by Celia Scott
He paid the smiling stall owner, and, taking Polly's arm again, he led her away from the market.
After they had bought three pairs of shoes he enquired if she had a swimsuit.
'I have a tank suit.' Marjorie had bought it for her and she had always hated it.
'What colour?'
'A sort of… maroon.'
'Not a good colour for you. And a tank suit won't do anything for your type of figure. We've just time before lunch to go to Suits A Person.' He quickened his stride.
'Oh, I don't think I can afford to go there!' she exclaimed, for she knew of the exclusive swimsuit store. She also knew its reputation for high prices.
'I know the two girls who run it—they'll give you a good price. And I can always give you an advance.' She started to demur, but he went on, 'You'll need a decent swimsuit for the picnic. Come on now, Pollyanna! You mustn't spoil the ship for a ha'p'orth of tar!'
By now they had reached the steep stone steps that led up to the imposing facade of Suits A Person. In the window a black mesh figure modelled a brief silver lame bikini, and a silver net cover-up was artistically draped to one side of the display. There was no price tag visible, always a sobering sign to Polly. But, undaunted, Flint opened the door and pushed her in ahead of him. The little heels of her new shoes sank into the deep thick carpet, and Polly's heart dropped. It would take her months of work to pay Flint back for the advance she was sure she would require to buy a swimsuit from a place like this.
With much foreboding she shook hands with one of the owners and listened while Flint explained what they wanted. He had once done a photo layout in a magazine for this store, so he knew his way around and went unhesitatingly to a rack marked 'Petites', where he started clicking through the hangers, discarding one after the other. Finally he exclaimed:
'Ah! I think we've found it!' and handed it to Polly. 'Try this on, Pollyanna,' he said, 'and then come out and model it.'
In the dressing-room she examined his choice. It seemed to consist of two small pieces of shimmering bronze material held together at the sides by three straps. The legs were cut high, and the front and the back were cut low. She felt very dubious about the whole enterprise.
But when she had it on and looked at herself in the mirror she caught her breath with delight. It fitted like a second iridescent skin, accentuating her compact lush-ness. At first she looked almost demure, until you caught sight of her naked sides, banded only in the three strips that kept the front of the suit fastened to the back, then she looked sexy and wicked, and as piquant as any model in a fashion magazine. She wouldn't have believed she could ever look like this—and it felt wonderful!
Flint called, 'How are you doing, Pollyanna?' and, taking a deep breath, she opened the door of the dressing-room and stepped out.
He seemed to caress her with his eyes, taking in every curve of her round young body. Her pearl-white skin flushed a delicate pink as his gaze travelled slowly over her full breasts and down to her lush hips. To cover her confusion she pirouetted slowly in an unconsciously sensual movement. He didn't say a word.
'It's nice, isn't it?' she volunteered. 'I think I should get it, don't you?'
He cleared his throat before answering. 'Nice? My dear girl, it's sensational! I'm not at all sure you should buy it. You might cause a riot.'
'Oh, dear!' She looked down at her bronze-clad front.
'Of course you must get it, Pollyanna,' he laughed. 'But you'd better arrange for police protection whenever you wear it. Now hurry up and change and let's have lunch. I'm starving!' His manner was jocular, but the hand that smoothed back his hair shook slightly.
She paid for the bronze suit, and was pleased to discover that it cost far less than she had anticipated. Not only did she not require an advance, she had a little money left over for a modest assortment of cosmetics.
'But no lipsticks,' Flint commanded. 'You have the mouth of a dreaming child, it would look ludicrous painted.'
Polly, who had secretly planned to indulge in a nice bright lipstick, was momentarily put out by this, but she settled for an untinted lip-gloss without a word of protest.
'Lunch at last!' he said, piloting her towards Bloor Street.
'Where shall we go?' She was still feeling too excited to. have much interest in food.
'It's all arranged,' said Flint, 'I've booked us a table at Au Delice.'
She gave a little shriek. 'Oh, Flint! How extravagant,' but she was thrilled, for this was one of the most famous restaurants in Toronto.
