Polly. Freya North

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      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 Derbyshire. When in Rome – and all that.

      ‘Tell me about home, Polly, paint me a picture.’

      ‘Home,’ Polly explained, taking Kate at her word and drawing a disproportionate plan in the flour, ‘is a small, rented flat with a patio and mad neighbours in leafy Belsize Park. That’s in North London for your information.’

      ‘Neat,’ Kate enthused.

      ‘Not very,’ apologized Polly.

      ‘How mad?’ Kate asked, eyes alive above a huge smile.

      ‘Absolutely bonkers,’ Polly assured her.

      ‘Bonkers!’ Kate declared, having her first taste of the word and finding it delicious.

      They made pastry in silence for a while.

      ‘Home,’ Polly started again, ‘is really a fat tom-cat called Buster and a darling boy called Max.’

      ‘Uh huh,’ murmured Kate: an excellent phrase to elicit further details.

      ‘Yes,’ said Polly quietly, ‘I’ve had them both for five years. In fact —’ she started before a small voice warned her against continuing.

       You can’t tell her. You’ve no proof, remember.

      (More to the point, Polly, you haven’t clarified the situation with Max, have you?)

      ‘Uh huh,’ Kate repeated as she pricked the top of the pies, ‘that must be kinda tough. I’ll bet you’re missing them both.’

      With a degree of guilt which she covered with a hasty ‘Oh yes, of course’, Polly realized that she had still been too busy to have actively missed Max. ‘He said he’d phone on Saturday. That’s tomorrow.’

       Only I hope he calls before the Blues Brothers evening starts at Finnigan’s. (That’s Finnigan House – senior male dorm. Everyone invited.) I’m on duty, you see. Me and Charle(s) and Lorna – she’s lovely, I met her at lunch today. She teaches drama and voice. I think we’re about the same age.

      ‘What does Max do?’ Kate asked, genuinely interested.

      Polly smiled. ‘You’d love him,’ she said, ‘he’s very artistic, very talented. Officially, he’s a self-employed graphic designer, only he likes to be known as a freelance draughtsman.’

      Kate nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds special. That right?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ enthused Polly. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘In fact —’

       No.

       Not yet.

      Kate refrained from the uh-huh of encouragement that was on the СКАЧАТЬ