by Freya North
‘As it were,’ said Megan.
Polly smiled at the irony to which her friend was blissfully ignorant. ‘The smell of danger is an aroma most intoxicating.’
‘Exactly,’ said Megan, stroking Polly’s thigh and tapping her knee cap.
Polly shook her head and laughed through her nose. She could hear Megan breathing. Louder still, though, she could hear Kate’s words.
‘Oh Megan,’ said Polly forlornly, taking her friend’s hand and holding it against her own cheek, ‘I must go.’
As fast as Polly had quit Belsize Park, she walked back very slowly indeed. Megan had told her it would be safe to return, that Jen was taking an afternoon flight.
We should have crossed in mid air. In fact, our paths shouldn’t have crossed at all.
Polly went into a newsagents in Swiss Cottage and bought two packets of crisps and a bumper-size bag of Maltesers. She stuffed her face. In public. Against school rules. So what. She felt sick but still she felt hungry. Her mind was as full as her stomach seemed empty. Both appeared to be whirring.
What did Jen and Max do exactly? And me? Me too? What does all this mean? Is there really a possibility that Max and I might not end up together? If we were to – would we have done all this?
When Dominic returned home, Max was there even though it was Saturday and he had latterly taken to working weekends.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’ve fucked up, Dom, big time.’
‘I just saw her – Polly – going to Meg’s.’
‘She tell you?’
Dominic nodded.
Tell me you did it because you wanted to – that I didn’t push you into it. If I sowed the seed in your mind, Max, it only germinated because the bed was fertile.
‘What have I done?’
‘No Max,’ Dominic said quite sternly, ‘ask yourself the reason why you did it.’
Actually, Dominic felt proud of Max, for having asserted himself, for thinking with his prick but also for his prick having a conscience. And yet Dominic felt proud of Polly too, for he saw how she knew her suffering to be of her own making. Living and learning and tasting the bitterness of one’s own fuck-up.
There’s a fair bit of me in Polly – how many times have I been there, done that? But, unlike Polly, I’ve never had the same done to me. Perhaps I should’ve. But the thought of it makes me shudder. The irony is, she needed it to see the error of her ways, I wanted her to be taught a lesson – but her hurt and panic is god-awful. Max caused it – but while I’m satisfied that he has now regained his dignity, which I felt Polly was abusing over Christmas, he is suffering too, and I can’t stand that. And what about poor Jen? She’s the true innocent here, just some pawn who’s on the board temporarily. I think it’s temporarily. It’s all a bit of a mess, really. What if it’s all fucked up for good – and I’ve played a part?
If Dominic told Max of the state Polly was in, it would merely increase Max’s turmoil. And yet he knew he had no right to inform his brother that Polly had basically confirmed his suspicions. That would pain Max even more. He had privileged information but under the restriction of secrecy.
I feel a little like, well, Puck. Or, more specifically, some mythical overseer, a Greek chorus of one. But I must not interfere. There is a limit to the extent to which I may guide, that I may assist. It is not for me to restore amends.
I know how I’d like the story to end – but it’s up to the hero and the heroine to provide the conclusion that will be. Maybe it won’t correspond with that which I have in mind. That would be a pity. But it’s up to them.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Polly? Where are you? How are you?
I’m here. In my bedroom. Trying not to sob or feel quite so sick. I’m watching cars, trying to focus. I’ll just wait for three consecutive red cars to come down the street and then I might go downstairs. Do something.
Are you just waiting for cars?
Where’s Max?
Are you waiting for Max?
Is he coming? Do you know, I know a Beetle’s engine off by heart. I keep imagining I can hear one.
You OK?
Polly?
Answer?
Leave me alone. I can’t stand this silence. I want to whistle but I can’t pucker my lips. They only tremble if I try. I can hum but I can’t seem to do so in tune, it sounds ugly. Maybe silence is better. Somehow, though, it’s deafening. But there again, maybe I’d rather not hear myself think.
Polly?
You OK?
Hey?
Leave me alone. I’m going to hum ‘So Lonely’ by the Police. Appropriate.
Polly?
