Polly (28 page)

‘You hug good,' said Jen with gratitude.

‘Just add it to my aforementioned qualifications,' Max smiled.

Max walked back up Haverstock Hill pleasantly baffled.

Odd. Very odd. It's been ages since I felt another woman's body. I mean, I embrace my female friends, but I suppose I do so without actually feeling them, an easily executed gesture that I don't really think about. My hands and arms don't really log any interesting information. But Jen, she made my cock stir, damn and praise her. I didn't get hard – more of what I term a lob-on. When I made to go – but when she invited me to hold her a little longer – that's when. I wonder if she could tell. Why do I half hope that she could?

It felt different, a change. She's tall, she's slim and athletic. I mean, Polly's slim but in a soft way – hers is a body you want to scoop up, cradle. Jen? Lithe and sexy and she's, I don't know, I haven't really thought of her – certainly not in a compare and contrast with Polly. I won't dwell on it, though. It was just a hug, wasn't it? An Americanized platonic gesture. Any more would be dangerous, wouldn't it? I don't want any more anyway, do I? I don't really want to think about it any more. It could be dangerous. I shouldn't.

However, when the doormat was still letterless two mornings later, the answering machine silent, Max decided that now he too could do with a hug.

I don't know what time Polly arrives home the day after tomorrow because she has not contacted me to tell me. Polly has not been in touch for almost a month. I wonder. I do not want to wonder why. I want a hug and not a cuddle and I do not want to wonder why.

‘Jen?'

Shit, I should hang up.

‘Max, hi there.'

‘How's the heating?'

That's good, keep it nice and neutral.

‘Feeling hot.'

‘Great. Um. I just.'

Come on, fool.

‘You want to come for a bite to eat?'

Oh.

‘Love to. When? Tonight?'

‘Well, you ain't got much choice – I fly tomorrow afternoon. I'll see you at seven, hey?'

Oh.

‘You will.'

Oh.

‘Megan's coming over tonight,' said Dominic, warily regarding his brother who was staring hard at a totally uninspiring corner of their sitting-room.

Where's he gone?

‘Oh yes?' Max mustered.

‘Do you want to stay in and play the gooseberry from hell who ultimately meets an untimely and hideous death?' Dominic asked. ‘Or will you play golden boy and bog off, thus earning an extravagant position in my will and my favour?'

‘I'm going out,' Max said distractedly and left the room before his brother had a chance to ask where, when and with whom.

‘Change of plan,' Dominic called outside the bathroom door half an hour later, ‘I'm going round to Megan's. You
have
been invited, I might add; cordially by her, begrudgingly by me.'

Or are you still going out, dark horse?

‘I'm going out,' filtered Max's reply through the door before the noise of the power-shower made further communication impossible.

‘Have fun, bro,' said Dominic quietly as he closed the front door.

Have a good time.

As Max was unzipping Jen's little black dress, he did wonder what on earth he was doing, what in God's name he was about to do and how the hell did he get to this stage anyway.

Not that this is hell.

Jen
had
welcomed him with a fine hug and a lingering kiss to each cheek which just grazed the corners of his mouth; she
had
toyed suggestively with an asparagus spear during dinner and then spoon-fed him the remainder of her Häagen Dazs once he had finished his own portion. She
had
touched his arm, his shoulder, at regular intervals to add unnecessary emphasis to their conversation.

As Max slipped his hand inside the back of her dress, stroked up her spine, over her shoulder, he wondered if he
had
, in any way, given her a come-on let alone the go-ahead?

But there again, Max
did
make a clearly nonchalant shrug in answer to Jen's enquiry of Polly's arrival times. He
did
touch Jen's arm twice, her knee once, during the meal, and didn't he allow his body to brush by hers as they did the washing up? Although it was utterly out of context, he
did
reiterate the fact that Polly's correspondence was sporadic and perfunctory and he
had
brushed away Jen's ensuing sympathy in a most blasé fashion. Most telling, though, he had allowed himself to be kissed and he willingly kissed back – without any hastily drawn justification regarding the clever prevention of decaffeinated coffee. Now, deftly, he was unhooking this woman's bra, grazing the side of her neck with his mouth, pushing the dress away and cupping her breasts, her bra hanging loosely over his hands. The pine table ceased to be Polly's as he and Jen gravitated towards it whilst they stripped each other of their clothing. And Polly ceased to exist when Max kissed his way down Jen's torso, spread her legs and licked at her sex.

Because they were not in love with each other, they took their pleasure greedily. They didn't bother with gentle kisses and hair stroking, meaningful looks and soothing caresses. They had one shared purpose: to feel good about themselves and to reassert their worth. Max's virility was redefined and Jen's desirability reconfirmed.

‘Chip must be mad,' Max panted, thrusting up inside Jen and pushing himself up on to his arms so he could peruse her fabulous figure.

‘Polly should take care not to lose you,' Jen marvelled as she ran her index finger up the length of Max's cock, pouted her lips and sucked him straight into her mouth.

‘Bite me,' Jen gasped, grabbing Max's buttocks and humping her groin; her sex sucking up his cock. Max bit her lower lip and neck and chewed on her nipples until she winced and begged him not to stop. They concentrated hard and at length on the sight of Max penetrating Jen.

‘That's some cock,' Jen praised as Max drew it out and then plunged back into her.

Dream on, Chip.

‘God, you've got great tits,' said Max as he rubbed the palm of his hands over her nipples and gorged himself on the sight and commendable size of them.

Bad luck, Polly.

