by Celia Scott
'It isn't, actually,' said Polly, as crisply as she could. 'I have to—to talk seriously to you, Dexter…'
'You don't have to say anything, sweetie.' He chuckled fatuously. 'Jus' lie back and enjoy!'
A mild panic started to grip her. She had no experience in dealing with amorous drunks, and she wasn't sure how to handle this situation. 'I can't come back with you to your place, Dexter.' She remembered how any appeal to his ego had usually worked in the past. 'For one thing, I probably have an early call to help Flint with your photo-story—but that's not—'
'There's not goin' to be any story,' he said. 'That's what I was telling Flint while you were changing.'
She was stunned. 'Wh… what do you mean?'
He went over to the bar, but this time he didn't re-fill his glass, but merely topped it up with juice. 'Gotta drive,' he said by way of explanation.
But Polly wasn't interested in his sudden quest for sobriety. 'What do you mean, no story?' she persisted.
'The dates on my play in London have been changed,' he said. 'I have to fly to England tomorrow.' He returned to her and perched himself precariously beside her. 'An' you're coming with me. It's my little surprise.' He tried to kiss her but she ducked her head. 'Now don't you worry about a thing. I've already told Flint…'
'You've what!' Horrified, she leapt to her feet, sending him ignominiously to the ground. 'Just what have you told Flint?' she demanded.
Her unexpected reaction seemed to act like a cup of black coffee on Dexter, for he appeared far more sober when he replied, 'I simply told him you'd be coming to England with me, and to forget about the photo-story. What's the matter with that?'
'The matter?' She looked at him wildly. 'In the name of all that's holy, Dexter, don't you think of anybody but yourself? Why did you let Flint take all those shots today if you knew you were going away? I presume you've known about this change of plans for some time?'
'A couple of days,' he admitted, climbing to his feet and brushing at his white trousers, 'but it slipped my mind. Besides, I thought it would be kinda fun to surprise you this way. If I'd told Flint he might have let the cat out of the bag.'
'Surprise me!' Polly groaned, and when he looked at her blankly she raged, 'how dare you assume I'd trot after you, without even being consulted? And how dare you tell Flint that? What will he think of me now?' Her wide-set eyes filled with a rush of tears. 'Oh, Dexter, what have you done?' she quavered. 'He'll never speak to me after this!'
He looked at her thoughtfully. Then he asked, 'Would that be so terrible?'
'Yes… yes… except…' The tears slid down her cheeks.
'You love him, don't you, sweetie?' he said softly. 'You're in love with Flint.'
Miserably, all her anger dissipated, she nodded. 'I didn't know until today,' she said. 'I was going to tell you tonight—but I never got the chance. I'm—I'm sorry, Dexter—I—'
'Forget it!' he said tersely, handing her a crisp linen handkerchief. 'I suppose I should have guessed. You defended him like crazy if I so much as made a remark about any of his nutty ideas.'
'His ideas aren't nutty,' she said, dabbing at her eyes.
'You see! You're at it again.' He returned to the bar and this time he did add rum to his drink. 'Does he know?'
She paled visibly. 'Heavens, no! He thinks I'm in love with you. And at first I thought I was—only…'
'Thanks a bundle,' he grimaced, and when she whispered 'Sorry, Dexter,' he went on. 'Forgive me if I don't turn cartwheels, but any guy's ego takes a beating when the chick he's been lusting after turns out to have fallen for his best friend.'
'And you're not just "any guy", are you?' she said with a watery smile.
He bowed his head in acknowledgement and then smiled at himself. 'True! But I'll recover. Anyway you don't have any reason to cry, sweetie. All you have to do is tell him how you feel, and take it from there.'
'What good would that do?' She folded his hankie and handed it back to him. 'He's in love with Sable. The reason he's so morose is because she's away.'
Dexter's handsome grey eyes opened wide. 'Flint and Sable!' he exploded, 'are you crazy?' I've known both of them for years, I'd know if there was something between them. They're just friends, good friends, that's all.'
