by Jenny Colgan
‘Hey,’ he said, very quietly. She turned her head and smiled at him, as the huge waves crashed on the surf.
The hotel they were both staying in was oddly bare; fashionable, Polly supposed. It had wooden floors and clapboard walls and pale colours everywhere. They’d got there hours before the rest of the party, as a massive disco band had arrived at the mansion and was forcing everyone to dance.
‘It was starting to look less like fun and more like a marathon of endurance,’ observed Huckle gently.
‘Oh, you know Reuben,’ said Polly. ‘No top he can’t go over.’
Huckle smiled. ‘Quite.’
‘Oh, I brought you this.’
She pulled out a pot of his honey.
‘Ha!’ he said, looking at it, marvelling. He had put that side of his life away so completely, it barely felt like his at all.
He looked back at Polly.
‘Well, I am hungry,’ he said simply.
Polly, emboldened by the champagne, and the long wait, and the desire to finally seize the moment – to seize something for herself – pulled off the top of the white costume she was wearing in one movement. Underneath, she had nothing on.
‘God,’ breathed Huckle. ‘Look at you.’
Polly’s skin, usually so fair, had taken on a golden hue, freckles popping up in the sunshine, and her strawberry-blonde hair had lighter streaks in it.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, as the dying rays of the sun caught her hair through the dormer windows. ‘So beautiful.’
Polly knew she wasn’t, not really. But here, in this room, in this light, with this man, she felt like she was. And that was enough. She drew closer to him – at last! at last! her nerves were screaming – but even though she was trembling, she was also patient. She was going to take her time; enjoy every second. His huge broad chest, once she got his shirt off, was brown, with light golden hair across it. She wanted to bury herself in it. He picked her up and sat her on his lap as if she weighed nothing at all, and before he kissed her again, he buried his face in her hair.
‘Oh God,’ he groaned. ‘I want you so much.’
Polly looked up at him and smiled.
‘That,’ she said, ‘is useful.’
Huckle laughed his slow, lazy laugh. Then he picked up the honey, dipped his fingers into it and, with long, languid strokes, rubbed it into her small breasts. Polly giggled.
‘That is going to be so sticky,’ she said.
‘I’ll get it all off,’ promised Huckle.
Then the time for laughing was over, and everything became suddenly more serious, more intense, as they lost themselves utterly, body and soul, in one another, until neither could tell where one began and the other ended.
‘Were those… fireworks?’ said Huckle, finally.
‘Yes,’ said Polly, her eyes full of stars. Then she focused again on the room.
‘Oh God, they actually are fireworks, aren’t they?’
‘Either that or we’re under advanced military attack.’
Outside the window, sure enough, was the single most enormous fireworks display Polly had ever seen. The sky was filled with furious explosions and enormous noises. A great red glittering heart was flickering and puttering over the sea. Polly and Huckle looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘It’s almost,’ said Huckle, ‘like someone’s trying to tell us something.’
They dressed swiftly and ran down to the beach again, away from where everyone else was being served picnic hampers as the fireworks entered their thirtieth exhausting minute, and lay back in the dunes in each other’s arms, watching the show.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nobody made it up in time for breakfast the next day, but Polly managed to catch up with Kerensa before she left on her round-the-world safari honeymoon the next evening. There was a huge brunch, but Polly was too excited to eat. She grabbed Kerensa by the door, meaning to apologise, but Kerensa got in there first.
‘God,’ she said. ‘I am SO sorry. I never got to see any of my friends at all, spent the entire time shaking hands with big old white men and posing for photographs. Look! Ow! My face hurts! This must be what it’s like being famous. It totally blows.’
‘But did you have a good time?’ said Polly.
Kerensa nodded madly. ‘I loved every second,’ she said.
‘Where’s Reuben?’
Kerensa looked slightly awkward.
‘Er. He’s just… I mean, the helmet was a bit hot… It’s just a precaution.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a bit dehydrated. They put him on a drip.’
