14
It was the day of the filming of the open mic night. Mel was unable to babysit, as Fen had announced she was going to sing. (Apparently she had the voice of Marianne Faithfull – who knew? Certainly not Polly.)
In her bedroom, she attacked her hair with a hairbrush. Polly couldn’t help it, but she wished Fen wasn’t going to be there. She was nervous enough as it was; God knew she’d be more on edge with Fen there – being all silently judgy, because it didn’t take an agony aunt to spot that Fen was jealous of Polly’s relationship with Mel. And Mel herself had hinted this, on several occasions.
She considered she’d made an effort to put Fen at her ease, but Fen would have none of it. She’d feign headaches if invited to dinner, sulk her way through movies, hog Mel’s attention at every opportunity, and in the end, Polly had stopped inviting her to things. So don’t say I haven’t tried … Ouch … Her tangles were proving particularly wayward tonight, as if they knew she expected them to be on their best behaviour. Getting out the de-frizz stuff, she sprayed her hair. There, that’ll teach it .
Of course, now that Mel and Fen were to be parents, she’d have to try harder with Fen. Clearly their relationship was stronger and more long-term than Polly had thought. Which was a first for Mel.
Polly could see her now, adopting a defiant stance as she fixed Polly with a stare when she first told her about Fen.
‘Don’t laugh,’ she’d started.
‘What?’
‘I’ve met someone.’
‘That’s great.’
‘A woman. Her name is Fen.’
‘What?’
‘I’m gay.’
Polly had burst out laughing – not because she thought it funny, even though she did wonder at the time if there was a punchline coming up, but more from nerves. One look at Mel, though, and she could see that her best friend in the whole world was deadly serious and anxious for her approval.
Since then, there had been times when she’d wondered if Mel’s love affair with Fen might prove to be a passing phase, but Mel assured her it was the real thing, and Polly had to respect that.
Still. The two of them – Polly and Mel – had shared pretty much every rite of passage – first drink, first cigarette, first hangover, first shag – and so when Mel did come out, they’d sat and discussed it at length over more than one bottle of Lidl’s finest wine; Mel insisting that when she met Fen, she realised how part of her had always known she was gay. ‘Really, Polly, it feels so right. It does! I never did totally like sex with men,’ she added.
Well, you could have fooled me , Polly had thought, but didn’t say.
Remembering times gone by brought back memories of her mother, Suze. How she’d turned up one day at Polly’s home in Bristol, with her arm draped across the shoulder of a woman with a skinhead haircut, bovver boots and Levi 501s. ‘This is Ajax,’ she’d announced. ‘My lover.’ Causing Polly’s dad to merely shrug his shoulders and hand his daughter over for her weekend access visit.
‘Lovely,’ her stepmother, Gillian, had said, not terribly convincingly.
*
‘Being lesbian is a natural progression of radical feminism,’ Suze had announced over a largely indigestible lentil burger. ‘We reject male hegemony and penile penetration. It’s a violent manifestation of the patriarchal domination of women,’ she was saying, loud enough so that people in the vegan café feigned sudden and intense interest in their plates. Polly had stared at the alfalfa sprouts and mung beans that accompanied her lentil burger as Ajax gave Suze a full-on wet snog, and Polly wished she was anywhere else. Even Gillian’s homemade cake stall at the local WI would have been preferable to this, she’d thought at the time.
Looking back on those days with Suze and her women friends, Polly could now find it funny, even giving herself a wry smile in her dressing-table mirror as she recalled the time when her mother had taken her to a women’s group where they were all to “embrace the cunt”. Polly had been invited to inspect hers with a torch and a large mirror. ‘If you’re too shy, you can look at mine,’ Suze had offered, oblivious to her daughter’s obvious-to-anyone-else-with-half-an-eye embarrassment.
‘No, thanks,’ she’d muttered, and left the room to make the teas.
What Suze now referred to as her “lesbian phase” had lasted about twelve years, before she dabbled a little with men (as she called it) and then met Brian. ‘Does this mean you’re definitely not lesbian anymore?’ Polly had asked.
