Polly

by Freya North

  ‘You’re my brother,’ Dominic stressed, seeing the bait but tactfully swerving from it, ‘my younger brother. It’s my duty and my pleasure to look out for you.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As I say, I just feel that Polly was distant. Uncharacteristically so.’

  ‘You know she has her little quiet periods,’ Max said impatiently, ‘it would be impossible to sustain her level of effervescence constantly.’

  ‘I’m just saying that she seemed distant, Max – aloof. Different.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Max warned.

  Dominic shrugged.

  ‘Fuck you, Dom.’

  Dominic shrugged again.

  Over the next month, the more Dominic fell for Megan, and the less often Polly wrote – and the less she wrote when she did – the more Dominic’s suspicions seemed well grounded, the less he liked Polly, and the more he wished to protect his seemingly unsuspecting brother.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ rued Megan reluctantly, running her fingers through Dominic’s hair. ‘Her last letter to me was basically a carbon copy of that which she wrote to Max, not that I let on – he seemed delighted with it. A couple of paragraphs about the school revue and pink salopettes.’

  ‘Don’t you think it a little suspect?’ Dominic asked, taking Megan’s hand from his head and kissing each finger in turn.

  ‘Pink salopettes and Polly is a notion more frightening than suspicious,’ Megan laughed, wishing to lighten the tone, close the conversation and get down to some steamy sex.

  Dominic couldn’t resist. What was Polly worth anyway? Certainly not coming between him and the untold pleasures and wiles of Megan’s gorgeous body.

  ‘The trouble with Polly,’ Megan pondered later, while sharing a post-coital bowl of cornflakes with Dominic at midnight, ‘is that she does so adore people. She’s so tactile and trusting. She loves to be loved – I feel it’s what she lives for.’

  ‘But can we trust her?’ Dominic asked, placing a single cornflake on Megan’s collar bone and then dabbing it off with his tongue. Megan swooned at his gesture and then pulled away to consider his words.

  ‘I really can’t believe that we couldn’t. Not after all this time. Not Polly Fenton.’

  Whenever specks of doubt and flickers of unease touched down on Max, he swept them away as if they were dust on his shoulder. Furthermore, he reprimanded himself for being stupid, told himself to get a grip and threw himself into his work. He took on more commissions than he could handle in a working day, often staying in his studio until nine at night. This had a threefold function: it kept him utterly occupied and focused, his bank balance breathed a sigh of relief, and it kept Dominic at bay and off his back.

  Max had always looked up to his older brother; previously he had been easily swayed by him. Swapping bicycles for skateboards. Having a flat-top haircut. Drinking a yard of ale. Supporting Spurs over the Gunners. Dropping acid on Primrose Hill. Going on the Waltzer at Hampstead Heath fair. Going for the vindaloo. However, when it came to the opposite sex, Max had never sought Dominic’s advice, never subscribed to his methods, or been remotely envious of his brother’s ability to maintain a ready selection of keen, separate and secret participants. He was thus insulted that his brother should insinuate that Polly was anything other than Max knew and loved her to be.

  I mean, what would Dom know? Meg’s the first woman who’s proving more than a flirtation whereas Polly and I have been together for five years. I think I’m entitled to know best what she wants in life and I know that she wants for nothing in me.

  At weekends, Max socialized with friends and assured them that Polly was fine, having a super time and yes, let’s all do something when she’s home in six weeks. What was the point in taking on board any of Dominic’s misgivings? Max was sure to talk breezily about Polly in front of his brother. There was nothing wrong, nothing remotely amiss, anyway. Was there?

  There’s not a lot to say, really – certainly nothing to confide. Yes, she writes infrequently. Yes, her letters are becoming shorter and less, well, personalized. But I’m happy to credit distance with her distance – and acknowledge that her distance is most probably her means of survival. Anyway, the girl does want to spend her life with me after all. Doesn’t she?

