by Celia Scott
'Get it, Poll, will you?' her mother called from the bathroom where she was brushing her teeth. 'It's probably the Women's Protest Committee for me.'
Dutifully Polly ran downstairs and picked up the receiver. There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and the Sable's voice came through. Polly was so surprised she nearly forgot to answer when Sable asked for her.
'Is that you, Polly?' the model repeated.
'Yes… Where are you, Sable?' Polly asked breathlessly.
'I'm in London.'
'London, England?'
'Where else? I'm in Dexter's hotel suite, as a matter of fact. We've just come in from a disco. He says "hello",' Sable giggled.
'Oh! Say hello from me,' Polly said, wondering how soon Sable would mention Flint. Because she must be phoning Polly to find out where he was. She probably didn't know that Polly no longer worked for him. A stab of pain shot through her and she steeled herself to tell Sable without sounding upset.
'I'm phoning because Dexter tells me you think Flint and I are having an affair,' Sable went on.
'Polly, who is it?' Marjorie's voice called from upstairs, and, putting her hand over the receiver, Polly answered 'It's for me, Mom!' She turned back to the phone. 'Well—it's none of my business…' she muttered, 'but…'
'Oh, Polly darling!' Sable's laugh floated over the miles. 'Flint and I are just very good friends. He's my best friend, in fact—but it's you he's mad about. Didn't you know?'
Polly clung to the telephone table for support. 'Wh— what?' she croaked.
'He's in love with you! Has been for ages. And now Dexter tells me you feel the same way about him.'
Polly's heart started to beat harder, but this time it was from excitement, not from pain. 'Sable, are—are you sure?' she breathed.
'Of course I'm sure. He went on about you—very boring—'
'But why didn't he say something?'
Sable's voice suddenly went hard. 'You were otherwise occupied… or so it seemed to us,' she said.
'Oh, lord!' said Polly. 'What a fool I've been!'
'But you're not, are you, Poll? Otherwise occupied, I mean?' Sable was now speaking so softly Polly had difficulty hearing her.
'With Dexter? No! That was just—I was infatuated for a bit, that's all.'
There was a long sigh at the other end of the line. 'Because I have to know for sure—it's very important to me.'
Astounded, Polly said, 'You mean—you and Dexter! But why did you stay out on the farm all the time?'
'I can't explain now,' Sable whispered, 'Dexter's only in the next room, he'll hear me.'
'But…'
'I've got to hang up now,' said Sable. 'But I wanted to put you straight. I know you didn't plan it that way, but you did me a favour, ditching Dexter like that. His ego's wounded, and I'm here to put him together again. Maybe he'll finally come to his senses and recognise someone who loves him for himself and not because he's famous!'
'Oh, Sable—I'm sorry,' said Polly, remembering Sable's tragic face at the airport, when Dexter had made such a public fuss. 'I had no idea.'
'Forget it! It doesn't matter now. See you,' said Sable, and there was a click at the end of the line. Polly stood for a while listening to the dialling tone before replacing the receiver on its cradle.
'She hugged herself tight in the darkness, whispering, 'He loves me! He loves me!' Because surely it must be true. Sable wouldn't say a thing like that if it wasn't true. She went over that brief— frustratingly brief—conversation again. 'He's in love with you… Has been for ages.' But why then had he begged Sable to stay on at the farm? She would have to wait till she could ask him that question. Oh, she couldn't wait to see Flint! To tell him how she felt and what a stupid mess she'd made of things. And then everything would be all right. Everything would be wonderful! She would explain, and he would take her in his arms…
'Polly! Are you coming to bed or not?' Marjorie stood at the head of the stairs, wrapped in a cotton dressing gown.
Polly unclasped her arms and, coming to the foot of the stairs, smiled into the gloom. 'Not just yet, Mom,' she said. 'I'm going to have a—a glass of wine, and sit in the garden for a bit. It's a lovely night.' She could have added, 'And I couldn't sleep if I did go to bed because my heart's too full of happiness,' but she didn't.
'Well, just don't forget tomorrow's a working day.' Her mother sounded suspicious.
