27
On her way home, she encountered a detour at the top of the hill and was diverted along Canynge Crescent. In a slow-moving line of cars, Polly drove past an old lady, with white hair swept into a tight bun, who strode at quite a lick along the pavement. An elderly Cliftonian colonial-type, who owned Polly’s dream house. She’d discovered that her name was Dr Edith Sutton – not that she’d been stalking her – but she had looked her up on the electoral roll and then googled her. She’d been a redoubtable female surgeon in the days when there weren’t many. Had even raced Bugattis in Monte Carlo, in her day, and was now often to be seen striding through Clifton in her stout shoes and tweed skirts – come rain or shine. She’d been engaged to a pilot during the Second World War, and after he was shot down over the English Channel on his way back, she never recovered – had never been married or had children, so Polly had been told, one night by a barmaid in a Clifton pub. The story went that Edith had been pregnant when his mother got the telegram, and the shock of his death brought on a miscarriage. ‘Life’s too short,’ the barmaid had murmured as she topped up Polly’s glass. ‘She should have married him while she had the chance, you see. But she didn’t, and – well – it’s a tragic tale, isn’t it?’ After that, Polly had tried to smile at Edith in the supermarket but was either ignored or met with a hostile glare.
Yes, life was short. The roadworks traffic lights turned green and she turned into Clifton Vale, where she had to drive past Max’s flat, and – oh look – there outside was his car.
She thought he wasn’t due back until the end of the week… but – what the hell. ‘No time like the present,’ she said out loud, as she turned the wheel and executed a perfect piece of parallel parking right outside his house. She took the fact that there was such a space – a bit of a miracle in Clifton Village – well, she took it as a sign that now was as good a time as any to have this “let’s take a break” conversation. Yep. Time to pay him a surprise visit.
He was surprised, all right.
*
Polly bounded up the steps to Max’s front door, just as one of the other tenants was letting himself into the building. ‘Hi. I’m here to see Max,’ she said, giving him a gay smile.
The guy smiled back and stood aside. ‘Be my guest.’
She clambered the stairs to the first floor where she stood in front of the thickly painted white door of Flat No. 3. Here goes nothing . Knock knock knock. She waited. Guess he’s not in after all , she thought. Maybe he’s popped out for milk, or something . It was a daft idea to call around unannounced. She rummaged in her bag, hunting for her mobile so she could send him a text message, when the door was opened by –Sarah the paramedic actor! Minus her television paramedic uniform. Minus anything at all, actually, except for what Polly recognised as one of Max’s blue shirts – the one that Polly particularly liked because it brought out the blue of his eyes. Oh, and – yep – Sarah was also wearing a pair of Max’s hiking socks by the look of things.
‘Whoops,’ said Sarah (not even bothering to look apologetic, noted Polly, whose brain was playing catch-up). ‘Hello there. It’s Polly, isn’t it?’ Sarah languidly leant against the door frame like she was posing for a GQ magazine model shoot.
‘Who is it?’ came Max’s voice from within the flat. Sarah shrugged, and Polly – now more than capable of coming up with two plus one equals cheater – thought, Unreal, I can’t believe this is happening. What a fuckin’ cliché . She turned tail and scurried back down the stairs.
‘Oh fuck, oh fuck,’ she could hear Max say behind her, followed by Sarah saying, ‘Let her go, Max.’
But Max was thundering down the stairs after Polly, catching up with her on the pavement outside. ‘Wait! Polly!’
She turned to see that he’d only managed to wrap a towel around his waist. A hand towel at that – one which he was having problems holding together with the one hand as he reached for her arm with his other.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted, pulling her arm away from him. ‘You’re pathetic!’
The afternoon sun bounced off Polly’s loose hair, giving her the appearance of a flame-haired medusa. In this clear light, she couldn’t help but notice how Max had a large angry-looking zit on his right shoulder, and how white and pasty his skin was. He’d a red flush creeping all over his face, neck and upper chest, too. Not so handsome naked (well, practically naked) in the harsh light of day. Polly felt more like laughing than being angry.
Two elderly ladies in matching raincoats, one of them pushing a tartan shopping trolley, were passing by on the opposite side of the narrow road. They stopped to watch the action.
