The Pollyanna Plan

by Talli Roland

  Throwing on her coat, Emma left the stuffy flat and pushed into the bright London morning. Despite the headache from hell, she couldn’t stop a smile from spreading on her face. Last night, she’d gone against every instinct she’d honed for the past few years. She’d got up on stage and sang, drank whisky and smoked a cigarillo, stayed up all night and asked a man out. Those might not count as big strides forward for most people, but for her they were huge. And oddly enough, she felt more alive than she had since…well, she couldn’t even remember.

  As much as Emma hated to think it, there might be some merit to the Pollyanna Plan, after all.

  The gentle swaying of the boat made the contents of Will’s stomach rise, and he lurched to the toilet. As sweat beaded on his brow and his muscles trembled, he heaved until every last bit descended.

  He stayed hunched over the toilet until he was certain the bout of nausea had passed, then crawled the short distance to his bed. He should have known better than to drink all that. He’d been trying to run, to escape from his life. The oblivion of alcohol had worked, briefly. Will groaned as images of the night flashed through his head—most of them featuring the dark hair and gorgeous long-lashed eyes of Emma. When he’d kissed her cheek, he’d definitely wanted more. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t, that was for sure.

  He groaned again as he remembered agreeing to help Emma paint. Christ. Next time he decided on a night of oblivion, he’d make sure no women were involved. Stretching out an arm to grasp the mobile, Will noticed a text message. Maybe she was begging off? Given the amount she’d imbibed, she was probably in a worse state than him.

  But Emma wasn’t cancelling—instead, she’d sent him her address, saying she was looking forward to seeing him at one. He couldn’t help shaking his head at how close she was: just down the canal towpath, almost to the bridge at Little Venice and off a leafy side street. Sitting up slowly, Will ran a hand over his face. What was he going to do now?

  He almost texted back to say he couldn’t make it, but part of him was eager to see the colour on the walls to check if he’d managed to strike the right balance of white, yellow and blue. Professional interest only, he told himself—the paint job could be finished in about an hour, if the flat wasn’t too big. Squinting, he looked at the time. Just past eleven, which meant he had a couple of hours to feel human again. Lowering his head to the pillow, Will closed his eyes. Another quick sleep might do the trick.

  Two hours later, he was ringing the buzzer to Emma’s flat. Located in a whitewashed Victorian terrace, her building almost made him long for a home on solid ground. He loved these old, character-filled structures, standing grandly as they weathered the passage of time.

  ‘Come on up!’ Emma’s voice crackled through the intercom, and the door clicked open. ‘Second floor.’

  Will’s heartbeat quickened as he entered the plush, carpeted interior, and he told himself not to be an idiot.

  ‘You’re here to paint and check the colour, mate, nothing else,’ he muttered sternly. He had to admit, though, he was curious to know more about this woman. He admired her easygoing sense of fun, and he’d enjoyed how last night unfolded naturally without any of Cherie’s drama or high-maintenance demands. They’d laughed and chatted, but they hadn’t shared much—if anything—about their lives. If Emma had a flat in this desirable area, she must have a good job. Will’s brow furrowed as he made his way up the flights of stairs, trying to picture what she did for a living. Something creative, maybe, given how she’d described the exact shade she wanted, He couldn’t picture her doing a stuffy desk job.

  Rapping on the door, he shoved aside the shot of desire that hit when Emma swung it open. Curls escaped from a messy bun on top of her head and her eyes—even with bags underneath them from last night’s exploits—sparkled. Sporting a baggy, paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, he was drawn to her casual, relaxed beauty.

  ‘Hey! Long time, no see.’ Smiling, she motioned him inside. ‘Thanks so much for coming by to help. I’m a rubbish painter.’

  ‘No problem,’ Will said, glancing around the flat. Just as he’d expected, it was full of character, with high ceilings and ornate moulding. But—even with one blue wall adding a splash of colour to the stark whiteness—there was something very cold about the place, something that looked as if the inhabitant was just passing through. Definitely not the décor he’d envisioned, given Emma’s specific paint request.