‘Oh, I don’t hold with labels,’ Suze said, waving her question away. ‘We’re all on a spectrum of sexuality, aren’t we, darling?’
Suze’s most famous partnering had been with celebrated chef Petronella Dawson. Although Suze would have none of it, her high-profile relationship with Petronella had helped her career no end. Their messy break-up, chronicled in red tops and celeb mags, had merely increased Suze’s celebrity status, until here she was: a television chef with her own popular show Keep Calm and Bake On; a couple of high-end restaurants specialising in vintage make-do-and-cook, staffed by waitresses in vintage hairstyles and clothes; and of course her especially-popular-at-Christmas cookery books, complete with enclosed prints of her specially hand-painted winter-wonderland-scene Christmas cards. (She didn’t go to art school for nothing!) Sometimes Suze’s latter-day high-achieving left Polly exhausted.
Polly placed the brush back on her dressing table, pinned her hair into an up-do and then appraised herself in her long wardrobe mirror: tight black capri pants, Vivienne Westwood-style peplum top, accentuating enough – but not too much – of her impressive embonpoint. Her boobs had not shrunk after breastfeeding – much to Daisy’s supposed annoyance (Daisy was much too equanimous to be annoyed). ‘Like a couple of half-empty plastic bags, mine are,’ she’d confessed. ‘I’m saving up for a boob job. But shh. Don’t tell Phil.’ (Wink.)
Face finished, Polly slicked on bright red lipstick, blotted her mouth with tissue paper, and then – with one last check in the mirror – hurried downstairs to where Mel was waiting with Rowan.
*
‘I’m not sure about this. Rowan should be having her bath now. Getting ready for bed ’ Polly told Mel.
‘Earth to Polly!’ Mel was saying, as she pulled Rowan’s little hand through the sleeve of her Oilily orange and flower-patterned parka jacket.
‘Hmm?’
‘It’ll be an adventure,’ said Mel, giving Rowan’s face one last wipe with the flannel. ‘Won’t it, Rowan? Be fun seeing Mummy perform poetry. Yes?’
The little girl, clearly not hearing but sensing something different was indeed about to happen, presented a picture of wonderment and growing excitement as she smiled uncertainly up into her mother’s face.
‘But what will people think? What will they say?’ Polly asked, as she crossed first one ankle in front of the other and then changed legs. (She had a tendency to fidget when anxious.) ‘I can see the Bristol Post headline now: “Single mother takes two-year-old daughter to a bar—”’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’ Mel zipped up Rowan’s coat.
‘Café/bar then. What if someone calls social services? I couldn’t bear it.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. No one bats an eyelid on the Continent, do they? They all take their babies and toddlers everywhere, don’t they? Just bung her in the buggy and she’ll be fine. There’s no reason why being a single mum should stop you from doing everything .’ Mel stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘You’ll do,’ she announced, and Polly wasn’t sure if she meant Rowan or herself.
‘Will Max be there?’ Mel gave Polly a suggestive look.
‘Yes. Now shut up. We’ve got to go.’
Polly had not seen Max since their failed date. They’d texted, and she was pleased to hear that Ben was fine and had just had a bit of a scare. Max reckoned Claire had overreacted, and Polly let it slide because she knew that if it was Rowan who’d fallen off a chair and hit her head on a stone-flagged floor she’d have been in a right state, too. Ah well , she thought, now shrugging on her jacket and switching off the kitchen light. Hopefully tonight they’d finally get together, have a chat – who knows? Maybe more? She felt a thrill zing through her, which had more to do with seeing Max than nerves about performing.
*
‘You all right, Polly?’ asked Leo, who worked on the door of the Chill Out café’s back room. ‘This your babby? Aww. Beautiful, ent she? Not sure you can bring her in here, mind.’
‘Oh, for Chrissake, just let her in,’ said Mel, barging forward and indicating that Leo ought to go ahead and stamp Polly’s hand. ‘Polly’s here for the filming. She’ll only be half an hour, tops. We’ll be in and out before Mike even gets here.’