  When no Valentine’s card arrived, however, Max was somewhat unnerved. Not because he was taken in by all the commercialized panoply of the day, but because Polly was traditionally ridiculously slushy on February 14th. Last year she had cut the bread into heart-shapes before she toasted it. The year before, she left a trail of love-heart sweets from her front door to her bedroom, with an agonizing detour to the patio doors. The year before that, she’d hidden champagne and plastic cups in a bag under a thatch of shrubs on Golders Hill Park. This year, it was a hasty note which arrived two days late.

  On Valentine’s Day itself however, Max wondered, very quietly, if perhaps he was making excuses for her. Almost immediately, he told himself to shut up.

  School revue, remember, on top of essays and dorm responsibilities.

  He knew Polly; he loved her; there was nothing to worry about. Why should her termly absence cause any change to his life?

  The nub of the matter was that he feared that the fact he doubted her somehow implied he was having doubts himself. Previously, he’d never really thought twice about the longevity of his relationship – once Polly was on the scene, he’d never touched upon the thought of her not being there. Of her not wanting him. Of him not wanting her.

  ‘Hullo. Is that Jen?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hullo there, this is Dominic Fyfield.’

  What am I doing?

  ‘Hi Dom, how you doing?’

  ‘I’m very well, thanks – you?’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘I was – we were, Max and I – wondering if you’d like to come over tomorrow night?’

  Not that I’ve mentioned it to him just yet.

  ‘A Tuesday night?’

  ‘Not just any old Tuesday – it’s Shrove Tuesday and we’re going to have a pancake fest.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds fun.’

  ‘Edible fun, I hasten to add.’

  ‘I’m there. I’ll see you guys later.’

  ‘Er, no – tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah – sure. That’s what I said, hey?’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘Bye for now.’

  I just want to observe, Dominic decided as he gazed at the telephone, I just want to see if those signs are still there. I want to see if she sparkles at Max again. He deserves to be sparkled at.

  Jen sparkled. Dominic smiled. Megan licked her lips. Max enjoyed himself very much.

  Max won the Highest Toss Grand Prix. Megan continued to lick her lips. Dominic was victorious in the Most Pancakes Consumed Competition. Jen brought maple syrup for which her English friends developed an instant and highly dangerous penchant.

  ‘If it was snowing, we could have Sugar on Snow,’ Jen explained. Max prayed out loud for snow. Everyone rushed over to the window to check and then collapsed on the sofa laughing.

  ‘I’m going to have to repaint the kitchen ceiling,’ Max moaned.

  ‘That’s some small price to pay for being Highest Toss Supreme Champion,’ Jen justified.

  ‘I don’t want to think about pancakes,’ Megan protested, patting her stomach and looking doe-eyed at Dominic for reassurance. His wink more than sufficed.

  Ready? he mouthed.

  Megan’s wink more than answered.

  ‘Right,’ said Dominic, ‘we’re off.’

  ‘Brilliant evening,’ said Megan, ‘see you at school, Jen.’

  ‘Later, guys,’ said Jen without looking at either of them.

  ‘See you,’ said Max.

  ‘Do you think that’s OK?’ Megan wonders. ‘To leave them? Unchaperoned?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Dominic replies. ‘What’s the harm and where’s the temptation?’

  ‘True,
’ says Megan, her mind now meandering on to all the tempting things she could do to Dominic once they’d walked off the pancakes.

  Jen and Max sat and watched the ten o’clock news.

  ‘Hey, I gotta get going,’ Jen said, when the news came to a feature on public utilities privatization, ‘it’s a school night, after all.’

  ‘You can’t go now,’ Max remonstrated, ‘we have to wait for And Finally.’

  ‘And finally,’ said Trevor MacDonald, right on cue, ‘don’t turn your nose up at mould. Thomas Wilson, a mechanic from Seaton in Devon, has found that it can form the basis of a fabric close to cashmere. Jenny Logan reports.’

  Max and Jen regarded each other, wrinkled their noses and shook their heads.

  ‘I’ll walk you back,’ said Max.

  ‘No problem,’ said Jen with a nonchalant shrug.

  ‘I insist – anyway, I have a gut full of pancakes to walk off.’

  ‘Heck – and I thought you were just being gentlemanly.’

  ‘Did you take Jen home?’ Dominic asks the next evening, juggling hot baked potatoes from oven to plate.

