off-duty teachers and students to eat hot dogs while watching the senior boys in a football match. She had no idea what these extravagantly padded, already beefy boys were doing, but there seemed to be more rucks than rugger and much less fancy footwork than footie. The buttocks, however, were incomparably pert and neat and made the game a pleasure to watch. Even more so, once Kate had explained the rules in under a minute, with ketchup on her chin. Soon, Polly was cheering with the best of them, much to Jackson’s delight.
‘So she can holler,’ he mused through the side of his mouth and to no one, ‘and boy, can she holler.’
Polly returned to Kate’s alone, forgoing the post-match refreshments and post mortem so she could guard the phone and leap on it as soon as it rang.
I’m going to say yes, you see. I’m going to accept his proposal. Then I can finally tell everyone.
The house, however, remained silent until Kate, Charle(s) and Bogey returned an hour later. Kate scanned Polly’s face hopefully, so Polly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with hastily employed nonchalance, offering to make tea for the troops. The phone rang as soon as she left it; she tried not to jump on it but failed. It was Clinton for Kate. Polly tried not to register her disappointment. She failed.
It’s half past bloody six. That’s half eleven over there. Where is he?
After Polly had poured cranberry juice instead of milk into the tea, Kate suggested, very kindly, why didn’t she make the call and beat him to it?
‘Ain’t nothing like making a man good and guilty,’ she drawled like Mae West. ‘They usually repent extravagantly! Go on, I’m going to take a shower.’
It was seven o’clock. The Blues Brothers evening at Finnigan’s started in half an hour. It was midnight in Britain.
Actually, one minute past. It’s tomorrow. And Max said he’d phone me yesterday.
A strange voice, male and Scottish, answered the phone in England. Polly presumed she had misdialled so she hung up and rang again, staring at the number pad and speaking them out loud as she dialled. The same voice.
God, I hope everything’s OK.
‘Er, hullo, is Max there? Max Fyfield.’ There was interference on the line. She tapped the receiver against her hand. It wasn’t interference, it was background noise. Music, muffled. Voices, many.
‘Hullo?’ said the Scotsman.
‘Max Fyfield?’ stressed Polly, trying not to shout. It sounded like the receiver was dropped. ‘Hullo?’ she said. ‘Hullo? Max?’
Click.
The line was dead.
She dialled again, distressed and a little angry. Who was that man? How dare he!
‘Hullo?’
‘Thank God,’ said Polly, eyes to the heavens, ‘Dom, it’s me. Max there?’
‘Hullo? Oh Polly! Hi! Hold on. Max! Hold on,’ said Dom, disappearing with an unpromising clatter to locate his brother.
‘Polly?’
‘Max – hullo, I was er. You said you’d –’
Suddenly she wanted to cry.
Don’t be so silly.
Why do you want to cry?
I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. I feel frightened. It all feels too fragile.
‘Sorry,’ Max rushed. ‘Oh God, so sorry. I, er, well actually I forgot. Hey you – get the Osmonds off the turntable! And Slade. Kool and the Gang can stay. Polly? There you are – I was going to call you earlier but Dominic had me running errands and opening wine. Dom! Dom! The chilli – the coffee table. God that was close.’
‘Max,’ Polly asked, trying to control the shake in her voice, ‘what’s happening? What’s going on?’
I feel lonely. I’m frightened.
What of?
‘Dom has a few friends round,’ Max explained lightly.
Precisely.
‘Anyone I know?’
What’s wrong with that? Why do I feel shaky?
‘Er, don’t think so.’
‘Meg?’
I can hear a woman laughing. He’s just covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Why? Why’s he done that?
‘Meg?’ Polly repeated, staring around Kate’s kitchen, the people on the fridge; realizing that she was, essentially, amongst strangers. Alone.
I’m alone. Over here. Over there. I just delude myself that I’m allowed into people’s spheres, that they’ll make me part of their world, their family.
‘Megan was here earlier but she had to leave as she was meeting Jen Carter for a drink.’
I’ve been replaced. Oh, most wicked haste.
‘Max – why didn’t you phone me?’ Polly consciously let slip into baby voice. ‘Like you promised?’
‘I’m sorry Button,’ he said, his voice distant (he sounds distant), ‘I forgot. I was busy.’
No!
Yes – anyway, Polly, who is it who’s been too preoccupied even to think of him much, let alone miss him at all? Were you expecting life in London to be frozen in time until your return?
‘Polly?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice, ‘I’m still here.’
‘I’d better go now, this isn’t the best time for a chat, is it? There’s chilli on the carpet and Dominic’s off his face. God, he’s out on the balcony. Doing opera. I must go – I’ll call you soon, promise. ’Kay?’
‘’Kay.’
What else could she say?
‘Love you,’ Max cooed.
Don’t say that.
‘’Kay,’ she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. She replaced the handset and stared blankly at the fridge of smiles.
‘You OK?’ asked Kate, understanding now the provenance of Polly’s deepening eye colour.
‘Yup,’ said Polly, a little more croakily than she would have liked, ‘absolutely fine.’
Kate
