Polly (17 page)

‘You'll think back on this,' said Max, gazing with ardour at his zest-speckled chocolate orange terrine, ‘when you're facing yet another muffin at that funny diner you told me about.'

At once, tears filmed Polly's eyes, stinging.

‘Sweetie,' whispered Max, alarmed, reaching for her wrist.

‘I'd almost forgotten that I have to leave tomorrow,' Polly explained in an extremely small voice.

‘Are you not happy?'

‘Not happy?' she gasped, bewildered.

‘
There?
' stressed Max.

Polly smiled bravely but could not answer directly.

Neither Here Nor There – hey, Mr Bryson?

‘It's OK,' she qualified, concentrating on a spoonful of creme brulée. ‘I'm all right.'

‘You'll be fine, Button,' Max said warmly, squeezing her wrist, ‘Easter hols aren't so far away. You'll be back before you know it.'

Will I?

Polly mouthed ‘I know', fighting against her tightening throat to keep her composure and finish her pudding.

It was nearing midnight when they arrived home, but it felt too early, too ominous to go to bed because they both knew that they would make love and then fall asleep, and that when they awoke it would suddenly be tomorrow and time for Polly to go. So, they made strong coffee and thought of things to talk about. They played three rounds of backgammon, they perused old photograph albums, they chose LPs over CDs for nostalgia's sake, and sang along.

‘Not The Doors,' pleaded Polly, having already warned Max away from the Rolling Stones.

‘Dylan?' he suggested. Polly puckered her eyebrows and shook her head.

‘What, then?' Max laughed. ‘Your record collection, though sizeable, is somewhat limited.'

‘Something soft and mellow,' Polly said.

‘So I suppose that's a “no” to – bloody hell, Frankie Goes to Hollywood?' exclaimed Max while Polly shrank on the settee, hiding her eyes in shame.

‘Polly Goes to Vermont,' she then said forlornly, taking her hands from her face and regarding Max with sadness and affection.

‘Relax,' he said.

‘Don't do it?'

‘How about Fleetwood Mac?' Max recommended, on the verge of exasperation, record sleeves fanned on the floor about him. ‘Haven't heard them in ages.'

‘Done,' said Polly.

‘
Rumours
?' Max said.

‘What? What do you mean?'

‘
Rumours
or
Tusk
?'

‘Oh,' said Polly, ‘
Rumours,
yes.'

The old vinyl crackled into life and Stevie Nicks's incomparably husky, corncracked voice provided great ambience for Polly and Max to fold into one another on the settee. Max was in her arms, resting his face against her breasts and it felt good, affirming for both; she kissed the top of his head again and again and tightened her clasp about him.

I love you so much. I know that I do. I don't want to hurt you.

Music filled the room and the lyrics confronted Polly's soul. Was she to make Max cry? To decimate his notion of love?

Shut up Stevie. Please. Don't. It isn't over now. It doesn't have to be.

Doesn't it? Will you be able to pick up the pieces and move forward?

I won't break anything. I promise. I'll be careful, so careful.

‘Well, my own precious Gold Dust Woman,' yawned Max, raising a bleary face from Polly's embrace, ‘I'm shagged – but not too shagged to shag. Bed? Come on, then.'

‘Max,' said Polly, holding on to Max's trouser leg as he rose.

‘What?' he said, stretching and blinking tired eyes.

She looked at him, all of him. ‘Nothing,' she replied, allowing Max to pull her to her feet and lead her to her last night in England.

Polly hardly slept last night. Now, in the early hours of the day when once more she shall leave England, she gazes across at Max who has been coming more clearly into focus as the soft-silver light of dawn filters through the gap between curtains. She takes her finger lightly to his side-burn and follows it down to the start of his earlobe. She places the back of her hand under his nose and feels his warm, rhythmic breathing. She touches his bottom lip very gently but he twitches and gruffles and turns away from her. She lies in the half light and lets hot, oily tears scorch their way out to splash, dangerously loudly, on her pillow. She feels resigned, as if there is an inevitability about which she can now do very little. She doesn't want to go back to America but she doesn't really want to stay in England either. She oughtn't to have anything to do with Chip Jonson but she's looking forward to seeing him again. She loves only Max but knows that she cannot go forward with him just yet.

