21
The wind was brisk coming upriver from the Atlantic, as Polly stood leaning out over the rail of her balcony, much like a figurehead on the prow of a tall wooden sailing ship, mid-ocean. She closed her eyes, letting the wind flap her shirt and wet her hair as drizzle whipped like sea spray. She adored her home – and on days like this she could easily dream of adventure… Her doorbell rang and, taking in a lungful of ozone-spiked air, she reluctantly turned to go back inside.
Upstairs, Rowan was safely tucked up fast asleep as she let in Vanessa, who’d arrived to complete the last piece of filming at Polly’s house. She hadn’t rung for a while, and Polly had all but forgotten about it – or more like had been wishfully thinking that Vanessa had. But no. Here she was. Larger than life, and not sporting double denim this time but a skirt of indeterminate age and an old washed-out blue Jigsaw cardigan drawn tight across her matronly bosom.
‘Very arty,’ Vanessa was saying, as she cast her eye over Polly’s sitting room. ‘In here,’ she said to the camera man and sound guy, without waiting for Polly’s permission. Polly knew that Max wouldn’t be the camera man as he said he’d dropped much of his work with Vanessa following a better offer from a different production company.
‘I suppose you can’t afford a cleaner, dear,’ Vanessa was now saying, as she cast a critical eye about the place. ‘I suppose that’s what being a strapped-for-cash single parent does for you. Well, you mustn’t worry as I’m sure we can miss the untidy bits. I tell you what; let’s shove that box of toys into the kitchen. Sam, can you be a love and move this for me.’
Bloody cheek , thought Polly, who had swapped shifts with Donna just so she could spend all afternoon cleaning and tidying away. But she held her tongue as she suspected that any comebacks would be water off a duck’s back. Polly wished she’d never agreed to the whole film thing in the first place and was glad this would be the last session.
Vanessa clapped her hands together. ‘Right then, we’ll shoot the whole thing in here, yes?’ It was then she noticed Captain Jack. ‘Oh My God!’ She beckoned the camera guy. ‘You have got to get shots of him. How terribly Pirates of the Caribbean ! Polly, I must have you over by the pirate. What is his name? Did you get him from a film props company? Of course, he’s magnificent. We must have you here, with your imaginary boyfriend. You could gaze at him, looking all wistful and lovelorn. This is sooo mental.’
Polly had no intention being filmed as if she was some saddo with no boyfriend of her own other than one made of fibre glass! ‘I’d rather not,’ she said, with an I-mean-it fixed smile. She knew from Anna how films got edited and cut to suit the producer’s overall theme – or to get revenge on someone who’d been rude – so she tried again.
‘I’d just rather not, if it’s all right with you.’ She gave Vanessa her sweetest smile, as she had no intention of being cast as Jilly-No-Mates as some form of spiteful revenge.
But Vanessa was now peering at her face. ‘Oh, no no no. This won’t do… Do you have any face powder? Only you do have rather a shiny face, don’t you? A tad too red as well. All that ginger hair. Have you thought of dying it brown? Now, I might well have some here in my bag if we’re lucky,’ rummaging around. She looked up. ‘Your gorgeous daughter around, is she?’
‘No, she’s in bed,’ said Polly, inwardly seething at the ginger insult. She almost wished she’d gone on that Ginger Pride march she’d heard about in Edinburgh, imagining herself and little Rowan carrying banners stating: “Rather Red than Dead” and “Gingers Forever!”
‘Well, never mind,’ Vanessa was saying, as she fluffed a powder puff over Polly’s forehead and nose. ‘Try this lipstick… It still would have been nice to get some footage of your little girl. She’s so photogenic, isn’t she? Have you ever thought of modelling work? For her, that is, only they’re always crying out for little blonde girls. Now, you just sit here while we set up the lights.’ Snapping fingers. ‘C’mon, Simon, we haven’t got all night.’ Polly was not going to get her daughter into the world of modelling. No way. Vanessa dabbed and swept at Polly’s face with bronzer. Dab dab, sweep sweep. ‘Lip gloss? No? Oh here, try this.’
