12
Max rang the following day, just when she was in the middle of a delivery at the shop.
‘Max – oh, umm, hang on a minute,’ she said, placing the receiver on the counter. Deep breaths.
‘Where d’you wan’ it?’ said delivery man – tower of boxes in his arms.
She picked up the receiver again. ‘Won’t be a sec.’ Then, ‘At the back!’ she gestured to the man. ‘No, not you,’ into the receiver. She called out, ‘Donna! Donna, you there?’
Donna emerged from the back. ‘Where’s the fire?’ she said, cup of tea in hand.
Polly mouthed Max on phone , then with elaborate head nods said, ‘Sort – boxes – delivery.’ She seemed to have lost the power of speech. Donna rolled her eyes.
‘Hello? Ah, Max.’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘Oh, speaking to Max on the phone, are we?’ said Donna, as she ushered the man through to the back with as much skill as a New York traffic cop.
Shut up , Polly mouthed.
She checked her reflection in the small mirror on the wall by the till. ( Why? She had no idea… Phone…? )
‘Did I call at a bad time?’ Max was saying, his voice all smiley and playful.
‘No… I mean, yes… No… of course not. Just typical, eh? – Delivery man arriving. Hah.’ ( Idiot. Be cool. )
‘So I was wondering,’ he was saying, ‘whether you fancied dinner tonight? My treat, of course?’
‘Umm…’ Her mind was now going nineteen to the dozen – Mel, not home, off out with Fen… too late to get Tiggy for babysitting… Donna… no…
Just at that moment, Donna poked her head round the curtains. ‘Well?’ she hissed.
‘Hang on, just one moment,’ Polly said to Max then placed her hand over the receiver. ‘Can you babysit tonight?’ she asked Donna.
‘No can do, babs,’ she answered, beating a hasty retreat back to delivery man. ‘Want another cuppa?’ Polly could hear her saying to him.
Before she could stop herself, Polly said, ‘Why don’t you come round to mine? Eight o’clock, suit? I’ll cook.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Max replied, in a voice much like a young Leslie Phillips.
Polly replaced the receiver. She’d done it. She’d only gone and done it. A real live date with an actual man.
Donna, seeing delivery man out the door, patted Polly on the shoulder. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Doubt he’s coming round for the food, babs. Just as well, too, seein’ as you can’t cook.’ Polly chose to ignore her.
Time to phone Mel.
‘You’ve got Max coming round?’ said Mel. ‘For a meal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you mental?’
Because Polly’s inability to cook edible food was legendary.
*
Things had been conspiring against Polly all day:
Trying to leave early, she was buttonholed by the chair of the Clifton Arcade Shopkeepers’ Association. And no amount of You Go On from Donna or I’m Running Late from Polly would put him off.
The moment Polly got home, her daughter decided to tearfully latch onto her, ignoring Mel’s ministrations and promises of chocolate fingers if she’d let her bathe her – ‘Nooo!’ she’d screamed. ‘Mummeeee!’ Thereby proving Polly’s theory that toddlers, like dogs, know when you’re going out, or – in this case – have someone coming round.
In among the screaming and cajoling and the final getting into bath of Rowan by Mel, Polly’s mother phoned.
‘Suze, not now,’ she muttered. But Suze didn’t get where she was by not being tenacious – and selectively deaf. Reluctantly Polly answered her mother’s call, and listened – occasionally trying to get a word in edgeways – as Suze ploughed on through Polly’s protestations and pleas. On and on she went about how she thought Rowan ought to go to Clifton High School for Girls and not the Steiner School, which Polly proposed.
‘Bit rich, coming from you, Mum. Whatever happened to Anarchy in the UK?’
‘Smash the establishment? We all grow up and learn that’s not how the world works. Take me.’ ( I wish someone would , thought Polly.) ‘I now know the value of a good private education, and I don’t want Rowan to miss out. I could buy you both a house, darling. Just consider it. A lovely house in the country, where Rowan could have a pony.’
No, no and no , she tried to say, but Suze was not listening, and Polly was close to slamming the phone down on her. Overhead, she could hear a commotion. (Good excuse.) ‘Gotta go, Mum. Rowan is drowning Mel in the bath.’
‘Well, think on,’ was Suze’s final salvo. ‘Oh, and I can’t do lunch on Friday. Ciao.’
Ciao? Polly thought as she hung up. I mean, who in their right mind says Ciao?
Mel walked into the kitchen: hair sticking up, the front of her shirt soaked.
‘I should get danger money. Or at the very least, a snorkel.’
‘She okay now?’ asked Polly.
‘Yeah, fine. Burbling away to herself in bed. I told her you’d be up in a min. I’d better show you what you’re going to cook tonight, then, I suppose.’
‘Mel. You are a lifesaver.’