‘Well, I s’pose…’
‘Good. Good.’ Mel craned her neck to see into the room. ‘Only we’re on a tight schedule,’ she said, back at Leo. ‘Have to get this young lady’ – referring to Rowan – ‘home in time for beddy-byes.’
Just then, Vanessa arrived. ‘Polly?’ She peered askance at Rowan then bent down to her level. ‘This must be your beautiful daughter.’ Rowan stared back: Pooh Bear clutched in one hand, beaker of juice in the other.
‘Umm yes. Sorry. Babysitting problems.’
Placing her hands on both thighs, Vanessa stood back up. ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ she said, bestowing on Polly a false smile. ‘Still…’ and here she gave Polly a most pointed look ‘…I could have made alternative arrangements, had I known…’
Leo stamped Mel’s and Polly’s hands. On impulse, Polly gave her a quick hug. ‘We’ll be quick, I promise,’ she whispered.
‘You better be,’ said Leo. ‘Only, his nibs will be in later and you’d best be gone by then, what with the babby an’ all. He’s iffy as fuck about having poetry nights in here. He hates poetry.’
Polly was about to go through to the back room when she remembered that Leo was renting Spike’s houseboat. ‘How’s the boat?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know? I’m moving out, and—’
‘No time to hang around chatting. We’d best get a move on,’ said Mel, giving her a shove before she could ask Leo whether or not she’d heard from Spike. Darn.
The lights were up. Polly didn’t think she’d ever seen the space with its lights on before. It looked better than expected. Gone were the sticky beer-stained carpets, to be replaced by stripped wooden floorboards. The new tables even had small glass vases with little posies in them.
Max emerged from the door to the toilets, at the side – causing Polly’s heart to do skippity-skip little bunny hops. He hurried over and gave Polly a kiss full on the mouth – which made her blush. Stepping back, he raised an eyebrow at Rowan. ‘Don’t ask,’ whispered Polly. ‘Couldn’t get a babysitter.’ Might as well be wearing a badge saying Really Bad Mother.
‘Won’t be long now,’ said Vanessa, squeezing past the two of them only pausing to ruffle Rowan’s hair. ‘We want to get this young lady back to bed, as soon as.’ Hands on hips. ‘Sound guy here? Has somebody checked the lighting? PA? Chop chop!’
‘Who does she think she is? Attila the Hen?’ Mel stage whispered, but Polly was hoping Max didn’t feel badly about her. He moved off with Vanessa, to do her bidding, while Polly couldn’t resist watching his retreating bum, and then blushing when he turned and caught her.
‘Busted!’ said Mel, who never missed a thing.
‘Oh, shut up.’ Polly gave her a small shove then turned her attention to Rowan, who’d started to grizzle. ‘Here you are,’ she said, giving her a packet of raisins and hoping that the parenting gods weren’t gazing down and judging her.
I just don’t feel comfortable , she thought, taking her seat at the table as Rowan clutched the packet to her chest, like a miser with a purse full of gold coins.
The club began to fill up, with people stopping by Rowan’s buggy, as if courtiers paying homage to a queen, as the child smiled and waved, accepting all as her due.
‘She’s beautiful, Poll.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Gorgeous kiddie.’
‘I want one of those.’
Mel whispered, ‘Don’t you go worrying what that Max might think. I’ll bet he’s cool with your bringing Ro Ro. Now, have you got your poem all ready?’
Polly had been practising it all day and was now pretty sure she was word-perfect. Even Rowan could read along to snatches of it. Vanessa said that if it came out well, they might feature it in the titles and pay her an extra fee. Which would be nice.
‘I’ll go get us a drink,’ said Mel. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Diet Coke, ta.’
‘How about Walkers crisps for madam here?’
‘Oh all right… go on then. But make it plain – if they have them. And if not – cheese and onion.’
Rowan perked up at the mention of yet another treat. ‘Cisp,’ she said, unable to pronounce the “r” and extra “s” in crisps. Polly set about her child’s face and hands with a wet wipe, as Rowan wriggled and squirmed in her buggy, unable to escape her mother’s ministrations.