'You said you wanted glamour,' he reminded her drily. 'I thought I'd better provide it.'
'I've read about Au Delice,' she bubbled, 'it's where all the famous people go to eat—'
Even in her new yellow dress, with her hair falling in fashionable waves about her shoulders, she experienced a moment of insecurity when they entered the magnificent dining-room. It was brightly lit, for, as Flint had said, people came here to be seen. The murmur of the well-modulated voices of the diners mingled with the discreet sound of a trio playing classical music. She longed for a corner to hide in, the way she had hidden at Dexter's party, for she felt out of place in so much muted luxury.
But any insecurity she had soon vanished, for the moment the maitre d' spied Flint they were greeted like V.I.P.s. Rather to her surprise, Flint was well known here, too. As they went to their table—a prize one, with a good view of the opulent room—people turned to say hello. Polly recognised an eminent M.P., and a famous T.V. commentator, both of whom greeted Flint by name. A very beautiful actress, renowned for her numerous love-affairs, murmured, 'Flint, darling! I've missed you,' in a husky voice, and shot Polly a venomous look.
Flint smiled enigmatically through all this, nodding to various acquaintances, and all the time holding Polly's arm firmly and possessively, as if she were important to him.
The waiter brought menus and the wine list and asked if Flint would care for his usual aperitif.
'I usually have a brandy sour when I eat here,' Flint told her, 'but I think today we'll have something special.'
He went into a huddle with the wine steward while she looked about her. At one side of the room a fountain played softly. There were huge urns spilling with flowers, and trees in tubs. Light from an enormous skylight played on their leaves. The air smelt faintly of roses and good food, and the tinkling of glassware mingled with the occasional bursts of laughter from the elegant diners.
Flint said, 'I'm going to order your lunch for you, Polly. There are several dishes on the menu that I think you should sample,' and she was too dazed to do more than fleetingly resent this high-handed treatment.
They didn't talk while they waited for their meal, mainly because people kept coming up to their table to chat to Flint. She was still finding it hard to come to terms with this image of Flint McGregor—man about town. Then it began to dawn on her that all the men who stopped by to talk wanted to meet her too, and the looks they gave her were extremely appreciative.
Whenever one or the other of these males showed signs of becoming extra friendly, Flint would subtly dismiss him, and once, when a particularly persistent man still lingered at their table, his eyes fixed admiringly on Polly, Flint reached for her hand in a proprietorial way. Remembering the tension between them the previous evening, she avoided his grasp.
The waiter arrived with a wine cooler and tall graceful glasses called flutes. He eased the cork from the neck of the bottle and it gave a loud pop.
'Champagne!' exclaimed Polly. 'Oh, Flint, how festive!'
He. smiled at her, and she thought what a nice mouth he had, very firm, yet somehow gentle. 'One should always drink champagne at celebrations,' he said.
'Celebrations?'
'Aren't we celebrating the emergence of the new Polly Slater?'
She looked away and took a large swallow of champagne, and a lot of bubbles went up her nose, making her eyes water.
'You're supposed to sip it.' His look was still tender, but now he w
as laughing, and she felt safer with him.
She smiled back. 'I've never had champagne,' she admitted.
'Well, now that you're launched on this life of glamour I daresay you'll have quite a lot of it,' he teased.
'I won't object.' She took another sip and smiled across the table at him, but the laughter on his face had died and he said with great seriousness:
'Don't ever get blasé, Pollyanna. Change the outside all you want, but don't change the inside. Please. Don't ever forget that glamorous women are a dime a dozen, but ladies like Polly Slater are a very rare breed.'
She played with her glass, suddenly wary of him. 'Ladies are a dying breed, I understand,' she said lightly. 'Women are the in thing these days.'
He reached over and stilled her nervous fingers, and she felt his light touch like a flame through her entire body. 'Lady is synonymous with woman in my vocabulary,' he said softly, 'and you, Pollyanna, are a "female-type-woman" to the very tips of your toes. Don't change that. Don't get brittle for the sake of being smart. The price would be too high.'