‘I know.’ Mel proceeded to produce items from a carrier bag with all the aplomb of a magician pulling a rabbit from… well, you get the picture… ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Angel hair spaghetti and clam sauce from the pasta shop on Gloucester Road.’ She gave Polly a look. ‘Even you can’t mess that lot up, Missy. Simmer pasta for two minutes and reheat the sauce.’ Another flourish from out of her bag. ‘Ta da! Garlic bread from Tesco. Pop in the oven.’ Plonk on table. ‘Bag of salad.’ Plonk. And finally…’ opening the fridge door ‘…voilà! A bottle of Tesco’s finest Prosecco!’
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Polly, giving her best friend in the whole world a hug. ‘This is all great and foolproof. What would I do without you!’
‘Probably never have sex again,’ said Mel, grinning fit to bust. ‘But seriously, hon, if you manage to not burn any of this food, then your luck might well be in tonight.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Okay – backup plan – you could get him drunk if it does go wrong.’
Polly shot a look at her clock. ‘Will you look at the time, Mel. Oh heck. Should I phone and cancel?’
‘Don’t you dare! Now, so long as you don’t panic then everything will be fine. I’ll tidy up downstairs while you go have a nice bath. Oh, and think about what you’re going to wear.’
‘What to wear? Oh crikey. What to wear? What on earth should I wear?’
Mel guided Polly out of the kitchen to the stairs. ‘You’re starting to panic. Take deep breaths. You have a whole wardrobe bulging with clothes, the food’s bought, and it will practically cook itself. Now go!’
Polly gave her a smile. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. Is simples, yeah? I’m a little rusty, that’s all. What can possibly go wrong?’
Mel had left for Fen’s for the night, Polly had finished her bath and now had Rowan’s Little Mermaid towel wrapped around her middle, and a pink towel in a turban about her hair. As soon as Polly entered her daughter’s bedroom, the little girl stopped whacking Cookie Monster on her bed and held out her arms. ‘Hug, Mummy! Hug!’
She sat on her daughter’s bed and happily obliged. ‘Ook,’ demanded Rowan with that stubborn look Polly knew meant business. There’d be no bargaining with her tonight, and so the sooner she read her a book, the sooner Rowan would be asleep, and the sooner Polly could finish getting ready.
‘Okay. But one book only, yes? Which one shall we read?’
Rowan produced a Meg and Mog book from underneath the covers of her new bed. She was proud to be in a big bed, which Polly had set against the wall to stop her from falling out. She liked to fill her bed with Poohs, Piglets, My Little Ponies, Tellytubbies, Ernie and Cookie Monster from Sesame Street , picture books, her beaker with water in, and – ah yes , thought Polly, retrieving a half-eaten digestive biscuit from underneath a pillow – snacks, and anything else she could horde. It was as if she were constructing her own little fortress against the world. A plug-in nightlight kept monsters to the corners of her room, or behind the wardrobe. Rowan was fine so long as her light stayed on. But switch it off?
‘Right,’ Polly said, as she reached across to turn on the small reading lamp. ‘Just the one story, madam.’ Stretching out alongside Rowan on the small bed, she propped herself up with a spare pillow…
…and awoke with a start. The doorbell ding-donging. No! It couldn’t be! She glanced at Rowan’s Alice in Wonderland clock, where the white rabbit was clearly pointing out that she was indeed late. 8.30 pm!
Oh shit. Ding dong. Max. It must be Max . Quietly she slipped out of Rowan’s room – oh shit – and caught sight of herself in the mirror, red sleep creases down the left-hand side of her face; Little Mermaid bath towel only just covering her nether regions; hair limply damp and plastered to her head. ‘Ah fuck,’ she muttered.
‘Hang on, I’m just coming,’ she called downstairs – then dashed to the bathroom – Where the hell’s my bathrobe? – gave up, swapped her towel for a new big fluffy one, wrapped a matching towel around her head and splashed cold water onto her face.
As she flung open the front door, Max stepped back, nearly falling down the small flight of steps. ‘Am I too early?’
‘No, no,’ she said, not letting him in. ‘It’s just… it’s just…’ She glanced behind her. ‘It’s just that I’m running late. Yes, that’s it. And… everything’s gone bonkers. Kid. Bedtime. Mental.’
He stared as if she were indeed mad. ‘Ah,’ he said, as he now took a slight step forward with his bottle of red in one hand and flowers (definitely not garage-bought ones) in the other.
‘There’s a pub… a pub… just along the road,’ she said, waving her pointing finger at him and down the road.
‘A pub?’ He looked uncertain.
‘Yes. A pub. What a good idea. You pop along to the pub, and I’ll be ready in – ooh – shall we say half an hour?’
‘Half an hour?’
