‘Sounds like fun,’ said Polly, feeling calmer than she had all day. It was so nice to be looking at someone else’s life under the microscope for a change. ‘Nice work if you can get it, and all that.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said Guy, smiling broadly. ‘I get it plenty. There are people out there for every sexual persuasion. You just have to know where to look and how to ask for it.’
‘I won’t tell Shirlee,’ said Polly. ‘I’m going to relish knowing something she so wants to know and doesn’t. It will give me a small sense of revenge.’
Guy laughed.
‘So what about you, Polly?’ he said. ‘What floats your kinky boat? You know I had ambitions to introduce you to the very exquisite pleasures of my bed – really, you don’t know what you’re missing as a girl until you’ve had a threesome with two men – but I realised early on you were too straight for it. But your husband’s been gone a long time. Are you getting some? Are you at it with your friend Edward?’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Polly. ‘I’m still a married woman, Guy. I’m very fond of . . .’
She felt odd calling him Edward, but she couldn’t bear to say ‘Chum’. It felt like a stab in her guts even to think it.
‘I’ve known him since I was young and he’s been a great friend to me during this strange time, but I’m not ready to go off sleeping with other people. I can’t deny that my marriage is going through a very difficult patch, but it’s not over, and I’m going to do my very best to save it. David needs me and I’m going to be there for him.’
‘Really?’ said Guy, opening his eyes wide in surprise. ‘After all he’s put you through, I thought you were ready to cut and run and I really didn’t blame you. Was it something Maxine told you this morning that has turned you back into the good wife?’
‘It’s all connected,’ she said. ‘But I have never stopped being David’s wife.’
‘Are you absolutely sure about that, Polly?’ said Guy, leaning towards her, putting his elbows on his knees and looking at her in great concern. ‘I was watching you and Edward together when we had lunch at your mum’s place that time and I could see he’s really into you. And from the way you were with him, I couldn’t help thinking it was mutual. It was quite nauseating, really, how at ease you looked with him. Of course, I’ve never met your husband, but you and Edward just look so right together.’
‘If only it were that simple, Guy,’ said Polly.
He looked thoughtful, but didn’t say anything else. They sat in silence for a bit, Guy sipping his champagne and gazing into space.
‘You know what, Guy?’ said Polly. ‘As I don’t have to drive anywhere, I think I will have some more of that bubbly after all.’
‘Good girl,’ said Guy, sitting up and filling her glass.
Polly raised it to her nose, relishing the sharp apple tang and the tickle of the bubbles before taking a deep drink from it.
‘This really is a beautiful room,’ she said, ‘and it’s lovely to see the pictures of Mum. They look like photographers’ prints, like the ones she has.’
‘They are,’ said Guy. ‘I only buy those.’
‘That chandelier is spectacular too,’ said Polly.
‘It’s an Angelo Lelli,’ said Guy. ‘I’m glad you like it. Took me a while to find the one I wanted.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Polly, thinking Sotheby’s must have been delighted to help him. ‘And these sofas are divine, so comfortable . . .’
‘George Smith,’ he said, smiling as though it were the most natural thing in the world to have a pair of £7,000 hand-made sofas.
‘You have exquisite taste,’ she said.
Guy smiled.
‘Very expensive taste,’ she continued.
Guy threw his head back and laughed.
‘I get it,’ he said. ‘Oh, you backed me nicely down that alley way didn’t you? You want to know where the money comes from, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Polly.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Guy and he stood up and walked over to the bookshelves that covered the back wall, then returned holding something in his hand.
He passed it to Polly and she looked down at a piece of black metal in an interesting shape, a bit like a shell.
‘That’s where it comes from,’ he said, walking back to the bookshelves and picking up a small photograph in a black frame, which he also handed to Polly. ‘And here.’
It was a black-and-white photograph of a forbidding building. A factory, as far as she could tell, judging by the tall chimneys at one end, with copious smoke coming out of them.
‘That’s a widget you’re holding,’ he called over his shoulder, on his way to the kitchen. ‘That’s where my money comes from. My clever great-grandfather invented a widget, which helped to make factory conveyor belts run more reliably and luckily for me, he patented it. That’s one of the prototypes. Webber Industries. You can google it.’
He came back and put a bowl of olives on the large coffee table between the sofas, then topped up her glass.
‘We still have factories on that very spot,’ he added, pointing at the photograph, which Polly had put on the table. ‘In Walsall. I grew up in the Black Country.’
He said it in that area’s unique accent, like Birmingham, tinged with a slight Northern flatness, then tossed an olive in the air, catching it in his mouth. ‘Orroight, our Polls?’
‘That’s amazing,’ said Polly. ‘But why are you so paranoid and secretive about it. Aren’t you proud of your family business?’
‘Yes,’ said Guy, ‘but I don’t like to go around bragging about it – and in all honesty, I don’t think it’s much of a fit with the perfume world, so I like to keep it quiet. Can you imagine your friend sleazy Lechêne if he’d known I come from a family of factory owners? He would have stuck his nose up so high he’d have done a back flip.’
Polly laughed.
