9
Polly quietly closed her front door so as not to wake Rowan and placed her bag on the dresser in her kitchen… her uncluttered kitchen, which was normally covered in books, newspapers, spilt Ribena, Cheerios cemented to surfaces, with her sink chock-a-block with dishes, cups, pans all waiting for the washing-up fairy to appear. Now her table appeared clean! Her worktop free of gunk, the sink clear – pots and pans nowhere to be seen – and as for the floor! It shone a lighter and brighter colour than Polly ever remembered. And instead of stale aromas – she sniffed the air – the whole room smelled fresh and airy.
Clearly Mel had been cleaning. She liked to clean. Found it therapeutic.
‘In here,’ called Mel’s voice from the sitting room.
‘Shh,’ said Polly as she entered the room, where Mel was sitting on the sofa alongside Daisy (who lived a couple of doors down), a DVD of Salmon Fishing in the Yemen – by the looks of it – playing in the corner. Both turned to greet her. ‘What you doing here?’ Polly asked Daisy, who got to her feet to give her a hug.
‘Came to see how it went with the speed dating. Phil’s been looking after Morwenna, Tiggy’s round her boyfriend’s and Zak’s at band practice, so I snuck round to join Mel. Gosh, is that the time?’ (Tiggy was the nickname for Daisy and Phil’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Imogen, their son Zak was two years older, and Morwenna was Rowan’s best friend.)
Daisy indicated Polly sit alongside Mel on the sofa while she took the easy chair.
‘’Lo, Mel – how’s Ro Ro been?’ Polly managed.
‘Good as gold.’ She pointed the remote to freeze the movie. ‘Read her a story and she went to sleep, no problem. See? Didn’t even notice you weren’t there.’
‘Awww. You did remember to leave her nightlight on, didn’t you?’
‘Duh. Of course.’ Mel gave Polly an expectant look. ‘So c’mon, spill the beans. How was it?’
‘A disaster.’ Polly pushed herself back onto her feet. ‘I’ll tell you all about it in a minute, I promise. First, I want to check on Ro.’
‘Fine, but make sure you don’t breathe those wine fumes all over her.’
Polly didn’t think she’d ever get over the sense of wonder that filled her whenever she stood like this, in the doorway of her daughter’s tiny bedroom, and watched her breathe. In. And out.
Not so long ago, when Rowan was a wee baby, Polly would creep into her nursery at the dead of night to sit quietly next to her cot. Just to watch her breathing. At first, it was to check she was still alive, and then simply because she loved it. Loved to sit there and watch her daughter’s plump little face with its flush high on her cheeks, her thick eyelashes fluttering as she slept, mouth slightly open revealing bright pink gums and baby white teeth. Sometimes a small bubble would blow in and out as she breathed. In. And out. Sometimes she would bend over her child, placing her mouth close to hers, just so she could breathe in her little baby out-breaths. Inhale her sweet fresh baby smell and then tiptoe out. A thief of her own child’s sleeping. She couldn’t help herself. Rowan was so perfect, so plump, and so beautifully full of promise and life.
She moved across to kiss Ro’s cheek, leaving her to her dreams, and then stood outside on the landing, fingering the card nestled in the pocket of her velvet coat. The card that Max had given her. ‘Ring me,’ he’d said, as she was about to make her walk home. She was so surprised that she’d not said anything back, but on her way home, underneath a streetlamp, she’d pulled it out and read Max Somerton. ( Hmm, summer town. Nice name. Polly Summertown – stop it! ) His mobile number could remain there nestled in the pocket of her coat, together with his address in Clifton Wood. Would she keep it to herself, like some delicious secret, or spill the beans to her friends waiting downstairs for the lowdown?
Well – she’d never been able to keep anything from Mel.
‘So?’ Mel said, after she’d shown her the card. ‘When are you going to ring him?’
Daisy perked up. ‘Max?’ she said. ‘I’m a bit lost now. Who is Max?’
‘You’d better tell us both everything. From the top,’ said Mel.
