The Polly Principle by Davina Stone
Chapter 15
“Dr Jakoby, would you say sertraline or fluoxetine as a starting point for Brad Jamieson?”
Solo’s head jerked up from the notes he should have been writing up.
So far all he’d managed to scribble was, “major depressive episode after break-up of long-term relationship”.
“Um, yes, a trial of sertraline, definitely. According to his records he didn’t improve greatly on fluoxetine several years back.”
“Indeed, so it would seem.” Pritchard’s face was grim. “His GP arranged this hospitalisation due to his previous major depressive episode.”
Solo cleared his throat. “I guess the ending of an eight-year relationship would have a fair bit to do with it. There’d be a component of grieving as well.”
He tapped his pen and tried to pretend he didn’t feel a pair of green eyes dwelling on him for longer than was comfortable from across the table.
It was Monday morning ward meeting hell. Friday night was still very much at the forefront of his mind, where it had been lodged all weekend.
Saturday first thing he’d come downstairs to find Carts with an icepack on his head and a gigantic mug of black coffee in his grip.
“Good night?” Solo said, going to the fridge and getting out the milk. “Remember much?”
Okay, he was fishing, but Polly’s concern had been a blow to his ego, not to mention leaving him alone in a bed he’d have much preferred to have been filled with a gorgeous warm woman.
“Can’t remember much past when you left the Shamrock, to be honest,” Carts muttered. “Except I had this weird dream.”
Solo closed the fridge with his foot. “Yeah?”
“Polly Fletcher, putting me to bed on the sofa. Very scantily clad. You’re the psychiatrist. Does that mean I’ve got some kind of subliminal hots happening for her I don’t know about?”
Solo tried to prevent the smile from reaching his lips. Despite still smarting over Polly’s untimely exit, Carts’ complete look of terror was really quite funny.
“The idea doesn’t appeal?”
He couldn’t imagine many guys not finding Polly goddamn awe-inspiringly beautiful, but somehow he got the impression Carts was one of the few.
“I know guys fall over themselves for her.” Carts gulped a mouthful of coffee. “But frankly, she’s a bit full-on for me.”
“I think you’d know if you fancied her in real life.” Shit, he had, hadn’t he? The moment he set eyes on her it was like every nerve in his body stood to attention. And another part of him—best not to dwell on that right now.
“Phew,” said Carts. “That’s a relief.”
Solo wished he could wipe away all thoughts of Polly as easily as Carts could, but here he was, unable to focus, having relived their lovemaking over and over all weekend, and steeling himself not to message her.
And of course, he’d not heard a thing from her.
Disappointment had dragged his feet heavily into work this morning. He’d had to fortify his steps and lengthen his stride as he walked in behind Pritchard with the patient files in his arms.
The atmosphere in the room right now was heavy.
Judith looked pale and swollen-eyed and Polly, sitting close and clearly protective, had shot him a “don’t draw attention to it” look that he’d acknowledged with a tight-lipped nod as he sat down.
Polly’s energy was spiky, tense. But frankly, so was his.
Now, Pritchard looked around the room and said, little weasel eyes gleaming, “Did you all get out of bed on the wrong side this morning? Can we have a bit of enthusiasm here? Okay, Jakoby, sertraline it is. Add a bit of short-term Xanax for the anxiety. Next case.”
“Bernie Bullman,” Leon said with an eye-roll.
“What?” Pritchard frowned. “Didn’t we discharge him on Friday?”
“Yes,” Polly supplied. “Apparently he didn’t turn up at the hostel I organised for him. He was found on the nineteenth floor of the Queen’s building, insisting he was Spider-Man.”
Pritchard sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Ah, Bernie. What on earth are we going to do with him?”
Everyone sat around, frowning and clicking their pen tops. They were definitely running out of solutions when it came to Bernie. He was outwitting all of them.
Finally, the ward round over, Solo exited the room and strode along the corridor making conversation with Leon. The more he got to know Leon, the more he liked the guy. His morose façade was just that, a façade, beneath which he was big-hearted, and infinitely kind to the patients. He was laid-back to the point of being almost horizontal, except in an emergency, when he fired on all cylinders.
“Been hearing about your knitting prowess.” Leon grinned.
