Polly. Freya North
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everyone. So friendly and welcoming. The school is magnificent and the children are a dream – only I hope I don’t wake up. I just talked shop with Megan so she’ll fill you in, if you like. How’s Buster?’
‘Fine, I presume – I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.’
‘Will you phone The Jen Carter Person and just double-check everything’s OK at the flat?’
‘’Course I will. Can I have your number there? Thanks.’
‘God, you sound so close it’s cruel.’
‘You in your pyjamas, Polly?’
‘No, silly, it’s only six o’clock here. In fact, I’m in a frock because it’s something called Formal Meal tonight.’
‘Which knickers are you wearing?’
‘Hold on a – let me check. The pair with the blue roses.’
‘Divine.’
‘Funny fellow.’
‘I miss you madly, Polly.’
Oh my God, I haven’t actively missed you yet Max, because I haven’t actually had time to. That’s terrible of me.
‘Polly? You there? I was saying how I miss you.’
‘Do you?’ she said sweetly.
‘I do,’ Max confirmed softly, not registering Polly’s pause.
‘Oh dear! Do you know, I haven’t said “I do” to you yet, have I!’
‘No, actually, not in so many words. Do you still have your ring?’
‘Maximilian, would I mislay something as precious as that?’
I must take it from the back pocket of my jeans and put it somewhere safe.
‘You’d better go, Polly. Better not take advantage of your hosts.’
‘’Kay. Will you phone soon? Will you phone on Saturday?’
‘Absolutely. Night night.’
‘Night.’
Polly walked slowly to her room. She went to her jeans and slipped her hand into the back pockets. And then those at the front. She fell to her knees and walked a methodical circle with her hands around the chair over which her jeans lay. She looked under the bed. And in the bin. And in the pockets of her other jeans. And in her jacket pocket. She looked behind the bedside table. She went to the bathroom and searched through her toilet bag. She went back to the bedroom, bit her nails and her lip and muffled a strangled yelp by hurling herself on to the bed. Burying her face into the pillows she sobbed. She bit, she hit them. She cursed herself. She stabbed at the bed with her fist. She cursed Great Aunt Clara. She swore profusely. She all but wore herself out. Finally, she sat cross-legged on the bed, snorting through a heavy nose and rubbing hard at itching eyes.
I can’t have lost it!
It seems you have.
I haven’t even said yes, yet, I haven’t said ‘I do’.
It seems you haven’t.
Max, who’s been at the centre of my world, is offering me lifelong security, he’s going to provide me with my own family at last. And I haven’t even bloody accepted his offer. I can’t tell anyone I’m engaged unless I’ve formally agreed to be. I can’t tell people unless I have a ring to show them. As proof. And I can’t tell Max that I’ll marry him if I have to tell him that I’ve lost his ring.
You haven’t even told Megan yet, either, have you? Wonder why. No time to think on it now. Wash your face and make haste for Formal Meal.
‘Jennifer Carter speaking.’
‘Oh, um, hullo, er, my name’s Max Fyfield – I’m, er, Polly’s—’
‘Sure! Max, hi there, nice to speak to you.’
‘I just thought I’d give you a bell to see if you’ve settled in OK? All all right with the flat?’
‘Everything’s cool here, thanks. Your Polly’s left me these little notes every place. Feel like I know her.’
‘And Buster? He’s OK? Not terrorizing you? Just roar at him if he is – and ignore him if he replies.’
‘Buster’s adorable. He’s on my lap right now.’
‘Ah, super. Polly will be pleased. Have you met Megan Reilly yet?’
‘Sure, she’s shown me round the school and has been real sweet.’
God, how Megan’ll cringe if she ever hears such terminology!
‘Great, great. And how was school? Those girls can be a handful. An excess of intelligence and money, I fear.’
‘I think,’ said Jen, ‘that we have arrived at an understanding.’
‘Good, good,’ stumbled Max, ‘well, I just phoned to see that everything’s tickety boo.’
‘What’s that? Tickety boo? Ha!’
‘Yes, ha! I’m glad you seem to have settled. Do call if you need anything.’
‘Sure. Many thanks, Max.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye now.’
Jen heaved Buster so that he stood on his hind legs on her lap.
‘All I need,’ she told him, ‘to make my picture perfect, is one Chip Jonson.’
SIX
If it had been Megan Reilly, and not Polly Fenton, who was at Hubbardtons, she would have swiftly traded ten Tom Cruises, and gladly forfeited the hope of Dominic Fyfield, for even a chance with Chip Jonson. But for Megan, who is in London, in the staff room, listening to Jen drone on about how wonderful her boyfriend Chip is, the man is merely a name. And a seemingly daft one at that.
Polly has not yet met him, for if an athletic trainer rarely has reason to venture from the gym complex, seldom does he need to cross right over the playing fields to the main school buildings. And four days into her stay, Polly would be unable to locate the gym or the drama building and has no need, as yet, to visit either. She has now met her junior and senior students and has begun to weave her infectious love of literature and language deep into the fabric of her classes. She’s had no need to holler for Jackson Thomas, much to his chagrin. He hopes to grab her off duty, off her guard (just grab her, really), at the House Raising this coming Sunday. They’ll be building a house for Jojo Baxter, who teaches journalism and hockey. Everyone’s invited. Polly’s been invited. She’s looking forward to it very much.
‘They’ll build a whole house? In a day?’ she said to Kate, incredulous.
‘Yup,’ Kate confirmed as if there was nothing untoward about the concept at all, ‘I’m down to bake pies. You want to help?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Polly, ‘I could make a bakewell tart.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Kate replied ingenuously.
It was the first occasion, since the journey from Boston, that Kate and Polly were alone for any length of time. Formal Meal, the faculty meeting and Kate’s involvement with the local flamenco club had occupied them and kept them apart. Yet a quick, wide wave from Polly across the quadrangle; a brief exchange over the salad bar at lunch; a note from Kate, magnetized to the fridge by Mickey Mouse, offering Polly unrestricted access to her bicycle, saw a burgeoning fondness develop between the two. Now, they’re making pie. Apple. Cherry. Blueberry. No bakewell. Baked beautifully.
This is Vermont, not