by Celia Scott
Looking rather startled, Sable said, 'Well… of course… he's a terrific pilot.'
Polly thought it rather strange that Sable didn't run out to Flint and throw herself into his arms. If Flint was my lover I'd let him know that I was happy to see him safe and sound, Polly thought, and wondered, in that case, why she was finding Dexter's attentions so irritating. All this 'poor baby's ordeal' rubbish was definitely getting on her nerves.
Flint came in to the lounge. He looks so tired, thought Polly, this excitement is the last thing he needs. I wonder why Dexter dreamed up this welcoming committee anyway? For she was positive the press was there at the actor's invitation.
After Sable had given Flint a very undemonstrative hug he went over to where Marjorie was sitting. 'I'm very sorry, Ms Slater, for the anxiety I must have caused you,' he said. 'Polly wasn't really in any danger, but you weren't to know that.'
Marjorie fumbled in her battered denim bag for a cigarette before answering. 'I didn't suppose you'd crashed on purpose.' She flicked at her lighter. 'In any case, it was your friend here who panicked, not me.' She blew a thin stream of smoke in Dexter's direction.
Dexter looked pained. 'Of course I panicked,' he remonstrated. 'My best friend, and the cutest little chick I've met in years, missing over that lake—I was worried out of my skull!'
'My daughter was not hatched out of an egg!' Marjorie glared at him.
Polly said hastily, 'I think I want to go home now,' because she didn't think she could take an altercation between Dexter and her mother at that moment.
'Do you have transport?' Flint asked Marjorie, who told him she had her car. 'Then I think it would be a good idea to take Polly home to bed,' he said. 'She must be worn out.' He waited while the older woman stubbed out her cigarette, then he added, 'You would have been very proud if you'd have seen how your daughter coped in a very difficult situation, Ms Slater. She's a very brave girl.'
'I wouldn't expect her to behave badly,' Marjorie said gruffly. But Polly knew she was pleased.
'But the press conference!' wailed Dexter. 'I told them we'd give them a story as soon as you'd had coffee.'
'I'll give them their story,' Flint said firmly, 'you don't need Polly for that.'
'Okay, but one picture before you go,' Dexter said to Polly, and without waiting for a reply he went to the door and called in the photographers. 'One shot of me with Miss Slater, guys,' he said, putting his arm round her shoulders. 'The safe return of the girl of my dreams.'
Polly turned bright scarlet. She knew she should have been delighted by her idol's attention, but she wished it weren't so public. 'Flint should be in the picture, too,' she suggested. 'I mean—I wasn't exactly alone.'
'But you were the one I was out of my wits about,' Dexter murmured as the cameras clicked.
'Are you coming, Polly?' Marjorie was standing by the door, her face a mask of distaste.
'Yes, Mom.' Thankfully she eased herself out of Dexter's embrace.
He called after her, 'I suddenly realised what I'd been missing in my life. Get prepared for a lot of attention, sweetie!'
'Come on, Polly!' Marjorie called impatiently. She nodded curtly to Flint. 'Goodbye, Mr. McGregor.' She ignored the others.
Flint inclined his head. He looked grim. 'I'll be in touch after a few days, Polly,' he said, 'to discuss our working schedule.'
'I'll be in touch before that,' Dexter assured her. 'Having found you, I'm never going to let you go again!' He smiled fondly as she went out after her mother.
But the expressions that remained printed on Polly's memory were Flint's worried frown, and Sable's unaccountably stricken face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The first three days of Polly's holidays were spent cleaning and tidying the house. No housekeeper at the best of times, Marjorie had excelled herself in creating a mess. Polly worked steadily, almost enjoying the tedium of housework, since it helped to take her mind off her present life, which suddenly seemed complicated.
For nineteen years she had lived a humdrum existence, and dreamed of a life filled with glamour and excitement, and overnight her dreams appeared to have become reality.
She wasn't sure she was enjoying it.
For instance, she should have been thrilled when enormous bunches of flowers started arriving from Dexter. In one day alone she received a sheaf of orchids, two dozen gladioli and a spray of camellias. But the fact was, it was too much. Besides, she preferred less exotic blooms.
