by Freya North
‘I know what you mean.’
‘About her legs?’
‘Idiot woman. I feel uncomfortable too.’
‘Jen seems pretty set.’
‘I don’t think Max wants more.’
‘You sure? Really? Thank God you think so. I was—’
‘Er, so I’m sure it’s fine and innocent that he’s gone over to Jen’s. I’m sure it’ll be a perfectly platonic dinner. Megan? Hey? You OK?’
‘I’m going home. Alone. How dare you? It’s Polly’s! It’s Polly’s place – not Jen’s.’
As Max walked down Haverstock Hill to Belsize Park, he realized that the spring in his step was not so much in anticipation of seeing Jen, but from relief that Dominic had neither pried, nor judged, nor even employed anything but a totally normal tone of voice to say ‘OK, have a good evening’. As he neared the Screen on the Hill, Max wondered about suggesting the Woody Allen movie currently playing. As he passed the cinema, he decided against it. He was looking forward to seeing her, looking forward to company. He nipped into Budgens in search of flowers, or chocolates, but eschewed the browning carnations and cheap selection box for a tin of condensed milk for Buster. Smart. Subtle.
When Jen heard the doorbell, much anticipated, though Max was absolutely on time, she gave a little jump, checked her reflection though she knew it needed no attention and then went to answer the door with her most comely smile fixed in place and for the duration of the evening.
‘Hullo,’ said Max, holding the tin of condensed milk aloft as if it was some password for swift entry.
‘Hey there,’ said Jen, taking it from him, placing a hand on his shoulder and kissing him softly right on the edge of his mouth.
‘Evening, Miss Klee,’ said Max as the old lady tottered her way down the stairs, obviously having been in as much anticipation of the doorbell as Jen herself.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘to help me? What is this? What must I do? Should I phone this number? How much do they want me to pay?’
Max took her bundle of correspondence and leafed through it. Kindly, he laid an arm across her shoulders and explained that one was a bank statement two years old, another was a gas bill already paid and the pizza delivery service flyer needed no response unless she fancied a margherita with extra mushrooms. He led her back up to her flat, checked her radiators, unasked, and made sure she locked the door behind him. Emerging out on the landing, Max was faced with Mrs Dale and her face of thunder. She was livid enough not to speak – and why shouldn’t she be, the communal lights had been on for at least five minutes. She knew so, even through the solid door to her flat. What are peep holes for?
‘Drunk!’ was all she could finally find to hiss. Max tried not to smile but when she followed this with a venomously spat ‘you little sod’, he could not help but laugh. However, the resultant whack from her bunch of keys, gathered together on a dangerously long shoelace like some cat-o-ninetails, was not expected and not amusing at all. Max was caught on the jaw bone and it hurt. Instantly, though, he knew not to touch his jaw or make a sound. He observed her with infuriating kindness while she panted with perverse excitement.
‘You,’ he said, in a calm voice, ‘need help. I think I’ll call Camden Council. But first, the police.’ He had no intention of doing either but Mrs Dale wasn’t to know and she scurried up to her flat in a whirl of colourful language muffled only once she had slammed the door. The communal light, however, remained on. Miss Klee, whose hearing was as sharp as her fleshless shoulders, was so excited that she ordered a pepperoni pizza by telephone and wrote a cheque to the gas board while she waited.
Jen guided Max into the flat.
‘You live in a madhouse,’ he marvelled.
‘Here, let me see,’ she murmured, her lips in line with his jaw. ‘Does it hurt?’ She took her fingertips to it and left them there.
‘Ish,’ Max reasoned, taking her wrist and gently removing her touch.
‘You want I fetch you some ice?’
‘Ice,’ conceded Max, ‘would be nice. Please.’
Jen went to the kitchen and Buster, having regarded Max most witheringly, sauntered over to the cat flap. With a hearty headbutt, he heaved himself through, a disdainful flick of his tail being his last communication to Max that night. Max was alone, just for a moment, but for long enough to wonder whether he was alone at Jen’s or at Polly’s. Jen appeared from the kitchen, as if to answer his conundrum. She had mashed the ice, though he had not heard, and presented it to him, wrapped in a tea towel.
