The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 10

As he grabbed the cake tin out of the oven, the tea towel slipped and heat raged through his fingertips. He managed to thrust the tin onto the stovetop, where it teetered, flipped sideways and fell onto the kitchen floor with an ominous thud.

“Fucking hell,” Solo shouted.

When he’d got in from work an hour ago he’d flung the ingredients he’d bought onto the kitchen bench top, plus the bowl, scales and cake tin he’d purchased, because there was no way in the world Carts would have any, and mixed and stirred and hoped to God he’d remembered Nan’s recipe correctly.

And now the thing was literally a hot mess on the floor.

He looked around desperately for something else to pick it up with; salvaging it was definitely going to require both hands. Nope. Nothing. Carts’ kitchen was like an operating theatre; one where all the equipment had been removed for sterilisation. Carefully doubling up the tea towel, he tried to twist the tin upright, using his other hand to prod the cake back in place. It broke, half remaining in the tin, the other half ending up on the floor tiles. He’d let it overcook and now it was clearly going to crumble to buggery.

With a quick flick of his wrist and the heat of the cake burning his other hand, Solo managed to get it onto the kitchen counter and finally breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was more or less intact. And the four-second rule with regard to floor contact applied. Besides, hadn’t they’d proved a few germs were good for you? Though looking at Carts’ kitchen floor, you could probably eat off those shiny tiles with no risk to your health.

Solo gathered his scattered wits.

Now for the topping. Grabbing the icing sugar, butter and cocoa, he threw it all together in the bowl and started beating with grim determination. A glance at his watch told him he had twenty minutes before he had to leave if he was going to get there in time.

Solo cursed liberally under his breath. Why hadn’t he just bought a stupid cake? Or used a packet mix? What the hell was he trying to prove?

For the last couple of days, he and Polly had studiously ignored each other on the ward—apart from one encounter they’d had no say in. Dr Death had insisted they do a joint interview with Bernie because, after twelve weeks on the ward, he needed his medications stabilised and to be gently encouraged to move into hostel accommodation. The psychiatrist and the social worker were the obvious choice to raise the issue. They’d sat in the doctor’s office awkwardly waiting for Bernie to be located, Solo trying not to get side-tracked by the fact that Polly was wearing a skirt that showed off a tiny slice of tantalising thigh as she crossed her legs.

He was at risk of turning into a letch. For Christ’s sake.

So he’d mentioned how humid the weather was and that there must be a storm brewing.

Double Christ’s sake.

And then her lips had quirked and that eyebrow raised like she could see right through his neat suit and into his heart…

Heart?

No way. She wasn’t affecting him that much. It was just that she fascinated him. That was all. He really wasn’t sure what drew him to her in a way that was more than that initial crazy physical attraction; why the odd urge to confide in her, spill out all the misery of the past year. Or, for that matter, why he had such an urge to find out more about her. That tantalising glimpse into her childhood had intrigued him because it wasn’t what he’d imagined. He would have guessed Polly had a loving, rough-and-tumble, rag-tag family who teased each other and hugged a lot.

From her brief account, he’d clearly got that all wrong.

And as for the sex thing—truly he couldn’t get his head around it, he’d never been that turned on by curvy women before. Emma was waif-like. He’d got used to the way her body fitted so neatly into his hands, how he could smooth his palms over her hip bones, trace his fingers up her ribs one by one and cup her almost non-existent breasts. Nothing about Polly’s body fitted neatly; it overflowed, it enveloped, it drowned him in all sorts of delicious possibilities.

Having located the one dessert spoon in the cutlery drawer, he used it to smash icing onto the cake, then stared helplessly as it dripped down the sides. Goddamn it, the cake was still too hot. And there wasn’t time to let it cool down properly…

Rifling a hand through the short spikes of his hair, Solo debated messaging Polly and telling her he’d just got a bad bout of food poisoning. But, hell, he wasn’t that much of a coward, surely?

He shoved the cake into the freezer, leaving a trail of icing blobbing across the kitchen floor, and went upstairs to take a lightning-fast shower.

Twenty minutes later the cake container was in the box on the back of his Ducati. He’d have to ride carefully so as not to dislodge the precarious icing.

The desire to go to his dressing table and find his cigarette packet before he left was almost overwhelming.

That would be a good look, turning up smelling of smoke.

Yeah, he’d really be setting a great example.

