Polly

by Freya North

  Max Fyfield is the hero of our story. At this stage, Polly is merely our female lead for there is little heroic to commend her or elevate her status.

  Max had no idea that, four days after holding Jen’s hand over Polly’s pine table, he would be having sex with her. And on the pine table too. He had no idea because he had no premeditated desire to, he had hatched no plan, no notion tickled his fancy. That’s Max all over, honourable and trusting, fancying only Polly and hanging on patiently until he can tickle her fancy again. There is no ounce of scheming within him, not a bad bone in his body apart from his collar bone which he has broken twice in rugby. Perhaps it is because Max is so trusting that those around him trust him so, that he is revered and adored and gravitated towards. Max is so strong, isn’t he? That’s why those close to him know they can turn to him in their hours of need. Max doesn’t have hours of need, does he? Doesn’t need them. He’s far too capable, mature and steady. Good job, really, because it would be absolutely devastating to see him otherwise. It would be like seeing your father cry. It would be like a king saying he couldn’t cope. It would be like a fireman announcing he had lost his nerve. It would be unthinkable. Max is dependable, all who know him depend on it.

  Now Polly we know to be inherently good, we know her potential to flow with love and passion, but she needs to shape up, she needs to be shown the error of her ways, she needs to feel utterly wretched; moreover, she deserves to. And yet, because it is Polly who has come across Max in flagrante, ironically – and perhaps unfairly – it is Max who will initially suffer sickening guilt. He will torment himself: how could he do this to her? He will chastise himself: what has she done to deserve it? He will feel utterly wretched. That Max will suffer is patently unfair, but the knowledge of his pain should hasten Polly’s recovery, her restoration.

  Would it appease his guilt if Polly was to admit to her crime? Or should she heed Kate’s caution at all costs? What should she do? What are they going to do? What’s going to happen? What do we want to happen? Wait. First, Max’s interlude with Jen must be given appropriate lineage. We owe it to Max. He has every right to have his sexual prowess chronicled. From Polly’s passion for Chip, one might very well wonder if Max’s bedroom manners are somehow lacking. This is certainly not the case. Just ask Jen.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, Max,’ said Jen as she saw Max to the door; the flat and her spirit now sufficiently warmed.

  ‘No problem,’ Max responded. He smiled benevolently. ‘You look after yourself – just call if you need anything, honestly. I’m a good listener and a good plumber.’

  ‘Hug?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Jen shrugged and cocked her head, ‘I could sure use a hug,’ she repeated, turning the palms of her hands for emphasis. Hug was a word Polly never used, she favoured cuddle, invariably requested in suitably babyish tones. Max was taken aback – not so much at the concept but at the sudden fact that a hug with Jen was actually very appealing and cuddles with Polly were at once dismissed.

  Jen and Max hugged tenderly for a moment before Max made to pull away, presuming the action to be as short as the word, certainly a single gesture. However, the slightest pressure at the back of his neck from Jen’s wrists invited and decided him to stay put a while longer. He closed his eyes and made an involuntary murmur in his throat which, to his relief, also sounded deceptively like platonic comfort. He stroked Jen’s back in a consoling kind of way, while subconsciously logging the feel of her for future contemplation.

  ‘You hug good,’ said Jen with gratitude.

  ‘Just add it to my aforementioned qualifications,’ Max smiled.

  Max walked back up Haverstock Hill pleasantly baffled.

  Odd. Very odd. It’s been ages since I felt another woman’s body. I mean, I embrace my female friends, but I suppose I do so without actually feeling them, an easily executed gesture that I don’t really think about. My hands and arms don’t really log any interesting information. But Jen, she made my cock stir, damn and praise her. I didn’t get hard – more of what I term a lob-on. When I made to go – but when she invited me to hold her a little longer – that’s when. I wonder if she could tell. Why do I half hope that she could?

  It felt different, a change. She’s tall, she’s slim and athletic. I mean, Polly’s slim but in a soft way – hers is a body you want to scoop up, cradle. Jen? Lithe and sexy and she’s, I don’t know, I haven’t really thought of her – certainly not in a compare and contrast with Polly. I won’t dwell on it, though. It was just a hug, wasn’t it? An Americanized platonic gesture. Any more would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? I don’t want any more anyway, do I? I don’t really want to think about it any more. It could be dangerous. I shouldn’t.