‘Here you go, poor baby.’
‘Thanks, thank you. No, it’s OK, I can do it. I know where it hurts.’
‘I’ll go see to the meal.’
‘Lovely,’ said Max, thinking fleetingly of the nape of Polly’s neck until the sight of Jen’s bottom, just about clad in a small token of lycra, brought him back to the present with a bump – in his boxers. He went over to the mirror to scrutinize the damage. His jaw looked no different but, catching sight of his eyes, he could see the true damage quite clearly. Jen’s call that dinner was ready rescued him away.
The pasta was very nice, the wine crisp and light, the Häagen-Dazs predictable but welcome.
‘So,’ said Max, biting the bullet as he sucked on a lump of pralines and cream, ‘how did it go? When you were home? Did you see him? Chip, I mean?’
Jen replaced the spoonful nearing her mouth and regarded Max squarely.
‘Sure, I saw him – and realized what a total jerk he is. Damn hot to look at, but, like, a total no-brainer. I don’t need him in my life.’
‘No regrets?’ said Max through a suddenly raised pulse.
‘No siree,’ said Jen, pulling her bottom lip very slowly through her top teeth.
‘Good,’ said Max, a little awkwardly, ‘pleased to hear it. You deserve somebody really, you know, good.’
‘Know what? I guess I do,’ said Jen in a soft drawl, as if the notion was new and very appetizing. Her lips were wet. Max tried not to notice. ‘I owe a lot to you, Max Fyfield,’ she continued, venturing her hand to his wrist. Max tried not to hear and, as soon as Jen touched down, he took his hand to the back of his neck for an urgent rub of an imaginary itch.
‘Coffee?’ she asked, though she might well have said ‘Cunnilingus?’ for all Max’s urgent protestations about it being late (just ten o’clock) and he was very full (supper had been Californian light) and that coffee might impede a much-needed good night’s sleep (all caffeinated products were anathema to Jen). Max, however, had no excuses when a glass of juice was offered instead. Jen led him back to the sitting-room, swaying languidly as she went; Max followed, taking care to scrutinize the skirting boards and not the skirt. Kicking off her shoes, Jen coiled herself sinuously on the settee and patted the cushion for Max to sit himself beside her.
‘And Polly?’ Jen asked, after a few minutes of silence save sipping.
‘In America,’ Max stated.
‘You guys OK? Sorted stuff out?’
‘Well,’ said Max with a sharp intake of breath, ‘if you can call taking a break a way of sorting stuff out, then yes, I suppose we are OK.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Jen genuinely, ‘real sorry.’ She laid her hand very gently midway up Max’s thigh but he could not decipher between sympathy (with which it was intended), and desire (the intention he imagined). ‘Oh well,’ Jen continued, ‘I’m sure things’ll work out for the best, hey?’ She gave his leg a friendly squeeze, misread by Max as a suggestive clasp. He left the settee rather quickly and fiddled with the first thing that came to hand, a plunger corkscrew with unfortunate thrusting action.
‘Max,’ Jen cooed, ‘you seem awful tense. Something up?’
‘Actually,’ Max said clearly, ‘yes.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Jen, relaxed and settled where she sat.
‘Look,’ said Max, taking his seat beside her again and taking her hand between both of his, ‘I find you immensely attractive – a veritable magnet.’
<
br /> ‘Wow,’ said Jen, highly flattered and licking her lips with delight. Max paused, as often he did, enabling him to compose his sentence so that, when spoken, its meaning was not misconstrued. His pause, however, lasted long enough for Jen to interject.
‘I owe so much to you,’ she murmured with unbridled admiration, darting her eyes all over his face, his skin scorching wherever they alighted, ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.’
‘You can’t,’ Max responded immediately, ‘I’m sorry, I mean, don’t worry about it, you know?’
‘Know what?’ said Jen.
‘I mean,’ Max said, ‘I can’t. I can’t. It was a one off. I’m sorry. I don’t want to – again.’
Jen regarded him unflinchingly, scanning and scouring his face, unsuccessful in raising his downcast eyes. Then she laughed. She giggled. It was unaffected and infectious and spread relief through Max until he ventured his eyes to hers, his soft gaze requesting her explanation.