‘Good, that’s settled.’ And with that, she closed the door.
‘That’s the first time I’ve been chucked out before I’ve even had a meal,’ Max was saying, as he leant on the back of a kitchen chair.
‘I am so, so sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’ He smiled at her. ‘It was hilarious.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at cooking,’ she said, plopping the shop-bought homemade pasta into boiling water.
‘Polly,’ he said, giving her a slow appraising look, ‘I didn’t come here for the food.’
‘Oh,’ she said, feeling flustered.
‘May I say how gorgeous you look,’ he said, moving in for a kiss on her cheek. ‘Hmm. Something smells good.’ He lingered a while before straightening up.
She was just grateful he’d not witnessed the last half- hour when she’d been dashing about, as if fast-forwarding a silent movie, throwing things here, brushing hair there, applying makeup while hopping on one foot trying to find her other elusive sandal, flicking hair off face, spritzing herself with perfume, wriggling into silk underwear, pinning up curls, squeezing into dress and finally taking a swig of pre-date wine, casting a quick that’ll-do glance at the mirror before opening the door on his ring.
She was happy with the result his delay had afforded her: her ’50s-inspired dress – turquoise, covered with little kissing love birds – giving her a fantastic cleavage and the illusion of a tiny waist. Max was looking not so bad himself. Fine long legs in skinny blue jeans; soft grey flannel shirt, unbuttoned just enough. Hmm. Not bad at all.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, then glanced the cooker’s way . Oh shit . She’d forgotten to time the pasta. No! It was only supposed to simmer for two minutes, wasn’t it? Now once she’d drained the pasta, she could see the horrible truth. It had welded itself into one glutinous mass.
And the sauce was burnt.
Cutting the pasta lump in half, she dumped one into each of the bowls.
‘Ah,’ he said, on her presenting his before him.
‘Hang on.’ Fetching the smaller saucepan, she poured (or more like plopped) the brown (okay, burned) sauce on top.
‘Mmm,’ he said (rather pluckily), as he leant forward to peer at what was meant to pass for food. ‘What’s the sauce when it’s at home?’
‘It’s meant to be clam.’ She stood back, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and blew her fringe from her eyes.
‘And these shrivelled-up black bits?’ he asked, poking at them with his fork. ‘Are these the clams?’
‘Umm… well…’ She bent over his dish then glanced at him sideways. Both burst out laughing.
‘Oh God,’ she managed, in between guffaws. ‘I’m totally rubbish, aren’t I? I’m just not used to all this – you know – cooking for adults. Dating. I’m a dab hand at fish fingers or oven chips, though.’
‘Seriously, Polly,’ he said, wiping his hands with a paper towel (she hadn’t been able to locate the napkins). ‘Dating – as you so quaintly put it – is like riding a bike. Oh.’ He held up his hand. ‘Not that I’m suggesting you are, or indeed were, in any sense – a bike.’ She tried to clear his plate and he grabbed hold of her, pulling her towards him, so that her breasts were in line with his face. She thought for one moment he was going to nuzzle them, but instead, he smiled up at her.
He really does have very nice teeth , she thought.
‘I’ve not finished yet,’ he said, as he signalled for her to leave his plate. He manfully (so she thought) cut a chunk of the glooped mess and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm, lovely,’ he mumbled, as if his mouth was full of marbles – hardly surprising when the whole pasta dish proved solid as a brick. She tried to cut into hers with her spoon, but it bent. He swigged his down with wine.
‘Look at it this way,’ he said, when he finally managed to stop swallowing. ‘At least we won’t get food poisoning. Because you’ve pretty well nuked any bugs which may have been in there.’ He was now grinning from ear to ear.
‘Don’t laugh,’ she said. ‘It’s a disaster.’ She prodded at her own pasta. ‘You’d need a bloody chisel for this.’
‘Hey, never mind. Let’s make do with the wine instead,’ he said, as he topped up her glass. ‘If we get peckish later,’ he added, with an emphasis on “later”, ‘then I’m more than happy with toast. After all, it’s you I came to see.’
‘Did you?’ she said, blushing to the roots of her newly hennaed hair.
‘Of course, you idiot,’ he said. ‘Hang on. Hold still.’ He leant forward to swat at her head.
‘Ouch!’
‘You had a fly, crawling…’ He put his hand out to straighten her hair, then began moving in closer and closer… until… This is it , she thought, closing her eyes and lifting her head. But instead of the expected kiss there was a loud ding dong, and her eyes pinged open. Mobile. Whose mobile phone? Hers or… ah, clearly his, as he was retrieving it from inside his jacket pocket.
‘Sorry,’ he said, moving away from her. ‘Text message.’ She waited while he read it. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that I have to call somebody back. Excuse me for a minute.’
