spine with her fingers.

  She tried to take the bike from him, but he kept his hold on it and pushed it up the walk. 'Where do you keep it? In the garage?' She nodded, trotting behind him like an apprehensive kitten, one eye on the door for Marjorie.

  He leaned the bike against the wall and peered out at the relentless downpour. 'Do you have such a thing in the house as a drier that I could use?' He plucked at his soaking shirt.

  Courtesy forced her to invite him in. She could hardly let him drive to Caledon wet to the skin.

  They went into the house by the back door, past the window-boxes of petunias that Polly tended so lovingly, into the little porch, painted white, where Polly had arranged garden chairs over an old rug she had bought at a garage sale. The dark sky made the usually cheerful room seem gloomy, and she switched on the lights.

  'In here!' Marjorie called from the living room, and with a beating heart Polly padded in to her mother in her bare feet. Marjorie was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by papers, a full ashtray on the floor in front of her. The air was blue with smoke. 'Just sorting out the minutes for tomorrow's meeting.' Marjorie's eyes, hazel like her daughter's, narrowed. 'I thought you'd be wetter than that.'

  'Yes, well, I got a lift. 'And Mr. McGregor is going to dry his shirt before driving home.'

  'Who?' Her mother looked put out.

  'Flint McGregor. He's—he's giving me a job, too… I don't have time to explain now… he's waiting in the kitchen, for heaven's sake.

  Marjorie rose to her feet, scattering papers and ashes. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Polly,' she said, 'I'd better meet this man,' and with a feeling of doom, Polly followed her.

  Flint seemed quite at home. He stood barefoot and dripping on the tile floor, dwarfing the little kitchen with his considerable height. He had pulled his shirt loose from his slacks and unbuttoned it.

  'This is very kind of you,' he smiled at Marjorie, who didn't smile back, 'I'm pretty wet. If I could just dry my shirt, I'll be on my way.'

  Marjorie merely nodded sourly and hastily Polly introduced Flint to her mother. 'Mr. McGregor drove me home from the—party. He said it was too wet for me to cycle,' she explained.

  'What party?' Marjorie snapped, 'I didn't know anything about a party.'

  'Neither did Polly,' Flint remarked soothingly. 'She came to pick up her bike, and found a theatrical party in full swing.'

  'Theatrical!' Marjorie made it sound like an orgy. 'Are you an actor, then?'

  'Not me. I'm a professional photographer. But my friend is an actor, and Polly's bike was in his garage.'

  Polly butted in. 'Let me have your shirt,' she said. She was desperately anxious to get him dried off and out of the house.

  Nonchalantly he rolled down his cuffs and slipped the blue garment off his shoulders. He was quite tanned for a redhead. A pleasant golden-brown, with a generous sprinkling of red-gold hair on his muscled chest. Polly began to understand why Dexter had implied that Flint had plenty of women ready to go to bed with him. He might not be conventionally handsome, but there was a rugged maleness about him that was undeniably attractive.

  'What sort of photographer are you?' asked Marjorie, sitting down at the kitchen table and lighting the inevitable cigarette.

  'A good one, I hope,' smiled Flint.

  'Do sit down, Flint,' Polly said, glaring at her mother and offering him a chair. It was the first time she had addressed him by his Christian name. She did it deliberately, hoping it would somehow make Marjorie's rudeness less offensive. Not that Flint seemed at all put out. He sat back in the chair, as self-possessed as if he was in his own kitchen, fully dressed and surrounded by close friends.

  'I've just finished my first photographic essay,' he told them. 'A documentary about Nepal. Before that I worked mostly in the fashion field.'

  'Fashion!' If it had been hard-core pornography Marjorie couldn't have been more scathing. 'You mean you manipulated women into decking themselves out for the purposes of seduction! Fashion is a masculine trick designed to shackle women into the subordinate role for ever. It exploits and demeans women by encouraging them to catch a man, and then passively sit back and play the old stereotypes of wife and mother, without ever questioning their destiny.' She stopped for breath.

  'That seems a bit sweeping,' Flint observed mildly. 'I merely found it rather dull. From a photographer's point of view, I'm really more interested in natural science than in the latest trends. So I switched. I'm also trying my hand at writing my own material to go along with the pictures. Which is why I've offered your daughter a job.'

  He explained his predicament to Polly's stone-faced mother. 'There is one hitch, though,' he said. 'I live and work out of town, and Polly tells me she doesn't have a car. It would mean her moving to my place till the article's finished. My housekeeper, Mrs. Cakebread, lives on the premises, so Polly would have a—kind of chaperon around.' There was a glimmer of mischief in his brilliant eyes.

  'Polly's nearly twenty years old. I don't tell her what she can do,' Marjorie said. Wryly Polly remembered her many battles about going to cookery school. 'Besides, she's taken karate lessons. She can look after herself.'

  Flint raised his eyebrows. 'I'll remember that,' he murmured.

  Unable to stand any more of this, Polly said, 'Your shirt should be dry enough by now,' and went over and pulled it out of the drier. It was still slightly damp, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to get him out of the house before Marjorie started on another of her shrill lectures.

  He thanked her and pulled the shirt over his powerful shoulders. She
was again conscious of his flesh and the clean male scent of him.

  Apparently satisfied that this masculine intruder was on his way, Marjorie doused her cigarette in the sink and headed back to the living-room, saying, 'If you'll excuse me, I've got work to do.'

  'Of course, Mrs. Slater'—he was as suave as if he was attending a diplomatic reception—'I'm glad we've had this chance to meet.'

  Turning on the threshold she corrected him. 'It's Ms, not Mrs.'

  'Of course,' he smiled pleasantly. 'Sorry.'

  Marjorie nodded, her face set, and turned on her heel.

  Scarlet with distress, Polly asked, 'Is it dry enough? Your shirt… Shall I put it back in the drier for a bit?' but she was relieved when he shook his head.

  'Can you start really early tomorrow?' he asked, making for the back porch. I'm coming in early myself to take some shots of the waterfront at dawn,' he tilted his head towards the rain-drenched garden, 'as this should have cleared up by then. I'll pick you up and drive you back with me. Can you be ready to leave at six-thirty a.m.?'

  'Sure!' Polly replied without a moment's hesitation, although six-thirty was rather a shock.

  'We haven't discussed money, or is the pleasure of working for me payment enough?' He grinned, and Polly grinned back, grateful that he was making it easy for her to dismiss that embarrassing episode with Marjorie.

  He named a sum. 'And you'll be getting room and board,' he pointed out. 'Is that okay?'

  'Perfectly okay,' she agreed, a little dazed, since it was twice her usual salary.

  'I'll see you tomorrow, then.' At the door he paused. 'Did you really take karate lessons?' he asked.

  'Yes—but I wasn't very good.'

  'I shouldn't think it was your style.'

  Thinking he was referring to her weight, she flushed and asked, 'What do you mean?'

  'The martial arts. You don't strike me as the combative type.'

  'I can fight if I have to,' she told him, 'but I have to be provoked.'

  'That makes sense. I only hope I don't provoke you.' He gave her that charming wry smile of his. 'I demand a lot from my typists, but up to now none of them have attacked me!'