She found his intensity both disturbing and exciting, and it was the latter emotion that forced her to draw her hand away and say with false lightness. 'It's a good thing my mother can't hear you. She has a very different opinion of "ladies", I can tell you!'
'I wasn't talking to your mother,' he said, and she had the feeling she had hurt him.
But by the time their lunch arrived he seemed to recover his spirits and was the old teasing Flint she recognised. The food was scrumptious, and Polly tasted things she had never had before, starting with fried Camembert cheese—golden triangles that melted in her mouth, served on a bed of deep-fried parsley which was as crisp and green as lettuce; and finishing with pears poached in white wine, stuffed with crushed macaroons, and coated in bitter chocolate.
Over coffee she thanked him for the most superb lunch she had ever eaten. 'I only hope you don't expect me to prepare meals like that at Crabtree Farm,' she smiled, 'I'm not quite up to that standard.'
'You could be if you studied,' he said. 'Have you thought any more about cooking school?'
Before she could reply, a male figure came into the dining-room, caught sight of Flint, and made a bee-line for their table.
'Hey, man!' said Dexter, 'you're in town! Why didn't you let me know? We could have had lunch together.'
'I had a date for lunch with Polly,' Flint said, smiling across the table at her.
'Polly?' Dexter looked across at her too. 'My God— Polly! Sweetie… I didn't recognise you!' He took the chair between them. 'Have you already eaten?'
Flint said laconically, 'Do sit down!' and Polly giggled, but Dexter was oblivious to any sarcasm.
'That's too bad,' he went on. 'If I'd known you were coming to Au Delice I would have joined you.'
'You have joined us,' said Flint, and signalled to the waiter for the bill.
Dexter laughed, and, catching the waiter's arm as he was about to leave, ordered a vodka and tonic, then he turned his attention again to Polly. 'You look great, sweetie,' he said, 'just great. Have you finished working for this character here?' He jerked his blond head in Flint's general direction. 'Is that what this lunch is all about?'
Flint answered for her. 'No, she hasn't. She's going to be working with me when I try to make something palatable out of your life for the photo-story.'
Dexter said, 'That's the best news I've had today.' His drink arrived and he raised it in a toast to Polly before taking a swallow. 'That means we'll get to see a lot of each other, sweetie.' He flashed one of his devastating smiles at her.
Polly blushed and stammered something inane about looking forward to it as well, for Dexter's sudden attention was making her feel giddy.
With a distinct edge to his voice, Flint said, 'How's your redheaded friend these days?'
Dexter looked at him. 'Redheaded friend?' he repeated.
'The lady you've been squiring around lately,' Flint reminded him, 'the one you had to rush back to town for the other day.'
An expression of distaste crossed the actor's handsome face. 'That little affair is dying a very fast death.' He turned back to Polly and dropped his voice a decibel. 'In fact, I think I can safely say that during the last five minutes it's been buried.'
All she could think of to say was, 'Oh, dear!' which wasn't very brilliant, but she was overcome, both by Dexter's manifest regard, and by the uneasy feeling that it was irritating Flint. In an attempt to change the subject she asked Dexter how the film was progressing. This turned out to be a clever move, and for the next five minutes Dexter regaled them with anecdotes about the problems he was experiencing both on and off camera.
At the end of a particularly funny story concerning his difficulties with his leading lady, he pulled his chair closer to Polly's and said with fervour, 'Gee, it's great to be with somebody who listens. To find a chick who doesn't want to talk all the time.'
'I shouldn't think they get much chance around you,' Flint murmured, but Dexter ignored him.
With the solemnity of one conferring a great favour, he said to Polly, 'Would you like to come on to the set—see me work?'
'Oh… please!' she replied, turning pale with pleasure.
He lowered his voice to a seductive purr. 'Tell you what, sweetie, come tomorrow. I'll be shooting a love scene. I'd like to get your reaction.' He gave her what could only be described as a leer. 'Maybe you could give me some pointers.'
'She can't come tomorrow,' Flint said firmly. 'She has to work.'