  It’s an innocent question.

  ‘Yup. We walked,’ Max replies, with no aside.

  ‘Nice girl,’ Dominic says. Come on mate, respond.

  Max nods behind his hand, fanning the scalding potato which fills his mouth and makes speech impossible.

  ‘Why don’t we all go to the films on Saturday?’ Dominic proposes lightly.

  It’s an innocent suggestion.

  ‘That’d be fun,’ says Max slightly breathlessly, having downed a pint-glass of water in one.

  Quite the cosy little foursome.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Who is Jen Carter? This Jen Carter Person who slept with Max behind our backs? Or rather when we were preoccupied watching other things. Who is the person behind the tall and good-looking exterior: straight, tanned figure, straight white teeth and straight blonde hair? You’ll find a good teacher, a great athlete and a friendly personality but you won’t find much more. There’s little to dislike about Jen but there’s not much to go wild for either; she’s amicable without being enchanting, she’s easygoing but not dull. Nice is the most appropriate word because, like Jen, it is rather ordinary, a little unimaginative, not hugely expressive and oughtn’t to surface too often.

  She’s a deceptive strawberry, is Jen Carter. You’d pick her from the punnet, with her promising exterior, but a bite reveals a taste that is merely pleasant. Often the smaller fruit, even that with a touch of greenness around the outer edge, will offer such sweetness to make your jaw sting. Sometimes, though, that’s just too much; sometimes a non-committal taste is all that is desired. At least you know where you stand with nice.

  And Chip?

  They’ve been together since summer term last year.

  That long?

  Is she really Mr Jonson’s type?

  Jen Carter was indeed easy prey. But, you see, she is also a fabulous lay. Once he had her, Chip didn’t have to try very hard to keep her; she wouldn’t be going anywhere, Why should she? She felt that. He knew that. Like mint-choc-chip ice-cream – if you like it, why bother to taste a different flavour? Stick with MCC. Like Nike Air trainers – if the fit is good, why change to Reebok? Like teaching English at Hubbardtons Academy – if you enjoy the job, why should you want to look for another elsewhere? Jen is not apathetic, she’s simply nice and uncomplicated and that’s how she likes her life to be too. She’s always veered away from complications in favour of what’s known.

  Why meddle if it ain’t broken, hey?

  Say they’re out of mint-choc-chip ice-cream?

  Never gonna happen.

  Say your feet change and Nike are no longer comfortable.

  My feet won’t change – they’re my feet for Chrissake.

  Say your contract at Hubbardtons Academy is not renewed.

  Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s cool.

  That’s probably the problem – a little too cool. And yet she sparkled at Max Fyfield, she made a bee-line for him in Budgen’s. Ask her why and she’ll just shrug and say he’s a nice guy, he’s cute.

  Even Megan, initially keen to find fault in this girl proposing to masquerade for a year as Polly, found nothing to dislike apart from elements of pronunciation and these were more of an irritant anyway. Megan was pleased for Jen to join her, Dominic and Max for Sunday strolls, Monday movies and sometimes supper on Saturdays. She was happy to share her space in the staff room with her and was grateful for the education in low-fat matters and conversion to decaffeinated coffee.

  ‘What’s coffee without caffeine?’ Max queried with visible horror which he hoped was not impolite but which he could not help anyway.

  Like a log-effect gas fire. Or skimmed milk. Or strawberry flavouring.

  Now, Chip might be the epitome of Cute, but how Good he is, is a matter of some debate. He told Powers Mateland that he and Jen had broken up long before he informed Jen of the fact, but just before he jumped into the hydrotherapy pool with Polly (or, rather, jumped Polly in the jacuzzi). When Jen phoned him a week before the end of term to give him her flight details, he decided that now was as good a time as any. First, though, he would tell her about his new job in Chicago. He congratulated himself, thinking this very diplomatic, believing the one substantiated the other and would therefore lessen the blow each might have on Jen.

  ‘I’m going to Chicago.’

  ‘You can’t meet me at Logan?’

  ‘Sure, I can meet you – but I’m going to Chicago. I got a great job there. I think we should break up.’