‘Here we are.’ Flopping down on her seat, Mel had returned with drinks and crisps, which she duly opened before handing to Rowan. ‘I’m so excited about Fen singing.’ She picked at a beer mat. ‘And – I am of course excited to be giving my bestest friend in the whole world lots of encouragement and support.’ She grinned. ‘See? All turned out okay in the end.’
Polly wasn’t quite sure what the “all” might be, but Mel had spotted Fen, and was now standing and waving. ‘Fen! Fen! Over here!’ Fen dashed, if not ran, to greet them.
‘Hi, Poll,’ she said, then – draping an arm around Mel’s shoulder – ‘Hey, babes. You look divine.’ The two of them beamed at each other: so happy. It threw Polly, somewhat.
‘Hey, Poll. Look. See that guy over there?’ said Fen.
‘Where?’
‘By the bar.’
Ah yes, she could see him now. Random-yet-good-looking-guy-by-the-bar. He lifted his drink in salutation to them.
‘He’s been chatting me up like crazy. Watch this.’ Fen grasped Mel’s face between her two hands and gave her a full-on passionate snog – tongues an’ all.
The man turned away, feigning an acute fascination with his pint.
Poor bloke.
‘Honestly, Fen,’ said Mel. ‘You are such a prick tease.’
‘Who cares, he deserved it. Bet it gave him a cheap thrill. Blokes and their lesbian fantasies.’ Fen grinned at Mel, who grinned back like a – well, like a lovesick moron, Polly thought. She also thought Fen was being a right cow.
‘How’s the book going?’ Mel asked, as her girlfriend pulled up a chair, so close that it seemed as if she was attempting to merge with Mel.
‘Oh, the book? You know. Knocked out another dashing-doctor/dopey-nurse romance,’ she said, leaning back and crossing one black-jeaned leg over the other. Polly couldn’t quite square the fact that the oh-so-goth and on-the-surface-feminist-and-into-sexual-politics Fen supplemented her salary as a high-flying corporate something-or-other by bashing out Mills fingers mentally crossed that she wouldn’t fluff her lines.
Okay, now don’t forget to breathe , she told herself, as she took three small steps up to the wooden boards. Remember – it’s not how you’re doing, but what you’re doing – this being her confidence-boosting mantra. The one she’d learnt from another poet, meant to stop those butt-clenching moments when you’re convinced that it’s all gone to pot, that the audience hate you and that every single person in the audience wants you off .
As she scanned the room, she estimated there must be ten, fifteen people, tops. She waited as Vanessa herded the punters into a group near the front. Next she got them all geed up, by making them practise their clapping and cheering. Then – ‘Off you go, Polly,’ she said, taking her place at the side and giving the audience a C’mon-clap-and-cheer signal, and – ‘ Woop woop ’ – they obliged.
First clenching then unclenching her fists, she told herself to Relax . From her spot in front of the mic, she took a deep breath. Own the stage, Polly. Own the stage. And breathe . Lifting her head, she took the mic off its stand, glanced across to the sound technician, who gave her the nod, and she was off – starting with her poem about singles and dating (with an especial nod to her own disastrous speed dating night).
‘“At the lonely hearts disco, ladies dressed for the night
Are expectant and willing to find Mr Right…”’
*
Poem finished to wild (Vanessa-generated) applause as she hopped off the stage. ‘Well done. That was super,’ said Vanessa.
The regular compère, a rotund man in his thirties, red-faced and out of puff, asked if they were finished and then gave Polly a pat on the shoulder. ‘Do come along to another open mic night,’ he said, with a wink, and turned to have a conflab with the sound guy, who’d magicked another couple of mics to rearrange for the rest of the open mic night.
As Polly moved offstage, Max appeared beside her. ‘Can you hang on?’ he asked, as he bent to pack up his own kit into a series of bags.
‘Not really,’ she said, looking towards her daughter. ‘Only I’ve got to get Rowan back home. You know how it is.’
He stood up. ‘That’s me done,’ he announced, hauling the larger bag over his shoulder. ‘If you’re ready for the off, I’ll walk you to your car.’