  The colour looked fantastic, he thought, pride seeping in. The right shade of blue—not too garish or bright, and nothing like the typical clichéd colours of paint catalogues. With the faintest hint of white, the wall mirrored an early-morning summer sky, before the haze cleared. A rare thrill of inspiration coursed through Will as he imagined slathering a canvas with that shade, adding in vibrant greens and darker blues to capture the first hint of a new season.…God, it’d been a while since he’d felt the urge to paint. Maybe he’d give it a go when he returned to the boat.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked, thinking she must have just moved in. That would explain the lack of decorations.

  Emma wrinkled her nose as she pondered the question. ‘About eight years, I think?’

  Will nodded, trying to hide his surprise. Wow. Eight years like this? ‘Okay, well, let’s get started.’ He eyed the already completed wall. ‘You’ve not done a bad job on that one, actually. First we’ll tape the mouldings, put down the drop cloth’—he tugged a paint-stained tarpaulin from his bag—‘and then we can begin.’

  Silence fell as the two of them knelt, covering the floorboards with a protective coating of tape. Will unfurled the drop cloth and cracked open the tin of paint, and Emma handed him a brush.

  ‘Where should we start?’ she asked.

  ‘You go from the left and I’ll go from the right,’ Will said, ‘and we’ll work towards each other.’ He tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but he couldn’t stop darting glances at Emma’s slender form, admiring her lithe body. Focus, man, he told himself, and for a few minutes, there was nothing but the swish of paint being applied to walls. Sinking into the job, Will began to relax, but Emma’s next question made him tense up again.

  ‘So, your friend Chaz tells me you majored in business studies?’ she asked.

  Will froze. What else had Chaz said? The last thing he needed was Emma asking why—with his father’s company and wealth at his disposal—he worked in a DIY centre. Thank God, Chaz didn’t know about his illness.

  ‘Yeah. But it wasn’t for me,’ Will responded, hoping his vague answer would put her off. At least it was true, he thought grimly. If he’d had his way, he would never have signed up for three years of tedious courses at the same university his father had gone to. Even the excitement of moving up north, combined with the freedom of being away from his family and meeting a whole new group of people, hadn’t made up for how much he’d detested the degree.

  ‘Have you worked in Home & Hearth for long?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, for some time.’ Will felt bad being so cagey, especially after the fun they’d had yesterday, but it was for the best. Last night had been a one-off, and he knew now he couldn’t escape the reality of his illness. He’d only come here out of curiosity about the colour, he reminded himself. Now he’d seen it, so he’d finish painting and leave as soon as possible. Heaviness filled his heart at the thought of never seeing Emma again, but he pushed it away.

  ‘Whoa, slow down!’ Emma laughed, and Will realised he’d been slapping paint onto the wall, moving the brush back and forth like a man possessed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but I have to finish up quickly. Just remembered I’ve got something else I need to do.’ His words came out more abruptly than intended, and he steeled himself against a wave of guilt as Emma’s face clouded over.

  An hour later all the walls were painted, and Will was nearing collapse. The sleepless night
combined with alcohol, the ensuing sickness, and his continued physical exertion had used up every last reserve. Thankfully, after he’d made it clear this was strictly an in-and-out operation, Emma’s questions stopped, and they’d worked in silence. Even if he’d wanted to converse, he hadn’t the energy.

  ‘Right,’ he said, standing back and surveying their handiwork. ‘It looks great.’

  ‘It does look great.’ Emma tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. ‘Thanks. It would have taken ages to do this on my own.’

  Will busied himself with putting the lid back on the tin. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Listen, why don’t you let me buy you dinner,’ Emma said suddenly. ‘It’s almost five. We can order in a pizza…and I have wine, if you can handle more booze. Let me do something to thank you.’

