The Scent of You

by Maggie Alderson

  Polly took a moment to check her phone for texts and emails. She knew she shouldn’t do this before class, in case there was something that would distract her and affect her concentration – it wasn’t fair on the class if her attention was wandering. But with everything that was going on she couldn’t help herself.

  It was barely a month until the deadline she’d agreed with Clemmie for doing something proactive to find David, and they were keeping in close touch. Supporting each other to hold their nerve. Between that and checking up on Lucas – who seemed to be OK back at uni, with no mishaps so far, but she wasn’t going to leave it to chance – she had a lot to keep an eye on.

  And there was another reason she couldn’t resist checking: to see if Chum had been in contact. She was trying to suppress the inappropriate feelings she was having for him – she’d even said she was too busy the last time he’d suggested a walk – but any contact with him was like a bright spark in her day. Sure enough there was an email. No content line as usual, just a blank email with a New Yorker dog cartoon copied into it.

  Two dogs watching a man throwing a stick, one saying to the other: ‘I can’t believe we do this for a living.’

  Polly grinned and closed it. Later on she’d spend a happy few minutes looking for one to send back to him. There wasn’t any harm in that, surely? Just two old friends cheering each other up.

  She arrived downstairs to find Shirlee putting a jug of yellow tulips on the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Polly. ‘A breath of spring. You are such a pal.’

  She put her arm round Shirlee and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Shirlee. ‘You’ve got to spoil the tribe.’

  ‘So how many yogi bears do we have this morning, oh organisational guru?’ asked Polly, pouring the warm water left in the kettle over the slice of lemon still in her empty glass. ‘Do you want one of these?’

  ‘Is there vodka in it?’

  ‘No vodka until breakfast,’ said Polly, smiling.

  ‘Spoilsport – but go on, then, I’ll have some tooth-enamel-stripping lemon water, and to answer your question, there’s the usual famous five regulars, plus two more occasional dropper-inners – and one new bug.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good. We love a new bug. Where did she come from?’

  ‘He,’ said Shirlee, raising her eyebrows. ‘It’s a male bear.’

  ‘Really?’ said Polly. ‘Well, that’ll make a nice change. Did you warn him he’d be the only one?’

  ‘Yeah, he seemed cool about that.’

  ‘Great. I used to have lots of blokes in my classes when I worked in yoga centres and gyms – do you remember that chap in Highgate with the terrible smelly feet?’

  Shirlee laughed. ‘How could I forget? And do you remember how he stopped coming quite suddenly?’

  She grinned, showing her teeth.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Polly, putting one hand on her forehead.

  ‘Gave him the card of a local podiatrist. Told him it could be a symptom of a serious health condition. Mentioned the word stilton.’

  Polly shook her head. ‘You are appalling,’ she said, laughing, ‘but I can’t say I missed him. Perhaps if this new bloke likes the class, he’ll bring some pals. It would be good to have a mix again. What’s his name?’

  ‘Roger,’ said Shirlee, giggling like a teenager.

  ‘How old are you?’ said Polly. ‘Fourteen? Twelve? Don’t you dare make any comment about “Roger by name, roger by nature” or anything along those lines, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shirlee. ‘But not promising.’

  ‘Did he say how he heard about the class?’

  ‘Your Facebook page – something about a friend of a friend,’ said Shirlee, shrugging.

  ‘Great, the more the merrier.’

  Polly headed towards the hall, talking over her shoulder as she went.

  ‘Did you check if he was single? That’s the only thing all the other yogi bears are going to want to know.’

  ‘He is,’ said Shirlee.

  Polly stopped in her tracks and turned round to look at her friend, hands on her hips.

  ‘Are you kidding me? You really found that out already?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shirlee, putting her tongue in cheek and moving it around, suggestively.

  ‘You are a piece of work, Shirlee Katz,’ said Polly.

  Shirlee responded by turning round and waggling her ample rear end at Polly.

  ‘That’s Twerk-asana,’ she said. ‘Upward Minaj.’

  ‘I’ll incorporate it into the Sun Salutation,’ said Polly and headed for the studio to get her head in yoga gear.