Max, making a move towards Polly, stepped on a small stone and was now hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Ouch. Shit. Look. Don’t go, Polly. Please. It’s not—’
‘Oh do me a favour, Max,’ she said, hauling herself up to her full height. ‘It’s exactly what it looks like!’
‘But, but, Polly,’ he tried again, his one free hand stretched out, palm upwards. ‘We had a few drinks after the filming and she’d had too much to drink—’
One of the ladies turned to the other and said, ‘I think this young man has got himself into hot water.’
‘Ooh yes,’ said the other. They both stared openly at the scene unfolding across the road.
‘Let me guess. I suppose she slept on the sofa,’ said Polly, not bothering to keep the yeah-right sarcastic tone out of her voice. She was feeling angry now – but more at herself for being so blind and bloody stupid.
‘Well, no, okay, she didn’t,’ said Max, arm down by his side as he rubbed the sole of his foot up the length of his shin. Clearly still smarting from the stones.
Good , thought Polly.
He squinted at her through the glare of the sun. ‘You know how it is,’ he said.
‘Oh, I know how it is, all right,’ said Polly, wondering if fate was having a laugh or deciding to intervene. After all, she’d not been one hundred per cent sure whether she ought to dump Max and… well… and now her mind had been made up for her.
‘Look, Polly,’ he continued, ‘I’ve known Sarah for ages. And sometimes we – you know…’
‘She’s your fuck buddy. Why not just come out and say it, Max!’
‘Fuck buddy? What’s a fuck buddy?’ whispered one of the old ladies.
‘Shh,’ hissed the other one. ‘Don’t you watch Sex and the City ?’
‘God’s sake, Poll,’ said Max, who’d spotted the old ladies listening. ‘Keep it down, will you? Yes. Okay. If you want to put it like that, then I suppose she is.’
Polly glanced across at their audience – the two ladies now joined by a younger man (clearly someone they knew). A white van drove past and tooted its horn at Max – ‘Oi, flasher! Put yer clothes on!’
‘C’mon, Polly. Don’t be daft. You’re overreacting. It’s you I love…’ Max was saying.
She just stared at him.
‘I’ll stop seeing Sarah, I promise. It was insecurity on my part. Yes, that’s right,’ he said, clearly feeling he was on firmer ground here. ‘I felt insecure. This whole Spike thing. It’s been making me crazy.’ He was advancing towards her, as she backed into the gap between hers and another parked car. ‘Because I don’t have you, Polly, do I? Not really…’
‘What’s he saying?’ one of the ladies asked the other.
The man said, ‘He’s saying he doesn’t have her.’
‘Who?’
‘Shh.’
A squirrel chose that moment to make a dash for freedom underneath Polly’s car as she fumbled in her pocket for her car keys. ‘So,’ she said, looking up into his face, ‘you’re saying it’s my fault, is that right? That your shagging Sarah is somehow down to me? How very bloody convenient!’
‘I was always going to be playing second fiddle to Spike.’ He held out his hand. ‘But that’s all right. I understand. We can work it out.’
One of the ladies nudged the other in the ribs – ‘So, is he her Mr Big, then?’
‘I don’t think so…’
‘D’you know what, Max?’ Polly stepped into the road to make her way round to the driver’s side, jingling her keys in her hand. ‘You’ve helped me make my mind up.’
‘Good… because I—’
‘No! We’re over. Us. I deserve better than this. I deserve better than you.’
‘You tell him, love!’ one of the women called across. The man gave Polly an impromptu round of applause.
‘What? What?’ the other lady was saying, cupping her ear with her hand.
‘Oh, and that’s Spike, is it?’ Max called after her. ‘He doesn’t want you. He’s got Bam!’
Polly clambered into her car and fired up her engine – which shot out a satisfying puff of black smoke right into Max’s face. She drove off, leaving Max to hold up both his arms in frustration – which caused his towel to fall to the ground and reveal that he had on no underpants.
‘We’re not over, Polly! You don’t mean it!’ he shouted after her.
‘Ooh,’ said one of the women, unable to take her eyes off Max’s “impressive wedding tackle” as she’d later tell her cat.
In her mirror, Polly could see Max pick up his towel, salute to his audience and then walk back inside – buck naked.