Max and Jen regularly reached the point of orgasm but instinctively backed off. They were in no hurry. This was a night to remember. They interspersed penetrative sex with bouts of oral and aural sex. No woman had ever said ‘Fuck me' to Max and the very sound of the words turned him on greatly. He was rough and assertive because she was begging for it. Jen was exhilarated to actually see a man being so actively turned on by her; Max's eyes were everywhere and the more he feasted on the sight of her, the harder he screwed her.

Look what I'm doing.

Yeah, look what I'm doing.

With their bodies wet with sweat, with saliva and with their juices, they peeled apart and caught their breath. Max sat on the farmhouse chair and Jen squatted over him, his hands just under her breasts as he levered her up and down. She sat right on him and let her body flow back while Max's arms supported her. His cock shouldn't be able to bend in such an extreme way but, obviously, it could and it felt awesome. Jen wriggled up a little so that his cock sprang free and practically hit against his stomach. She sucked him again in two long movements and then she turned away from him, holding on tight to the table, her rump facing Max invitingly. He took her from behind and made her yell. He grabbed her hair and twisted her head, eating at her mouth while he bore down on her. Max held on to her waist and propelled himself into her, alternately slowing and then quickening the pace of his thrusts in response to her moaning. As they came, they regarded each other in the mirror on the wall to the right of them. They smiled triumphantly, at themselves, at each other.

Boy, you sure give Chip a run for his money.

Christ that was good.

Silently, they congratulated each other and themselves. Later, they slept without their bodies touching and dreamed independently of each other.

P
olly ran, an apple in one hand, her keys in the other. She was aware, when she bolted through the sitting-room, that Jen was nowhere and that Max stood with his back to the sofa, his head to one side, looking out at the patio. In his boxer shorts.

Good, he can't see me.

She grabbed her jacket and flew from her flat. Dashed along the communal hallway and blasted out into the street. She charged along, turned a corner and was sick.

Good, he didn't see me.

She rested against a lamppost and regarded the apple. She smelt it. Granny Smith.

I don't even have a Granny.

She hurled it in a strong, low shot. It bounced once, skittled along the tarmac and than came to rest. She jogged over to it, took it carefully in her hands as if it was a road-kill bird and she wept for it.

Look what I have the ability to do.

Funereally, she returned to the pavement and gently laid the apple to rest in somebody's front garden. She stood, in stillness and in silence, for a moment but found no peace. Her body needed to move as fast as her mind, to race alongside her heart. On she hurtled. To Swiss Cottage. All the way, in the gutter.

She ran on. By the time she reached Megan's street, Polly's breathing sounded like the asthmatic rasping of her childhood. She could barely see from the sweat which filmed over her eyes.

Megan's door.

It opened and Dominic appeared, stretching his arms above his head before closing the door.

Max's brother.

‘Polly?'

She couldn't speak but hung on to him not for comfort but from necessity. Suddenly she felt very dizzy. She slid her grasp down his arms and crumpled her body to the pavement. He sat on his heels beside her.

‘Polly?'

Gently, he pushed her head between her knees and kept a hand to the back of her drenched head. The heaving of her body eventually lessened. Dominic inched her backwards until she sat with her back to Megan's garden wall. Her head was still between her knees but Dominic's hand was gone. The breeze of a late March morning licked at her neck and she began to cool.

‘Polly?'

‘I'm early,' she said.

‘Early?'

‘I saw Jen,' she said.

‘Jen?'

‘And Max,' she said.

‘
Max?
'

‘In my flat, together,' she said.

‘To-
geth
-er?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you deserve this?' Dominic asks, holding her face roughly.

‘Yes,' Polly replies, without flinching, before looking away.

Five minutes later, Polly rang Megan's bell.

‘Pol!
Ly
?'

With an arm tenderly around Polly's shoulders, Megan guided her through into her flat. She eased Polly's jacket away, prised open her right hand to reveal deep purple scores from the pressure of her finger nails, prised open her left hand to find a sticky brown mush which, after a cautious sniff, turned out to be apple. She took her through to the kitchen and ran the tap, holding Polly's wrists and guiding her hands under the water. Then she dried them and switched on the kettle, her arm back around Polly's shoulders. Megan had seen her face only on opening the door. A glimpse had been enough. Now, she was careful to avoid eye contact for she perceived Polly to be as edgy as a fawn ready to bolt.

Megan wrapped Polly's hands around a mug of heavily sweetened tea and took her through to the sitting-room, to the comfortable settee, to the comfort of her bosom into which Polly cried. And cried and cried. Megan hummed
Oh Danny Boy
but the plaintive tune and Megan's melodious voice replenished Polly's tears so Megan fell silent while wondering what on earth was going on. Eventually, after clearing her nose directly into Megan's T-shirt, Polly took a deep, faltering breath and spoke.

‘That's better,' she said. She turned to Megan and her brow crumpled. ‘I'm early,' she explained. ‘I left a message on my answering machine to say I'd be early. As a surprise. Not the message, but my early arrival.'

Megan nodded.

‘I met Jen,' said Polly. Megan smiled. ‘Max was there,' Polly continued.

‘Not the boiler again?' Megan questioned, ‘it's been playing up quite a lot recently.'

So have I
, thought Polly.

‘He's been round a few times to fix it.'

Chip came a few times and fixed me
, thought Polly, rubbing her left thigh subconsciously.

‘The boiler?' Megan asked again.

‘Not the boiler. Max and Jen were – you know, together.'