Polly took the proffered mirror and lip gloss, and began to apply. The sooner she got on with it, the sooner Vanessa and her crew would be out of her hair. She caught Simon trying to give her a slow smile. Gosh, he’s not flirting with me, is he? She resolutely turned away, not wanting it to get back to Max that she’d been flirting with yet another camera guy – not that she had been…
‘Maybe have you over here? Sitting at this table?’ Vanessa pointed to Polly’s small computer console in front of the window. ‘If we pull it out here, we can film you on your laptop. Yes, yes, that looks good. Think lonely…’ ( Less of the lonely, thank you very much , thought Polly) ‘…yes, lonely single mum on social networking site. Ooh… or even better, we could get you on one of those internet dating sites right now. In real time. Yeah? And then talk about internet dating on camera.’
‘I haven’t actually done any internet dating,’ Polly said. ‘Haven’t really fancied it…’
‘Of course you have. Everyone has these days. No? You seriously haven’t? Well, you should try it. I know plenty of people who’ve found love that way.’
Polly didn’t much like the direction this was going and wondered if she ought to refuse the whole going on a dating site, but Vanessa was carrying on regardless; clearly unstoppable when in full flow. ‘Great. Internet dating it is then, after we’ve had a wee interview in your comfy chair. Oh yes, that’ll be a great shot. Simon, Simon, shift the pirate so he’s just behind… Oh, he won’t move – well then, shift the chair…’
Vanessa was now full-on bossing about both the sound and camera guy.
‘Shall I make coffee for everyone while you set up?’ said Polly.
‘Yes please,’ said smiley Simon.
‘Hmm? Yes, very well, if you’re quick and don’t smudge your makeup.’
‘Biscuits?’
Simon glanced hopefully at Vanessa.
‘Not for me. But I expect the boys will.’
*
Vanessa had one hand on the table as she leant over Polly’s shoulder. ‘There,’ she was saying. ‘If you google “Hot Dates”…’
‘You are kidding! Hot Dates?’ Could there be a more miserable/desperate-sounding site? she thought.
‘Why on earth would I kid? Look, it’s just for this scene. We want you to come across as a girl of our time. Savvy about social media. You know… tweeting, shopping online, internet dating. A real twenty-first-century girl. Or what was it you said? Oh yes. A true Renaissance Woman.’
‘Ah.’ Polly had consigned to the “Embarrassing” folder in her brain the incident of the speed dating night and her speech to camera afterwards about how she was a Renaissance Woman. Inwardly she groaned.
Simon continued fiddling with a white umbrella and lights as they found the Hot Dates site and logged on.
‘So women – not desperate or sad women – really do shop for men on sites like these?’
‘Of course. Everything’s online these days, Polly. I’m serious when I say you should give it a go, for real.’
‘But I’m already fixed up, remember?’
Vanessa stared intently at the screen as a menu came up. ‘Ah yes, the lovely Max,’ she said, rather distractedly, Polly thought. And then – ‘There’ – Vanessa pointed. ‘Log in your details and you can browse for free.’ She stood up. ‘Tom,’ she called to the sound guy, ‘is her microphone still fine?’
She wandered over to where Tom and Simon were putting in some final techie touches.
Polly was on the page where there were men in her age group and area. They all had thumbnail full-face pictures of themselves, plus a username and tag line. Oh, will you look at this, she thought. Hilarious . She began to scroll through her selection. Oh please , she thought – this one’s in his forties and looking for a girl who’s – what – in her twenties? He should be so lucky… Oh, this one’s pretty damn hot, hmm, might come back to him… Oh dear, this fella-me-lad’s a right sad case. Doesn’t he know it’s not a good idea to strip off your top when you’ve a beer gut the size of Wales! …And just clock that manky grey sofa he’s sitting on… Eugh .
‘Will you look at this one, Vanessa. Vanessa?’ But Vanessa was busy faffing about with her techie boys. Shame Mel’s not here , thought Polly. And why oh why is it that guys think if they say they like extreme sports – cycling, running marathons or climbing mountains– that they’ll get laid? As if. I’ll bet they’re lying, in any case. Oh dear. Reading the start of a profile – “My friends think I’m attractive…” Clearly not, then. Let’s have a look. Yep. Not. Hang on, this next one’s… What?
She peered closer at the screen, almost doing a cartoon double take and cartoon rub of her eyes – but – there he was. No doubt about it. Cute Camera Guy looking for fun – it was Max.
Vanessa chose that particular moment to come over and take a gander at Polly’s laptop screen.
‘Ah,’ she said.
Polly swivelled her chair round to face her. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she said – far too shiftily for Polly’s liking.
