A Talent for Loving

by Celia Scott

  What she couldn't figure out was what on earth this kind of tramp was doing on the grounds of Dexter Grant's rented house? Maybe he had made some sort of delivery. But in that case what was he doing using the main driveway? Surely a mansion as luxurious as this had a tradesmen's entrance?

  'I wasn't mooning,' she said. 'I was just… observing.

  And if it comes to that…' she blinked up at him triumphantly from beneath her heavy fringe, 'if it comes to that, what were you doing using the front driveway?

  How do you explain that?'

  He stared at her, mystified. 'Have you lost your marbles?' he said. 'Did you hit your head when you fell? Why in heck shouldn't I use the drive?'

  Before she could tell him to get down off his high horse and stop being so righteously indignant, they were interrupted.

  'What the hell's going on, Flint?' said an unmistakable male voice.

  Polly's heart did a flip-flop. She had heard that voice a hundred times before, drawling lazily in countless love scenes, making his fans' hearts melt, just as Polly's was melting now. Dexter Grant! There he was, standing at the entrance to the pool. He was wearing a pair of rather startling silver swimming trunks, a towel slung across his tanned shoulders. He was dripping wet and his blond hair was turned to a pewter colour by the water. 'What's going on, Flint?' he repeated, and started to walk carefully over the grass towards them.

  Polly gazed up at him, too mesmerised to utter a word. The magic moment was broken by the redhaired man.

  'It's okay, Dex. This…' he cast a scathing look at the recumbent girl, 'this chick cycled herself into my car. It's not serious.'

  Polly's theory about deliverymen and driveways crumbled like dust, for no deliveryman would use Dexter Grant's first name with such casual ease.

  'You poor kid!' said the actor, directing the full power of his grey eyes at Polly, who was glad she was not on her feet as she was sure she would have fainted with pleasure. 'Are you badly hurt? Should we call an ambulance?'

  'Don't panic,' the man called Flint said, 'there's no need for dramatics. Give me a hand to get her into the house. Her cuts need cleaning, that's all.'

  'My knees hurt,' said Polly, glaring. It was all very well for him to dismiss her grazed legs so arbitrarily. He wasn't the one who had been run down.

  'Hang in there, kiddo!' At least Dexter Grant looked suitably sympathetic. 'Do you think you can walk?'

  'Of course she can walk,' Flint said crisply, 'once we get her on her feet.' He hooked his hands under her armpits and stood upright, dragging her up with him. He had very strong arms, she noticed, and despite his leanness his shoulders were broad and muscular.

  'Now you get on the other side of her, Dex, and help me take her to the downstairs washroom.' He was clearly familiar with the layout of the house.

  Dutifully Dexter looped his naked arm round her waist and the three of them made their way to the back of the house. Polly was delightfully aware of the famous actor's body close to her. But he was shorter than she had imagined. The odious Flint was at least four inches taller. He held her arm in a vice-like grip that made her feel like a criminal being marched off to the cells. She had a brief glimpse of a gleaming stainless steel and teak kitchen before being lugged into a small washroom, where Flint unceremoniously pushed her down on to the lid of the toilet.

  'Let's have a look at those grazes,' he ordered, nodding at her skirt, which, she noticed, was dirty and had a rip in it.

  Feeling extremely self-conscious, she raised the grubby material. Both knees were bleeding, and various scratches marred the silky texture of her thighs. The side of one hand was bleeding too, and she had a nasty bruise on her elbow.

  'You poor sweetie!' said Dexter Grant. 'You sure did hit the dust. How did it happen?'

  'She wasn't looking where she was going… trying to get a glimpse of you. She's a fan,' Flint informed him wryly.

  Polly's normally pink cheeks turned scarlet. She was hideously embarrassed and she cursed this dreadful Flint from the depths of her heart. But Dexter Grant was obviously delighted.

  'Aw, sweetie! That's cute. I like that,' he grinned.

  Flint cut in. 'Trust you! Now, let's cut out the admiration society and get to work cleaning her up!' He made it sound as if they were about to start work on a dirty boat. 'You fetch a basin and some disinfectant while I park my car. It's still blocking the drive.'

  'Will you be okay for a while, sweetie?' Dexter asked her. 'You won't faint if you're left alone?'