‘He’s in HOSPITAL?’
‘He parties hard,’ said Kerensa defensively.
‘He does!’ said Polly. ‘Oh my. Well, I will see him… very soon.’
‘And where are you going?’ said Kerensa. They went into the dining room of the hotel, which had been laid out with every foodstuff Polly could imagine: bagels, smoked salmon, eggs, croissants, fresh fruit of every kind, a juice squeezer, pancakes and waffles, champagne of course everywhere, hash browns and sausages.
‘Goodness,’ said Polly. The Plymouthites were sitting at a table in the corner, and they all cheered Kerensa as she walked in. And then did a double-take at Polly.
‘We thought you’d gone!’
‘We thought you didn’t talk to us any more!’
Polly realised it was the first time she’d seen many of them since she’d taken herself out of town. She had felt so ashamed, so embarrassed, she hadn’t let any of them near her. Looking round at the kind, interested faces, their obvious pleasure at seeing her again, she found it hard to believe now that she had been too proud to ask for help, so certain that nobody else would understand what she was going through. They scooshed up to make room for her and launched into loads of questions about what she’d been doing since she left Plymouth. When she told them, they were gratifyingly impressed, and Kerensa smiled secretly to herself.
Huckle had slept late, had slept better than he had in months, in fact, and came down and spotted her laughing and joking with her friends, who had already made plans to come down to Mount Polbearne over the summer. He smiled nervously and she looked shyly back at him, the events of the night before etched clearly on her memory.
‘Hey,’ she said, getting up. One of her friends let out a quiet ‘woop’ and she hushed them quickly.
‘This is my friend Huckle,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, but the smile spilling from her face betrayed her utterly.
‘You,’ said Rich, one of her old friends who worked in marketing. He pointed a finger at her. He was still quite drunk from the night before, and the Buck’s Fizzes were now helping him along too. ‘You are NEVER coming back to Plymouth.’
‘Come with me,’ said Huckle, when they surfaced later. ‘Come have a look at Savannah.’
Polly swallowed. She supposed Jayden could mind the shop for a little, but he couldn’t bake like her. Quality would slip faster than you could say bath bun. But Huckle wheedled, and before she knew it, he had booked her a seat on the plane, and she called home and it was decided.
But she didn’t have long.
‘Wow,’ said Polly, looking round the minimalist apartment with its floor-to-ceiling glass. Outside, the lights of Savannah seemed far below. ‘I can’t believe you live here.’
‘Now that we’ve christened the bed, I’m never leaving,’ said Huckle, lying back, his arms behind his head, a picture of total contentment.
Polly gazed at his body, which she had dreamed of so often. To see it laid out for her was almost too much.
‘Mmm,’ she said, and he smiled back at her.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you want to do tomorrow? I can send you to the mall.’
‘Why, what are you doing?’ she asked, surprised.
Huckle bit his lip.
‘Well, I have to go to work. So I thought you might like to, you know. Shop for a few things.’
�
��What things?’ said Polly, suddenly worried. ‘I never shop.’
Huckle shrugged. He had thought, he realised on some level, that as soon as he got her back here, she would stay, would be so happy just to be here, that it would all be perfect.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘DO NOT SHOP! I order it. Stroll around. Have a look at Savannah. It’s gorgeous here.’
He stood up behind her and embraced her as they stared out of the window together.
‘We don’t have to live here for ever, you know,’ he said. ‘Go look at the old section; they have these most gorgeous houses there, on garden squares. We could live in one of those.’
Polly turned round, hurt.
‘But I have a house.’
‘You rent an apartment that lets rain in,’ Huckle pointed out.
‘At the moment,’ said Polly. ‘But I was thinking of…’
She hadn’t really been thinking of it seriously, but suddenly it came out.
‘I was thinking of buying the lighthouse, actually.’
Huckle actually laughed.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I might be.’
