Polly. Freya North
‘Yes,’ Polly replies, ‘and yes. The jars would crack otherwise, wouldn’t they? Come and see.’
The lid on the suitcase had fallen closed and, as she lifted it, Polly wondered whether the contents would be entire, or half eaten.
‘Absolutely fine,’ she said, on close scrutiny.
‘Hey?’ said Max, casting his eyes away from the rattle of hangers in the cupboard, the hungry shelves.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Polly smiled.
‘Come here, Button,’ he said quietly. She went over to him and slid her fingers into the front pockets of his trousers.
‘Why do you call me Button?’ she asked for the thousandth time. Max replied with his thousandth shrug. They heaved the suitcase from the bed and curled up together in the impression it had left.
‘Can’t I pack you?’ Polly asked, walking fingertips over his face.
‘You’d have to forego a lot of Marmite,’ Max qualified, taking her hand and kissing the palm.
‘Do you know, I don’t think I can live without either of you,’ said Polly honestly, folding her fingers lightly over his nose.
Lazily, Max travelled his hand over her body, admiring, as ever he did, her petite frame. Max knelt up beside Polly and looked down upon her.
Polly Fenton. Like a figure ‘2’, folded like that. Just us two, too. I must soak it all up. Commit it all to memory, although I don’t doubt absence making my heart all the fonder. Strange, though.
Polly had placed an arm across Max’s knees, her hand patting his stomach.
‘I’m going to America,’ she told him quietly, as if for the first time. ‘Can’t wait,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘Don’t want to go,’ she continued, eyes wider still, khaki flecking across them as he watched. Max laughed softly through his nose and bent low to kiss her forehead. Suddenly her arms were around his neck and, though it threatened to break his back, he let her kiss him as if she would never stop. Dozens of feathery lip pinches, like popcorn popping, one after another after another, small and involuntary noises accompanying them. It made him smile but still she continued, kissing his teeth now instead. He pulled away, cocked his head and observed her, returning his lips to hers and just pressing against them, no puckering, while privately asking himself ‘Is she really going?’
Max placed his arms either side of Polly’s head and straddled her. He dipped his upper body low, like a press-up, and kissed her nose. He continued these press-up lip-presses, alighting on her forehead, her cheek, her left eye, her chin, her nose, her right eye, her forehead again. As he neared her nose for the third time, she held his face gently and greeted his lips with hers. A long, soft kiss, soon enough a deeper kiss; eyes open and so close that they blurred; passion and love legible regardless.
Up they sat and undressed themselves, like they always did. You touch me while I touch you, like we always do. Under the covers. Cuddle sweetly, kiss lightly. Kiss with tongues. Move closer and grind subconsciously. Fondle her breasts. Feel his cock. Finger her sex. Sidle down his torso and then suck him. Hear his breathing quicken. Good. Flip her over and lick her. Enough. Cover her. Enter her. Hold his buttocks. Kiss his neck. Squeeze her nipples. Kiss. Smile.
Moan. Move.
Swap places.
Move. Moan.
Swap again.
Silence.
Not any more.
Come.
Together.
Kissing and smiling.
Like they always did.
‘Will you miss me?’ she had asked.
‘Just as much as you’ll miss me,’ he had replied, gently and with confidence. Max and Polly, Polly and Max. Maxanpolly had become a familiar descriptive term amongst those who knew them, one frequently employed to quantify the level of compatibility amongst others.
‘No, I do like him – but we’re not talking maxanpolly here.’
‘They’ve become totally maxanpollified.’
Polly Fenton and Max Fyfield were the couple that other couples loved, envied and invariably aspired to; after all, they had maintained their relationship through their early twenties. It seemed there had always been Max and Polly. That there would always be Max and Polly was a fact undisputed and oft proclaimed by those who knew them, for it created a soft web of safety. What a lovely balance: thirty-year-old Max, the quiet, freelance draughtsman; contemplative, generous, handsome in a boyish way with his fawn flop of hair, grey-blue eyes and open smile. Polly the English teacher, petite and pretty, a lively sparkle to Max’s warm glow, an eager conversationalist to Max’s well-chosen few words. She is as feminine as he is masculine; he’s not hero-tall or model-macho but he appears strong and manly when he has Polly attached to him.
Max tips his head and maybe touches a shoulder when he greets people, while Polly hugs them liberally. Friends in need turn to Max for his measured, sober assistance. If they wish to celebrate or chat, they seek Polly because she will share their excitement and wear their emotions. Like salt and pepper, sugar and spice; they complement each other. Polly and Max fit. Polly will be greatly missed while she is away. But she’ll be back. Of course she will. She’s going away tomorrow but she’ll be back, as she would say, ‘in a jiff’.
Tomorrow is now today. Yesterday went far too quickly. Now tomorrow will see Polly wake up over the sea and far away because today Polly is leaving England for America. At four thirty. Tomorrow, Max won’t have seen Polly since yesterday. Polly and Max have not said much so far today. Polly has been scurrying around her flat, double-checking things already triple-checked yesterday. She has left little notes dotted here and there to assist her American proxy with the ways and wills of the boiler, the cooker, Buster, and the patio doors. Polly knows little about her counterpart apart from her name (Jen Carter), her age (same as Polly) and her subject (English too, of course).
‘Do you think The Jen Carter Person will be happy here?’ Polly asks Max. ‘Do you think she’ll like my flat?’
‘Yes. And yes,’ Max assures, adding that a note explaining how the television worked was really not necessary. ‘Maybe just warn her that here we have only five channels.’
‘Radio?’ Polly suggests, pen poised above a yellow Post-it note. Max shakes his head. He pulls Polly’s hair through his hands into a pony tail, tugs it so her head comes back, and kisses her nose.
‘A map to the launderette!’ Polly exclaims, busying herself with red and blue pens.
‘I’ll start loading the car,’ he says, turning away from her. It had seemed such a great idea, such a wonderful opportunity that she should go. Now Max feels ambivalent, wonders whether they should have discussed it in more depth, just talked more really.
‘And I must warn her of Buster’s food fads,’ Polly says to herself.
‘I’ll load the car,’ Max says.
Max opens the bonnet of his Beetle which is really the boot and smiles broadly at Polly’s suitcase and the knowledge of all those jars of Marmite. He hates the stuff and yet had he not sneaked a jar from Polly yesterday? Just to keep. To have and to hold.
‘You can have it back once you’re home again,’ he had said, holding the jar aloft while Polly jumped to reach it.
‘Let me check the sell-by date. OK. But it must be this very jar – no substitute.’
A substitute? Ludicrous!
Max places her small rucksack on top of the suitcase and reads its bulges easily. Walkman. Water. Two paperbacks. One pair of thick socks. Bits and pieces from the bathroom.
Damn, I should have written a little