A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  Polly stared at her and for a moment, brief as a flash of lightning, she felt a wave of such possessiveness for the shabby garment sweep over her that she nearly cried aloud. She had loved the warm fluffy feeling of that shirt of Flint's against her own skin, and she didn't want to share it with Sable. She shook her curly head to dislodge such idiotic thoughts. 'Coffee's ready,' she said gruffly, then, clearing her throat, added, 'shall I make you some toast?'

  'No, thanks. Too fattening.' Sable reached into the fridge. 'I'll just have some yogurt.'

  Flint clattered up the stairs to join them. He greeted Sable warmly and planted a kiss on her forehead. 'Is that all you're going to eat?' he asked, and when she said it was, he said, 'you really should eat more Sable. Put some flesh on your bones.'

  'And never work as a model again. For a fashion photographer, Flint has some very weird tastes,' she confided to Polly.

  'Nothing weird about liking shapely women,' Flint said, and Polly thought how disparate he and Sable were. Apart from sex, she wondered what the attraction between them could be.

  'I'd give my eye teeth to be thin and flat!' she burst out impulsively, turning bright pink once she realised what she had said.

  'Better hang on to your teeth, Pollyanna,' Flint advised her. 'I don't think there's much chance of that happening,' and she thought she heard him say, 'Thank God!' under his breath, but couldn't be sure.

  'We're going to need some food if I'm to produce a meal tonight,' Polly pointed out to Flint.

  'That means I'll have to take the time to go shopping,' he said irritably. 'And I'd planned to leave right after lunch for Toronto.'

  'I can do it,' said Polly. 'This afternoon. It'll make a break from typing.'

  'You need a car to get to Orangeville where we shop,' Flint told her. 'Unless you plan to thumb a lift each way—which I can't allow.'

  Before Polly could give vent to her indignation, Sable interjected, 'Look, Flint, I want to go into the city too! Why don't you drive me in your car, then Polly can have mine for the shopping. It's manual transmission, is that all right?' she asked Polly.

  'Perfectly all right,' Polly assured her with dignity. She pointedly ignored Flint.

  'That's settled, then,' he said, draining his mug of coffee. As he made for the office he flung over his shoulder, 'Just try not to smash up Sable's car before you get the groceries.'

  'Don't let him get to you,' Sable advised as Polly slammed her empty mug into the sink, nearly cracking it in the process. 'He loves to needle people.'

  'I really am a good driver,' Polly said, 'I won't mess up your car.'

  'I know. So does he. Otherwise he wouldn't let you do it.'

  'Let me!' bristled Polly.

  Sable sighed patiently. 'You know what I mean. He wouldn't want to risk your being hurt. You're far too valuable to him.'

  After lunch, which Flint prepared, he and Sable drove off, promising to be back by seven. Polly took the money he had left her for shopping, and went to the barn that served as a garage. Sable's sporty little automobile stood in the gloom looking very smart and stylish. Gingerly, Polly put the key in the ignition and started the motor. She had decided to take a short drive first to get the feel of the car. She had also decided against taking Duvet with her. She was now sulking in her basket.

  Polly drove around the country roads for about half an hour. She was still annoyed by Flint's teasing, for she knew she was a good driver. Cautious, but not so careful that she was a menace to other traffic. But she had not had her licence for many years, and this zippy little car was a far cry from Marjorie's battered Honda, so she didn't let her attention wander. She did daydream after a while, however, that this was her car, and that she lived permanently in the country, and was now going in to do her weekly shopping before returning to the farm that she shared with a loving husband. A husband who bore a remarkable resemblance to Dexter Grant. Several shadowy children were also included in this daydream, all of them miniature copies of their father.

  She found her way to Orangeville without difficulty, and did her shopping, and after buying herself a new paperback and a bar of peppermint chocolate she headed for home.

  She had just finished unpacking the groceries and was wondering if she should make a cup of tea before returning to the typewriter, when a sleek grey coupe came to a halt by the back door. Polly, followed by a barking Duvet, went to investigate. Then her heart gave a thump, for Dexter Grant got out, smoothed his immaculate blazer, and said:

  'Hi, sweetie! Flint around?'