'Very good friends,' Polly said grimly. 'Did you know that Sable's been living at Flint's farm?'
'So that's where she was,' he said. 'I tried to call her at her apartment a couple of times but couldn't get her.'
'You see?'
But Dexter refused to be convinced. 'It doesn't prove a thing,' he insisted. 'I tell you I know those two. There's nothing between them except friendship. Anyway, I'll be seeing Sable in England. I'll ask her myself.'
Since just talking about Flint's attachment to Sable was like twisting a knife in her heart, Polly didn't pursue this. Picking up her tote-bag, she held out her hand and said, 'Goodbye, Dexter. It's been wonderful knowing you. And thank you for being so understanding.'
The actor pursed his lips. 'Do I have a choice?' he enquired bitterly, and when she smiled he added, 'do you mind finding your own way home, sweetie? I think I'll stay here for a bit… drown my sorrows.' He looked at her tragically, but she knew that it was really his vanity that was suffering, and she suspected that he was beginning to enjoy the role of disappointed lover, and intended to play it to the hilt. She left him sitting in the garden lounger, a fresh glass of rum in his hand, and she wouldn't have been surprised to hear him quoting poetry to himself as she walked away.
Polly felt very unhappy as she stood at the rail of the crowded ferry watching the lights of the city come closer. The smaller buildings looked like squat little trolls crouching beside the newer, taller ones. The air was cool on her sunburnt cheeks, but she derived no pleasure from this. It was all very well for Dexter to say he would have known if they were lovers, she had had ample proof that when it came to noticing things that were not directly connected with him, the handsome actor was not particularly perceptive. Besides, he hadn't overheard Flint begging Sable to stay on—she had.
And now Flint thought she was off to England, like a regular camp follower, or, as he had so unkindly referred to her, a 'groupie'.
Well, she could do something about that! She could phone him and let him know that she hadn't gone traipsing off to Europe with the first man who asked her. Not that he probably gave a damn, but it would make her feel better. It would be a small salve for her pride. In any case, she supposed she was still technically his employee, and it was only right she should let him know that she was still available if he wanted her to continue working for him. Except that she couldn't do that. Not now. That was more than she could bear. And from the cold way he had treated her all day she was pretty sure he wasn't interested in having her around.
The boat came into the dock, and the moment the broad steel gangplank had been dropped, the crowd swarmed forward, Polly with them, all reluctantly making their way home after a day on the Island Park. Standing in the subway train, pressed against the other hot, tired passengers, she made up her mind to phone the minute she got home. She wouldn't let this sick feeling of apprehension every time she thought of Flint's unfriendly voice at the end of the line stop her. She would make it short and businesslike, but at least he would get the message that she wasn't off on some hare-brained holiday at Dexter's expense. Perhaps that would take some of the ice out of his voice.
But when she entered the house, the first thing she heard was Marjorie talking on the telephone. And from the sound of it, it promised to be a long session. The hall light was on and her mother was surrounded by a mountain of loose-leaf notes and paper-clippings. When she saw Polly her eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, and putting her hand over the mouthpiece she said in an undertone:
'You're early! I didn't expect you for hours yet.'
Polly muttered something about being tired, then she asked, 'Are you going to be long, Mom?'
'Yes, I am,' Marjorie said decisively, 'I'm trying
to organise a rally to protest about the hiring of a man to run the new Sewage Treatment Plant.' She transferred her attention back to the phone. 'No, no woman has actually applied for the post,' she admitted, 'but that's not the point…'
Wearily, Polly made her way upstairs. She knew that Marjorie would be glued to the phone for the next couple of hours, and nothing short of a three-alarm fire would budge her. Her own phone call to Flint would have to wait till morning. Perhaps that was just as well. By then he might be more reconciled to Sable's absence and be in a better mood. And a good night's sleep would no doubt help her to maintain a normal approach when she spoke to him. Right now she was so tired that if he was short with her she was liable to burst into tears, which would be dreadful. At least, she reflected as she curled into a ball in her narrow bed, she could cry all she liked alone in her room without having to explain herself to anyone. But she was too emotionally drained to do more than shed a couple of tears before sleep claimed her, and for a few hours at least she was unconscious of the ache in her heart.