*
I shouldn’t ring him, should I? I should wait until we meet up, and then give him a chance to explain. But hang on, why should I wait on tenterhooks until then? No. That’s ridiculous! Look, I know it’s late – what’s the time? Midnight. But. He’s bound to still be up. If he’s not. Tough. I’ve got to know what’s going on. Is he doing internet dating while seeing me? Is that all right or not? Feels like not. Shit. I’ve totally forgotten the rules of dating. Are we exclusive? I’d assumed… Let me think.
Polly set her cup of tea next to her laptop, where she was logged onto Max’s profile page. Yes. That’s him, all right. Wants fun? (Well, we all know what that means, don’t we? Fun? Internet dating speak for meaningless fuck .)
Right, let me think. I suppose we’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks… No wait, five – six if you count the filming bits. Guess those don’t count. Right, five weeks. We’ve not discussed whether we’re seeing anyone else, have we? No. Because I just assumed, didn’t I? Idiot. Obviously I’m not seeing anyone else – anybody can tell that… But he could have more than me on the go, couldn’t he? Well, you’ll never know unless you ask – moron. Oh, hang on… didn’t I say that I ought to have more than one lover? At that bloody speed dating night? But I was pissed! You don’t think he took me at my word, do you? Deep breaths.
She reached her hand towards her mobile, and then stopped.
Look, Polly, there’s nothing wrong with giving him a call and asking him straight out – Hey, Max, is that you on this dating site? Yes, could start there. Or more casual, like. So, I was browsing an internet site… No. No. That sounds like I was trawling for men. Just phone, Poll. It’s far better for Polly to get these things sorted here and now – even though you now appear to be addressing yourself in the third person. Aargh!
Okay. Ringing his number .
Half-asleep voice on the other end of phone. ‘Uh?’
‘Max?’ She launched straight in. ‘What are you doing on an internet dating site?’ Oh, well done. Very cool way to start , she told herself sarcastically.
‘Polly? Is that you? Hang on a minute.’ There followed some muffling and crackling as if he’d placed his hand over the receiver – then – ‘Sorry, hang on – Ben wants me. Don’t go away, I’ll be right back.’
Polly thought she could hear giggling in the background.
‘Are you on your own?’ she asked
‘Hmm? Get off, Ben. Yeah, of course I am – apart from Ben, that is. Just a sec.’
As she waited, she wondered whether he might be playing for time. Whether he might, after all, be standing there, hand over the end of his receiver as he worked out what to say next. You had to admit that this delay was rather convenient for him. She began to wish she’d suggested they meet face to face so that she could see his response when she challenged him. She shook her head. C’mon, since when did you become so suspicious? Just wait and hear what the man’s got to say . In the end, it sounded very plausible.
‘…so you see, although I’ve left the site, Polly – like, weeks before I met you – they don’t actually take your name and profile off straight away.’
*
‘What? And you believed him?’ Polly had rung Mel straight after. ‘By the way – what time is it?’ She was whispering, so Polly guessed she must be in bed with Fen.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘Never mind that. I’ll just take the phone into the other room…’
Polly waited.
‘Right, fire ahead.’
She gave her all the details, including Vanessa witnessing her embarrassment.
‘So, what d’you think, Mel? Should I stick to my old motto?’
‘You have an old motto?’
‘Yes I do – it’s: give them the benefit of the doubt and then if they lie to you, that’s it. Never ever trust them ever again.’
‘Ah, that motto. It’s a rather long motto.’
‘It’s the best I can come up with.’
‘Polly?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Haven’t you learnt yet? They always lie.’
‘Cynic.’
‘Now fuck off before we both wake Fen.’
*
Polly was having a terrible dream. She was on board a galleon – no, a pirate ship – up on the top deck with Max, who was old and wizened and togged up like Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Spratt’s grandfather – and looking even older than Keith Richards. He had her firm in his grasp as she struggled to get free. Overhead, the ship’s sails hung lifeless – there not being a breath of wind to fill them. For they were stuck in the doldrums, mid-Atlantic. Short of water, and the men starving. Pirate Max stood alongside the ship’s wheel as he grappled with a bustled-and-gowned-up Polly, who twisted and turned in his grip, much like a muscled eel trying to escape an angler, so desperate was she to stop what was happening on the deck below, where a motley crew of bedraggled pirates were driving pure white horses over the side of the ship into the sea below. The horses plunged, screaming as they fell, whinnying as they thrashed about in the water, nostrils widely flaring as they swam round and around in circles, frantically seeking a shore to head for. But there was none. As they tired of striving to keep their heads above the water, Polly sobbed. One by one, they went under – the sea shimmering like beaten pewter in the harsh glare of the sun.