On the third day, when the grinning florist delivered a huge bunch of gardenias and twelve white lilies, she groaned aloud.
'Where am I going to put them?' she muttered wildly, searching under the stairs for empty jam jars. She had phoned Dexter to thank him and had hinted that she lived in a small house and didn't possess any vases. The second time she had called she had said outright that she had run out of containers, but he had obviously not paid any attention, being far too wrapped up in himself and the pressure of finishing his film.
She was attempting to plug the hole in an old lamp base, thinking this might serve as a vase for the lilies, when her mother arrived home from work.
'Who died?' she asked, surveying the creamy blossoms with a jaundiced eye.
Ignoring this, Polly filled the lamp base with water. Immediately the cork she had tried to jam in the hole fell out and water gushed over the kitchen counter. Swearing, she pushed her wet fingers through her tumbled brown curls.
'Could I borrow your car after supper, Mom?' she asked. 'I think I'll drive over and donate these flowers to the hospital.'
'Good idea,' said her mother, sitting down at the kitchen table and lighting a cigarette. 'I take it these are from that moronic actor, too?'
Polly was at once on the defensive. 'If you mean Dexter the answer is yes. And I think it's very nice of him to send me flowers.'
'Flowers is one thing. An entire florist's shop is another. Besides, it's a chauvinistic seductive game that I thoroughly disapprove of.' Contemptuously Marjorie picked up a lily that had fallen on the floor. 'I suppose when he turns up in person he'll be carrying a box of chocolates shaped like a heart.'
'Oh, do give it a rest, Mom!' Polly snapped back, stung into a temper by her mother's jeering. 'I don't expect you to approve. You hate Dexter just because he's a man!' Her golden eyes glittered with anger. 'You hate all men on principle, I know that.'
Marjorie made a smoke ring. She wasn't used to seeing the usually placid Polly in a temper. 'That's not true,' she said, 'I don't hate all men. I quite like Flint McGregor, as a matter of fact.'
'Well, well!' mocked Polly. 'What did Flint do to earn this unexpected praise?'
'He didn't do anything. That's the whole point. He strikes me as the type who doesn't play games. I respect that. I wish he was the one you liked, rather than this… this actor!'
'I like Flint,' Polly said. 'He just doesn't have Dexter's… charisma. And as for playing games—' It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Marjorie about Flint making love to her on the island, but instead she said, 'I'm sure he could "play games" as you call it, if he fancied me. But he's got a girl.'
Marjorie stubbed out her cigarette. All at once the tough mask she wore had slipped away and she looked much younger, vulnerable. 'Be careful, Poll,' she said earnestly. 'Don't be taken in—the way I was. I couldn't bear for you to be hurt.'
Polly's temper vanished like mist in the sun and she came to sit opposite her mother. Stretching out her hand to take Marjorie's nicotine-stained fingers, she assured her, 'Don't worry, love—I'll be all right. But I can't help enjoying a bit of attention. No matter what you may believe, it's fun.'
'I know it is. That's the trouble!' Marjorie said gloomily, drawing her hand away. 'But frankly, I don't trust this actor further than I can throw him.'
Exasperated again, Polly got up and started wrapping her flowers in a wet paper towel to preserve them. 'For your information, Dexter has always behaved perfectly,' she snapped, 'and I think he's marvellous. I'm crazy ab
out him. So let's just drop the subject, okay?' She was overstating her true feelings for Dexter. Actually her attraction to him had been eroded over the past week, and now she found him charming but shallow. She hardly dared admit it to herself, but he was beginning to bore her. The way Flint never could. But by attacking Dexter the way she had, Marjorie had forced Polly to feel protective towards him.
And also Polly felt resentful towards Flint, who had stirred her so incredibly with his kisses, and then rejected her. He hadn't phoned once in the three days she had been home, and she was mysteriously hurt by his lack of attention.
Driving home from the hospital later that evening she decided she would regain the passion she had felt for Dexter in the past. She would consciously work on it! That way she would relegate Flint McGregor back to where he belonged, to a subordinate position in her life. And so, when Dexter phoned later that night to say he was free the following evening and intended to take her out for dinner, she accepted with forced enthusiasm.