As Polly returned to her table, she caught a pungent whiff of skunk. A group of students were giggling in the corner. One of them had rolled a spliff, seemingly not bothered if anyone saw. Definitely time to go. Making sure her daughter was securely strapped in her buggy, she collected the rest of her stuff and was kissing her friends goodbye, when a scuffle broke out at the students’ table.
‘Oi! You there! That’s right. You fuckin’ students!’ Mike – big and burly Mike, owner of the café – had a student by the scruff of his skater jacket. ‘Can’t you bleedin’ read, you ponce?’ he shouted, and pointed to the “No Smoking” sign. ‘None of that wacky baccy in ’ere, ya lummox!’ Mike proceeded to drag the guilty student towards the door. ‘I’ll have no fuckin’ hip-hop students in here!’ he bellowed, giving the student one last shove. The students all scuttled for the exit. Then Mike spotted Rowan, and Polly froze. ‘Ah look, a little kiddie,’ he said, his face all soft. ‘Ain’t she a sweetheart.’ Back to students. ‘Now fuck off out of here.’ To Polly. ‘Excuse my French.’
*
Outside, Polly was backing out of the doorway, dragging the buggy with her, Max and Mel close behind, all smiles, when somebody held the door open. She turned to say thanks and came eyeball to eyeball with the impossible.
Spike! What? Spike? Here? She had to blink. Look again. Make sure she hadn’t conjured him up out of thin air. Brain desperately trying to compute. It was Spike all right. For one mad nanosecond she wondered whether all that checking of his Facebook page had somehow caused some kind of electronic voodoo, conjuring him out of thin air. But no. There he was. The whole flesh and bone and length and hair and smile of him. She had no idea what to say. Her brain had clearly gone nah, too tricky – and snuck off for a bit of a lie-down.
‘Wha…?’ was all she finally managed.
‘Polly?’ Clearly he was as surprised as her.
‘You’re in Bristol!’
‘You don’t say!’ He smiled an amused smile at her. That amused smile she knew oh so well. ‘I did try to Facebook yeh, but I got no response.’
‘Wha…?’
‘Fuck me,’ said Mel, who’d followed Polly out the door. Spike gave her a nod in greeting. Max moved next to Polly.
‘You all right?’ Max said, placing a proprietorial arm around her waist in a gesture not lost on Spike.
‘Spike?’ came a voice, and as one they turned to see a vision of sun-kissed loveliness emerge from the late-night shop next door. ‘Spike, wait for me, hun,’ she called. Polly recognised at once that she was the tall blonde from Spike’s Facebook pictures. ‘You gonna introduce me?’ the vision asked, as she joined them and threaded her arm firmly through Spike’s.
‘Sure.’ He patted her hand. ‘This is Bam…’
Bam? What sort of frickin’ name is that? Polly thought.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Spike’s girlfriend,’ Bam said, in perfect RP, and not the Aussie-from- Neighbours -accent that Polly had expected. Clearly this was a night where expectations were confounded at each turn, as if the Lord of Misrule was out and about, turning all topsy-turvy with his mischief-making-bell-and-ribbon-bejazzled-stick. Polly shook her head – Nope, she wasn’t imagining this. Spike and Bam were still there.
‘This is all rather weird,’ said Spike, his steady gaze not leaving Polly’s face, making her feel as if their eyes were locked in some kind of ship-to-ship trajectory beam from an old episode of Star Trek . She couldn’t look away. She physically couldn’t pull her eyes away from his.
Max held his hand out to Spike. ‘Max,’ he said. ‘Polly’s boyfriend.’ That broke the spell, as she gawped at him, thinking how presumptuous. They hadn’t even slept together! Well, not yet… but, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Spike was saying as he shook his hand, all perfectly polite and gentlemanly.
‘Are you not going to say anything?’ Mel stage whispered to Polly as she gave her a little nudge. But Polly was too busy staring at Spike, then Max, then back at Mel, then back again to Spike, who was doing that quizzical smile of his. The one she used to find so sexy. Who was she trying to kid? Used to?