‘Oh, okay.’ She didn’t need much persuading. ‘It was like this,’ she began, as she set about regaling them with tales of television people, the programme, the speed dating, the men from IT, how Vanessa had the brainwave to commission Polly to pen a poem for performing at an open mic night. ‘How much will you get for writing that? She is paying you, isn’t she?’
‘Fifty quid.’
‘Fifty quid, is that all?’
‘Don’t knock it – money’s money.’ She retold the whole kit and caboodle, with a few embellishments for extra laughs.
‘And now my head hurts,’ she said. ‘Anyone got any paracetamol?’
‘Here, take mine,’ said Daisy, as she produced some from the depths of her voluminous designer handbag. Polly wouldn’t be surprised if she had a piano in there too. God, she really couldn’t handle a few glasses of wine. What a lightweight .
‘Whatever you do,’ Daisy was saying, as she handed over the tablets, plus a glass of water, ‘you must not email or text him straight away. It never pays to appear keen.’
‘Daisy the relationship guru!’ said Mel. ‘You’ve only had three boyfriends in your entire life, and you married two of them.’
‘That’s beside the point. In any case, I get to hear all about dating etiquette from Tiggy. She keeps me up to date on things.’
Her eldest daughter from her first marriage was Tiggy: fifteen, tall with long legs, body to die for, including perfect breasts. She was currently dating a boy called Fin – short for Dolphin. His parents were hippies who lived in Montpelier. Polly guessed it could have been worse. They might have named him Whale. She squinted at Daisy and then gave her a large smile as somehow Daisy had now materialised with a nice cup of tea for them all.
‘Apparently kids these days never ring each other. They only text – or sometimes message on Facebook. Oh, and what is it she says? I know – if you’re hanging out with a boy then you’re having sex but not dating…’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Seems it’s the thing these days. And you’re not dating until you’ve been hanging for a while and he decides that you are. Or something like that – honestly, it’s like feminism never existed. Still, you must not text him. Else you’ll come across as needy – or desperate, even.’
Mel looked most agitated. ‘Typical patriarchy,’ she said.
Oh no, here we go , thought Polly.
‘All goes in the boys’ favour. As usual. Tell you what, Poll. You go for whatever feels right for you. That’s what we do in the LGBT community.’
‘Isn’t that a book by Roald Dahl?’
‘That’s The BFG , you dearheart!’ said Mel, giving her a pitying look.
Polly giggled, allowing herself to flop back in the red Chesterfield she’d bought for a song on Stokes Croft. It had seen better days but retained much of its charm. Bit like me , she thought, and giggled – again.
Mel peered at her. ‘You all right, there?’
Polly decided she really loved Mel. ‘I really love you, Mel.’
‘Quick, someone get a bowl.’
‘Ah, too late.’
And her nearest and dearest dashed about getting paper towels, wet cloths and bowls of water, while Polly stared at the card in her hands.
After Daisy had left and Mel was in bed, Polly woke with a tongue as dry as sandpaper. She decided the best remedy was to go fetch a glass of water. God , she thought, as she shuffled down the stairs to her kitchen for a glass of water, did I really only have a couple of glasses of wine? It’s not much, is it? But then she remembered that she’d actually drunk almost a whole bottle – on her own.
In the kitchen and drinking a half-pint glassful of water down in one go, she burped, said, ‘’Scuse me,’ and then reached for the Jammie Dodgers on the top of her cupboard. She had the munchies. Nom, nom, nom.
Taking a further glass of water, plus the biscuits, into the sitting room, she spotted her laptop on the table where she’d left it, still plugged into the internet. Might as well check my emails – because you never know. Stranger things happen at sea.
She waited for her inbox to come up. Two new emails. Nothing from Max. Just the usual mailings, and a reminder of an invitation to the acoustic night at Angel Café next week. She had that poem to write for Vanessa – and a couple of new ones in the pipeline. Maybe she ought to suggest the Angel to Vanessa for the filming of her performing poetry? She stared at the screen. Should she ignore Daisy’s advice and not wait two – no, hang on, didn’t she say three days to contact Max?