  Maxine was the next to arrive, closely followed by everyone else, but there was no sign of Roger.

  ‘I guess Mr Yogi isn’t coming after all,’ said Shirlee, when they were all settled on their mats cross-legged.

  Polly said nothing, not wanting the rest of the class to be distracted. She glanced at the clock that she kept turned towards her on a shelf so her pupils couldn’t see it, and waited until it clicked over to eight.

  ‘Let’s start,’ she said. ‘Lie down on your mats, legs straight, arms at your sides, and close your eyes . . .’

  She had them all settled, slowing each breath, when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Ooh,’ said Shirlee. ‘Roger the Dodger, I’ll go.’

  She jumped up and was out of the room before Polly could say anything, so she carried on with the class as though nothing had happened, asking them to lift their knees to their chests and circle them slowly, first one way and then the other.

  She could hear Shirlee talking to someone in the hall and the deeper tones of a male voice answering that he had no injuries or health issues. Shirlee then came back through the door, followed by – Guy.

  Shirlee sat down, looking very pleased with herself, and Polly just stared at him in disbelief. He had the same expression on his face as when he’d turned up at Lucien Lechêne’s event drenched in his own perfume: like a little boy who has just successfully put a frog down the back of a girl’s dress.

  ‘Welcome, Roger,’ said Polly, putting a firm emphasis on the name. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Everyone, this is Roger.’

  He put up his hand in greeting and nodded at all the women who had turned to gawp at him.

  ‘Have you done yoga before, Roger?’ asked Polly.

  ‘A little,’ he said. ‘But mostly Ashtanga, Hippolyta.’

  ‘Well, this is Scaravelli yoga, Roger. You’ll find it much slower, but deeper. I hope you enjoy it, Roger. And do feel free to call me Polly. Everyone here does, Rog.’

  She could see Shirlee looking back and forth between her and Guy as they spoke, a little frown line between her eyebrows. She could clearly tell something was going on and Polly knew it would be killing her not knowing what it was. She hoped Shirlee could at least restrain herself until the session was over.

  After that, Polly did her best to concentrate on the class, managing to resist the temptation to include postures that would cause maximum stress to Guy’s testicles, but Shirlee was in full flow.

  ‘Been Downward Dog so long it seems like up to me,’ she chirped as Polly had them hold the pose for some extra breaths.

  Guy – ‘Roger’ – laughed heartily, which only encouraged her.

  ‘Funny-looking eagle,’ she said, as Polly showed them how to entwine their lower arms, palms together, in Eagle Pose, then flicked her eyes left to see if ‘Roger’ was laughing. He was.

  ‘I think this eagle is taking a poop,’ said Shirlee, as Polly demonstrated how to entwine one leg round the other at the same time, knees bent.

  She struck again as Polly moved them into Camel Pose, which involved kneeling with their spines arched back, hands resting on their heels behind them, abdomens and chests pushing upwards.

  ‘Hey, Miss Polly,’ said Shirlee, whose own back arched so beautifully she could nearly get her head down to her feet,
‘one of your camels ain’t got no humps . . .’

  Guy let out a shout of laughter and the entire class collapsed in hysterics.

  ‘I’m a dromedary,’ said Guy.

  You’re a massive arsehole, thought Polly.

  ‘Very funny, Shirlee,’ she said, feeling and sounding like an Edwardian school teacher. ‘OK, let’s do some balancing poses.’

  That’ll shut them up, she thought. Even Shirlee would have to keep her trap shut to concentrate on Lord of the Dance, which involved standing on one leg and pulling the other one up behind your head with both hands. She hoped Guy would sprain his groin doing it. What was his game, she wondered, pulling her own leg easily up behind her.

  ‘Use your strap if you need to,’ she said, dropping hers to the floor. ‘And put one hand on the wall, if you can’t balance . . .’

  That was directed at Guy, who was wobbling like a baby giraffe.

  Good. She’d had enough of his carrying on. He’d already pulled a stunt that could have done her serious damage at a very important event; he’d been so maddeningly uncooperative about the blog post on his shop she’d had to give up on it, and now he’d tricked his way into her yoga world.