“Ha.” Solo barked out a laugh. “News travels fast.”
“Esme is calling for a Solo Jakoby knitting circle every Friday.”
Solo couldn’t help a smirk, especially as Polly and Judith were gaining on them. He wanted Polly to be impressed; it was stupidly childish, but there it was.
Deep in his pocket his phone rang. He stopped and drew it out.
Emma. His heart lurched in his chest.
He took it and said, louder than he needed to, “Hi, Em.”
He felt Polly’s attention on him as she came level; it was almost imperceptible, unless you happened to know how her ears could flap.
“Solo, I didn’t really expect you’d pick up.” A month or so back Emma’s voice would still have caused pain, but now he was far more aware of a fleeting impression of wide green eyes as Polly shot past, followed by a toss of her head.
His stomach tightened as that curly head bobbed off into the distance. He pressed the phone to his ear. “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
He forced out, “How’s Drew?”
A long pause. “He’s finally responding to the medication regime, they think.” He could hear the tightness in Em’s voice, like a stretched rubber band.
“I thought as much.”
“How did you know?”
“He’s stopped sending me hate messages.”
“Oh no, Solo. Was he doing that? I had no idea.”
No, because I chose not to worry you with it.“Private hospitals don’t tend to take celebrity’s phones away from them, so…”
“Were they really bad?”
No point sugar-coating the pill now. “Yep.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emma’s voice was nearly a whisper.
“It’s not your fault.”
Another awkward silence
“Look, um, the reason I’m phoning is I have a modelling job in Perth in a few weeks. Could we, I mean, would you be up to meeting me?”
Solo’s jaw clenched. Was he ready to see Emma again? He wasn’t sure. It was like his brain had been scrambled with Polly and now nothing seemed the same anymore.
“Okay,” he said, injecting warmth into his voice. “That would be good.”
“Are you certain about that? I mean, if you’d rather not…”
“Em, don’t worry. I’m not angry about it, okay? I’m doing fine. How are you two going…?”
He sensed her moment of hesitation. “We’re… okay… good, I think, now he’s more himself.”
Before, those words would have hurt like hell. Now the whole sordid business felt distant, hazy. Unreal. Like it had happened to someone else.
Solo stifled a sigh. Filled his voice with smiles, so she’d hear he was fine. “That’s great news.”
“Are you enjoying Perth?” Emma asked.
“I am.”
“The job and all? You’ve made some friends?”
“Yep. Job’s good. And yes, I’ve made some friends.” He’d count Carts as a friend, and Leon was someone he felt he could warm towards. And then there was Polly.
What on earth would he call her? Frenemy? Sexemy?
“Anyway, got to go, Em, I’ve got patients to see. Text me the date. Are you set for accommodation and everything?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got a hotel. The Sheridan.”
“It will be good to show you around Perth.”
“That would be nice. And it’s good to talk to you, Solo.”
“Good to talk to you, too, Em.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
When he’d pocketed his phone he glanced along the hospital corridor.
Polly was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Hi Mim,
Fingers hovering over the keyboard of her laptop, Polly chewed on the inside of her cheek. What the hell should she offer to bring to Dad’s seventieth?
It was a mere two weeks away, and she hadn’t even thought of a present.
A new shirt? Dad wore the same old things on the farm, his blue overalls with a white Bonds T-shirt underneath. A shaver, to get rid of his beard? Maybe a clean shave would do him good. A book from The Book Genie? Dad had started reading once and had actually gone through some classics. They’d even managed to have some good conversations, but the problem was that other than the farm—and drinking—Dad hadn’t developed many hobbies. Sure, the farm took his time, but he was a man without a rudder. A man whose past would never quite set him free. He never spoke about Vietnam, but Polly knew his experiences there had broken him. Broken his relationship with Mum, which had—according to the occasional conversation she’d had with Gran on the subject—been so vibrant and romantic before he left, only to turn into a nightmare of mood swings and drinking binges when he got back.
The only thing that Polly could remember between her parents were long periods of tense silence punctuated by raised voices and smashing crockery.
She stuck her chin on her fist and sighed. She knew what he’d like her to give him, and it made her heart curl into a tight little knot. His favourite Irish whisky. But it had been years since anyone would buy Dad alcohol.