  The colour flooded into Polly's face at this unexpected encounter. She told him Flint was out, and he received this information with a colourful expletive.

  'I should have phoned first,' he explained, 'but I only got the afternoon off at the last moment, and I thought it would be neat to get out of town for a bit.' He kicked at the gravel with his highly polished shoe and swore again.

  Polly told him that she had just been going to make a cup of tea, and invited him to join her. He looked at her unenthusiastically.

  'Tea—no, thanks—but I wouldn't say no to a vodka and tonic. It's a long drive back into town.'

  She wasn't sure that, under the circumstances, a vodka and tonic was a good idea, but she murmured, 'Of course,' and led the way into the house.

  Dexter pointed at Duvet who was following them. 'Would you mind leaving the pooch outside?' he asked. 'I have an allergy to dogs.'

  Polly dragged the reluctant dog back to the door and firmly shut her out. 'What sort of allergy?' she enquired.

  'I dunno,' he said vaguely. 'They leave hairs on my clothes.'

  'She's a super dog, though,' Polly persisted, willing Dexter to share some of her tastes.

  'If you like dogs,' he agreed. 'Frankly, I go along with W.C.Fields. Dogs and children are death for actors.'

  'Do you feel the same way about cats?' she asked, for Fellini had materialised and had started to weave himself in and out of Dexter's legs like an orange darning-needle.

  'Pretty well,' admitted the actor, pushing the cat away with his well-shod foot. 'Animals just aren't my bag, I guess.'

  She found the vodka, and the actor helped himself to a pretty hefty slug of it. Polly had some of the tonic instead of tea. She now felt embarrassed about offering tea in the first place, since he apparently found it a very unexciting beverage.

  'Do you want to sit on the patio?' she asked him, but he declined, and instead they sat in the sitting-room that faced the valley. Dexter seemed quite at ease, but Polly felt more and more unsure of herself and had to control the urge to fidget.

  'Flint sure does live in an out-of-the-way spot,' Dexter remarked, gazing across the sunlit meadows. 'It must be hell in the winter.'

  'Oh, do you think so?' She was disappointed, since she had already imagined Crabtree Farm shrouded in snow and decided it must be a perfect place to be. 'Don't you like the country, Dexter?'

  'Let's just say I like to be where the action is,' Dexter said. You should see my new condominium in L.A. I had this really well-known decorator fix it up. It's very futuristic. The decor's in silver and white with glass and chrome, and push-button controls for all the doors. And a full-size movie screen! Talk about class!' He took a large swallow of vodka.

  Polly privately thought it sounded like a hospital operating room, but she just said, 'Sounds wonderful!' and buried her tip-tilted nose in her glass of tonic.

  There was an awkward pause. 'What time did you say Flint would be back?' Dexter asked finally.

  'About seven, he said. Would you like to stay for dinner?' she suggested. Maybe she would feel more at ease with this glamorous creature if she could show off her culinary skills.

  He finished his drink and rose from the armchair. 'Thanks, but no can do, sweetie,' he said, 'I've got a hot date with a little redhead and I mustn't keep her waiting.'

  Polly forced herself to smile at this.

  'I wanted to tell Flint that there's going to be a big shindig out at the island the Sunday aft
er next. It's being thrown by the film company, a publicity gimmick. The press'll be there. It's a kinda giant picnic, and I thought Flint might like to take some shots for the story he's going to be doing on me. Some pictures of me interacting with the public—signing autographs—stuff like that!'

  'I'll tell him,' said Polly.

  'You come too,' Dexter suggested, and she felt a stab of pleasure because he had included her. Then he spoilt it by saying, 'It's open to the public. The more the merrier.'

  'Well—I'll see. I'm not sure where I'll be then.' Back home looking for a job most likely, she thought grimly. She would have finished Flint's manuscript long before that.

  She walked with Dexter to his car and waved as he roared off down the drive, the gravel spraying out from under his wheels. Duvet trotted up to her and pushed her wet nose against Polly's hand which had stopped cheerfully waving and now hung listlessly at her side. She bent and encircled the dog in her arms, leaning her cheek against its woolly head.