You at a loose end?
Been sitting there for almost two days?
Not quite sure what to do?
I don’t want to think about it. Go away.
Max?
Where are you?
Trying to work, don’t distract me.
It’s Sunday.
So?
‘Hey.’
‘Oh. Dom. I’m trying to work, don’t distract me.’
‘Sorry, but I’m going to. It’s my job.’
‘No, your job is as a photographer – go click your camera and coo “Give me sexy” or “Watch the birdy” to some dim model. Say cheese. Leave me alone. Fuck off. Please.’
Dominic observed his brother who, in just two days, looked visibly thinner and immensely tired; deflated, somehow. While Dominic made a quiet tour of his studio, he observed his brother focusing hard on the infuriating blank whiteness of his drawing board. He could see that Max’s concentration was not directed at what to draw, but on blanking Dominic, stonily ignoring his existence, pressurizing him to go.
‘You working?’ Dominic asked as he neared Max, as if he had not heard a word of Max’s diatribe or felt the vibes of hostility.
‘Trying to.’
‘Want me to piss off?’
‘Yes.’
Dominic laid a hand on Max’s shoulder and gave a short, strong squeeze. ‘Sure,’ he said and headed for the door.
‘How could I have done such a thing?’ Max suddenly heard his own voice call after his brother. Dominic took his hand from the door knob and retraced his steps measuredly. Max was turned away from him, sitting quite still, head in his hands. Dominic pulled up a stool and faced his brother. Max’s eyes were smarting. It unnerved Dominic, who never cried and was not prepared to see or accept his brother doing so. He hadn’t seen Max cry since he didn’t make the Colts Fifteen when he was twelve. It was something you grew out of. It wasn’t necessary. Weakness. Get a grip.
‘How could I?’ Max repeated, imploringly; blinking hard and twitching his cheek muscles.
‘Wait,’ said Dominic carefully, relieved that his brother had successfully sucked and swallowed back the tears, ‘can we talk hypothetically?’
Because breaking down means you’ve lost it. I must make you reason and think.
‘What’s the point?’ Max said in a hollow voice, his throat tight and aching as it had not done since he didn’t make the Colts when he was twelve.
‘Well,’ Dominic explained, ‘nothing can undo what’s done, but concerted analysis might help you fathom how you should be feeling, what you’re entitled to feel – and the best course of action for you now to take.’
Max shrugged.
‘Firstly,’ Dominic started, ‘did you enjoy yourself?’
In Max’s silence, an image of Jen’s breasts solicited him, unbeknown to Dominic.
‘Was it good?’ Dominic pressed.
Max stared at him blankly. He remembered the feeling of his climax, he saw an image of his groin wedged up against Jennifer’s arse. Slowly he nodded.
‘Yeah,’ he said, a wry smile slipping out involuntarily.
‘It was good?’ Dominic prompted.
‘Mindblowing,’ Max confirmed, regarding his brother squarely.
‘Do you want more?’
‘No,�
�� Max said decisively, his stare unflinching.
‘Would you have wanted more if Polly hadn’t found out?’
Max thought a moment but the answer was easy. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I knew exactly what I was doing. It was equal footing for both. It would not have happened again.’
Dominic doffed his head and said Perfect sex, lucky sod to himself. ‘Secondly,’ he continued out loud, ‘would you be feeling like this if Polly hadn’t come across you?’
Max snorted, tossed his head. He shrugged. Dominic did not mind that Max had not answered specifically. ‘Thirdly,’ he picked up, ‘have you wondered why?’
Max started and regarded him warily.
‘Why what?’
‘Why you did it?’
It would take a while for Max to grasp Dominic’s point and Dominic knew instinctively it was time for him to leave his brother to his thoughts. Max would know now that his brother had only his best interests at heart. If he needed Dominic, he’d come – the notion was comforting for them both. Dominic rose to leave; gently he kissed the top of his brother’s head.
I don’t think I’ve ever done that.
He’s never done that before.
Max didn’t mind if his rolling tear was seen.