  What did he want out of these shenanigans? They got on so well and always had such a fun time when they went out to events together – and that day with Clemmie had been great. Polly just couldn’t understand why he had to keep pushing her boundaries the rest of the time.

  With all these frustrations rattling around in her head, even she was finding Lord of the Dance a bit of a challenge so she segued quickly on to Tree Pose and was very glad when it was time to settle them down for the final meditation, snug under blankets, like a class of toddlers having their afternoon nap at nursery school.

  Guiding them through the deep breathing and loosening of joints, Polly could feel them all going under. She always found it very satisfying. There was a moment when you could see the tension leave their faces, and seeing Guy’s jaw slacken she felt a small sense of triumph.

  Thought you’d surprise me at my yoga class, did you? Well, who’s in control now, smart arse?

  She supposed it was a harmless lark, really, his idea of a bit of fun, and wasn’t sure why she felt so intruded upon. Because of the way he’d gone about it, she decided. He could have asked her straight out if he could come to a class, and she would have been quite tickled by the idea, but instead he had to do it under a false name and leave her on the back foot – literally – in front of all her regulars. Oh, he was a tricky customer.

  She glanced at her hidden clock again and saw it was time to bring them round. Chiming her little temple bells, she sat up straight, realising she’d allowed herself to slump with the negative thoughts she’d been having. Naughty yoga teacher.

  After everyone was up in a sitting position she led them all in the usual bow and ‘Namaste’, only to have Shirlee chip in at the end with ‘and have a nice day’.

  Polly could have gladly thrown her chimes at Shirlee’s head, but at least everyone was laughing, which distracted them from noticing Polly slip out of the room. She normally hung around to chat and take the money, but Shirlee could do that today. Polly didn’t want the whole class to see her interacting with their new friend ‘Roger’, because she couldn’t trust herself to keep her cool.

  She nipped to the bathroom upstairs, hoping he’d be gone by the time she came down again, but when she walked into the kitchen all the regulars were in there, comfortably seated at the table – with ‘Roger’ installed at the head.

  ‘We asked Rog to stay,’ said Shirlee, a beady expression in her eye, clearly relishing the prospect of finding out what the beef was between him and Polly.

  ‘Hello, Guy,’ said Polly.

  ‘Hello, Hippolyta,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you calling him a guy?’ said Shirlee, looking confused. ‘Do you call all guys “guy”? “Hello man, hello male person”.’

  ‘His name is Guy,’ said Polly, taking the kettle out of Shirlee’s hands. It was her bloody kitchen, she wanted a cup of tea, she was having the kettle. ‘Cap G. Not Roger – Guy.’

  ‘Hippolyta and I are old friends,’ said Guy.

  ‘Who’s Hippopo . . . ita?’ said Shirlee.

  ‘Me,’ said Polly. ‘It’s my real name, but everyone – well, most people call me Polly. It’s easier.’

  ‘So why did you tell me you were called Roger?’ asked Shirlee.

  ‘It was just a joke,’ said Guy. ‘I wanted to surprise her.’

  Shirlee beamed.

  ‘That’s funny,’ she said, ‘I like that. You must have had a big shock when he walked in, hey, Hippityhiphop – however you say it.’

  ‘You pronounce it Polly,’ said Polly.

  ‘Hippolyta,’ said Guy, exaggerating the middle syllable like an Italian lothario.

  ‘Polly is fine, thank you,’ she said, starting to feel really irritated.

  Her father used to call her Hippolyta, and there were just two people alive who called her that now and she wanted to keep it that way. Bill and Chum. It was special to them. She didn’t want it bandied around as some kind of joke name.

  She turned round from filling the kettle, to make sure they’d heard her, and saw Guy and Shirlee exchange a complicit look. Shirlee had her eyes crossed and her mouth pursed up.

  Great. They were partners in crime already.

  ‘So, what do you like for brekkie, Rog – I mean, Guy?’ asked Shirlee. ‘I make a great full English, with kosher bacon, but I don’t think you’re a Jew . . .’