CHAPTER TEN
Before Marjorie's car had backed out of the driveway the following morning, Polly dialled Flint's number. It rang for a long time, then she hung up. She tried again later in the morning, and then at hourly intervals, but always without success. The bell merely buzzed mockingly in her ear. Flint was either not answering his phone, which was unlikely since he relied on the phone for work, or he was out. To keep herself from screaming with frustration she decided to weed the back garden, ferociously yanking up dandelions as if they were bitter enemies, but this activity made her more impatient than ever and after an hour she gave up and retreated to the kitchen. Here she baked two loaves of bread and several batches of cookies between fruitless trips to the telephone. By the time Marjorie came home from work, the house was fragrant with the scent of baking, and Polly was a nervous wreck. Not wanting to draw attention to herself, she maintained an outward show of calm, only jerking like a puppet any time her mother made a move in the direction of the phone.
'Are you all right, Poll?' Marjorie enquired, when her daughter asked for the fourth time if she needed the phone that evening. 'You're as jumpy as a flea!'
'I'm fine,' lied Polly, taking a lemon pudding from the fridge and serving it. 'I just need the phone for a bit tonight, that's all.' She gave her mother a wide smile in an effort to appear at ease, but Marjorie wasn't fooled.
'Is it that actor who's making you behave like a scalded cat?' she asked sharply. 'I hoped you had more sense.'
'It's a business call,' Polly informed her loftily. 'And for your information, Dexter's gone to England and out of my life!'
'Thank God for that!' Marjorie ate a spoonful of pudding, than, noticing Polly's wistful eyes, she went on in a gentler tone, 'he wasn't for you, Poll. Believe me! You mustn't brood.'
The unaccustomed softness in her mother's manner nearly induced Polly to tell her the real reason for her depression, but at the last minute she balked. After all, there was nothing really to tell. Nothing but the poignant fact that she loved her boss, and that he loved someone else. Not exactly a unique situation, but no less painful because of its banality. Besides, she could imagine Marjorie's stringent comments and she didn't feel up to coping with them at the moment.
'When you've made your call, why don't we go to a film?' Marjorie suggested, 'There's a good comedy playing at the Rialto.'
Polly agreed, although she really didn't want to, but she knew her mother was making an effort to cheer her up, and she was grateful to her. Besides, it looked rather suspicious spending the entire evening trying to make a 'business' call. But before they left she tried again to get through to Crabtree Farm, and again she met with no success.
It was the same story when they came home from their film. And all the next day. Then, on the third morning, she received a letter. The moment she saw it lying on the mat and recognised Flint's untidy handwriting, her heart started to beat so painfully she almost cried aloud. She stood looking down at the square envelope for several seconds before taking it in her shaking hand and carrying it to the kitchen, where she placed it on the kitchen table. For some unfathomable reason, she washed her hands and removed her apron before taking a paring knife and slitting the envelope. A cheque fluttered to the ground, but she ignored it. With trembling fingers she smoothed open the accompanying sheet of thick cream paper.
'Dear Polly,' she read, 'You won't receive this until you return from England, but no doubt it will still be useful. As you already know, the photo-story on Dexter has been cancelled. However, you are entitled to a month's salary, which is the time I had allotted for the project, and I have added three months' severance pay. Our bargain is now discharged. Good luck in the future. Flint.'