  'I'm sure he doesn't really dislike dogs,' she assured her canine companion. 'He just doesn't know how super you are.'

  Duvet tried to lick her face in agreement, and then followed her back into the house to supervise the preparations for dinner.

  There wasn't a lot to do. They were having steak with baked potatoes and a green salad. She made some banana custard, and sliced a couple of fresh mangoes into a glass dish to have something on hand if banana custard wasn't acceptable. Then, on impulse, she decided to make a cold cucumber soup. There was time, and she could chill it in the freezer.

  All the while she became more and more depressed. This chance meeting with her idol had left her feeling at odds with herself and the rest of the world. She was painfully aware that not only did Dexter hardly remember her name, he didn't see her as a female at all! And who could blame him? she thought, looking down at her short jean-clad legs and sturdy sandals. But she had a nasty feeling that even if she were the epitome of glamour, all long legs and gorgeous clothes, the dissimilarity of their tastes would not change.

  She fed the dog, then, deliberately unwrapping her chocolate bar, she devoured it slowly. She usually indulged her chocolate habit when she was feeling down. After her bath she tried putting her hair up, but she wasn't as successful at it as Sable had been—it looked a bit lopsided—so she took it all down again, and brushed it till it crackled, then she tied it back with a ribbon. As an act of defiance she put her jeans on again instead of the wrap skirt. When Flint and Sable arrived she was sitting on the steps of the patio looking out at the valley, wrapped in a mood of savage unhappiness.

  'I got some good shots from the plane this afternoon,' Flint said when they had joined Polly for a pre-dinner Cinzano. 'I'll give you the list and you can make a note of them in the journal after dinner, Polly.' She nodded curtly. He looked at her sharply. 'What's the matter? Did you have trouble with the car?'

  She looked daggers at him. 'No trouble at all, thank you.' Then, thinking she had better put forward some sort of explanation for her cranky mood, she said, 'I didn't get as much work done on the manuscript as I hoped. I had an unexpected visitor this afternoon,' and she gave Flint Dexter's message.

  Sable, who had suddenly turned pale, said, 'It's too bad we missed him. He could have stayed for dinner.'

  'He couldn't,' Polly said shortly. 'He had to get back for a date—with a redhead.'

  Sable said 'Oh!' and then excused herself. 'I've got time for a bath before we eat, haven't I?' she said, and, leaving her drink unfinished, she hurried into the house.

  Flint looked after her thoughtfully, then he turned to Polly. 'When did you say this picnic takes place? A week Sunday? It should be fun.'

  'I don't care whether it's fun or not,' she said tartly. 'I'm much too busy to concern myself with it.'

  'You'll have finished the article by then, won't you? Don't get in a flap.'

  'I'll be finished in a couple of days,' she said, 'and I'm not in a flap.'

  'Well, something's wrong,' he insisted. 'Your usual sunny aura seems to have fused.'

  'I don't want to go to the damn picnic!' she snapped, and then blinked rapidly to keep the angry tears at bay.

  'That's too bad,' he said. 'I was relying on you to help me with the story on Dexter. I was going to suggest you take on the job of my assistant for that one.'

  She should have felt a surge of triumph when he said that, for, after all, her sole reason for accepting his job had been in order to get to know Dexter better. But for some reason Flint's offer made her feel even more dejected. 'I don't know if I could stand all the glamour. I don't think I'd measure up.'

  'Measure up? Measure up to what, for God's sake?' he asked testily.

  'Well—you all look so marvellous—and you're all so sure of yourselves…' Unable to express her feelings of insecurity adequately, Polly blurted, 'Even your names are glamorous. I mean… Flint!… Sable!'

  'Sable's real name is Enid Pike,' he told her drily, 'and if you let on that I've told you I'll deny it. As for Flint— that's a nickname I got at school because I spent one whole year collecting arrow-heads—and because I loathe my given name.' She looked at him expectantly. 'I was christened Angus, and I warn you not to say anything about bulls!' She gave a weak giggle. 'Well, at least it raised a smile.'

