Polly. Freya North
rented flat with a patio and mad neighbours in leafy Belsize Park. That’s in North London for your information.’
‘Neat,’ Kate enthused.
‘Not very,’ apologized Polly.
‘How mad?’ Kate asked, eyes alive above a huge smile.
‘Absolutely bonkers,’ Polly assured her.
‘Bonkers!’ Kate declared, having her first taste of the word and finding it delicious.
They made pastry in silence for a while.
‘Home,’ Polly started again, ‘is really a fat tom-cat called Buster and a darling boy called Max.’
‘Uh huh,’ murmured Kate: an excellent phrase to elicit further details.
‘Yes,’ said Polly quietly, ‘I’ve had them both for five years. In fact —’ she started before a small voice warned her against continuing.
You can’t tell her. You’ve no proof, remember.
(More to the point, Polly, you haven’t clarified the situation with Max, have you?)
‘Uh huh,’ Kate repeated as she pricked the top of the pies, ‘that must be kinda tough. I’ll bet you’re missing them both.’
With a degree of guilt which she covered with a hasty ‘Oh yes, of course’, Polly realized that she had still been too busy to have actively missed Max. ‘He said he’d phone on Saturday. That’s tomorrow.’
Only I hope he calls before the Blues Brothers evening starts at Finnigan’s. (That’s Finnigan House – senior male dorm. Everyone invited.) I’m on duty, you see. Me and Charle(s) and Lorna – she’s lovely, I met her at lunch today. She teaches drama and voice. I think we’re about the same age.
‘What does Max do?’ Kate asked, genuinely interested.
Polly smiled. ‘You’d love him,’ she said, ‘he’s very artistic, very talented. Officially, he’s a self-employed graphic designer, only he likes to be known as a freelance draughtsman.’
Kate nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds special. That right?’
‘Absolutely,’ enthused Polly. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘In fact —’
No.
Not yet.
Kate refrained from the uh-huh of encouragement that was on the tip of her tongue. Polly looked suddenly lost and lonely so she handed her the bowl of blueberries and changed the subject instead.
Saturday. School for Polly finished at two but she joined the other off-duty teachers and students to eat hot dogs while watching the senior boys in a football match. She had no idea what these extravagantly padded, already beefy boys were doing, but there seemed to be more rucks than rugger and much less fancy footwork than footie. The buttocks, however, were incomparably pert and neat and made the game a pleasure to watch. Even more so, once Kate had explained the rules in under a minute, with ketchup on her chin. Soon, Polly was cheering with the best of them, much to Jackson’s delight.
‘So she can holler,’ he mused through the side of his mouth and to no one, ‘and boy, can she holler.’
Polly returned to Kate’s alone, forgoing the post-match refreshments and post mortem so she could guard the phone and leap on it as soon as it rang.
I’m going to say yes, you see. I’m going to accept his proposal. Then I can finally tell everyone.
The house, however, remained silent until Kate, Charle(s) and Bogey returned an hour later. Kate scanned Polly’s face hopefully, so Polly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with hastily employed nonchalance, offering to make tea for the troops. The phone rang as soon as she left it; she tried not to jump on it but failed. It was Clinton for Kate. Polly tried not to register her disappointment. She failed.
It’s half past bloody six. That’s half eleven over there. Where is he?
After Polly had poured cranberry juice instead of milk into the tea, Kate suggested, very kindly, why didn’t she make the call and beat him to it?
‘Ain’t nothing like making a man good and guilty,’ she drawled like Mae West. ‘They usually repent extravagantly! Go on, I’m going to take a shower.’
It was seven o’clock. The Blues Brothers evening at Finnigan’s started in half an hour. It was midnight in Britain.
Actually, one minute past. It’s tomorrow. And Max said he’d phone me yesterday.
A strange voice, male and Scottish, answered the phone in England. Polly presumed she had misdialled so she hung up and rang again, staring at the number pad and speaking them out loud as she dialled. The same voice.
God, I hope everything’s OK.
‘Er, hullo, is Max there? Max Fyfield.’ There was interference on the line. She tapped the receiver against her hand. It wasn’t interference, it was background noise. Music, muffled. Voices, many.
‘Hullo?’ said the Scotsman.
‘Max Fyfield?’ stressed Polly, trying not to shout. It sounded like the receiver was dropped. ‘Hullo?’ she said. ‘Hullo? Max?’
Click.
The line was dead.
She dialled again, distressed and a little angry. Who was that man? How dare he!
‘Hullo?’
‘Thank God,’ said Polly, eyes to the heavens, ‘Dom, it’s me. Max there?’
‘Hullo? Oh Polly! Hi! Hold on. Max! Hold on,’ said Dom, disappearing with an unpromising clatter to locate his brother.
‘Polly?’
‘Max – hullo, I was er. You said you’d –’
Suddenly she wanted to cry.
Don’t be so silly.
Why do you want to cry?
I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. I feel frightened. It all feels too fragile.
‘Sorry,’ Max rushed. ‘Oh God, so sorry. I, er, well actually I forgot. Hey you – get the Osmonds off the turntable! And Slade. Kool and the Gang can stay. Polly? There you are – I was going to call you earlier but Dominic had me running errands and opening wine. Dom! Dom! The chilli – the coffee table. God that was close.’
‘Max,’ Polly asked, trying to control the shake in her voice, ‘what’s happening? What’s going on?’
I feel lonely. I’m frightened.
What of?
‘Dom has a few friends round,’ Max explained lightly.
Precisely.
‘Anyone I know?’
What’s wrong with that? Why do I feel shaky?
‘Er, don’t think so.’
‘Meg?’
I can hear a woman laughing. He’s just covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Why? Why’s he done that?
‘Meg?’ Polly repeated, staring around Kate’s kitchen, the people on the fridge; realizing that she was, essentially, amongst strangers. Alone.
I’m alone. Over here. Over there. I just delude myself that I’m allowed into people’s spheres, that they’ll make me part of their world, their family.
‘Megan was here earlier but she had to leave as