She wasn’t a great cook, so baking anything was out. Then an idea struck her. The decorations. A big 70th sign. She’d make it after work in the OT department. That would do. And she’d take some snacks, nice cheeses, gourmet crackers. Hardly imaginative, but better than subjecting the guests to her cooking.
Smiling, she started to type the email again, then stopped, chewing at her lip once more. God, how these two had managed to get this far was anyone’s guess. When Mum had taken off over east when Polly was fourteen, Mim had moved in barely nine months later. Polly had nothing against Mim, she was a nice, warm-hearted woman. She took Dad’s flack most of the time, always came back to him after the occasional spat, and she’d been good to Gran in her final year of life. Yeah, Mim had put up with a lot.
Polly straightened. She’d never do that. Put up with shit and keep on smiling and forgiving. She’d go to her death for a friend, but not a lover.
She’d meant it when she’d told Solo friends came first. She’d learned to value friendship over any liaison, no matter how good it felt. Once burned, twice, thrice, a thousand times shy.
Sex was just that. Sex.
Except it didn’t feel like just sex with Solo, did it?
She wriggled her butt into the seat. It had been so damned good. But there was also this really pesky emotional thing happening, wasn’t there? She actually felt drawn to him as a person. And that was simply not on.
Which made everything awkward. They were in this kind of weird limbo-land of brief steamy looks and stilted conversation. And then there’d been that call in the hospital corridor yesterday that had drawn Solo to an abrupt standstill, the sudden smile as he said the word “Em”. And you could bet it wasn’t frigging Emanuel or Emmerson or whatever male names began with Em.
It was a woman.
So what? She wasn’t interested in anything long-term, so if there was some girl lurking back in Sydney, all fine and good.
Polly flicked a defiant curl out of her eyes and typed.
Hi Mim,
I’m going to flex my creative muscles and make a big 70 glittery sign. Also, I’ll bring some cheeses, dips and crackers.
Let me know how many coming.I have a disco ball somewhere. Do you want it?
Anything else you need, drop me a line.
Expect I’ll get there midday on Saturday.
Polly xx
A tightness constricted her throat at the idea of going up to Wadgigaree. The sparse flat country, the parched eucalypts. The dry riverbed. In winter it was green and pretty enough, but it was the end of summer now and even the pink galahs would be straggly and irritable like a gang of delinquent teenagers, the cattle lacklustre, the colours of the bush burned out by the unrelenting sun.
And dust everywhere. So freakin’ dusty.
No wonder Dad found it hard not to drink. The only fun spot was the old Wadgigaree pub with its wide verandas and the jacaranda trees providing a patch of welcome shade.
She kicked back in her chair and took a sip of her lemon water. Sunday she’d made chocolate brownies from a packet mix. Ate half the tin, hated herself. Was determined to throw the rest in the bin on Monday, but when she got home after the Solo and Em conversation, she’d shoved another two pieces in her mouth before ditching the rest.
Then she’d gone for a run, which had made her want to throw up the brownie and, by the feel of her lower legs, given her shin splints into the bargain.
So now she was hobbling, had stuffed her face with nearly a pan of brownies over two days, and her punishment was lemons forever.
Polly tapped send on her computer, and was trying to work out what she was going to cook with two lemons, half an onion and three potatoes when her phone rang. “Dr J” came up on the screen. She’d jokingly put in that title one day at work.
“Wondering if you’d like to go for a quick bite?” His voice was deeper and more gravelly than she’d noticed when his face was attached to it. “We haven’t discussed how we go about the PTSD group tomorrow. I don’t want to get it wrong again.”
Okay, she’d concede. This was merely a professional after-work meeting so that was fine, wasn’t it? And besides, what could you make with a couple of lemons, half an onion and a sprouting potato? Nada.
“Okay.” She schooled her voice to neutral and ignored her pounding heart. “There’s a decent Vietnamese between my place and yours.”
“Great. Send me the address and I’ll Google how to get there.”
After Solo hung up, she’d texted the address with oddly shaky fingers. Unable to breathe at all steadily, she dashed into her room, ripped off her tracky pants and T-shirt and hopped in the shower. Because, for goodness sake, you had to be clean and perfumed and dressed in the cutest little red-and-white flowered frock for a meeting with a colleague, didn’t you?
