2
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t straight with her from the start, as near the end of the most entertaining first date she’d ever had, he took her hand in his and said, ‘I’d really like to see you again.’
‘Good. Me too,’ she answered, turning her face up for a kiss that didn’t come.
‘Hang on,’ he said, gently pushing her away to arm’s length. ‘I haven’t finished. There’s more.’ He sounded unsure. ‘This is tricky.’
‘Go on.’ She gave him a quizzical look as they stood on the Downs, next to Clifton Suspension Bridge. The night had that clean, freshly washed smell it gets after rain, when the roads shine darkly silver in the light of streetlamps and a watery moon.
‘The thing is,’ he began, and her heart sank, because, let’s face it, nothing good ever begins with “The Thing Is”.
‘I do like you, Polly,’ he was saying. ‘Who wouldn’t? You’re great. Dead sexy…’
‘Yes…? ’ Okay. Not sounding so bad. Could say promising even. And he does have very kissable lips. She leant towards him, still hoping for that smooch.
‘It’s just… ohhh…’ He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets, then turned back. ‘Maybe this was a bad idea after all.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said, oblivious to the cars creeping across the bridge from Bristol to Somerset and back. ‘I don’t understand.’
Hadn’t they had a great evening, the two of them? Doing their small pub crawl around Clifton village? Laughing, chatting, getting along? Did she not scrub up well, with her hair fastened up, a few tendrils escaping here and there to give a sultry rather than dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look, and her figure shown off to its advantage by a clinging vintage frock pulled together with a genuine Vivienne Westwood jacket? Did he not fancy her at all, then?
‘I’m guessing this is a terrible way to end a first date, Polly. But it’s best to get it out in the open.’
What? What? He’s not going to say he’s married, is he?
‘Why don’t we sit over here.’ He wiped a bench with the sleeve of his jacket so they could both sit down. ‘Okay. Deep breath.’ He turned to face her. ‘To cut to the chase. I’m emigrating to Australia. There. I’ve said it. I am emigrating to Australia, Polly. In October.’ He stretched his long legs out in front of him as she let it sink in.
‘You see,’ he continued, twisting around on the bench so they were face to face. ‘it’s been a dream of mine for so long. I’ve an uncle over there. Mum’s brother, Dermot. He’s got me a job helping with his property development company. Doing up old houses. Erecting flatpack homes. Don’t laugh. I know. Flatpack houses sounds mad, doesn’t it? But they have that kind of thing in Oz.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She tried to concentrate as questions bombarded her – when? Why? What did this mean? Rain dripped on the top of their heads from an overhanging beech tree as she fidgeted with the strap of her handbag.
‘Will you stop your fidgeting, there, and tell me what you think.’
She let go of her bag. ‘Think about what? The frankly insane idea of building a house with an allen key?’
‘No, Polly. What I’m suggesting is that we see each other until I leave. I know it’s a big ask – but I’d really like to…’ and here he gave her a sheepish grin. ‘I know it’s only six months away. But a lot can happen… After all, if we were teenagers – which clearly we’re not – then six months would practically rank as being engaged. Not that I’m suggesting…’ He smiled another of his twinkly smiles. ‘You know what I’m saying, here.’
‘I do…’ and then she added quickly ‘…know what you’re saying.’
He tipped his head back to gaze up at a sky dappled with cloud.
‘Shall we give it a go, then, Polly? See what happens?’
‘Why not,’ she said, giving him an uncertain smile. ‘October is a long way away.’
Overhead, a seagull wheeled in the sky as he (finally, she thought) leant in to kiss her, and she slid into him so that they were entwined in a sweet kiss. When she opened her eyes, he was gazing down at her.
‘Glad that’s settled,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘We’re both grown-ups, aren’t we?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ he said, pulling her to her feet, ‘with what I’ve got in mind.’
And they hurried down the hill to her house.
*
The following evening, she met Mel for an after-work drink – so that Mel could get the lowdown.
‘You’re just too cynical,’ Polly was saying, as she took a sip of her cider. ‘It will not end in tears. Anyway – c’mon – who would you pick to play you in a movie? If you had to?’
‘That’s easy. Ripley from Alien . But don’t change the subject.’
‘Honestly, will you stop giving me that look. So he’s leaving after six months. No big deal. Really.’
‘Hmm.’
They were sitting at a weather-beaten table outside The Nova Scotia pub; Polly’s local at the end of her road. Inside was packed to its tobacco-stained rafters with ferrymen, tipsy women and grungy gruff-voiced men nursing their pints. The two friends needed to talk, so they’d taken their drinks outside, the surprising spring weather having cleared to bestow an evening warm with the promise of summer.
Mel gave her a typical Mel look. ‘I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.’
‘I won’t. Both Spike and I are cool with it all. I’ve told him it’s fine – I’m not looking for anything heavy, am I? Especially not after Paolo the Klingon.’ (So called because he was clingy.) ‘Look, Spike’s younger than me, he’s got itchy feet… it would never work if he stayed. So, there’s no need to worry. Everything’s cool. We both know the score. We talked it through last night.’
‘I’ll bet you did, you dirty cow. So how was he? You know… in bed? The full details, please.’
‘Shut up.’ Polly gave her a playful shove.
‘Seriously, though.’ Mel gave her friend’s hand a heartfelt squeeze. ‘I do think it’s all very convenient for him. This whole going off to Australia does rather let him off the hook, doesn’t it? He gets to have his fun with no danger of commitment.’ She put down her glass. ‘A classic case of having his cake and eating it, if you ask me.’
Polly sighed. ‘It cuts both ways as I’m not into anything long term, either, don’t forget.’
Mel gave her an oh-yeah glance. She took a sip of her pint and then licked the Guinness moustache from her upper lip. ‘Hmm,’ she said, giving Polly one of her looks. The one that was all about what Mel considered to be Polly’s “failure to commit”.
She knew Mel considered her commitment issues to be all Polly’s mother’s fault – had told her so on numerous occasions. But Polly didn’t hold with psychobabble claptrap. She was a modern woman with choices. So what if she hated the feeling of being tied down? Or owned? In her book, marriage was outmoded. If she ever did decide to give it a go, she’d opt for the Tim Burton/ Helena Bonham Carter model of living in adjoining houses.
‘Remind me – when is he leaving?’ said Mel.
Polly leant back as a breeze, coming off the water, caressed her hair and then blew it across her face. ‘October. It’ll be October.’ She sat up and beamed at her friend. ‘Can’t you see, Mel? There’ll be no tearful breakups and no messy endings?’
‘Hmm,’ said Mel. Again.