‘That old falling-down lighthouse? It’ll be worse than the flat.’
‘Not with a bit of care and attention.’
‘And all that light!’
‘Actually, when you’re IN the lighthouse, you don’t see the light,’ pointed out Polly. ‘It’s the only place safe from it.’
Huckle shook his head.
‘I love your crazy ideas.’
‘It’s not…’
They both fell silent, sensing disagreement.
‘Are you going to have a fireman’s pole?’ said Huckle eventually.
‘Maybe,’ said Polly, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Anyway.’
‘Anyway.’
Huckle sat down on the bed, and they looked at each other.
‘Sorry,’ said Huckle slowly. ‘But I thought… I thought you’d come and live with me. Here.’
Polly blinked several times.
‘But I came to the wedding.’
‘Yes, I know, but, you know. To me too. No?’
‘No,’ said Polly, half lying. ‘I mean, I wanted to see you, but… it wasn’t till I actually did see you…’
Huckle nodded. ‘Yes! And hurray!’ he said. ‘I mean, COOL, look at us! Look at us, we’re amazing. Aren’t we?’
Polly nodded.
‘And you’re here…’
His voice tailed off. He had to admit, he had thought about it. Wouldn’t it be lovely for Polly not to have to get up at five every day, slave her guts out, get covered in flour, behaving like an indentured servant to Mrs Manse, whom she hated, living in that shack of an apartment? Wouldn’t it be lovely for her to be here, in a lovely home with him, taking a rest, having some time off? He assumed that that would be exactly what she wanted, what she would like… He had plenty of money, he could pay for everything…
He tried to explain this to Polly, realising as he did so that what had seemed perfectly logical and reasonable in his head wasn’t coming out well at all now that he started to say it. Her face was looking more and more concerned.
‘But it’s mine now,’ she tried to explain. ‘The bakery. Mrs Manse has retired to her sister’s. She’s left everything in my hands. It’s my responsibility.’
‘But you can bake here,’ said Huckle, gently kissing up the side of her neck. ‘Hmm?’
Polly pulled away from him.
‘Have you got this all planned out?’ she said, her heart beating at a million miles an hour.
Huckle shrugged and looked at the ceiling, then at her.
‘I have nothing planned out,’ he said. ‘But oh, I want you so much.’
They were the words, Polly realised to her horror, that she had longed to hear; had been desperate to hear for a long time. She wanted to be with Huckle, she dreamed of him, she thought of him all the time. All her joy in the bakery she had wanted to share with him, every funny story, every high surf day. Just to be near him now, to breathe in his scent, to be in what she had always felt as the glow of his company, that had lit her up whenever he was around… He was offering her the world, she realised.
She gazed at him, felt his soft, strong hands caressing her shoulders.
‘But I can’t leave,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave Polbearne. I’ve worked so hard to make something mine.’
‘And you deserve a rest,’ said Huckle. ‘Just stay a while.’
She gazed into his intense blue eyes.
‘Couldn’t you move?’ she asked imploringly.
Huckle swallowed. ‘But Polbearne,’ he said. ‘It was… it was a time out for me. It wasn’t my real life. My work, my job… I can’t make little pots of honey for the rest of my life.’
‘Some people do,’ said Polly, quietly.
‘It was amazing, but seriously. I can’t live somewhere I can’t get to see you unless the tidal conditions agree with me.’ He laughed. ‘You have to admit it’s a bit crazy, that place.’
Polly leapt back as if stung.
‘It’s my home now,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they’re talking about building a bridge.’
‘A bridge!’ said Huckle. ‘Now that’s a BRILLIANT idea.’
But he quickly saw from Polly’s face that it was not.
Polly only had one day left on her ticket. Huckle showed her round Savannah, hoping that she would fall in love with it, and she was polite, and certainly appreciated its beautiful buildings, but it was dreadfully hot still, and hard to stay out for long. There was not much left to say; instead they made love, and they cried, then they’d sleep, then wake up and cry before starting all over again.