‘Oh Max,’ Jen laughed, ‘I can’t, also. I don’t want to, either.’ She took the corkscrew that Max still held and played with it subconsciously.
‘Pardon?’ said Max, wondering how best to interject and proclaim his intentions – or lack of – in black and white, capital letters, once and for all.
‘What I owe to you,’ Jen said slowly, her face open and her tone soft, ‘is, like, my liberation, I guess.’ She stood up and put her hands on her hips. Max noted that her legs were not quite so stunning without their high-heeled send off. Her knees were a little too knobbly, her calves rather straight, her ankles a little thick. ‘If it wasn’t for you – for that one night,’ she continued, ‘I couldn’t have gotten Chip out my system, you know?’ Max began a nod. ‘You’re my saviour and I love you,’ she stated, raising her hands as if she was helpless to do anything about the fact.
‘But,’ Max stumbled, never knowing quite what an American truly meant when employing the word ‘love’.
Jen continued as if she had not heard him. ‘Back home, I met with someone from years back,’ she elaborated, ‘high school, in fact. His name is Jesse. I was in love with him at fifteen.’ She paused, raised her eyebrows at Max, and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m in love with him all over – yeah, and all over again!’
Max stared at her and heard the penny drop loudly in the sudden silence of the room. It released a laugh from the pit of his stomach. ‘I was worried,’ he said, ‘that, well, I mean.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Jen, now nodding in harmony with Max. ‘You didn’t know how to say it was a one-nighter, right?’
‘Right,’ said Max, stroking his palms, back and forth, along his thighs.
‘Should’ve come right out with it,’ Jen shrugged.
‘I know,’ Max said, ‘bloody English reserve and all that bollocks.’
‘Hey, I meant, both of us. We’re adults, hey? But, like, I just feel so grateful to you,’ she rushed. ‘It’s crazy, I love you now, you know? I didn’t when we had sex – I just thought you were cute and all. But now, now I love you – cos like, because of you I have my life back.’
‘And,’ Max qualified, ‘you have Jesse.’
Jen clutched at her heart and fluttered her eyelashes comically for a few moments before regarding Max sternly. ‘And you?’ she asked.
‘Me?’
‘What did you get out of it?’ She sighed, placed the corkscrew back on the mantelpiece and took an orange from the fruit bowl, tossing it lightly from hand to hand. ‘What did you get, Max? Jeez, you lost your girl, hey?’ Max shrugged and nodded and focused on the cat flap.
‘I think, actually, we may have lost each other,’ he said, ‘lost the knowledge of what we had, lost sight of what we could have had, somewhere along the way.’
Jen went over to him, perched on the coffee table and took his hands in hers. ‘Go find her and find out,’ she said unequivocally. ‘Go find her,’ she repeated in urgent earnest, ‘and find out.’
With that, she bid Max good night, kissing him too, telling him she loved him, that he was her best buddy. Jen did not tell Max that Chip, utterly stunned not only by her survival but also by her discovery of a better life and love, had bragged most luridly about his couplings with Polly. Jen did not inform Max out of her respect for Polly.
Because Polly didn’t yell at me, did she? That day, when she came back here? How come she didn’t go right ahead and even up the score? Tell me she had screwed my then boyfriend? You know something, I might have. Actually, I guess I would have. But Polly Fenton did not. And you know why? Because she knew not to. And the pain she carries now, the weight of that burden, is probably far greater than that which we would have felt, had she told us. She’s brave and she’s good and she deserves Max back.
The light in the communal hallway remained on.
THIRTY-SIX
Megan was going to be late for school. Dominic had left for a shoot in Bethnal Green. Max still slept. Megan would not be going anywhere until he surfaced. There was absolutely no way that she was going to encounter Jen before she’d had the chance to verify details with Max first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said over the telephone to the school bursar, ‘I’m going to be late this morning. I’m waiting for the man to fix it.’ She did not elaborate on what it was that needed fixing but the bursar did not mind; Miss Reilly was entitled to be late just the once. Megan replaced the receiver and boiled the kettle, making a cup of tea expressly for holding, not drinking. She looked at her watch. Assembly.