'We'll go some place really classy,' he declared, 'so get gussied up, sweetie!'
When she had replaced the receiver she remembered that all her new clothes were still out at the farm. She dialled Flint's number with a shaking hand, and when he answered almost immediately she discovered that her throat was bone dry.
'Hello!' he repeated when she didn't speak. 'Who's there?'
'It's me—Polly,' she croaked. 'I hope I'm not phoning too late.'
There was quite a pause, then he said. 'Not a bit too late, Pollyanna. As a matter of fact, I was just about to phone you. To discuss our schedule for the picnic on Sunday.'
'Oh, yes…' Her heart lifted perceptibly.
'I've only this minute returned—from a short trip.'
So that was why he hadn't called before. She had been a fool to feel neglected. In a voice that was a long way from her original croak she asked, 'A business or a pleasure trip?'
'Business. Purely business,' he drawled. 'I had an idea for a book on waterfalls, so I went off with Duvet to search for some. I'll tell you all about it when I see you.'
'Sounds fun!' She could have wept for joy that he was including her.
'Now—what can I do for you, Pollyanna?'
She explained that she needed some clothes, but didn't tell him what for. 'I'm pretty sure I can borrow Mom's car tomorrow, so I was wondering if I could come over.'
'Sure! No problem. I'll be here all day. Come around noon and I'll fix us lunch—like old times.' She could hear the smile in his voice.
'I'll be there,' she said, 'don't forget the mustard! Good night, Flint.'
'Good night, Pollyanna. Sweet dreams.' He hung up.
She stood for a long time in the dim hall smiling at nothing before going to the living room to ask Marjorie if she could borrow her car.
She was still in a happy mood the next morning, even though it was pouring with rain, which made driving unpleasant. 'Singin' in the rain, I'm singin' in the rain,' she bellowed lustily all the way to the Caledon Hills.
The beige stone of Crabtree Farm was stained to the colour of dark honey by the wet, and the apple trees dripped mournfully. But nothing could dampen Polly's buoyant spirits, and she drew up by the house with a flourish.
Flint was standing at the front porch. He came to the car carrying a large striped gold umbrella. 'Whew!' he exclaimed when they had run into the shelter of the house. 'It's like being back in Lake Huron!'
The remark reminded Polly of their brief lovemaking, and she grew shy. As if he sensed her mood he opened the door to the studio stairs and whistled for Duvet. 'Friend of yours come to see you!' he called, grinning as the big dog raced upstairs and threw herself at Polly with yelps of delight.
'Oh, Duvet, you fool!' she giggled, as Duvet put her paws on her shoulders in an effort to show her pleasure. It was hard to remain shy under such an onslaught, and she began to feel more at ease.
'You'd almost think we'd missed you,' Flint said softly, and she went pink.
'Where's Sable?' She hoped that by mentioning Sable's name she would dispel the atmosphere of intimacy that seemed to occur now when she was alone with Flint.
'She's making a TV commercial in New York.' He seemed quite casual about it. 'She got that cosmetics account, by the way. She'll be taking off for Paris soon.'
'Great!' Polly said heartily. She was pleased, of course, but the prospect of working for Flint without his lady around to make it a nice safe threesome was disturbing. 'Good for Sable. She must be very happy.'
'Happy?' Flint answered enigmatically. 'Well… yes. Happy about the job, that is.'
She couldn't stop herself asking, 'Are you happy about it?' even though she was afraid she was treading on dangerously personal ground.
'Of course I am. It's a great break for her. She deserves a break, does Sable.' Abruptly he suggested that Polly go upstairs and get her clothes while he finished making the lunch, and she felt he was making it clear he didn't want to discuss Sable any further.
Her room looked welcoming. Somebody had put a vase of field daisies on the dressing table, and she was forcibly reminded of the resplendent blossoms in the house in Toronto. These simple flowers pleased her far more.
She changed out of her 'old' clothes into her new cotton pants and a peach-coloured top before joining Flint in the kitchen.
He had lit a small fire. There was really no need for one, but the burning apple boughs smelt aromatic, and it was cheering to see the flames dancing on the kitchen walls, and bouncing off the copper cauldron that she had filled with fir-cones when she had first moved in.