Didn't Tennessee Williams say something about a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go?

What if it was?

She cuddles up to Max.

‘I love you,' she says with eyes closed and her cheek pressed against his shoulder blades, ‘I. Really. Really. Do.'

‘Loveyoutoo,' Max responds sleepily, patting her thigh, ‘goback sleep.' She stays as she is, wishing she could be locked into the here and now forever. She can see the alarm clock. They have to rise in an hour. They have to leave in three. Her plane departs in six. This time tomorrow she'll still be fast asleep during the first night in her new accommodation, in her new role. When she wakes, she won't have seen Max since yesterday; it will feel ages ago. So far away.

Polly did not scamper and dart as she had the morning of her September departure. Instead, she was methodical about preparing her flat for Jen Carter's return.

‘What's she like?' she asked Max yet again. ‘What does she look like?'

‘Nice,' he shrugged, ‘and nice.'

Carefully, Polly grafted the given image of Jen next to one of Chip.

Out of bounds. Out of order. See? Chip and Jen. Max and me.

‘Anyway,' Max concluded, glancing at Polly's case and then looking away, ‘Jen's paying your rent and being an excellent surrogate to Buster.'

‘And I'm indebted,' said Polly, writing a brief note to the woman and Sellotaping it to the television; the best place, she presumed, for an American to find it.

Hang on – how much TV do I watch in the States? Hardly any – but more than Kate, that's for sure. Lorna doesn't even have one in her room. My students speak more of sports heroes and rock stars.

She removed the note and relocated it near to Buster's food supply in the kitchen.

‘You ready?' asked Max.

‘No,' said Polly, going to him and kissing him on the side of his lips.

‘Shall we go?' he asked.

‘No,' she replied, holding the door open for him and double locking it behind them.

Polly's calmness has been swept away by the rush and clutch of Heathrow. She panics that she is in the wrong queue, that her seat might be too far back, that the in-flight film will be the same as a fortnight ago, that she left the bathroom light on, that no one will meet her at Logan Airport. Max keeps a steadying hand on her shoulder and kisses her forehead at regular intervals. It serves only to tighten the knot in her stomach and harden the lump in her throat, but he is not to know and Polly doesn't tell him. She doesn't want to talk; she doesn't feel like it, she doesn't trust her voice, she doesn't know where to look. She holds on to his hand tightly, dropping contact only once or twice: when she has to go beyond a white line to check in, and at the very doorway of the ladies' toilet.

‘You've a while yet,' says Max when she emerges. ‘They haven't even called the flight. Coffee?'

Polly realizes how tired Max looks.

‘Did you not sleep?' she asks him.

‘Yes?' he answers, puzzled.

But he looks tired. And pale.

And you wonder why?

They don't say very much. Max musters interesting, detached topics for discussion but Polly obviously doesn't feel like answering in any detail, even less so when he tries to engage her to talk about the coming term at Hubbardtons. They end up sitting close and sipping in near silence – if there is such a thing at Heathrow.

‘Do you want to be on your own?' he asks, not looking at her.

‘No!' she jumps, horrified. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Here, silly,' he clarifies, ‘while you wait for your flight.'

‘No, no,' she shakes her head and reaches for his hand. He kisses hers. She kisses his back. ‘Please wait,' she asks.

‘OK,' he says.

The departure board flashes up that the flight has a two-hour delay.

‘Go if you want,' she says, ‘don't feel you have to wait.'

‘Maybe,' Max says, ‘would you mind?' Polly shakes her head and looks away. ‘I've a backlog of work now – you bloody distraction, you!'

‘Go if you want,' she says forlornly.

‘Do you want me to go or something?' Max laughs.

‘No!' Polly exclaims, horrified that she is so easy to read.

‘Airports are unsettling,' Max defines, ‘I don't know, there's a sort of finality – different to seeing someone off from a station or a doorstep.'

‘Taking to the skies?' Polly suggests.