‘Phone!’ Polly sings, scrambling from her bed, ‘Max! Phone.’ She flies down the five steps and dives for the phone, holding it to her breast as she catches her breath and collects herself. ‘Please please please. Darling boy,’ she whispers. Closing her eyes, she takes the handset to her ear.
‘Hullo?’
‘Hey sweetie.’
Polly cannot answer.
‘You OK? Was it OK for me to call? I couldn’t not, if you see what I mean. Polly?’
Polly clears her throat, bites her cheek and swallows a sob.
‘Hullo Megan.’
‘You OK?’
‘I think I should keep the line clear.’
‘OK – I’m here for you, whatever the time and whenever you need.’
‘Thanks,’ Polly says, ‘I’d better go.’
She replaces the handset slowly, dreading the silence and solitude that will smother her once she has done so. Breathing is almost painful, for her throat hurts, her chest is tight and her stomach is working hard to make sense of an inordinate amount of adrenalin. Sourness permeates her mouth but swallowing is difficult. She paces the room, chanting, stopping still every now and then to bite a nail, scratch her neck, tug at her hair, alternately slap or stroke herself.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck what have I done oh God what have I done Max oh my God Max Max Max.
What about what he’s done, Polly?
No no no ssh ssh music quick music what though what.
INXS, very loud and gloriously inappropriate, provides temporary distraction.
Go away, Miss Klee. Stop tapping at the door. I’m not going to tell you what day it is. I’m not going to turn the volume down.
‘It’s eight o’clock, Sunday March 30th,’ says Polly suddenly, pinching away the brown tips of her spider plant leaves almost vindictively. ‘No, it’s almost eight, that’s good, that’s good. I bet Max’ll phone in the next half hour. Yup. Yes.’
He doesn’t.
‘He’ll be here, then, nine – nine fifteen.’
It’s nearing ten and he isn’t.
Polly is on the verge of panic; she can feel it welling, like a drum roll becoming ever louder and more frenzied, like a bottle being filled from a too-fast tap. If she doesn’t keep her mouth closed, she’ll scream; if she cries, she will be unable to stop; if she stops to think, she will implode. So she paces; pacing’s safe. Up and down the five stairs, in and out of rooms, into the toilet for no reason, opening the fridge door for no purpose.
Oh Godjesus fucking fucking Christ. What is going to happen? What happened? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Max wasn’t meant to be unfaithful. I never thought he would. Didn’t know he could. Has he done it before? Might he do it again? Why hasn’t he come? Called? Written? Maybe he’s not sorry, maybe he wants me no more. No no no, it’s not to be over. It can’t be. That wasn’t the idea, the plan.
Polly can’t quite see that a relationship oughtn’t to be constructed by plots and schemes. She had duped herself that her cleverly hatched plan was essential to the survival and progression of her partnership with Max. Never did she consider that this very strategy, intended, albeit deludedly, as a secret olive branch to herself, could ultimately detonate and destruct the very thing it was supposed to nurture.
I don’t understand. I’m so tired, I can’t sleep.
Yes you do and yes you can.
See, she’s fallen asleep in a crumple by the patio doors. She’ll wake at two in the morning and drag herself to her bed, just about managing to kick away her shoes before collapsing, unwashed and dazed, fully clothed, on the naked mattress.
This time three days ago was when I caught them.
Though she woke early, Polly was alert and felt utterly in control. Her thought process, though rapid, was at last lucid and constructive; the conclusions she drew upon, logical and reasonable. She had conversations with herself, sitting demurely on her settee. In lengthy rehearsals in front of the mirror, she envisaged what she might say to Max, practising the inflections she’d use and the correspondingly appropriate facial expressions.
‘Zoe,’ she said aloud at lunch-time, looking out to the patio, ‘I asked her if she felt four things – rejected, cross, insecure and untrusting.’
Buster wound himself around her legs and butted her shins as if to say ‘And? And?’
Polly heaved him into her arms, squeezed him hard until he protested. She apologized to him but deposited him beside the catflap, giving a shove to his reluctant flank until he grumbled his way outside.