  The thought of relaxing beside her with food and drink was so irresistible, it jolted Will to the core. ‘No!’ he yelped, the word escaping his lips with such force it surprised even him. He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get home. Er, to the other appointment I have.’ He could tell by Emma’s expression that she didn’t buy his excuse.

  ‘Right, well, thanks again,’ she said, her once animated face now neutral.

  Will’s heart sank, but he knew he’d done the right thing refusing. ‘My pleasure.’ His tone was just as formal. ‘Goodbye, then.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  He shrugged on his coat and turned, feeling Emma’s eyes follow him as he closed the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  As she peeled tape from the floorboards, Emma tried not to let disappointment at Will’s distant attitude overtake her. Last night, he’d been so warm and genuine—almost even interested, she thought, remembering the kiss on her cheek and the electricity that flared between them. Today, it was almost a 180-degreee turn. Sure, he’d come and helped, but he’d seemed a million miles away, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  He’d been a shadow of his former self, too: the laughing, energetic man replaced by one who looked about to keel over, as if he was inserting his last bit of energy into every movement. Maybe he was suffering from all the booze? At least there’d been no confusion over the true meaning of ‘painting’. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her goodbye.

  The ring of her mobile made her jump, and Emma wiped her hands before grabbing it off the counter.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey!’ Alice’s chipper tone came through the phone. God, was that girl ever hung over? Then again, she was more used to imbibing Olympic pool–sized quantities of alcohol than Emma. ‘So, how was the ‘painting’?’ Emma could hear the suggestive tone in her friend’s voice, and she rolled her eyes.

  ‘It was more like “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am”. And I don’t mean that in a sexual way,’ Emma added quickly. ‘He came in, helped me paint and left as fast as he could.’ Her heart sank as she said the words, and she realised she’d hoped for something more. Maybe it’s a good thing nothing happened, Emma thought, trying out a Pollyanna notion. Will was as far from her type as a sumo wrestler was from a diet.

  ‘Ah, I wouldn’t worry. Sometimes men do that, you know. Pull back after a night of intimacy—even if it’s just verbal. Haven’t you ever read Men Are from Mars?’

  Emma barely refrained from snorting. Did her friend not know her at all? Pre-Pollyanna Emma would never have indulged in a load of psychobabble designed to make women feel better about men’s bad behaviour. She’d have made a swift judgement, based on Will’s attitude, that he simply wasn’t interested, and that would have been that.

  But was Alice right? Was this the way men normally acted? Emma hadn’t much experience with dating. George had been her only serious relationship, much to Alice’s chagrin; she’d badgered Emma to ‘get out and have fun’ before settling down. But after watching Alice navigate the relentless London dating scene, Emma remembered how grateful she’d felt to have George. Funny, it was obvious now she didn’t miss him—just the safety net he’d provided.

  ‘Anyway, I think tomorrow—maybe the day after—you should ring up Will and invite him out to dinner or something as a thank you,’ Alice said.

  ‘I did ask if he wanted to stick around for pizza, and he said no.’ Emma’s heart panged as she recalled the closed look on Will’s face.

  ‘Take it from me, he was just in his pulling-away phase. By tomorrow, he’ll be gagging to hear from you again. Come on, just give it a go. Remember, you’re supposed to be positive now!’

  Emma’s mind spun as she considered Alice’s words. She’d already gone out on a limb and asked Will once. That was a miracle in and of itself! Surely if he were interested, he’d have shown it. But what if her friend was right and Will’s aloofness was the norm? She’d been pleasantly surprised with how behaving contrary to her usual pessimistic—no, realistic—self was paying off. Maybe pursuing Will just this once would pay off, too.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Emma responded finally. ‘So how was your night of love, then? Are you seeing Chaz again?’

  ‘Oh yeah, definitely. We exchanged numbers, and he’s going to pick me up after my shift tonight. Ems, I really think he could be the one. He’s perfect! Good job in marketing, great body, huge—’

  ‘Okay!’ Emma interrupted, before she had to hear more about Chaz’s private places than she ever wanted.