‘Yes,' Max says, ‘flying off into the sunset. Flying away.'

‘Do you want to go?'

‘I'll go, then.'

‘If you want to.'

‘You'll be all right?'

‘I'll be fine.'

‘Have a mooch around Duty Free?'

‘I'll be fine.'

As Max is about to leave, Polly wants to renege her consent but she can't and she doesn't.

‘I'll just go to the loo,' she says, ‘will you wait?'

‘Well, I'm going too – so we'll meet back here then.'

Sitting in the cubicle, Polly weeps sharply. She doesn't want Max to leave, but she knows she's no company for him to want to stay. She splashes cold water on her face, her cheeks burning, her eyes red; she can hardly look at herself but a glance is all that's needed.

What am I doing? What is all this? Where have I gone? Mad, I've gone mad. What can I be thinking? Risk all of this? Madness.

She can't stay in the toilets forever. It's hardly the place to take deep breaths. Consequently, when she emerges and sees Max waiting there, she breaks down.

‘Sorry sorry sorry,' she pleads into his chest.

‘Button, hey,' he soothes, ‘sorry for what?'

‘It's gone so quickly,' she sobs, looking at him briefly, ‘my trip home. I haven't done enough. I haven't been – nice.'

‘Silly,' Max chides lovingly, ‘what are you talking about?'

‘I've been – distant. Tired.'

‘Well,' Max ponders kindly, ‘I haven't taken anything by it.'

But you should have, you should have! You shouldn't have stood for it! You're too good. You're an accessory. I love you so very much – far more than I like myself.

‘Hey, come on now,' he says in a sensible voice, searching for a tissue and blotting her tears with his thumb in the meantime, ‘it kills me to see you like this. Upping sticks to another country is an emotional as well as physical upheaval. You must have just about felt settled over there, when you had to return home and pick up where you left off in September. It can't have been easy for you; I know that, I know you.'

No you don't. Don't let me off the hook! Tell me off. Threaten me.

Polly bit her lip and sniffed, clutching at Max's arms to steady her, to keep him with her.

Please don't go. Please say I don't have to go.

‘Come on, Button mine,' he hugs her hard, ‘no more tears. It makes me so sad – and the image lingers. I need your smile to take away with me, to see me through till Easter.'

Polly looks as if she is about to cry afresh.

‘Go on,' Max nudges her, ‘a tiny one. Go on. Just for a mo'. A millisecond, then.' Max photographs her from every angle with an invisible camera, saying ‘Cor, what a stunner!' in Cockney. Polly can't help but smile and laugh.

‘You OK?' he asks, once his imaginary film has been used twice over.

‘Fine,' Polly affirms, ‘I'm fine.'

‘I'm going to go,' Max nods, scouring her face with concern and love. ‘The sooner I've gone, the sooner it will be that I'm with you again. I think. If you see what I mean.'

Polly smiles in understanding.

‘Oh – kay,' he lingers.

‘'Kay,' says Polly, standing on tip toes to kiss him goodbye.

He has walked away from her. He is walking towards the sign for the car parks. She closes her eyes and opens them again, the split second of detachment serving to allow her to see him afresh: a figure, a man, attractive and masculine, nicely dressed, a lovely walk. He is being stopped by two ladies dressed in saris the shades of the sun. They are asking him something, probably because he looks so approachable and kind, knowledgable; one who might help. He is listening carefully, looking about him, craning his neck, scouring the departure hall. He points for them but they're short women. Polly watches as he takes control of their trolley and leads them through the throng. She loses sight of him and walks towards where he stood. She locates him some way away; the women are thanking him profusely but he is holding his hands up in a don't-mention-it way.

He's so lovely.

He leaves them. He doesn't see Polly. Two small children are charging about, heading in his direction; he weaves and dips to keep out of their way. One collides with his leg and takes a tumble. Max sets the child straight. The child runs off.

He's so special.

Max walks on. Polly is watching all the time. He goes to a news stand and emerges with the
Guardian
and a carton of Ribena. He's looking up at the sign for the car parks. He's walking with conviction. He's gone. Polly can no longer see him.