'Thought we'd eat by the fire.' He put a tray of food down on a side table and lifted Fellini off one of the wing chairs where he had been contentedly purring. 'What's happened to your manners?' he said to the cat. 'Didn't I teach you always to give your seat to a lady?' Offended, Fellini stalked to the furthest edge of the hearth-rug and, turning his back, began to clean his paws elaborately.
Polly settled herself in the chair, her loose curls gleaming against the faded chintz. 'Mmm!' she murmured happily, 'this is nice.'
'Yes, it is,' he said, his voice as dark as midnight.
Warning bells started to sound faintly in Polly's head. It was happening again! That cosy, exciting intimacy the moment she was alone with him.
Perhaps if she concentrated on mundane thing—like food—she could keep the conversation on an even keel. 'What kind of sandwiches do we have?' she asked brightly.
He gave a soft laugh before replying. 'Beef, rare, with plenty of mustard, and chopped egg. Okay?'
'Delicious! I adore roast beef sandwiches,' she babbled. 'And chopped egg—they complement each other, don't you think? One bland and the other…'
'Shut up, darling,' said Flint, handing her the plate. 'Choose your sandwich and relax. There's nothing to worry about.'
It was all very well for him to tell her to relax. That 'darling' had started her heart pounding like a triphammer, and the fact that she seemed to enjoy it when he used endearments didn't help.
She laid aside the beef sandwich she had taken at random. She didn't think she was capable of swallowing anything right now. Her throat felt too tight.
'I'm having a beer, or there's chocolate milk.' He went over to the fridge.
Turning to answer, she found herself admiring his lean, hard thighs. He was wearing a pair of ancient jeans and a navy tee-shirt, the sort of garments she was sure Dexter wouldn't be caught dead in. But she thought he looked just as attractive as Dexter did, in spite of the actor's fancy wardrobe. In fact, now that she had come to know Flint, she realised that he was really very sexy. Not in an obvious, 'film star' way, but he possessed a strength, an aura of virility—and at this particular moment it was just what she didn't need!
'Beer or chocolate milk?' he asked again.
'Oh, chocolate milk, please. I love chocolate.'
'I remember.' He smiled at her as he placed the carton in front of her and handed her a glass.
Po
lly took a determined bite of her sandwich. When she had swallowed it she said, 'Now, about this picnic… How much equipment do you plan to take?' She hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about, but she wanted to sound matter-of-fact.
'Now, let's see. A couple of cameras… a lot of film… and you.' His eyes were sparkling with amusement, and she cursed herself for being such a fool.
However, she persisted. 'Well—shall I meet you on the island? Or what?'
'The film company's laying on a special ferry for V.I.P.s. We're to take that. So I'll pick you up at your house at eleven. Should give us plenty of time.' He took a drink of beer. 'Having got that settled, relax and enjoy your lunch.'
She did feel easier then, for it seemed she was not to return to Crabtree Farm yet, and with Sable in New York that was a good thing. But paradoxically she felt let down. She missed the farm and Duvet—and Flint, too, an unsettling voice inside her insisted.
So she couldn't help asking, 'When do you want me to come back? I mean to do the housekeeping?'
He tapped his thumbnail against his white teeth for a moment. 'Let's see what Sable's plans are before we fix anything,' he said at last. 'I have a feeling you might feel—happier—if she were around.' He raised his eyebrows quizzically. 'Am I right?'
Flushing, she nodded and muttered something about her mother liking it if another woman was in residence, although Marjorie had never expressed an opinion on the subject. He accepted this, and by the time they had finished their lunch, and fed the scraps to Duvet, the atmosphere between them was comfortable again.
This was mostly due to Flint, who started to tell her of his trip in search of waterfalls to photograph. The old comradeliness reasserted itself, and by the time they were stacking their plates in the dishwasher she was laughing at his jokes again, her hazel eyes free from anxiety.
The old grandfather clock chimed four. 'I must go,' Polly said, wiping the tray free of crumbs. 'Thank you for lunch, and for the information on waterfalls. I think it should make a terrific book.'