  However, when the doormat was still letterless two mornings later, the answering machine silent, Max decided that now he too could do with a hug.

  I don’t know what time Polly arrives home the day after tomorrow because she has not contacted me to tell me. Polly has not been in touch for almost a month. I wonder. I do not want to wonder why. I want a hug and not a cuddle and I do not want to wonder why.

  ‘Jen?’

  Shit, I should hang up.

  ‘Max, hi there.’

  ‘How’s the heating?’

  That’s good, keep it nice and neutral.

  ‘Feeling hot.’

  ‘Great. Um. I just.’

  Come on, fool.

  ‘You want to come for a bite to eat?’

  Oh.

  ‘Love to. When? Tonight?’

  ‘Well, you ain’t got much choice – I fly tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see you at seven, hey?’

  Oh.

  ‘You will.’

  Oh.

  ‘Megan’s coming over tonight,’ said Dominic, warily regarding his brother who was staring hard at a totally uninspiring corner of their sitting-room.

  Where’s he gone?

  ‘Oh yes?’ Max mustered.

  ‘Do you want to stay in and play the gooseberry from hell who ultimately meets an untimely and hideous death?’ Dominic asked. ‘Or will you play golden boy and bog off, thus earning an extravagant position in my will and my favour?’

  ‘I’m going out,’ Max said distractedly and left the room before his brother had a chance to ask where, when and with whom.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Dominic called outside the bathroom door half an hour later, ‘I’m going round to Megan’s. You have been invited, I might add; cordially by her, begrudgingly by me.’

  Or are you still going out, dark horse?

  ‘I’m going out,’ filtered Max’s reply through the door before the noise of the power-shower made further communication impossible.

  ‘Have fun, bro,’ said Dominic quietly as he closed the front door.

  Have a good time.

  As Max was unzipping Jen’s little black dress, he did wonder what on earth he was doing, what in God’s name he was about to do and how the hell did he get to this stage anyway.

  Not that this is hell.

  Jen had welcomed him with a fine hug and a lingering kiss to each cheek which just grazed the corners of his mouth; she had toyed suggestively with an asparagus spear during dinner and then spoon-fed him the remainder of her Häagen Dazs once he had finished his own portion. She had touched his arm, his shoulder, at regular intervals to add unnecessary emphasis to their conversation.

  As Max slipped his hand inside the back of her dress, stroked up her spine, over her shoulder, he wondered if he had, in any way, given her a come-on let alone the go-ahead?

  But there again, Max did make a clearly nonchalant shrug in answer to Jen’s enquiry of Polly’s arrival times. He did touch Jen’s arm twice, her knee once, during the meal, and didn’t he allow his body to brush by hers as they did the washing up? Although it was utterly out of context, he did reiterate the fact that Polly’s correspondence was sporadic and perfunctory and he had brushed away Jen’s ensuing sympathy in a most blasé fashion. Most telling, though, he had allowed
himself to be kissed and he willingly kissed back – without any hastily drawn justification regarding the clever prevention of decaffeinated coffee. Now, deftly, he was unhooking this woman’s bra, grazing the side of her neck with his mouth, pushing the dress away and cupping her breasts, her bra hanging loosely over his hands. The pine table ceased to be Polly’s as he and Jen gravitated towards it whilst they stripped each other of their clothing. And Polly ceased to exist when Max kissed his way down Jen’s torso, spread her legs and licked at her sex.

  Because they were not in love with each other, they took their pleasure greedily. They didn’t bother with gentle kisses and hair stroking, meaningful looks and soothing caresses. They had one shared purpose: to feel good about themselves and to reassert their worth. Max’s virility was redefined and Jen’s desirability reconfirmed.

  ‘Chip must be mad,’ Max panted, thrusting up inside Jen and pushing himself up on to his arms so he could peruse her fabulous figure.