‘I don’t agree,’ she said. ‘I think your amazing industrial pedigree is a great story. Rather than doing overblown orientals based on a fake heritage, you could do something amazing based on your real one.’
‘Engine oil and smoke stacks?’ said Guy sarcastically. ‘Charmant.’
‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘Authenticity – that’s what it’s all about these days.’
‘Hmm,’ said Guy, tossing a couple more olives into his mouth. ‘Maybe you’re onto something. I’ll think about it. Maybe you’d like to be my marketing advisor? I could put you on the pay roll, with Shirlee. I could do with some help on that side of things.’
Polly didn’t say anything. She didn’t know if he was serious or not.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about it another time, but I do need help with the advertising campaign. I know what I want visually – Daphne – but beyond that, I’m a bit clueless. Ponder it. Now, do you have any other questions, because I’m getting bored with myself.’
‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘Two. Number one – who runs Webber Industries now? Is it still in the family?’
‘My clever big sister,’ he said. ‘She’s a whiz kid. Next.’
‘If you’re not half-Iranian, where does your wonderful colouring come from, that jet black hair . . .’
‘My mother’s black Irish,’ said Guy. ‘You know the ones who are supposed to be descended from shipwrecked Spanish sailors? From that.’
‘Well, there you are, another interesting bit of background to work with. You don’t need to make anything up, Guy Webber, you’re the full package for real.’
She was going to say more, but his phone started to ring and at the same time someone began pressing the buzzer on the door downstairs – and holding it. Digger started barking. ‘Shoosh, Digger,’ said Polly. There was only one person that it could be, and Polly was really hoping she hadn’t heard Digger’s bark.
‘That would be Shirlee, then,’ said Guy, glancing at his phone, then holding it up to his ear and walking over to the window.
‘Get off the goddamn buzzer, Shirlee,’ he s
aid. ‘I can hear you. In fact I can see you. Yoohoo!’
He looked down, waving.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right down.’
Polly had her head in her hands. There was no escape.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Guy. ‘I’ve got a plan. I’ll make sure she can’t get up here, I’ll deny all knowledge of your whereabouts and I’ll send her off on some mission that will take up the rest of the afternoon, so you and Digger and the kids will be safe here.’
‘Thank you, Guy,’ said Polly, getting up to hug him again.
Guy pulled her close and pushed his nose into her hair.
‘Mmmm, you smell good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I bottled you.’
He lifted his head again and looked at her face closely with his head to one side.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to have a little interlude with me and a very beautiful Swedish dancer friend of mine? He has the most exquisite backside you’ve ever seen and a simply huge . . .’
Polly shook her head, smiling.
‘I’m happy for you,’ she said, ‘but it’s not my thing.’
‘Well, if you won’t have sex with this old pervert, I really think you should reconsider Edward. He’s hot, Poll. I’d do him in a heartbeat, with you, in the stables—’
‘Guy!’
‘I’m teasing,’ he said, ‘although I would like to see him in his tight riding trews.’
An image of Chum in his black jodhpurs, leading Sorrel, came into Polly’s mind and it took a great effort to push it away.
‘Enough,’ she said, putting a finger on Guy’s lips. He opened his mouth and bit it lightly, then began teasing the end of it with his tongue.
‘Stop it!’ she exclaimed, pulling it out and wiping it on his shirt. ‘You are the limit, Guy Webber, do you know that? Now, please go and deal with Shirlee so I can relax.’
And before she had even finished the sentence the buzzer started again.
Tuesday, 5 April
Polly woke up feeling disorientated. She didn’t know where she was until the very distinctive pictures on the walls of Guy’s spare room brought it all back. They were all drawings, etchings and prints of people disporting themselves with great sexual abandonment – at least three of them in every composition, far more in some.
There were many styles, including Indian paintings depicting scenes of complicated group couplings, colourful Japanese prints of geishas up to all sorts, eighteenth-century French engravings featuring frock coats and billowing bloomers, and one that looked like an Egon Schiele ink drawing. It was quite something.
Clemmie was no longer next to her in the bed – and noises from downstairs told her she and Lucas were already up. She could hear Guy’s coffee grinder working. A happy bark from Digger indicated he was enjoying herself.
As she took it all in, the events of the previous day rushed through her mind. The shock of what Maxine had told her followed by Shirlee’s outrageous intrusions had just about flattened her – but the evening with the kids, who both got a big kick out of Guy’s luxurious living quarters, had been very comforting.
They’d talked it through for hours, generously availing themselves of Guy’s wine store, as he’d urged them to do before he’d disappeared for his assignation, and had all agreed they had to stand by David.
She got out of bed and pulled on the silk dressing gown that was hanging on a hook, checking her texts as she headed for the door. There were several more from Shirlee, the last one saying she’d heard from Guy that Polly had gone to stay with a friend and she’d messaged all the regulars to cancel that morning’s yoga class.
It made Polly feel a very small stab of guilt. That was the good side of Shirlee – and it was very good. She was so helpful and supportive. If only she knew when to stop.
Polly felt a much sharper pang when she saw there was also a text from Chum, and read it with a sense of trepidation.