  She shook her head, realising that her ribbon must have come off when she fell, for her riotous mane of nutmeg-coloured hair swung over her face.

  'If you do feel faint just put your head between your knees,' said the charmless Flint. 'We shan't be long.' He marched off.

  'Don't go away, sweetie,' Dexter Grant said, with what Polly hoped was uncharacteristic winsomeness.

  'I'll be fine,' she assured his departing bare back. 'I love sitting in strange washrooms!'

  She took stock of her surroundings. There were all the usual fittings, very modern and luxurious. The wash basin was gold-coloured, with an elaborate-looking set of taps. The walls were papered in avocado green, with a glittery free-form design in gold; there was a thick pile avocado carpet on the floor, and lots of fluffy green and gold towels; even the guest soaps in a shallow gold steel dish were in the same shades. This made the single cyclamen, planted in a green pottery container, blaze like a pink flame on the window ledge. The room was like an illustration in Architectural Digest. Trendy, glossy, and a little bit inhuman.

  'Action stations, sweetie!' Dexter Grant, dressed now in a black judo robe with gold satin cuffs and sash, deposited a basin, some cotton-wool and a bottle of iodine on the carpeted floor. 'These emergencies always happen on the staffs night out, don't they?' he observed.

  His hair was now dry and swept off his face in ash-blond waves. He was so handsome Polly couldn't take her eyes off him. She was star-struck, tongue-tied, and she looked a total wreck.

  Flint burst into the small room. He held out her crumpled red-velvet ribbon as if it were the tail of a particularly repellent dead animal. 'This yours?' he asked. Wordlessly she took it from him and stuffed it in her pocket.

  She couldn't help noticing that he had shapely hands, with artistic fingers and well-kept nails, which didn't fit in with his generally scruffy look.

  'I hope you live near here,' he said.

  'I… I don't,' she faltered. 'Why?'

  'Because you won't be able to cycle anywhere. Your front wheel's buckled. It's the subway for you for the next few days.'

  'Oh no!' wailed Polly.

  Dexter smiled at her reassuringly. 'Flint here can drive you home. Where do you live?'

  'Near Eglinton and Yonge,' she told them, then gasped when Flint started to swab her right knee with some wet absorbent cotton.

  'Hold still,' Flint said, 'I don't want to drip on your skirt.' In spite of his general surliness he was unexpectedly gentle. He reached for another piece of cotton wool. 'Why don't you drive her?' he said to the actor, who was leaning negligently against the door.

  'No way, man! Too many lines to learn,' Dexter answered.

  'Too lazy to get dressed you mean,' remarked Flint, giving the black-robed figure a lop-sided grin. He had nice firm lips hidden in that red beard. And nice teeth, uneven, but startlingly white.

  'Lazy!' Dexter spread his hands wide, 'give me a break! I'm making a movie, remember? I'm exhausted, man!'

  'Of course I'm not tired at all,' Flint said bitterly. He looked at Polly and she saw that he did indeed have dark circles, like sooty thumb-prints, beneath his eyes. 'Eglinton's just too far out of my way,' he said, 'I'm afraid I can't drive you home.'

  'We'll put you in a taxi, sweetie,' the actor informed her. 'You won't mind that, will you?'

  'Not at all.' She straightened her shoulders. She hoped she sounded dignified, although it was difficult to be dignified sitting on a toilet-seat lid.

  'Now, this
is going to sting,' said Flint, wielding the iodine bottle. 'Try not to yelp.'

  'I'm not in the habit of yelping,' she said, offended. But when the brown liquid stained her broken skin she had to use every ounce of will power not to cry out.

  'You know something?' Dexter declared, 'I hate the sight of blood. I think I'll go to the study and pour us all a drink. Join me there when you're finished.'

  'No drink for me,' said Flint, dabbing away at her hand now with the cotton-wool. 'If I drink alcohol I'll drop in my tracks.'

  Drop in his tracks, will he? Polly thought, maybe he does have a drinking problem after all. Maybe he's been on a bender and that's why he looks such a mess.

  'What about you, sweetie?' Dexter asked her. 'What will you have?'

  'Some sort of soft drink if she's got any sense,' Flint volunteered. 'Anyway, I doubt she's old enough to drink.'