She could see him now as he had been earlier, standing on the step outside Marco’s, waving the piece of paper on which she’d scrawled her mobile no. and email address after he’d handed her his business card. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he’d said. ‘Or you could email – or text – me?’ And she’d felt a thrill go up and down her spine.
He’d more or less asked her to contact him, then, hadn’t he? So why shouldn’t she? It’s nice for someone to show an interest in me . (She rubbed her head.) Even if it does come to nothing , she thought as she fiddled with his card. All I seem to be known as these days is “Rowan’s Mum” . She sighed. It’s been a long time since Spike… No, I will not think about Spike . But the faintest shadow of his face and smell of his jumper passed over her like a ghost. Even as she closed her eyes, she knew it wouldn’t take much to recall his touch, his laughing smile, that devil-may-care accent and eyes so dark as he moved towards her… No, no, no. Now stop it .
She’d check once more so clicked on her email receive button, just to make absolutely sure that Max had not sent her a message in the last couple of minutes. Nope. Nothing. Nada.
You’re being stupid expecting something from him now. Not everyone’s up at this time of night, are they? Just what time is it ? She peered at her computer. Ye gods! Nearly 03.00 am. Better go back to bed. She stared at the screen. Pah. Who decided on these dating rules, hmm? I hate dating rules. Who made them up anyway?
‘No,’ she declared out loud. ‘I am not going to abide by some twenty-first-century dating etiquette. Even Jane Austen knew that was rubbish. Pah! Not email him? Not email? Says who?’ And before she could think better of it, she began to type.
Re: Tonight
Hi Max, Thanks for coming along and filming me
(Oh, he had to anyway, she remembered. She hit the delete button several times.)
Max, was good to meet you. I think you’re cute. Is that allowed?
(Why not? she thought, moving into defiant mode.)
Be lovely to hear from you.
With a flourish, she clicked Send.
Then sat, staring at the screen. Oh shit. Maybe the cute bit was coming on too strong. Damn emails. They’re way too easy, aren’t they? If that was a letter then I’d have to wait until tomorrow, buy a stamp, walk to the letterbox, and finally post it. Plenty of time for second thoughts. Or…
I could phone him. Or rather text him. Yes, good idea. Now, phone, phone, where’s my phone?
She rooted in her bag for her mobile. Yes, a text message would set things straight.
Max, soz bout email. Am a bit drund
Oops, better click on Clear to delete d and put in k so that reads “drunk” – oh crap! She’d clicked on the wrong button – and it was sent.
Staring at her mobile as if it was a traitor, she muttered, ‘Bloody treacherous things. And they say they’re inanimate!’
Resisting an urge to fling her phone to the ground and stomp up and down on it until it smashed to smithereens, she decided she’d best send another text to rectify matters – quick.
Max, dont know wot happend there. Its l8 & I’m an idiot. Txt or eml me.
Press Send. Ah damn, I forgot to sign it. He won’t know who it’s from. Send another.
This is Polly. luv Polly ? x
After smashing her forehead with her hand several times, she sat staring at her screen and then at her mobile. Idiot! She padded through to the kitchen to fetch yet another glass of water, hoping against hope that by tomorrow this would all have been a dream.
Standing at her sink and gazing out of her window, she could see an animal moving at the bottom of the garden. About the size of a cat, it slinked – in a different, not feline, way. More sinewy. She realised it was a fox, although its outline was long and low, its head, body and tail all on a line, more like a large stoat than her picture-book idea of a fox. It must be a youngster , she thought, then spotted that in its mouth was a plump child’s guinea pig, snatched from a garden hutch. The pet animal half-heartedly kicked its short legs, seeming more or less resigned to its fate, when the fox turned its head to turn its glass-bead eyes on Polly. Next it was gone, disappeared into next door’s garden from where it was an easy lope down to the dark riverbank.
She could imagine Mr Fox quickly merging into the deep shadows that lined the river’s sides, on down to the smooth dark of the water where lurked city rats and cross-not-friendly badgers in their urban version of Wind in the Willows , a place where guinea pigs with fat, stumpy legs were soon gobbled up.