When he arrived at the centre, Polly was already setting up the room. He stood for a second in the doorway, helmet in one hand, the container with the apology of a cake in the other, watching the play of her arms, strong and capable as she lifted chairs and arranged them in a neat circle. She’d looped her hair into a loose ponytail—maybe it was an evening concession—and a few curls had wiggled their way out of the sides, glinting in the rather harsh lighting of the community centre meeting room.

She must have sensed him there, because she turned and looked over her shoulder and her mouth spread into a glorious smile.

Her beauty smacked him right between the eyes, took his breath away.

“Hey there, Dr J.” She straightened and faced him. Tonight she had on a more casual T-shirt-style top in candy pink and grey stripes, and he had to be careful not to let his eyes stray to the way those stripes spread across her full breasts. Feet planted wide, she splayed her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

Heat shimmied around his groin and his only option was to move. Fast.

Striding over to the trestle table in the corner, which was covered with cups and an urn of boiling water, he plonked down the container. Within seconds she was next to him, so close he could smell her sweetly familiar perfume, and he wanted to turn and bury his face in the curve of her neck; tangle his fingers in that mass of curls and smother her mouth with his.

“What have you got in there?”

“Cake.”

“Did you make it?”

“Yes, and it’s a complete disaster.”

She let out a cross between a snort and a giggle and the sound was so infectious he couldn’t resist an answering tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” she ordered.

Reluctantly, he opened the container. The cake made him think of a guy desperately trying to disguise a bald patch, icing sagging off to one side and a big patch of emptiness in the middle that he’d tried to rectify with some hundreds and thousands. Botched, completely and utterly botched.

“Full marks for effort, Dr J. It probably tastes delicious.”

He looked sideways at her and she caught his eye and bit her lip. Something zapped, tangible and electric, between them. More heat arrowed most inconsiderately to his cock and he had to step away.

He ripped off his leather jacket and laid it around the back of a chair.

“So, when does everyone arrive? Arghh, no don’t touch it.” He saw her trying to lift the broken cake out of the container and dived forward. “It has to stay in the box.”

She pouted as he wrestled it away from her.

“It will be easier to cut if it’s out of the container.”

“I promise it won’t be.”

“Okay, defender of the cake, I’ll take your word for it.” She was squinting at it through narrowed eyes. “Looks a bit crumbly.”

“It’s supposed to, it’s called chocolate crumble cake.” He tried for serious but she just made him want to laugh and, in all honesty, laughing was something he hadn’t done enough of for months.

“Don’t tell me; an old Jakoby family recipe.”

“Absolutely. Passed through the generations from grandmother to grandson.”

“Impressive. Can’t wait to taste it.”

“Hi.”

They both swivelled to see a big guy about their age, hovering in the doorway.

Polly swung into action. “Grant, I’m so glad you’re here, we missed you last week.”

“Yeah, bad few days to be honest.”

Solo observed him carefully. He was strong and well-built, but his face was blank, his tone flat.

“I was a bit worried. I tried to call you the day after the group.” Polly said, ushering him into the room.

“Yes, thanks, I saw that.” The young man stood stiff and awkward, avoiding eye-contact. “I messaged Ben to say I was okay; you got that, right?” He flicked a glance at Solo and Polly launched into introductions.

“Grant, this is Dr Solomon Jakoby, he’ll be co-facilitating with me for the next four weeks while Ben’s on holiday.”

Solo knew better than to hold out his hand. Polly had briefed him on the participants and he guessed this was Grant Lewis. Ex army. Afghanistan. Grant gave him a smile that didn’t touch the depths of his blue eyes and a tiny shudder passed up and down Solo’s spine.

He knew that look.

He steeled himself. “Hi, good to meet you.”

“You too.” Grant’s gaze shifted quickly from his face. The flatness of his expression was starkly at odds with his super-fit physique. Solo could almost recite the guy’s story for him. Grant Lewis had no doubt been strong and confident once, ready to face whatever life threw at him, except somewhere in war-torn Afghanistan, life had thrown him hell and the devil, and now the haunting just wouldn’t stop.

Yep, Solo knew the story off by heart.

As Grant meandered over to the table to grab a cup of tea, a few more people filtered in, all with the posture of having been defeated by life. It was something about their shoulders, like the weight of the world was bearing down on them. They stood talking in low voices, or simply sat down, cupping their mugs between their hands and staring into space.

Finally, Polly looked at her watch, gave her hands a quick clap and raised her voice a little over the murmurs. “Looks like this is it, guys. Shall we get started?”

There were six participants. Some weeks, Polly had told him, there were up to ten, but rarely did everyone attend at once. Six was manageable for starters. At least he wouldn’t have too many names to remember.