Just checking in. I’m so sorry I sprung myself on you like that. It was very intrusive, but I just wanted you to know I was there if you needed me. I still am. C x
Polly bit her lip, feeling bad all over again that she’d made him question himself like that. Chum always seemed so relaxed and loose-limbed the way he went about life; even with all his own issues, he never seemed to overthink things, and it didn’t sit right with him to have to analyse his actions and motives like that.
She’d done that to him. How self-indulgent she’d been, how casual with his feelings. She was going to have to tell him the truth, it wasn’t fair to keep stringing him along, thinking that whatever there’d been between them – and what was it really, beyond some fairly basic snogging? – was going to develop any further.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t. She was married. To a man who, it turned out, was very ill and needed his family.
Lost in her thoughts, she got to the bottom of the stairs and nearly fell over Digger.
‘Morning, lovely Mummy,’ said Clemmie, coming over to give her a kiss. ‘I hope you had a good sleep. You needed it.’
‘Morning all,’ said Polly, so happy to have them both with her. ‘How did you two sleep?’
‘Once I could stop myself from looking at the absolutely filthy photographs on the walls in Guy’s bedroom, I slept very well, thank you,’ said Lucas, clearly enjoying playing with the state-of-the-art espresso maker. ‘I think Guy might be in some of those pictures.’
‘I’m not going to have a close look,’ said Polly.
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Lucas. ‘You’ll never eat sausages again.’
‘I thought we could go out for brekkie,’ said Polly, sitting at the table and accepting the mug of tea Clemmie handed her. ‘There are so many great places round here. Have you found something for Digger to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said Clemmie. ‘I took him out for a wee and got him some dog food.’
She pointed to the kitchen counter, where there was an open tin with a bright yellow label. Pedigree Chum. Polly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Clemmie and Lucas joined her at the table.
‘I can’t stick around, I’m afraid,’ said Clemmie. ‘I’ve got a big practical this afternoon. I’ve got to get back for it.’
‘Me too,’ said Lucas. ‘I’ve got band practice. We’ve got a gig tomorrow at the pub that every band that gets to play in the Students’ Union plays at first. It’s our stepping-stone gig.’
‘That’s great, Lucas, said Polly, ‘and I totally understand about your thing, Clemmie. I’m so proud of you both for having such great things that you need to go and do. And thank you both so much for coming yesterday. I really needed you after that bombshell.’
‘Nothing would have kept me away,’ said Lucas. ‘I’m still taking it all on board, but I’m really glad we know why he’s being a psycho . . . which is because he basically is a psycho.’
‘Please don’t use that pejorative term,’ said Clemmie. ‘He has a borderline psychotic illness, Lucas. The word “psycho” is not acceptable.’
‘Well, pardon me, Dr Dog,’ said Lucas. ‘Sorry I’ve forgotten to be politically correct the morning after finding out my father is an actual nut job.’
‘Oh, do fuck off, Lucas,’ said Clemmie. ‘Go and play your xylophone.’
‘Pack it in, both of you!’ said Polly sharply. ‘I know it’s a lot to digest, but it won’t help if we squabble with each other. We should be bloody grateful we have a medical expert in the family, Lucas. We’re going to need her, and we must stick together through this. And don’t be snarky with your brother, Clemmie. I didn’t have any siblings, you’re very lucky to have each other.’
‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Clemmie. ‘Sorry, Lucas.’
‘I’m sorry, both of you,’ said Lucas. ‘I know it’s not his fault, but I can’t help feeling cross with him for being like this. It makes me feel itchy in my skin.’
‘I know,’ said Polly. ‘I feel like that sometimes too. I’m very relieved we finally know why he’s behaved so strangely, but
I’m not under any illusions that it’s going to be easy to help him through it. We must be stick together, though, or we won’t be able to cope.’
They all left Guy’s place together and said their goodbyes on the corner of Cheshire Street and Brick Lane. Polly found the car in the multi-storey where she’d left it, then sat behind the wheel, wondering where to go.
She still didn’t feel like going home. She didn’t think Shirlee would bug her there any more, after Guy had told her she’d gone away, but she didn’t feel ready to be in the house again.
She felt so strangely detached from her life it didn’t seem like somewhere she belonged any more. But then again, if she was going to bring David home and support him through this crisis, she was going to have to get over that pretty quickly. How could she make it a safe haven for him if it didn’t feel like one to her?
That reminded her to check her emails, to see if Maxine had replied.
Polly felt her heart rate quicken when she saw Maxine’s name on a message in the inbox, and she closed her eyes and took a couple of slow breaths before opening it.
Dear Polly,
I’ve now heard back from David and I’m afraid he says he still doesn’t feel able to see you.
He asked me to give you this message – I’ve copied it over from his email:
Please tell Polly I’m glad she knows what’s going on with me now and I appreciate her generous reaction to it, but I still can’t see her or the children. It’s not fair and they all deserve better, but this is the way it has to be.
I’m really sorry it’s not the response you were hoping for, and I’m sure you will understand that in my professional situation, I couldn’t try to ‘persuade’ him to do anything else, whatever I might believe would be best for him – let alone what would be best for you. I can only make measured comments within my clinical role.
The Scent of You Page 40