‘So, who’s this little one here, then?’ Spike bent his knees, getting a closer look at Rowan.
‘Rowan,’ said Mel.
Spike looked up at her. ‘She yours?’ he said.
‘No. She’s yours,’ came Mel’s reply.
Polly carried her child – more her child, she was reminding herself, than hers and Spike’s – from the car into the house.
‘My child…’ Spike had said outside the bar, and then he’d repeated it, as if to root it all in reality. ‘My child. Why didn’t you tell me, Poll?’
And now she was just closing the door with her foot when a hand reached round from outside to stop her. Was it Spike? Had Spike followed her home? Standing, with mouth agape and Rowan in her arms, she watched as the front door swung open to reveal – Max.
‘Max?’
‘Have you forgotten that I was coming round after the filming?’ he said, with an uncertain look on his face.
Yes, she had forgotten, but answered – ‘No. No, of course I haven’t forgotten – as if. Come on in.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘It’s been a funny old night. Look, make yourself at home while I put Rowan to bed first, okay?’
Rowan didn’t stir as Polly placed her on top of the bed and gently manoeuvred her into a pair of pyjamas, all the while fast asleep like a big floppy doll. Even the momentous occasion of meeting her errant father, Spike, hadn’t been enough to keep her awake. Spike. Had he really returned to Bristol? It hadn’t been a dream, then, because there he’d been, large as life and taking her breath away. She wasn’t sure if that feeling of breathlessness – as if someone had pulled the plug on all the oxygen in the night air of that particular north Bristol street – was from the shock of seeing him, or whether her hormones had gone into overdrive from some sort of Pavlovian response. Did she after all still feel… what? Don’t be stupid . Anyway, best not to think about any of that right now. It was shock, that’s all. Just shock.
She tucked Rowan beneath her Winnie the Pooh duvet, placed a kiss on her forehead and closed the bedroom door softly behind her.
Downstairs, Max stood leaning against her kitchen sink, waiting for her. ‘I’m sorry, Polly. I can tell you’ve had some sort of shock at bumping into your old boyfriend, but I’ve got to ask – is he Rowan’s father? Only, I thought he was in Australia.’
‘You and me both.’ She moved past him to fill up the kettle.
‘So, am I right in thinking that he didn’t know? About having a kid?’
‘It’s not what it seems,’ she said, distractedly, because all she could picture was Spike when Mel had dropped her bombshell – him standing on the pavement, gob well and truly smacked as he grappled with the whys, hows and wherefores. And she – not wanting to cause a scene (especially with Rowan present) – had left, muttering something about him giving her a call the next day – tomorrow; same number. Convincing herself that this was the sensible thing to do and not the coward’s way out (which she now felt it might have been). The truth? She’d needed time – still needed time – to get her head around it all. To reshift her own thinking. It was all very well her dishing out the whole “abandoned pregnant girlfriend left to do single motherhood alone” routine to all and sundry when Spike was not around. But now he was back, and he’d be wanting answers.
‘I’m sure you had your reasons,’ Max was saying, bringing her very much back to the present. ‘For not telling this guy – Spike, isn’t it? – that he has a child. But it’s hard for me to imagine what those reasons might be, given I’m a single dad myself.’
With no warning, her eyes began to fill with tears. Trust Spike to turn up . ‘It’s complicated,’ she said, so quietly that Max had to take a step closer to hear what she was saying.
‘Ah yes, complications. I guess I know all about those.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come here,’ he said, his voice softer now as he pulled her close and she cried big floppy tears onto his shoulder. ‘Look, we don’t have to talk about it now, not if you don’t want to,’ he said. ‘Shh.’ He kissed the top of her head and then lifted her face up to meet his, her salt tears mingling with their kiss. His lips solid and soft. Her body responding – and she wanted to respond, wanted to lose herself in him, to wipe out the image of Spike standing on the pavement, the hurt in his eyes.