  'But you just don't understand,' said Polly, trying to make her position clearer. 'Whenever I'm with Dexter I feel so—so nothing. He's used to gorgeous women around him, and I feel so—ordinary. I don't know if I could bear to work with you on that story. You and Sable—you're part of that scene, but I'm not. I'd be miserable.'

  He stood up, looming over her. 'You are so dumb sometimes, Polly, that I could hit you,' he told her. 'Being part of that world just takes a good haircut and a couple of fashionable outfits. It doesn't take any particular talent. But go ahead! Be my guest—if that's what you want out of life.'

  'It's all very well for you!' She was starting to lose her temper. 'You've been part of that world for ages; you can afford to reject it. But I've never had the chance. I'd like to experience a bit of glamour myself before I decide whether I like it or not.'

  He stared at her intently. Her face was pale apart from two bright spots of colour on each round cheek, and her eyes glowed golden. He said wryly, 'Point taken, Polly,' then he leaned over her. 'I'll make a deal with you. Once the Nepal article is out of the way I'll make you over. We'll get your hair styled, and go into Toronto and get you a new wardrobe. I guarantee that when I've finished you'll feel as glamorous as the next woman.' He paused. 'I'll do this on the understanding that you'll stay on here and help me with the story on Dexter. Is it a bargain?' He held out his hand.

  After a moment she took it. His flesh felt warm and dry against her palm, and she didn't mind when he did not immediately release her, but held her hand fast in his.

  In her mind's eye she could visualise a door opening on to a glittering world. A world where she could operate with confidence. A world that contained Dexter Grant. She felt a wave of gratitude towards Flint who had promised to open that door for her. He really is a friend after all, she reflected, and then she checked herself, remembering that he wanted something in return. He needed her help with that story. They were just bartering favours.

  She removed her hand from his clasp and thought that he seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold. Upstairs she could hear Sable moving about, so she said, 'I'd better start on those steaks,' and left him, not noticing his sombre expression as he stood in the gathering twilight.

  In three days Polly had finished the article and made the acquaintance of Mabel, Flint's cleaning lady, and her small grandson, Neil. Neil was a serious child who at first spent some time gravely studying Polly and then decided that her sole purpose in life was to play with him. This she did on every coffee break, and during a good deal of her lunch hour.

  Flint included himself in these pleasant sessions, but Sable made it quite clear that small children held no charms for her, and absented herself
from the area of the play-pen.

  Polly had found the courage to suggest several changes to Flint's article, which, she was convinced, would improve it, and to her delight he adopted them without comment. When they had gone together to the village Post Office to send the manuscript off, he had turned to her and told her that her help had been invaluable. 'I couldn't have done it without you, Pollyanna,' he had said, and she had turned pink with pleasure because she knew he was not a man who gave compliments easily.

  He tucked the registration slip into his wallet. 'Now for the Polly Slater transformation,' he said, and instead of guiding her back to the car, he led her to a shop which had a pink and white striped awning over the window. 'Ila's Beauty Box' was painted on the door.

  A petite strawberry-blonde wearing dark pink pedal-pushers and a champagne crocheted top came towards them. 'Flint!' she trilled, 'you're on time, bless you! I wish all my clients were as punctual.'

  She had big blue eyes and a dazzling smile, and she was clearly very pleased to have this redheaded giant in her tiny salon.

  Flint pushed Polly forward and introduced her. 'This is Polly Slater, Ila,' he said. 'She needs a new look, and I'm confident that you're the one to give it to her. Ila's the most talented stylist in all of Ontario.' he added in an aside to Polly. 'You can trust her absolutely.' Polly nodded dumbly. She had had no idea they were going to start her metamorphosis quite so soon, and now that it was happening she felt rather nervous.

  Ila gave her a clinical stare, felt the texture of her nut-brown hair, and said, 'Come back in two hours, Flint. We'll be finished by then.'

  Feeling far from confident, Polly was shown to a cubicle where she removed her wrap-skirt and tee-shirt and put on a pink gown. Then her hair was shampooed and her head wound up in a pink towel while she waited for Ila. The girl had not addressed one word to her personally, and Polly felt rather apprehensive. But after a brief exchange, when it was established that Polly's relationship with Flint was a working one, Ila thawed and Polly relaxed.