“Okay, before we share how your week’s been, I just wanted to introduce our new psychiatrist, Dr Solo Jakoby, who will be co-facilitating with me for the next four weeks while Ben is away.”

All eyes shifted to Solo. “Maybe you’d like to say a few words.” Polly flashed him her best professional smile.

“Sure.” Solo nodded. Why did he feel so nervous? Was it Polly and her unwavering scrutiny, or was it once again being around so many sufferers of PTSD?

All of them potent reminders of Drew.

He cleared his throat. “Hi, everyone. Good to meet you. I guess you’d like to know a little about me? I’ve been qualified as a psychiatrist for six years, previously working in Sydney and now here in Perth as a three-month locum.” A wave of near-panic dragged over him like a physical weight, threatening for a second to pull him under. He forced his spine back into the chair, cleared his throat. “PTSD has been a special interest area of mine for a while now.”

All eyes were on him, one pair in particular, green and curious, and he swallowed hard. “So, it will be good to be joining you for the next few weeks. And if you have any questions, particularly about medications, I’m your man.”

He cast a quick look at Polly to see a frown pleating her eyebrows. She smiled tightly. “Thank you, Dr Jakoby,” she clipped out.

Solo returned an equally tight smile. “Please, feel free to call me Solo.” He cast his gaze around the assembled group. “I don’t tend to stand on formalities.”

Polly’s smile was now like a shot of saccharine. Why did it feel they were in some kind of battle of wills here? It was subtle but the energy was definitely there, pulling against him, like a rip tide.

“Let’s start with sharing how everyone’s week has been,” Polly said, snapping her gaze away from his face, her voice bright, as she fingered a curl behind one ear. “Would anyone like to go first?”

Solo leaned back and put on his best listening face.

Deathly silence. Six heads bent, eyes cast downward, staring at their laps.

Oh God, this was set to be a long hour and a half. Group therapy situations like this were like pulling teeth. Every mental health professional dreaded them.

Finally, Grant cleared his throat and hunkered his elbows onto his knees. “I’ve had a bit of a rough time. Sleep’s been crap. I think my medications have stopped working.” He looked at Solo from under pinned-down brows. “So, doc, any advice would be greatly appreciated.”

Another woman, stockily built with a short buzz cut muttered, “Yeah, same here. Shit dreams. Really vivid, takes me back to the incident. I’m a police officer. Actually, retrenched, as I haven’t been able to get back even on a rehab plan. My GP’s not much good with this stuff and it’s another six weeks before I see my psychiatrist again, so it would be good to have an idea of what to ask the GP for when I see him.”

Relief surged through Solo at being able to do something tangible. “That’s entirely understandable, and getting better sleep is a big part of handling PTSD symptoms. Working with your doctors to get the medication right is paramount. I’m not your treating doctor, of course, so I can’t give individualised advice, but would you guys like an update of the medications currently used to treat PTSD?”

“You bet, doc. I have no idea about my meds, or what the side-effects might be,” an older guy called David said. “But my doctor keeps wanting to increase the dose. I’d like to try something different, to be honest.”

A universal yes came from the group. Except for one black cloud that seemed to be hovering over the curly head of his co-facilitator.

“Sure, I can give a quick run-down,” Solo said.

“Perhaps we should just remind ourselves that this is a support group, and we are here to share coping strategies,” Polly said crisply.

“Medications are part of my coping strategies,” Grant replied, his chin suddenly jutting a little. “I’d like to hear from Doc Solo here.”

“Yeah, so would I,” David chipped in.

“Perhaps we should ask the rest of the group,” Polly responded. “What does everyone else want?”

“I’d like to hear what Doc Solo has to say.”

“Yes, me too.”

“I’m sick of trying to do that relaxation exercise Ben gave us, I need some other ideas.”

Polly sat back and folded her arms, then quickly unfolded them and ran her palms down her thighs. Solo wished she wouldn’t do that just now.

“Right,” she said. Her fingertips tapped her knees. “It seems, Dr Solo, that you have the green light.”

Solo cast her a glance and registered the challenge in her eyes. Clearly he’d taken the group somewhere Polly didn’t want it to go. But then he looked at the other six faces turned in his direction, full of hope that maybe there were some answers out there that didn’t involve sitting and talking. And heck, medication for PTSD was something he knew a fair bit about, wasn’t it?

He stood and went to the whiteboard. These guys clearly wanted his knowledge, and this time, he wasn’t going to let Polly Fletcher put him off his stride.