Heading for her open French doors, he stepped out onto her verandah. From inside, she could make out part of his conversation.
‘…blah blah… he what? Right. Right. No… blah blah…’ as he paced up and down. ‘Yes – bloody hell – all right, all right… yes, straight away.’
Polly cleared the rest of the dishes, keeping half an eye on Max staring into the middle distance and then snapping his phone shut. Clearly not good news. He returned.
‘Looks like it’s my turn to ruin the evening,’ he said, giving her an apologetic look, then clearly realising what he’d just said. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ She touched him on the arm. ‘It sounds like you have to go. Is that right?’
Running his fingers through his short already sticking-up hair, he said, ‘It’s complicated.’ She waited for him to say more.
‘Okay,’ he added, looking her straight in the face. ‘This isn’t great timing… and… I was going to explain all this properly… Tonight, in fact.’ He gave her an uncertain smile. ‘You see… you’re not the only one with a kid.’
‘I see.’ Although she didn’t but wasn’t sure what else to say.
‘Yes. I have a child. A boy. His name is Ben. I had him with someone called Claire. She lives in Clifton. On her own. Or rather, she lives with Ben, of course, but she doesn’t have a partner or boyfriend or anything. Sometimes she can’t cope, and when she can’t cope she rings me up. Which at times… can be a right pain.’
He pulled his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I do have to go. It seems that something’s happened to Ben. Apparently he’s had some sort of accident.’ He gave her a half-shrug. ‘I have to get over there.’ He turned to go then turned back. ‘So, you see, I do sympathise. You know. With you. About having a kid an’ all. It sort of complicates things, doesn’t it?’
‘Umm, so this Claire,’ Polly couldn’t stop herself asking, ‘were you married? Or living together?’
He checked his pockets. ‘God no,’ he said, jingling his found car keys. ‘We were going out. Y’know. Dating. Then she… Well, there’s no easy way to say this. She tricked me into getting her pregnant by telling me she was on the pill when she wasn’t. Polly, look. I really must go. Claire’s going mental. Says he’s got a huge bump where he fell off the chair, and she’s convinced herself that he has to go to hospital.’ He made a move to leave. ‘I’m so sorry, but I could hear Ben screaming in the background. You see how it is.’
‘Yes, of course I do. You must go.’ She started to lead the way to her front door, her mind racing. He’s got a kid. That’s good, isn’t it? Still. What did he mean? Tricked into it? Oh, give him the benefit of the doubt. You’ve not heard his side, have you? All the same…
They reached the door and, before she knew it, he was kissing her. A sweet deep kiss – one of those you can fall right into. Down and down into a rabbit hole. He smelt good, tasted good… and too soon it was over.
Kissing the top of her head, and then lifting her face to his, he said, ‘Your face.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Shut up!’ She gave him a little shove but couldn’t help smiling.
‘Be best if I ring you, don’t you think? Because you’re not safe to text or email, now, are you?’ He gave her a wink.
‘Oh God,’ she said, covering her eyes. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Hey, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘In fact, was kind of cute.’ And he headed off down her steps.
Back in the kitchen, Polly topped up her glass of wine, kicked off her heels, slipped into her Ugg boots and wandered outside. What a night! First her mum being weird and then discovering Max had a child. She flopped onto her chair, wrapping her blanket about her. So this Claire? Just how well do they get on? Are they still in a relationship? She sighed and gazed up at the night sky. A star, which might have been the planet Venus, twinkled down at her. She stretched her legs until her feet were resting on the wooden struts of her balcony. Draining her glass, she toasted the night then headed back inside to her dining room to turn off her laptop. Might as well check my emails while I’m about it , she thought. Could check Facebook too. See what people think of the new range of dresses.
Logging onto Facebook, she saw she had a new Friend request. Clicking on it, she nearly had a heart attack. Spike! It was Spike! Quickly, she clicked Ignore !
Later in bed, she couldn’t get to sleep. Unable to get out of her mind that image of Spike’s face grinning at her from his Facebook page. Why? Why would he want them to be Facebook friends? After all this time?
In the wee hours of the morning, she padded back downstairs, fired up her laptop and spent the next hour or so rummaging around in Spike’s online photos. He looked the same, and different. She’d never seen him that tanned, for a start. Had never known him to smile that Say-Cheese-smile for the camera. He hated swimming, yet there he was on the beach, carrying a surfboard, laughing, smiling, and nearly always with the same Aussie beach babe. Why torture yourself? she thought, taking yet another peek before breakfast – like some woebegone addict. It might have been the early hour – Christ, was it only 05.30 am? – or it might have been the wind woo-woo-ing outside her windowpane, but Polly could sense something stirring, and it wasn’t her tummy rumbling, either. More like the bottom of a tall ship sailing too close to shore, churning up what was best left undisturbed.