She read this unfriendly letter through several times, vainly hoping to discover a grain of kindness which would nourish her aching heart, but there was none. The term 'severance pay' kept coming off the page and dancing in front of her. She remembered the dictionary definition of severance—'To put or keep apart. To break off a relationship'—and her large tawny eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. Putting her head in her hands, she let her misery overwhelm her and sobbed hopelessly for some time. 'That's enough of that!' she told herself at last, drying her eyes on a dish towel. 'Pull yourself together, girl. You're not the first one to feel this way!' That made her think of her mother, brokenhearted and pregnant with Polly, and she wept again in sympathy. Little wonder that Marjorie was abrasive sometimes; Polly had always known that her mother's cynical view of romantic matters was really an armour, but she had never understood the degree of pain before. She found a tissue in the pocket of her jeans and, blowing her nose, made a determined effort to stop crying. Crying wouldn't solve anything, besides, she had her pride. She wouldn't let on to anyone how unhappy she was inside. She would keep it to herself, and she wouldn't let this heartache sour her outlook on life either. The pain would dull in time. She knew it would never really leave her, but it would become blunted, and in the meantime she would create a life for herself, so that Flint, if ever he knew or cared, would be proud of her. Even more important, she would be proud of herself.
She reached down and retrieved Flint's cheque, and then she blinked hard, unable at first to believe what she read. It was about three times the amount she had expected. Surely he had added a zero too many? But the written amount tallied. He might be dismissing her, but he was being generous about it. More than generous! If only he had known, money was the last thing she wanted from him… but she mustn't indulge in that kind of thinking any more, and with set lips she carefully folded the cheque and replaced it in the envelope. An idea started to form in her head while she tidied the house, and at noon she changed into her cotton pants and tied her lustrous curls into a top-knot. Then she put the cheque into her straw bag and headed downtown.
By the time Marjorie came home that evening Polly was a registered student at the City College, taking a full course in Gourmet Cooking in the coming term. She had also found herself a part-time job waitressing in a restaurant, to augment the little that remained from Flint's generous cheque.
Over coffee she told her mother of her plans. She had expected an argument, but to her surprise Marjorie didn't give her one, and she thought she saw a gleam of respect in the older woman's eye.
'Taking the bull by the horns, are you, Poll?' was all she said, and when Polly smiled she added, 'well, I can't say I'm pleased, but one has to go after what one wants in this life. I'm glad you've learnt that at last.'
'Sometimes the thing you want is out of reach,' said Polly, thinking of Flint.
'The important thing is not to admit defeat,' her mother told her.
'There are moments when one must admit defeat with dignity.' She looked away then, for she was filled with such hopeless longing she was afraid her face would give her away.
'Life goes on, Poll,' her mother said softly, 'and we survive. I know, I've been there.'
Polly f
orced herself to look at her mother, willing her pain to stay hidden. 'I know, Mom,' she said. 'And I have an idea now what it cost you.' On an impulse she leaned across and kissed her mother's cheek. 'I think you're the greatest!' she murmured. She felt the prick of tears, then went on hurriedly, 'And now, before we drown in syrup, let's get those dishes washed.' Grumbling, Marjorie agreed. But there was a closeness between the two women that had been missing before.
The days passed with agonising slowness for Polly. She started her job in the restaurant and was glad that it tired her, for it helped to keep her mind off her unhappiness. She managed to maintain a smiling face, and to see her joking with customers, her lovely eyes bright, you would never have guessed at the ache she felt in the place where her heart used to be. The only time she allowed her guard to drop was when she was safely in bed with the light out. Then she would quietly cry herself to sleep, to dream of Flint, and their brief, wonderful time marooned on the island.
During her waking hours, when she was waiting on tables, or doing chores around the house, she was sometimes filled with such longing for him that she almost cried out from the pain. During this time she learnt what the phrase 'a broken heart' really meant. She also learnt that a broken heart doesn't kill you… you just wish it would.
Her birthday came and went. She had vaguely hoped Flint would remember it and send her a card perhaps, or phone her, but of course he didn't, and apart from letters from her relatives in England and a subscription to a new feminist magazine from Marjorie, the day passed uneventfully.
She lived in this lonely hell for almost three weeks— although to Polly it seemed more like three years—when one night, as they were about to go to bed, the phone rang in the hall. Polly's heart leapt, as it always did these days when the phone rang, but in the next instant it plunged again into its frozen state, for hope was now simply a reflex action. She knew Flint would never call her.