Polly trilled, 'I won't. Good night, darling!' and happily scampered into the kitchen for her wine.
She sat in the little garden for a long time, and it seemed to Polly as if the stars had never shone so brightly, nor had the air caressed her skin as sweetly as it did this night. She hugged her joy close, like a cloak about her body, and the rustling trees, and the pale flowers glowing in the darkness, seemed to share in her new-found happiness. When she finally went to bed, she fell asleep at once. And her last conscious thought was 'He loves me!'
The magic was still there when she awoke in the morning. Because she was working shift-hours she left the house later than her mother, and the minute Marjorie was gone Polly phoned the farm in order to talk to Flint. She didn't know what she was going to say, but she was determined to see him. Even if it meant going out to Crabtree Farm and sitting on the doorstep until he agreed to talk to her. She was so adamant about this that it was a tremendous let-down when Mabel answered the phone.
'Flint? Oh, didn't you know, lovey, he's gone away for a bit,' Mabel said.
Polly's heart stopped singing. 'Gone away! For how long, Mabel?'
'I don't know for sure. Some weeks, he said. He took Duvet and just drove off at the crack of dawn. Really took me by surprise, he did. I come in to feed the cat and keep the place tidy, like. It's lucky you caught me.'
'Yes… yes. And you've no idea at all when he'll be back?' Polly persisted.
'Not really. But he did arrange to phone me a day or so before he arrives, so I can get in some groceries and stuff. I'm surprised he didn't tell you, lovey,' Mabel went on.
'We… we had a bit of a falling out,' Polly explained, and surprisingly Mabel chuckled and said, 'A lovers tiff, eh?'
'I want to make it up with him,' said Polly. 'Do you think you could let me know when he phones? I'd like to give him a welcome home dinner as a surprise.'
'Course I will, lovey,' agreed the older woman. 'I've always fancied myself as Cupid's little helper.'
'But don't let him know, will you?' urged Polly, alarmed that in her enthusiasm Mabel might be indiscreet.
'I won't breathe a word,' Mabel promised. 'Now, you'd better give me your number, and I'll call you as soon as I hear.' Polly did this, and after a few more pleasantries had been exchanged, they said goodbye.
She felt very deflated now that she couldn't see Flint. Deflated and at a loose end, so it was really a good thing that she suddenly became aware of time and had to rush in order to get to the restaurant.
During the day she began to realise that this enforced separation might not be altogether bad. It would give her time to think about how she was going to tell Flint that she loved him. The longer they were apart the happier he would be to see her, so surely she would be able to sweep aside any doubts he might have without any trouble at all.
But the days still passed slowly, and she had to constantly control herself not to call Mabel. She passed her free time reading cookery books and planning the surprise dinner for Flint. She took some of the money she had earned in tips and got her thick brown hair trimmed so that it fell again in feathery curls around her face. And she indulged in a new blusher to heighten the apricot tone that the sun had given to her milky complexion. She got in touch with some of her old girl-friends, and after much teasing about her long neglect, she met them for the odd movie or ice-cream soda, downtown. And all the while she had the feeling of being suspended in time; waiting for the phone to ring.
Then, four weeks later, on a sunny Friday morning, her waiting was over. Mabel called to say that Flint would be
home the following day.
'If you come in on the early morning bus I'll pick you up in the truck and drive you out to the farm,' Mabel suggested. 'We could go shopping for groceries first.'
'Yes… Oh, yes!… Terrific!' agreed Polly, who was having trouble speaking. 'See you then.'
The rest of the day passed in a dream. She went to work and arranged to take the weekend off. In the evening after supper she washed her hair and did her nails. She dithered over what to wear in the morning, changed her mind half a dozen times, and generally drove herself and Marjorie mad. Finally she lay on her bed and tried to read one of her romances, liberated from the shoe-box under the bed and now openly displayed on a special bookshelf. But even this favourite pastime failed to soothe her, so she joined her mother downstairs and attempted to watch television.