‘Noooo!’ screamed Polly as a mare – being manhandled to the side of the ship – reared up, kicking out at the men who grappled with her foal – a little blonde baby horse with big round eyes. The pirates pushed, shoved and beat the mother until she jumped – like a champion show-jumper – over the side. Then they lifted the stiffly long-legged youngster – eyes wild with fright – and flung her out and into the briny too.
Polly woke in a sweat, the faint echoes of whinnies and cries in her ears. Her dream had shaken her. She loved horses. She struggled into wakefulness, her chest feeling as if it was going to burst with suppressed sobs. God, fancy dreaming of that . It was at school when she’d first heard of the sad plight of horses that were chucked overboard mid-Atlantic. Back in the days of tall ships, it was common in that area of the ocean – now known as the Bermuda Triangle and which traversed the Sargasso Sea – for ships stuck in the doldrums to employ this practice to lighten their load. So common that it was called the Horse Latitudes. They’d covered it during history – when they got to the Tudors, Francis Drake and Spanish galleons. Her history teacher thought they ought to hear of real-life tragedies. Polly supposed it would these days feature in Horrible Histories and be no big deal. But girls were softer back then. By the end of the lesson, many of the girls – especially the pony-mad ones – were in tears.
What on earth is the time?
She reached for her box of tissues and checked her alarm clock. 3.20 am. What a horrible dream! Blowing her nose, she sighed a deep sigh and snuggled back down underneath her covers, hoping she’d soon get back to sleep. It was then that she heard a noise.
Christ. Is that someone moving about downstairs? She held her breath. Don’t be daft .
But there it was again. Slipping out of bed, she pushed her feet into her sheepskin slippers and pulled her red silk kimono over Bridget-Jones-style pyjamas. Taking care not to make a sound, she reached around the corner of her bedroom door to turn on the landing light. If the noise was burglars, then a sudden switching on of a light might well be enough to scare them off. She waited. Half expecting to hear a rumpus below as one – possibly two – thieves made good their escape. But no. Nothing. Creeping along the landing to the top of the stairs, she flicked the switch that turned on the downstairs light. Again, she waited for any robbers to leg it. Nothing. Wait, what was that? Was that a rustling sound coming from the kitchen? She couldn’t be sure. Could just be her imagination.
She leant over the banisters to peer down into the hallway. All clear. Unless of course a burglar was waiting – with bated breath – for her to give up before he made good his escape. (Or he could be waiting until the coast was clear and she padded back to bed, so he could then climb the stairs and murder both Polly and Rowan in their sleep…)
Oh great. Why not think of the worst-case scenario?
She began to feel a little sick as – tiptoeing down the stairs – she couldn’t help but think of all those television murder mysteries ( not so cosy now, eh? )… or of those dreadful horror movies where you want to shout Don’t go downstairs! Lock yourself in your bedroom! Call the police, you moron! Oh no, she’s going downstairs!
Polly strengthened her resolve with good old British reserve and embarrassment. After all, she didn’t want to make a fuss, call the police and say I think there’s a burglar in my house if it turned out to be nothing. Nope, she knew it was daftness in the extreme, but she’d rather risk being murdered than be laughed at by some copper on her doorstep.
She made her way on tiptoe to just outside the kitchen, counted to three, then flicked on the kitchen light and dashed at full pelt – like some FBI agent with a gun. Stopping in the middle of the kitchen floor, she registered that the balcony door was swinging open on its hinges.
‘Fuck me!’ a voice said behind her.
She spun round, catching Mel – slice of pizza in hand – in the act of raiding the fridge.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Polly.
‘Why have you got a pretend gun in your hand?’ said Mel, pointing her pizza slice at Polly.
Lowering her pretend weapon, Polly replied, ‘Well? What’s going on?’
‘I’ve left Fen,’ said Mel, smiling rather sheepishly at her friend.
‘Any particular reason?’ said Polly.
‘Yeah, she told me I had to choose between her and you!’
Polly and Mel sat in Polly’s sitting room sipping mugs of hot chocolate and munching biscuits.
‘Better?’ said Polly.