  'I certainly am old enough!' Polly was livid. Who did this man think he was? Treating her as if she was scarcely out of the cradle! 'I'll have a Scotch and soda please,' she said grandly.

  'Scotch and soda it is!' said Dexter as he departed.

  Polly had never drunk whisky in her life, the occasional glass of wine was the extent of her alcoholic experience. But Scotch and soda sounded sophisticated, and she was damned if she was going to let this Flint character dictate to her.

  She fixed him with a haughty stare. 'I don't have a drinking problem,' she said.

  He looked puzzled. 'I should hope not. Now, a dab of iodine on the hand and we're finished.'

  She held out her hand stoically, but the iodine stung so much that in spite of her discipline her amber-coloured eyes filled with tears.

  He glanced at her face briefly and said gruffly, 'All over now. You should be as right as rain in a couple of days.'

  Courtesy made her say 'Thank you', but she was still burning with resentment at his high-handed attitude.

  'The study's the second door on the left when you go down the hall,' said Flint, gathering up the bowl, cotton wool and iodine. 'I'll leave you to find your own way. Then we must ring for your cab.' He looked at her sternly before loping out of the washroom.

  Stiffly Polly stood up and dared a quick glance in the mirror. She looked worse than she had feared. Her hair was an untidy bird's nest, her face was drawn, and the freckles stood out on her skin. And her dress, which was not flattering at the best of times, was creased and made her look fat. Miserably, she pulled her fingers through her bangs in a futile attempt to smooth them, then, pinching her cheeks hard to give them some colour, she took a deep breath and left on her search for the study.

  She found it without difficulty, and after a tentative knock, poked her head round the door. Dexter was sprawled in an armchair of soft grey leather, looking at a video machine. She looked at it too and was entranced to see his handsome face flickering on the screen; he was playing a highly emotional scene with an equally famous actress. Polly remembered the scene well, she had watched the original programme, and all the re-runs, and she probably knew the lines by now as well as the actors did.

  Dexter leaned across to a silver tray that stood on a chrome and glass table. 'Your drink, sweetie-pie,' he said, indicating a heavy glass, containing a generous portion of Scotch whisky. He put two ice cubes in it and started to pour from a bottle of soda water. 'Say when!'

  'When!' said Polly immediately, not having the faintest idea of the right proportions.

  He handed her the glass and raised his vodka and tonic in a toast, before returning his attention to the screen.

  She took a sip of the whiskey and nearly gagged. She had never tasted anything so awful in her life! Furtively she looked around to see if there was a vase or a plant, where she could stealthily empty away this filthy stuff, but there was nothing of the sort in this elegant, uncluttered room. Dexter turned again in her direction and she forced herself to take a huge swallow. She curled her toes hard, smiled gamely, and managed to keep it down. After the burning sensation had worn off she did feel a pleasant glow steal over her, and she relaxed a little against the scarlet upholstery of the love-seat Dexter had waved her into.

  'I hope you don't mind this, honey?' He indicated the flickering screen. 'It's the way I learn my craft. I watch videos of myself in different roles.'

  'You must have a Ph.D. by now, then!' Flint was at the open door. He pressed a switch and a bank of track lights came on; Polly noticed that it was now dark outside. He leaned against the door-jamb, a mug of black coffee in his hand, and gave another of his lopsided grins. 'Admit it, Dex! You love looking at that handsome mug of yours. The learning is of secondary interest.'

  Breathlessly Polly waited for the great Dexter Grant to cut this impertinent creature down to size, but the actor merely grinned back and said, 'Okay, okay! I admit it. I love my neat profile.'

  Polly leaned towards him, emboldened by another gulp of Scotch. 'It's not just your profile, Mr. Grant,' she said earnestly, 'it's your talent too. I've seen everything you've ever done, and I think you're the greatest actor in the world.' She leaned further and repeated firmly, 'In the entire world!'

  'Behold a lady of intelligence!' Dexter looked very pleased. 'Er… what did you say your name was?'

  'We didn't get around to introductions,' Polly explained, 'I knew who you were right away of course… but I'm Paula Slater… only everyone calls me Polly…'

  'Pretty Polly!' said Dexter. Insincerely, Polly couldn't help thinking. 'Pretty Polly, meet my old pal, Flint McGregor.' He waved at the tall figure in the doorway. 'For Pete's sake sit down, Flint. You look like a cop about to make an arrest. Stop looming!' Formalities over, he resumed, 'Now, Polly, which of my movies have you enjoyed most?'