In the morning Marjorie drove her daughter to the bus station before going off to a weekend conference in Ottawa. Polly had told her that Flint was coming back, and that she was going to cook him a meal. She had not told her just how important his homecoming was, but neither had she pretended that this was part of her old job. 'I want to do something nice for him, Mom,' she had said, and Marjorie had nodded, her only comment being, 'Better him than that actor.'
Mabel was waiting at the bus stop as promised and the two women went shopping. Polly had decided to serve a simple meal, but one she remembered Flint particularly enjoyed: Steak Diane, french-fried potatoes and a salad, followed by a pudding of apricots served with a dish of Crème Anglaise. She wouldn't have to worry about the timing, which was a good thing since Flint had merely said he would be arriving 'some time after lunch'. Everything except the steak and potatoes could be cooked ahead.
As they jolted along the road in Mabel's old truck, Polly remembered her first drive out to Crabtree Farm. Then she had been coming to face the unknown, and now, with every revolution of the wheels, she felt as if she were coming home. It had been the beginning of summer then, and now summer was nearly over, the trees' thick foliage would soon become brilliant scarlet or gold in a blaze of Canadian colour. 'Like a promise fulfilled,' Polly thought, hugging herself with secret joy at the thought of the happiness ahead.
The farm seemed very quiet standing there on its hill, with no Duvet barking a welcome, and no tall figure with a crooked grin to greet her, but she and Mabel were soon busy opening windows, and shaking rugs, polishing silver, and sweeping out the kitchen, so that in no time at all the charming old house regained its comfortable 'lived-in' atmosphere.
Before she left, Mabel went to make up the bed in the master-bedroom. 'Shall I make up your room, lovey?' she asked Polly, who was filling a silver bowl with late-blooming snapdragons. 'Will you be staying the weekend?'
Polly flushed as pink as the flower she was holding. 'I don't—that is—don't bother, Mabel. I can do it,' she flustered, thinking that if she did stay the weekend perhaps she wouldn't be sleeping in her old blue and white room, and as if she could read her thoughts, Mabel gave her an understanding smile before going to get the sweet-scented linen from the closet.
After the truck had swayed down the drive, leaving Polly alone, she stopped her energetic tasks for a little while and listened to the sounds of late summer mingling with the whispers of the old house. Every sound was like a welcome. The apple tree outside the kitchen door creaked in a gentle breeze, and the monotonous call of a Red Cardinal, a bird that always reminded Polly of a type of Canadian parrot, sounded down in the orchard. The cat door opened and Fellini stalked in, winding himself round her legs in a brief welcome before going to his cat dish to demand his lunch. She opened a tin of cat food.
'Here you are, cupboard love,' she smiled as she set the dish back on the floor. 'Now leave me in peace. I've got to get ready for your master.'
She didn't even make a cup of coffee for herself, for she was too wound up now to eat or drink anything. She carried her holdall up to her old room and, taking out her ash-coloured dress, laid it carefully on the bed. Then she drew the water for a bath. She threw lots of scented bath salts into the water and clambered out of her jeans and sweatshirt.
Standing naked in the bathroom to pin up her hair, she looked critically at herself in the steam-misted mirror. She would never tan, she hadn't the kind of skin that could take the sun, but summer had given her flesh a faint apricot blush. It also emphasised her freckles, but that couldn't be helped; besides, Flint seemed to like them.
After her bath she dried herself slowly on one of the big bath towels and then, dropping it to the floor, she turned round before the full-length glass. It reflected back a small girl, plump and rosy as an eighteenth-century shepherdess, with full, firm breasts, dimpled buttocks and a gently rounded stomach. It was not the body of a model, and never would be. But she knew now that she was desirable, and this knowledge gave her the assurance of beauty. When she surrendered to her lover she would be proud of her body. Proud of her womanliness.
After she had carefully lined her eyes, and put her hair up in a Victorian top-knot to compliment the lines of her rose-sprigged dress, she went downstairs again. The heels of her white pumps clicked on the polished hall floor. Now the house seemed uncannily quiet, as if, like its sole occupant, it was holding its breath, waiting for the sound of a car coming up the drive. Restlessly she prowled from room to room, rearranging a flower here, straightening an ornament, smoothing the faded chintz cushions. Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she went back to the kitchen and, wrapping herself in one of Mabel's large aprons, she began to mix a sponge cake.