  She regarded him shrewdly, with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s halal, if that’s good for you.’

  Polly turned discreetly to look at Guy. Shirlee – and her complete lack of tact – had her uses, and she saw Guy flick a look back towards herself. Interesting, he was aware he might be giving something away with his answer to Shirlee’s customarily intrusive question.

  ‘Kosher halal bacon would be great, thanks,’ said Guy, ‘but I should warn you I only eat phoenix eggs – organic, free-range, biodynamic phoenix eggs. Aquarius.’

  Shirlee laughed.

  ‘With the combined food neuroses of this crew, that wouldn’t surprise me. Anyone brought any of that gluten-free crap to poison us today?’

  Damn, thought Polly, he’d dodged that bullet. She’d have to get him to come to another class and prime Shirlee first to get the information she wanted out of him. She would respect his wish not to put it all on the blog post – if she ever did one – but her curiosity was still raging to know how he’d funded such a high-spec business. All that gear he had in the basement would have cost a fortune. Some of those perfume ingredients were as expensive per ounce as gold.

  She was also genuinely interested to know more about his family. He’d mentioned he was half-Iranian the first time she’d met him, but she’d never been able to get anything else out of him about it since. He’d told her she knew too much already, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Polly took her tea and sat down at the other end of the table from Guy, quietly cradling the mug and taking in the scene for a few moments. Shirlee was frying up a storm, with Maxine as sous chef, and everyone was chatting and laughing, clearly excited to have a man at breakfast for a change. It was a very happy gathering for a Monday morning, and Polly decided she needed to get over herself and just enjoy it. She’d be on her own the rest of the day.

  ‘Hey, Groger,’ said Shirlee, ‘get over here, you’re head waiter.’

  He got up from the table and she handed him two plates.

  ‘OK, this one’s for Louise – she’s veggie so it’s just eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes – and this one’s for Annie – semi-paleo, no nightshades, so it’s just eggs and bacon for her. So go serve and then straight back – and remember their orders for next time.’

  Guy – or Groger, as everyone was now calling him – served the food with great aplomb, a tea towel over his left arm, never forgetting a name, or which plate was for who.

  Wh
en it came to Polly’s turn, he took advantage of the moment to whisper in her ear.

  ‘Sorry, Poll. I only did it for a laugh, please don’t be cross with me.’

  ‘You’re fine,’ said Polly, patting him on the back. ‘The girls love you. Make the most of your novelty status.’

  ‘Service!’ yelled Shirlee.

  ‘Coming, sir! Yessir!’ said Guy.

  The rest of breakfast was very entertaining, with Shirlee showing off even more than usual. And she didn’t show any signs of slackening off when everyone else started peeling away. She even let Maxine leave without her, until finally only Guy and Shirlee remained.

  ‘So, Groger,’ said Shirlee, sitting back in her seat and regarding Guy with another of her appraising gazes, ‘are you gay or straight or what?’

  ‘What,’ said Guy.

  ‘I said are you gay or straight?’ said Shirlee.

  ‘You asked if I was gay or straight or what – and I replied. I’m what.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Shirlee.

  ‘So what are ya?’ ‘What are you?’ said Guy.

  Polly watched with interest. It was like King Kong versus Godzilla and she wondered which of them would break first.

  Shirlee burst out laughing, head thrown back.

  ‘I’m what too,’ she said. ‘You’re funny. What . . . that’s a classic. I’m a what. I’m gonna use that.’

  She extended her hand across the table to Guy and he took it. They shook on it, whatever it was – a new confederation of very maddening, lovable people? Polly didn’t know.

  ‘Well, it’s been real, Groger,’ said Shirlee, ‘but I’ve got to head off now to bully a few tradesmen. I’m getting my flat spruced up, did I tell you, Poll? Anyhow, I hope you’re going to come and do some more classes with us, Grog. It’s good to have a guy around, mixes up the energy a bit.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Guy, ‘if Polly will let me.’

  He turned and gave her his most appealing smile, big black eyes wide, like one of those cheesy urchin paintings.

  She rolled her own eyes. She was beginning to find the pair of them exhausting.