  Before she had a chance to launch into a minute account of everything he had ever done, she was interrupted by Flint.

  'Before this admiration session gets under way, I phoned for a cab. It should be here in fifteen minutes.' He flung himself into a grey leather chair opposite Polly and glowered at her.

  Not bothering to answer this, Polly turned to Dexter and proceeded to tell him how marvellous she thought his last television series had been.

  Flint stretched out his long legs and concentrated on staying awake. The five hour delay in Tehran on his flight home from India had really added to his jet-lag. The way he figured it, he had now been without sleep for something like thirty hours! If it hadn't been for this wretched star-struck idiot he would have been home in bed by now. But he couldn't leave before he'd seen her safely off the premises. And if she kept on like this, dishing out the flattery, Dex was liable to send the taxi away just to hear more of the same. He was so naive sometimes.

  For all they knew she might deliberately have engineered the accident, just to gain access. She might be planning to sue! But he knew Dex! He was fool enough to keep her here, alone with him, for no other reason than to drink in the adulation. He never seemed to get enough. Never thinking that she might suddenly turn nasty, scream rape or something; cause all kinds of scandal; or try blackmail. And while Dex might be a conceited ass at times, he didn't deserve that. So once more his old pal Flint McGregor would have to look out for him.

  It was lousy timing though. After a gruelling six weeks on an assignment photographing in Nepal, all he had wanted to do was to come in from the airport, pick up his car from Dex's garage, then drive home to his farm in Caledon. He couldn't wait to climb out of his travel-stained clothes and into his bed. He had to get some sleep! He had a wicked schedule ahead of him. He had to develop all his Nepal pictures and write the article to go with them, and he had a deadline to meet for the magazine. Blast that girl! He would never get caught up at this rate.

  He shifted his aching bones in the soft leather chair and squinted over at Polly, who was now rapturously listening while Dexter gave her a blow-by-blow account of the difficulties he was having with his current film.

  Flint found it hard to place this girl! She acted like an entire Dexter Grant fan-club, but he had been aroun
d Dexter since their high-school days, long enough to recognise the type of girl who became a fanatical fan, a hanger-on, and this Polly what's-her-name didn't fit the mould. First of all, she didn't look right. She was downright dowdy. No groupie with an ounce of self-respect would be caught dead in a dress like hers. And while her face was quite pretty, what you could see of it under all that hair, she hadn't even bothered to wear lip-gloss. And this idiot didn't even have a purse, let alone an autograph book. Something just didn't jell!

  To his immense relief the doorbell chimed just then, breaking into Dexter's stream of reminiscences.

  'That'll be the taxi.' Flint unwound his tall figure from the confines of the chair and waited for Polly to stand up too. Time to break up the party.'

  'It's been wonderful meeting you, Mr. Grant,' Polly said 'I'll never forget it.'

  ' "Dexter", sweetie-pie. Don't be so formal' His handsome face smiled up at her.

  'She's going to need some money for the cab,' Flint reminded him, 'do you have any?'

  'Not in my robe, man!' Dexter laughed.

  Sighing, Flint reached into the pocket of his jeans and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. 'Here!' He thrust it at Polly.

  She shook her head. 'That's too much.' The last thing she wanted was to be in Flint's debt.

  'It's the only Canadian money I have.' He pushed the bill into her hand. 'Don't be difficult!'

  'What about my bike?' she asked, suddenly remembering her shattered bicycle.

  'I've left a note for Dexter's house-boy, Wai, he'll phone the cycle repair shop tomorrow. They'll pick it up and fix it for you. It'll be in Dexter's name,' said Flint.

  'Good old Flint! He thinks of everything,' Dexter smiled. 'It's been lovely talking to you Polly. It's people like you who make my work worthwhile.' He rose to his feet to accompany her to the front door. 'Why don't you drop by next Sunday? For tea, maybe,' he suggested, 'and I could show you some more of my videos. We'll get the repair people to deliver your bike back here. You can pick it up then.'

  'Wouldn't it be easier for her to get it from the shop?' Flint said, with a warning look, which Dexter ignored.