She had just put it into the oven when Flint's orange BMW drove into the yard. She remained motionless by the stove, the shapeless apron hiding her pretty dress, a smudge of flour on her nose. All her careful plans to greet him had vanished with the sound of the car. She was paralysed. All she could do was stand and stare at the door, and when she heard his step she felt as if her heart was being drawn out of her.
He froze in the doorway. 'What are you here?' he asked curtly.
At the sound of his voice life flowed back into her. 'I'm baking a cake,' she said, unfastening the apron, 'to welcome you home.' She was trembling with happiness. Kiss me soon, my darling, she thought. Please, please kiss me.
'I sent you a cheque,' he said, his eyes as cold as Polar ice. 'Didn't you get it?'
'Yes—I—'
'Wasn't it enough?'
She blinked at him across the chasm that seemed to be opening up between them. 'Of course it was. In fact I've—'
'Why are you here, then? I don't understand.' He came into the kitchen and dumped his zipped travelling bag down on the floor with an aggressive thud.
'I told you.' She felt a horrible tightening in her throat. 'I came to welcome you home.'
'Touching!' Flint looked down into her anxious face. 'Incidentally, aren't you supposed to be in England? With Dexter?'
She almost laughed aloud with relief. Of course! He didn't know that she and Dexter were finished—had never started, really. That was why he was being so hostile.
'I didn't go to England. Dexter got it all wrong.'
'That's not the way I heard it.' He pulled off his linen jacket and dropped it on to a kitchen chair. She noticed that his tan was a deeper gold, but his face looked tired in spite of his healthy colour.
'You didn't give anybody a chance to tell you differently. You left town rather fast.' Polly smiled, but he continued looking at her as if she were a stranger, and her smile faded.
'It's got nothing to do with me whether you go trailing off to England or not,' he said.
'I think it has.' He didn't reply, and she went on, 'I spoke to Sable. She said it mattered to you—' his face was an expressionless mask '—whether I went to England or not.'
'Sable has a big mouth,' he said at last.
'Isn't it true, then?' she asked, in a voice barely above a whisper.
A muscle twitched in his cheek, then he pulled his khaki sleeve back and glared at his watch. 'You can just make the
four o'clock bus back to town if I drive you,' he said.
'No!' The word was torn from her, for she couldn't take any more of this cat-and-mouse game. Couldn't take any more of his unkindness. 'No, I won't leave until I know whether Sable was telling the truth.'
'What truth?' he rasped.
She whispered, 'That you lo—love me.' Flint remained as still as death.
'Why? So you can gloat over yet another conquest?' he jeered. 'Boast about it to your friends? First you have the famous Dexter Grant eating out of your hand, then his old friend falls madly in love with you. Not quite in the same league, but quite a record for your first summer among the glamour crowd.'
There was so much pain in his eyes that she involuntarily cried, 'Don't—don't, darling! It's not like that at all—'
'Isn't it?' He rounded on her, taking her by the shoulders, almost shaking her, and she started to cry because she had longed for him to touch her, but in this angry way. 'Isn't it? You said you wanted a taste of the glamorous life, and doesn't that include having guys fall all over themselves for you? Well, you managed it, Polly! Sure, I fell in love with you. I won't deny it, so you can chalk up another victory. The only difference between me and the rest of your admirers is that that I wish to God I didn't love you, and I intend to get over you as fast and as painlessly as I can. So you can count me out of your life. As far as you're concerned, I never existed.' He let go of her then, and turned away. It was the first time she had ever seen his broad shoulders droop.
'As far as I'm concerned, no one else exists. Flint, please look at me.' He turned to her again, but his face was austere, his brows furrowed. 'I've been an awful fool, Flint,' she said softly, 'but I love you. No one else. Just you.'
In the silence that followed she was aware of the repetitive chirping of a chickadee in the garden, then, 'How can I believe you, Polly?' he said quietly. 'Just because you've had a fight with Dexter—'
'But I haven't!' she cried. 'At least, that has nothing to do with it…'