  ‘Polly should take care not to lose you,’ Jen marvelled as she ran her index finger up the length of Max’s cock, pouted her lips and sucked him straight into her mouth.

  ‘Bite me,’ Jen gasped, grabbing Max’s buttocks and humping her groin; her sex sucking up his cock. Max bit her lower lip and neck and chewed on her nipples until she winced and begged him not to stop. They concentrated hard and at length on the sight of Max penetrating Jen.

  ‘That’s some cock,’ Jen praised as Max drew it out and then plunged back into her.

  Dream on, Chip.

  ‘God, you’ve got great tits,’ said Max as he rubbed the palm of his hands over her nipples and gorged himself on the sight and commendable size of them.

  Bad luck, Polly.

  Max and Jen regularly reached the point of orgasm but instinctively backed off. They were in no hurry. This was a night to remember. They interspersed penetrative sex with bouts of oral and aural sex. No woman had ever said ‘Fuck me’ to Max and the very sound of the words turned him on greatly. He was rough and assertive because she was begging for it. Jen was exhilarated to actually see a man being so actively turned on by her; Max’s eyes were everywhere and the more he feasted on the sight of her, the harder he screwed her.

  Look what I’m doing.

  Yeah, look what I’m doing.

  With their bodies wet with sweat, with saliva and with their juices, they peeled apart and caught their breath. Max sat on the farmhouse chair and Jen squatted over him, his hands just under her breasts as he levered her up and down. She sat right on him and let her body flow back while Max’s arms supported her. His cock shouldn’t be able to bend in such an extreme way but, obviously, it could and it felt awesome. Jen wriggled up a little so that his cock sprang free and practically hit against his stomach. She sucked him again in two long movements and then she turned away from him, holding on tight to the table, her rump facing Max invitingly. He took her from behind and made her yell. He grabbed her hair and twisted her head, eating at her mouth while he bore down on her. Max held on to her waist and propelled himself into her, alternately slowing and then quickening the pace of his thrusts in response to her moaning. As they came, they regarded each other in the mirror on the wall to the right of them. They smiled triumphantly, at themselves, at each other.

  Boy, you sure give Chip a run for his money.

  Christ that was good.

  Silently, they congratulated each other and themselves. Later, they slept without their bodies touching and dreamed independently of each other.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  Polly ran, an apple in one hand, her keys in the other. She was aware, when she bolted through the sitting-room, that Jen was nowhere and that Max stood with his back to the sofa, his head to one side, looking out at the patio. In his boxer shorts.

  Good, he can’t see me.

  She grabbed her jacket and flew from her flat. Dashed along the communal hallway and blasted out into the street. She charged along, turned a corner and was sick.

  Good, he didn’t see me.

  She rested against a lamppost and regarded the apple. She smelt it. Granny Smith.

  I don’t even have a Granny.

  She hurled it in a strong, low shot. It bounced once, skittled along the tarmac and than came to rest. She jogged over to it, took it carefully in her hands as if it was a road-kill bird and she wept for it.

  Look what I have the ability to do.

  Funereally, she returned to the pavement and gently laid the apple to rest in somebody’s front garden. She stood, in stillness and in silence, for a moment but found no peace. Her body needed to move as fast as her mind, to race alongside her heart. On she hurtled. To Swiss Cottage. All the way, in the gutter.

  She ran on. By the time she reached Megan’s street, Polly’s breathing sounded like the asthmatic rasping of her childhood. She could barely see from the sweat which filmed over her eyes.

  Megan’s door.

  It opened and Dominic appeared, stretching his arms above his head before closing the door.

  Max’s brother.

  ‘Polly?’

  She couldn’t speak but hung on to him not for comfort but from necessity. Suddenly she felt very dizzy. She slid her grasp down his arms and crumpled her body to the pavement. He sat on his heels beside her.

  ‘Polly?’

  Gently, he pushed her head between her knees and kept a hand to the back of her drenched head. The heaving of her body eventually lessened. Dominic inched her backwards until she sat with her back to Megan’s garden wall. Her head was still between her knees but Dominic’s hand was gone. The breeze of a late March morning licked at her neck and she began to cool.