Come on Max, wake up.
She flicked through the brothers’ address book and was pleased to see she could now put faces to most of the names. She looked at her watch. First period.
Max, bloody wake up.
She thought how Polly would still be fast asleep. Right at that very moment. Over the sea and far away.
Oh, to be able to predict, let alone generate, a happy ending. Isn’t that what friends are for? Or to pick up the pieces.
Megan looked at her watch. Second period was half-way through.
Right.
Max was in the thick of a nightmare in which Mrs Dale was torturing him with light bulbs, keys and torrid abuse. She was coming very close, her hands suddenly metamorphosing into claws. As she grabbed him, he hurled her away with all the strength he could muster, busting through the shoelaces she had tied around his limbs.
‘Fuck you!’ Max hollered, propelling the loathsome hag away from him. ‘Get away!’ He grabbed both his hands into tight, punch-ready fists, stood over her, bobbing and weaving, and made to aim.
‘Max!’ she pleaded, using his Christian name and a soft voice for the first time.
Time to wake up, Max.
‘Megan – what on earth are you doing?’ Max said blearily, observing his brother’s girlfriend sitting in a heap under him. ‘What am I doing?’ he said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Oh God!’ He dived into bed so the duvet swallowed his nakedness.
Megan blinked and blushed. ‘What on earth were you doing?’ she asked, scrambling to her feet and clutching her arm. ‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I think I’ll have a shower.’
‘Make it a cold one,’ Megan suggested.
‘What time is it? Bloody hell, ten to ten.’ Max leapt out of bed and then back into it immediately.
‘Towel?’ Megan offered.
‘Please,’ said Max, ‘isn’t it Wednesday?’
‘It is indeed,’ said Megan, handing him a towel and demurely averting her gaze.
Max wrapped the towel about his waist and Megan noticed, quite objectively, that his torso was more toned than his brother’s. ‘If it’s Wednesday and, oh God, five to ten, why aren’t you at school?’ Max asked.
‘Because,’ said Megan, ‘I’m playing hookey.’
‘You? Why?’ Max slung his hands on his hips.
‘Because,’ said Megan, ‘I have something to do. Correction: we have something to do.’
‘We do?’ Max ru
ffled his already sleep-tousled hair.
‘Do we!’ Megan confirmed, zapping up the blind and wishing Dominic was as tidy as Max. ‘We’re off to see Mr Fixit.’
‘Who he?’ Max asked, yawning and stretching and wincing at his reflection.
‘He’s my friend in the travel business,’ Megan said, as if Max was dim, ‘Muswell Hill. You’re going to America.’
‘I am?’ Max’s hands were back on his hips.
‘Yes,’ Megan confirmed, ‘Standby, tonight. This afternoon, if we can make it.’
‘I don’t know,’ Max deliberated as kindly as he could, though he felt a little irritated, ‘I need to think about it.’
‘No you don’t,’ Megan announced in her teacher voice.
‘I don’t think I’m ready,’ Max persisted.
‘Correction: you don’t know if you’re ready,’ Megan continued. ‘You have to go, Max. For her. For you. It’s time.’
Max regarded her suspiciously and headed for the bathroom. Megan went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, making tea to drink this time. She looked at her wrist. It had two dark weals from Max’s grab. She didn’t mind that it hurt. But she hoped that the marks would disappear by the time she saw Dominic that evening.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Max, bringing her out of a daydream and back into the kitchen. Wednesday. Ten fifteen. Max in a denim shirt, jeans, desert boots; clean-shaven and wide awake.
‘It is what?’ Megan asked.
‘Time,’ Max said, turning away.
Max and Megan stood in Muswell Hill Broadway and stared at each other.
‘Oh my God,’ Max said, slowly, his mouth remaining agape.
‘We’ve got just over three hours to get you there,’ Megan all but shrieked. They laughed in short spurts, staring at each other intermittently, overusing the Lord’s name in vain; infuriatingly rooted to the spot though acutely aware of how much they had to do and how little time they had.
‘Oh my God,’ Megan gasped, one hand at her mouth, the other on Max’s shoulder to steady them both.