  ‘I’ve got to get ready for work. Talk to you later.’ Alice clicked off, and Emma put the phone down and glanced around the flat. The blue on all four walls did look much better than just one, lifting the room and bringing it to life. The paint made the rest of the space seem even emptier, though.

  Emma drummed her fingers on the counter as her mind ticked over. Perhaps she could pop by Home & Hearth tomorrow and ask Will for some decorating tips? That way, she’d be able to gauge where things stood. If Alice was right and he was interested, she could take things from there. If he was still cool and distant, she’d back off. A little stab of disappointment jabbed her gut when she thought of never seeing him again, but she told herself not to be ridiculous. They’d only spent one alcohol-fuelled night together and a few hours painting! For goodness’ sake, she was getting as bad as Alice.

  Enough reflecting on the vagaries of men, Emma thought as she flopped on the sofa and cracked open her laptop. Time to focus on something practical—like finding a job. It was hard to believe three days had already passed since she’d left Gladstone! Despite her initial fear of how to fill them, Emma was astonished how quickly they’d flown.

  Smiling, Emma pictured Henry in his leather chair. She missed his daily admonitions to leave the office and enjoy life. He’d be impressed with her now—she’d painted her flat, been out on the town, met a new man…all small things, she knew, but events that would never have happened if she’d been slaving away at work like usual.

  An image of being shut in the office both day and night filtered into Emma’s mind, and a surprising sense of unease filled her. This time last week, the thought of not working would have been horrifying. But amazingly enough, she hadn’t fallen to pieces without a job. Although she wouldn’t go so far as to say she was enjoying unemployment, it was kind of nice to have a break.

  Emma stared at the job website in front of her, then snapped closed the laptop lid. One day wouldn’t make a difference, and right now she was too tired to even focus. Scrunching down and drawing a stiff pillow under her aching head, she let her eyes sag closed. After last night’s shenanigans and the busy afternoon painting, she’d definitely earned a little nap.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Emma caught herself humming ‘Like A Virgin’ as she threw back the covers Monday morning. Sun streamed through the window, and the clock by her bed showed she’d managed to sleep until nine, despite spending most of the evening cocooned in a delicious nap on the sofa. When had that last happened?

  A foreign sense of optimism filled
her as she popped bread into the toaster and poured a large glass of lovely pulpy orange juice. What would she do today? Was she brave enough to head to the DIY centre to pick up some odds and ends for the flat—and to see Will? Hope fluttered inside at Alice’s words that his recent cold demeanour was the norm for men. God, she had a lot to learn.

  The sound of the buzzer made Emma jump, and she threw on her robe then padded towards the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’ she said, her voice still husky with sleep.

  ‘Package for you,’ came the bored tone of the deliveryman.

  ‘Come on up. Flat three.’ Emma buzzed him through. Package? Oh yes, must be the sketchbooks Mum forwarded.

  She opened the door and scrawled her signature on the electronic keypad, then took the large box inside. It was heavier than she’d imagined. Emma carried the parcel to the lounge, then plunked down on the sofa and ripped it open. The smell of her old room—musky teenage perfume mixed with the scent of yellowing paper—wafted up, transporting her back to when she’d spent hours lying stomach down on her bed, feet crossed in the air, creating endless sketch after sketch of her ideal interior.

  On top of the pile was a fresh notebook, its smooth edges a sharp contrast to the torn ones beneath it. Leafing through the empty pages, a small envelope fell out. Carefully, Emma withdrew a card as her mother’s handwriting met her eyes.

  For fresh dreams, the neat script said, and Emma couldn’t help smiling as she set it aside, feeling the old itch to grab a pencil and start filling those pages right now. But curiosity for her past visions was stronger, and she picked up the notebook on top and examined the drawings inside.

  At first, they started off like every child’s scrawls: the neat, two-storey family house with smoke curling from the chimney and two large trees shadowing the structure. As time went on, though, the sketches became more fanciful and elaborate as her drawing skills developed—along with her need for escape, clearly.