‘Yes, I think so.’ Mel blew her nose on a tissue so loudly that Polly half expected an elephant to trumpet back in response. She didn’t think she’d seen her friend so upset before – well, not since they were kids and her next-door neighbour’s Alsatian dog had mistaken Mel’s tortoise for a large and extra crunchy meat pie.
‘So what now?’ said Polly.
Mel had already told her, through sobs and hugs, that this was definitely It. ‘I know it’s silly, Poll, and that we’ve told each other everything in the past, but there’s a lot I’ve been keeping to myself lately. I’m so sorry. I guess I wanted to please Fen. She didn’t want me to discuss what she called “our private stuff” with you. And then I was embarrassed…’
She went on to say how Fen was too intense, wanting to know where Mel was day and night. ‘Honestly, Poll, being in possession of a mobile phone was like being electronically tagged by Fen. I honestly think she would have got one of those tracking devices if she thought she could get away with it.’
‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea,’ Polly said, outraged for her friend. ‘And as for saying you have to choose between her and me – that’s ridiculous. The sort of jealous controlling thing some bloke might do.’
Polly knew that Spike would never ever have made her choose – as for Max… he’d probably want a threesome. She dragged her attention back to her friend.
‘I dunno,’ Mel said, as she ran her hands through her short hair. ‘Oh, I know you’re right. It’s true. I might just as well be going out with a man! I’ve been so naive. I thought one of the perks of turning lesbian would mean that we’d support each other – you know, women together. Not have all this possessiveness. She even reads my text messages…’
‘Oh babe. And she really wanted you to stop seeing me?’
Mel looked Polly square in the eye. ‘Yes. She did. And you know, don’t you, that I’d never agree to that. We swore, didn’t we? That we’d never let a man come between us.’ She gave her friend a shrug. ‘Guess we need to include women in that oath now, too.’
Polly smiled at her friend. ‘Should I get out my penknife, so that we can swear another oath as blood sisters?’ Mel smiled back at her, the two of them remembering how – in that long hot summer before they started at “big” school – they’d been out playing with Mel’s brother’s penknife and made the decision to become blood sisters. Like native American Indians in one of those cowboy films. They’d taken it in turns to nick their thumbs with the knife – just enough to draw a little blood – and then held their thumbs together so that their blood mingled (smudged, more like). And they’d sworn a most solemn child’s oath to be friends forever and ever.
‘I’ve missed not having you around so much,’ said Polly.
‘I know.’ Mel laid her head on Polly’s shoulder as Polly drew her towards her, thinking of how Mel had remained the one constant in her life: through all the troubles with her mother, through all her rebelliousness towards her father and stepmother, and through her pregnancy and Rowan’s birth. No wonder Polly had been feeling all at sea without her.
Mel sat up and took both of Polly’s hands in her own. ‘There’s something I’ve not told you yet. Promise you won’t hate me.’
Polly knew before she said a word just what she was going to say.
‘I asked Spike to be my sperm donor. Sorry.’
Sigh. ‘When?’
‘At Daisy’s party.’ She hung her head. ‘After you left.’
The next morning, Mel was looking very sheepish over breakfast. ‘Sorry about the drama last night,’ she said, sipping a glass of Alka-Seltzer and wincing at its fizzy noisiness.
‘That’s what friends are for,’ said Polly, as she wiped Rowan’s face with a flannel and cleared away her bowl of Cheerios. ‘So, are you going to stay here for a while? Spare room – or should I say, your room – is always ready and waiting for you. You know that.’
There was no reply for a moment, then Mel lifted her head and looked briefly at Polly before looking away again. ‘Fen called this morning. We’ve made up, and I’m going back.’
‘You can’t!’ Polly said, before she could stop herself, sounding harsher than she meant to. She took a seat back at the table. ‘What I mean is, are you sure this is the woman you want to have a baby with? She sounds very controlling to me. Jealous, and with a temper too.’
‘But I love her,’ said Mel, so quietly that Polly wasn’t sure at first that this was what she said. She lifted Rowan out of her child seat and let her run out of the kitchen to play at dismembering her latest Barbie doll.
Polly took Mel’s hand in her own. ‘Sometimes love is not enough, Mel,’ she said.
Mel stood up and drew herself up to her full five foot eight. ‘It’s enough for me. I love her, and even though she can be a right bitch when she wants to be – she’s my right bitch.’ She gave Polly a rather feeble smile. ‘I’ll get out of your hair,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly. Stay. You don’t have to shoot off. Whatever you decide to do is fine by me. Honest.’