Max found the waistband of her jeans and slid his hand inside, feeling the roundness of her bottom, as she moaned, moving into him. She was thinking how sexy he was, what a good kisser, when before she knew it she was comparing him to Spike! Oh, for Chrissake, Polly. Here you have a gorgeous, sexy man, turning you on like mad and all you can do is… Now stop it. Stop thinking about Spike!
But there he was, in her head. And now she couldn’t block an image of Spike with Bam. Spike peeling off Bam’s clothes, dropping them to the floor as she stepped out of them with those long colt-like legs of hers. Spike smiling at Bam, not Polly, as Bam tossed her hair and climbed on top of him…
It was no good… She pulled away from Max, her hair all mussed up like a bird’s nest, her focus all fuzzy. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t,’ she said, Max’s erection plain to see as it strained against the hard material of his jeans.
‘Sorry… sorry…’ On the wall, her kitchen clock – yes, the one she’d bought with Spike – ticked its loud tocks. ‘I really am all over the place.’
‘Oh, Polly,’ murmured Max, his voice full of regret as he gently smoothed her hair. ‘That is such a shame… because you are an incredibly sexy woman, and you’re turning me on like crazy.’
‘Then fuck me,’ she said, reaching for his erection and stroking it from the outside of his jeans. ‘Let’s do it now – on the sofa,’ she whispered, as she tried to manoeuvre him towards the sitting room. But instead of taking her up on her offer, he stood his ground.
‘No, Polly, no,’ he said. ‘Because, as much as I’d clearly love to, and Christ knows I can’t believe I’m going to say this… I’ll be hobbling all the way home with this whacking big stiffy… but I honestly do think it’s for the best if we wait.’
‘Right,’ she said, turning away from him. ‘I see.’ How could she have got it so wrong? Again?
‘Only until tomorrow,’ he added. ‘That’s if you’re free? Are you free tomorrow?’
‘I could be,’ she said.
‘Good.’ He smiled a broad confident smile as he collected his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘How about I come over after little Rowan’s in bed? Say half past eight? You’ll have had a chance to clear your head by then, and we can have a good talk. I know, I’ll get us a takeaway, shall I?’ He stroked her face. ‘Because I know how rubbish you are at cooking…’
‘Cheeky,’ she said.
‘We can pick things up from there,’ he said as he placed a quick kiss on her lips. ‘Because, sexy Polly, I want to be one hundred per cent certain that it’s me you’re having sex with – or fucking, as you so politely put it. I don’t want any part of you thinking or worrying about your ex. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said quietly.
‘Good girl.’
From the top of her front steps, Polly watched Max stride down the city road and then turn in a pool of light from a streetlamp, to give her a wave that was more like a salute. He carried on his way, his footsteps echoing as he passed a derelict warehouse on top of which the head of a buddleia nodded as a car swooshed by.
There was a full moon, so close that she could see its dips and colorations, giving it the appearance of a big flat pepperoni pizza with all its toppings picked off. The way Rowan liked to eat hers. Polly stood for a moment, breathing in the night air. Across the road, the tide had turned, the River Frome pulled back so far by the moon that the river was little more than a deep gully flanked by mudbanks. In days gone by, wooden ships – laden with their cargo – would have stuck fast, forced to wait for the next high tide to lift them free. She closed her door and went through to the living room to turn out the lights – not before giving her pirate figure a pat on his shoulder – then she climbed the stairs to bed, where soon she was dreaming of a chestnut-coloured galleon tossed on seas with waves so high they transformed into white stallions. On deck, Spike and Max were brandishing swords in a swashbuckling kind of way, clad in floppy white shirts, accompanied by shouts of ‘Ar haar,’ while Polly stood, hands on hips, clad in buxom wench outfit, when Rowan, white embroidered dress flowing behind her, ran past, chuckling out loud before launching herself into a flying leap, out and over and into the blue sea before Polly could reach her.
She woke in a sweat, unsure at first just where she was. Then, pulling back her bed covers and sliding her feet into her slippers, she rose from her bed to go and check on her sleeping baby Rowan. Satisfied all was well, she padded downstairs to fetch herself a glass of cool water.