This was news to Polly. 'Work?' she questioned. She thought they had arranged for her to have a few days off, now that the article was finished.
'I have to take some aerial photographs. I need you along,' he told her.
'Aerial photographs?' she quailed.
'Yeah! I can't manage the plane and the camera and keep notes as well.'
She was going to point out that he had managed it in the past, but something in his expression prevented her. She was beginning to recognise that when his eyes turned that particular icy shade of blue, one had better watch one's step, so she merely smiled across at Dexter and said sweetly, 'It looks as if I'm tied up. Sorry about that.'
'There'll be other times. I'll be in touch,' the actor promised her, his voice soft and thrilling, the way it sounded when he was playing a romantic scene on camera.
Pocketing his credit card, Flint rose to his feet. 'It's time to leave, Polly. You have some dresses to collect, and we can't spend the whole afternoon sitting around in restaurants. Besides, Dex will have to be getting back to work. Otherwise they might shoot a scene without him.'
Dexter laughed at the very idea. 'No way, man! But I guess I should be splitting soon.' His eyes never left Polly. 'It's been great seeing you, sweetie. Just great.' He finally seemed aware of Flint looming over him. 'You too, man. See you around.'
'Sure!' Flint started to leave with Polly in tow. Dexter called after them:
'You'll be at the picnic?'
'It's an assignment,' Flint pointed out dourly, 'I'll be there.'
'I'll be seeing you before then, Polly,' Dexter called.
She nodded but was too overcome to reply. She simply couldn't believe it! Even in her wildest daydreams she had never imagined her favourite actor singling her out for such relentless attention. She was on cloud nine!
Flint, however, didn't share her mood. He was tight-lipped while they collected her parcels, and remained that way for most of the journey back to Caledon, only breaking his silence to answer when she voiced some misgivings about the projected plane ride.
'You need not worry,' he said, 'it's not in the least like climbing trees. In any case,' he added curtly, 'it's high time you crossed that Rubicon.' So she retreated into a daydream, and didn't try to make him chat.
She couldn't think what was the matter with him. She sensed that he was not in a temper, for she had enough knowledge of his tempers now to know that they were sudden and vocal. Not like this aloofness.
But sulking was not Flint's way either. He seemed more worried than anything else. Two vertical lines had appeared between his brows, and his usual teasing manner had been replaced by a brooding preoccupation.
Sable was already waiting for them at Crabtree Farm, bubbling over with the possibility of working on the cosmetics account and going to Paris. She had had her hair trimmed while she had been in Toronto and it lay bevelled into severe layers on her neck.
Polly thought that it must be the idea of Sable's career taking off in such a spectacular manner that was causing Flint anxiety. But it was Polly, not Sable, that he kept stealing glances at all evening.
Before she went to bed she thanked him again for a lovely day, and impulsively reached up and kissed him. It seemed to her that he almost flinched when her lips grazed his lean cheek.
After she had disappeared upstairs he remained, standing like a pillar of stone, his eyes more troubled than ever.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Before they left next day for the Toronto Island Airport, Flint spent some time taking photographs of Polly in her new hat, Duvet lent her enthusiastic support and managed to get herself included in a number of shots, knock Polly's hat askew, and generally have a good time.
'Aren't you taking rather a lot of pictures?' Polly asked when he had posed her against yet another background. But, 'Got to justify the purchase of that hat,' was all Flint would say. She calculated that he used a whole roll of film before he called a halt.
After lunch, which they ate with Sable, Polly went upstairs to get ready for their plane ride. She pulled on her old jeans and found that when they were teamed up with one of her new wide-sleeved tops, a pale blue one, and her new cream canvas espadrilles instead of her shabby old sandals, she looked quite presentable. She tied her hair back with a blue ribbon and applied some lip-gloss before going downstairs to join Flint.
When she reached the kitchen she remembered that she would need sun-glasses and she stopped to fish around for them in her straw tote-bag. Flint and Sable were standing talking together on the outside porch, their backs to the room. They apparently didn't hear her enter, for they went on talking without even glancing round.