‘I rejected Max,’ Polly continued to herself alone, ‘and felt cross with him for being – well, for not being Chip, I suppose. I made him insecure and untrusting.’ She pressed her cheek against the patio door and then knocked her forehead against it. ‘All of this is of my own making.’
She went to the bathroom and sat with her back to the bath, a towel wrapped around her knees.
‘Heed Kate’s words – I must remember: heed Kate’s words. HKW. HKW,’ she chanted. ‘She told me – no she warned me that it should be a guilty, precious, sacred secret that neither revenge, a fight nor the passing of time must allow me to reveal.’
She felt desperately lonely.
This is when you need family. Who do I have?
Megan – in lieu of the Fyfields, she came closest. Polly dialled her number.
‘’Sme.’
‘Hullo you.’
‘You free?’
‘Er. Yes. Er. Sure.’
‘Yes? Sure?’
‘Dom’s here – but we can chat.’
‘Oh. No no, don’t worry, I’m fine.’
‘You OK?’
‘Fine fine.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes yup.’
Polly replaced the handset and cried hard, holding her cheeks and rocking.
Bitch, doesn’t she care? Not even Megan? It’s because of another bloody Fyfield. Can’t she see how I’m so alone? That she’s all I have? I bet she knew all along about Max and That Carter Person. I’ve been duped.
‘Well, I’ve had a total shag fest myself, actually,’ she cried out loud, hearing instantly how pathetic she sounded.
Tit for tat. That’s stupid. What are her tits like? Better than mine?
She knew it was self-pity, that she was currently a snivelling wreck in creased clothes with red-rimmed eyes and lank, dull hair who’d eaten little but junk food at odd hours. Strangely, to feel so wounded and alone was actually rather cathartic.
Where is he? Why hasn’t he at least rung? He doesn’t want me, does he?
Buster came by, but for the first time Polly stretched out her leg to keep him at bay.
I’m terrified of the future because I have no idea how it will be. I always took care to know
, practically organize, the immediate, the short-term, the long-term future. I always thought of things as phases and because I believed in the future I knew they would pass. But I’m caught here, I’m slap bang in the thick of it. I can’t see out and I can’t see beyond.
Later, in the early hours of the fourth morning, Polly sat up in bed and felt a wave of exhilaration course through her blood.
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed in a whisper. ‘Forgiveness, capital F! Hurray! Yes indeedy! I – Forgive – Max. I forgive you, darling boy. Now let’s get on with things, greet the day and welcome the future. It’s easy – as soon as he knows I’ve forgiven him, we can move on. I must let him know. It’s time.’
Will Max forgive you?
Polly?
Have you even atoned?
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Polly? Max here.’
‘Hullo.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘’Kay.’
That was it, in its entirety. A telephone call of less than sixty seconds on the fifth morning. Two lines each. Twelve minutes ago. A total of nine words.
This time fifteen minutes ago we hadn’t yet spoken, reasons Polly as she attempts to eat a banana, and he’ll be here in forty-eight minutes’ time – an hour minus the twelve minutes just past, you see.
She throws the banana away, spitting out the chunk that she put in her mouth. She gags.
Why did he say ‘Max here’? Why did he have to introduce himself? As if he was talking to someone he didn’t know very well.
Polly feels panicky, she shuffles back from the kitchen to the sitting-room, a little hunched.
I only said two words. ‘Hullo’ and “Kay’. I should have said more. Maybe I should quickly phone him and say some more. Let him know everything’s OK, all is forgiven.
She stares at the phone and is rendered unable to do anything but sit, hugging herself, for the next fifty-one minutes.
He’s late. Bastard.
At first, Max and Polly found it difficult to look at each other directly; afraid of both what they might see and what they might not see – in case they saw what was missing, for fear of seeing what might be no longer there at all. But when Max snuck a long look at the back of Polly as she boiled the kettle for unwanted but politely accepted coffee, he brimmed with an emotion so raw and painful that he choked and shivered. Similarly, when Polly caught sight of his legs she let her gaze linger, as if it rested on nothing in particular, while she was overwhelmed by the knowledge that she loved this man and what on earth could she – was she – to do about it?