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘I’m early,’ she said.

  ‘Early?’

  ‘I saw Jen,’ she said.

  ‘Jen?’

  ‘And Max,’ she said.

  ‘Max?’

  ‘In my flat, together,’ she said.

  ‘To-geth-er?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you deserve this?’ Dominic asks, holding her face roughly.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly replies, without flinching, before looking away.

  Five minutes later, Polly rang Megan’s bell.

  ‘Pol! Ly?’

  With an arm tenderly around Polly’s shoulders, Megan guided her through into her flat. She eased Polly’s jacket away, prised open her right hand to reveal deep purple scores from the pressure of her finger nails, prised open her left hand to find a sticky brown mush which, after a cautious sniff, turned out to be apple. She took her through to the kitchen and ran the tap, holding Polly’s wrists and guiding her hands under the water. Then she dried them and switched on the kettle, her arm back around Polly’s shoulders. Megan had seen her face only on opening the door. A glimpse had been enough. Now, she was careful to avoid eye contact for she perceived Polly to be as edgy as a fawn ready to bolt.

  Megan wrapped Polly’s hands around a mug of heavily sweetened tea and took her through to the sitting-room, to the comfortable settee, to the comfort of her bosom into which Polly cried. And cried and cried. Megan hummed Oh Danny Boy but the plaintive tune and Megan’s melodious voice replenished Polly’s tears so Megan fell silent while wondering what on earth was going on. Eventually, after clearing her nose directly into Megan’s T-shirt, Polly took a deep, faltering breath and spoke.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. She turned to Megan and her brow crumpled. ‘I’m early,’ she explained. ‘I left a message on my answering machine to say I’d be early. As a surprise. Not the message, but my early arrival.’

  Megan nodded.

  ‘I met Jen,’ said Polly. Megan smiled. ‘Max was there,’ Polly continued.

  ‘Not the boiler again?’ Megan questioned, ‘it’s been playing up quite a lot recently.’

  So have I, thought Polly.

  ‘He’s been round a few times to fix it.’

  Chip came a few times and fixed me, thought Polly, rubbing her left thigh
subconsciously.

  ‘The boiler?’ Megan asked again.

  ‘Not the boiler. Max and Jen were – you know, together.’

  ‘For the love of Jesus!’ Megan exclaimed, crossing herself and dropping her head to her hands. ‘Max?’ Polly nodded. ‘You sure they were – they had – that it wasn’t the boiler?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Bastard,’ Megan spat. ‘Bitch,’ she hissed.

  Shit, are we responsible in some way? Did we encourage Max? Jen? I mean, I never meant this to happen, of course.

  ‘No,’ said Polly in a quiet, hollow voice.

  ‘No?’ Megan jerked, ‘hey?’

  ‘It’s my fault.’

  ‘Don’t you go blaming yourself,’ Megan chided, poking Polly on the arm while quoting silently the dictum that had helped her through her early twenties: all men are bastards.

  Polly smiled resignedly. ‘It is my fault,’ she said, with conviction. ‘I was feathering my bed – but really I was making it and now I must lie in it.’

  Megan had no idea to what she was alluding but she didn’t ponder Polly’s words for long; she was too busy thinking of the ways in which she could wring Max’s neck and punish that Bloody Carter Woman. It would appease her own guilt.

  Maxanpolly. Oh God, I don’t want there to be no Maxanpolly. Mine is not to judge but to comfort. She needs to be soothed.

  ‘Polly,’ Megan said in a voice which suggested her friend had it all wrong, ‘not Max?’

  ‘It bloody was,’ Polly retorted, crossing her arms and frowning.

  ‘I mean,’ Megan pondered, taking Polly’s hands quite insistently, stroking them rhythmically, ‘it’s not Max’s style. You know what I think? I think he was probably thinking of his age and his future – you know, with you. Well, I think he acted on the huge notion of both – but especially the forever-and-ever-amen business.’

  ‘He needed to have a little taste just to convince himself he wouldn’t like it?’ Polly suggested.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Megan.

  ‘He needed to visit America to satisfy himself that England is his home?’