‘Let me tear up your ticket,’ Huck begged. ‘Just walk away. You’ve done it once, you can do it again.’
‘But I can’t,’ said Polly miserably. ‘I owe it to Mrs Manse, and Jayden, and I’ve worked too hard to build this up. It’s the first thing I’ve ever done for myself. You can surely see that.’
He nodded, heartbroken.
‘But you can do it again. Can’t you? Now you’ve done it once?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Polly. ‘I can’t even work in America. I couldn’t possibly do that here.’
‘Well don’t do anything,’ pleaded Huckle. ‘Don’t do anything. Just come and live in my bed.’
She laughed at that.
‘I don’t know how long that would work. You couldn’t come back to Cornwall? You’re great at skipping countries every five minutes.’
Huckle looked so sad.
‘But my home… my family, my job, everything… I don’t know if I could do it again. I’m a grown man. I have to behave like one.’
She nodded. She understood.
What they’d had had been a dream, just an idle fantasy. They weren’t teenagers. They were grown-ups, with responsibilities.
‘I can’t believe I was your holiday romance,’ said Polly, not even bothering to wipe the tears that were still dripping from her eyes.
‘You weren’t… you aren’t,’ said Huckle. ‘We’ll find a way. We have to.’
They clung to each other when the cab turned up to take her to the airport.
‘You probably shouldn’t go,’ pointed out the cabbie helpfully.
‘Don’t,’ Huckle said to Polly, his face distraught. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, this isn’t the end. This can’t be the end. Not again.’
She just looked at him.
‘Don’t you think it’ll make it worse?’ she said. ‘If we… if we pretend? If we keep pretending?’
Huckle shook his head furiously.
‘Nothing can be worse than this,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
They stood, the cabbie sighing and looking at his watch, the traffic honking furiously as it circumnavigated them.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ said Huckle.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Polly.
‘Go, don’t go,’ said the cabbie. ‘The meter’s running
.’
It took every ounce of strength Huckle had not to chase the cab straight down 8th Avenue and grab her back into his arms. At any second he expected her to jump out of the door and come running to him. But she didn’t.
Stunned, numb, too exhausted even to cry, Polly sat with her back against the torn and gritty old leather of the green and white cab, and stared into space.
Chapter Thirty-Three
There was always work, of course. And Polly had plenty of other things to occupy her. She had already decided that she was going to put the tiny bit of money left over from the Plymouth apartment towards a deposit on… Well, no, it was ridiculous. She would never get it. Samantha and Henry’s friends had already mentioned what a hoot it would be to live in a lighthouse, and Polly felt resentful, as she walked past it occasionally with Neil, looking up at its little windows, its faded stripes, that it would be bought as a holiday toy for someone to show off about, when she knew – she was really sure – that she would love living there.
She wondered what Huckle would think, then shrugged it off. He had called every day; sent emails. That morning he had sent a poem, and she had wondered whether she shouldn’t stop talking to him, because it hurt too much.
I make seven circles, my love,
For your good breaking
I make the grey circle of bread
And the circle of ale
And I drive the butter round in a golden ring
And I dance when you fiddle
And I turn my face with the turning sun till your feet come in from the field.
My lamp throws a circle of light,
Then you lie for an hour in the hot unbroken circle of my arms.
She had stared at it for twenty minutes, then kneaded the dough so hard she thought she would dislocate her shoulders.
Now she sat on the harbour wall, watching the sun turn golden in the sky and waving the lads off on their way to work. Dave looked suntanned and happy, bantering with the rest of them. Jayden made them sandwiches every day at a reduced rate, and he brought them down to the boats and stopped for a chat. She’d wondered if he missed fishing at all, but he had laughed so heartily at the thought of it, she never asked him again. In fact, he looked the part more and more every day; he was a born baker.