  ‘Hullo?’ said Megan into her telephone receiver. ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Who is it?’ Dominic whispered, sidling up to her on the sofa, wondering what should crease Megan’s lovely forehead so. Megan shrugged and smiled. ‘Hullo?’ she said again. She heard scuffling and a gasp. ‘Look,’ she barked, ‘if this is some heavy-breathing effort, it’s pathetic and it isn’t working – you sound more like a snivelling child.’

  ‘Do you want me to—?’ asked Dominic, gesturing the cutting of a throat. Megan shook her head but held the receiver out a little so he could hear for himself.

  ‘Megan?’

  ‘Hullo?’

  ‘It’s Jen.’

  ‘God, I thought you were a heavy-breathing snivelling kid.’

  ‘I’m snivellin’ all right. I got no heating and no boyfriend.’

  Megan listened patiently to a round of heaving, shivering sobs.

  ‘Do you want to come over?’ she asked gently, surprising herself that actually she wouldn’t mind.

  ‘No,’ Jen sniffed.

  ‘Would you like me to come over to you?’ Megan prodded, realizing that she did feel for the girl.

  ‘No,’ Jen wailed.

  ‘Would you like Max to come and fix your heating?’ asked Dominic, taking the phone.

  ‘Yes,’ sobbed Jen, ‘I’m so damned cold.’

  Megan went to put the pasta on while Dominic dialled Max’s studio.

  Chump – or whatever his name is – chucks Jen. Polly’s not been heard from for three weeks. Polly and Chunk are in the same place. Max the Forgotten and Jennifer the Jilted are in the same place too.

  Nah!

  Too corny to be credible.

  ‘Max?’

  I shouldn’t encourage. It’s none of my business.

  ‘Dom.’

  ‘Heating’s down in Polly’s flat.’

  Go and make Jen feel warm. It’ll do you good too.

  ‘Shit. Did you tell her to tap the boiler to the rhythm of Another One Bites The Dust?’

  ‘No – I couldn’t remember which Queen tune it was – I was going to suggest We Will Rock You.’

  ‘Wouldn’t work – I went through their entire backlist until I struck success. OK, I’ll go and give the boiler a whack.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You home later?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’
/>
  ‘On what Megan has to offer for pudding.’

  Max had the boiler working and his idiosyncratic technique soon had Jen smiling. Max regarded her; eyes red and hair hanging limply, smile worn on the exterior of her face alone. She looked vulnerable and tired and he felt compelled to stay; just a while. It was nine o’clock. A quiet chord chimed somewhere at the back of his mind.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jen, turning away.

  ‘Sure?’ Max pressed.

  ‘I got chucked,’ Jen explained, holding aloft a jar of coffee and raising her eyebrows at Max. He could see that it was decaffeinated but he accepted with a gracious nod, knowing that Jen was offering the beverage in return for an understanding ear. ‘You know?’ she said. ‘Ditched. Chip finished with me. He’s going to Chicago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Max said kindly, hoping that lots of milk would make up for the lack of caffeine. ‘Was it out of the blue?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Jen, ‘I mean, he’s been a little distant – hardly phones, doesn’t write much. But, like, he swore things were cool. And, heck, I believed him – had no reason not to.’

  Max wondered whether the milky coffee was the cause of his sudden queasiness. He usually took it black. Caffeinated. Real and strong.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said quietly, ‘Polly’s been a little, um, off too, recently.’

  ‘Yeah, but is she moving to Chicago?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘And has she finished with you?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  Jen shrugged and rested her case, resting her head in her hands. Max wanted to reach to her, to offer some comfort but stopped himself in favour of decorum and a hopefully soothing, ‘Poor you – it obviously wasn’t meant to be.’

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ Jen rued, ‘can you believe that?’

  Max considered this and then nodded. ‘I can understand – because, I suppose, it’s where the reality of your life is indisputable. And that very fact is probably what most frightens you – am I right?’

  Though Jen’s smile was still small, it ran a little deeper. She took her hand to Max and he placed his other over the top of hers in comfort and support.

  ‘Thanks Max,’ said Jen, a slight sparkle temporarily lifting the dullness of her eyes.