Forty-five minutes later, she walked through the door of Saigon Corner and scanned the crowd. Her stomach bottomed out when she realised there was no short, spiky hair in sight. She was a few minutes early, though. She sat herself down and gladly took the menu from the waitress.
Her mouth was watering over Cau Lau and beef pho when she sensed a presence and looked up to see Solo in a crisp white shirt and blue jeans. His hair looked newly washed, and now that his stubble was shorter she could see he had a marked dimple in his chin. It was altogether too delicious a sight as it met the strong tanned column of his neck.
Polly swallowed the saliva gathering in her mouth.
All these new little things she was noticing about him were such a turn-on. The subtle nuances that made her greedy for more. More exploration, more little treasures she’d only just begun to discover.
Enough!
If she had a wooden spoon she’d rap herself over the knuckles just like Gran used to when she tried to poke her finger into the cake mix. But despite that she longed to reach out and wheedle a finger between the buttons of his shirt to the velvety skin. Tweak one dark nipple.
She gulped.
They were here to talk work. Not to indulge her sexual fantasies.
“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual.
“Hi.” His eyes lingered, as if he too wanted to stick a finger in the cake mix, so to speak.
“Glad you could make it.”
“I had some stuff to sort out but decided I could spare time for a quick bite. For the sake of our co-therapy role.”
His lips twitched. “Thanks.”
When she smiled up at him, she realised she was blushing, which was clearly ridiculous.
“So, what were you doing?” he asked as he sat down and she hid behind the menu, too busy focusing on controlling her body’s temperature gauge to answer.
Solo supplied, “You said you were sorting stuff out?”
“Oh, um—” Polly floundered, unable to think up a fib. “I was helping plan my dad’s seventieth.”
It would hardly count as comprehensive planning. A short, terse email to Mim. And the fact that her thoughts kept bouncing back to the guy who was now sitting in the flesh in front of her, that was neither here nor there, was it?
The urge to touch him almost overwhelmed her again as Solo tilted his head; the striated muscles in his neck fluid as he ordered their drinks. She could almost imagine the warm, sweet scent of him on her nostrils.
His gaze returned to her face and she must still have that hungry look, because his eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Polly’s breath snagged in her throat. She thrust back in her chair and folded her arms. His eyes dipped to her chest. Of course they did, her breasts were her prize asset and folding her arms accentuated them. A whoosh of heat shot to her sex as he quickly averted his gaze.
She had to admit, it thrilled her, knowing she was turning him on. Even if she wasn’t going to let it go any further.
“So what’s happening for his birthday?” Solo asked.
“His long-term partner had the crack-brained idea we should throw him a party.”
Solo frowned. “Why’s that crack-brained?”
“Dad’s an alcoholic. If you asked him, he’d say he’s a recovered alcoholic, but frankly, they never are. He just likes to pretend falling off the wagon never happens. Denial is his default mode.”
She tried to keep the bitterness at bay but it was hard, and she could feel Solo’s eyes boring into her as he asked, “Is that why you used to play peacekeeper?”
She picked at the edge of the paper menu. “You remember me saying that?”
He nodded
“Yeah. I didn’t do a good enough job of it, clearly.”
“Maybe it wasn’t your job to do.”
She glanced up to see his eyes glowing soft, caressing her. Taking a breath suddenly hurt. “Maybe.”
“So where’s your mum now?”
“She left when I was fourteen, went off in a campervan around Australia, met a nice guy on the way and shacked up with him in Far North Queensland.”
“That must have been hard.”
If Dr J was trying to give her therapy, he could forget it. She shrugged. “No, not really. Mum and I were never close. It was Gran who did the nurturing of me and Joe.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah, he’s six years older than me. He helps run the farm now.”
“Is your mum still in Queensland?”
“No. She and Trevor bred chihuahuas for a while, but she was a smoker, ate crap. Never looked after herself. She’d had digestive problems for years that she’d never had looked at, and by the time she did, it was too late. She died of pancreatic cancer ten years ago.”
“Hence your dislike of me smoking.”
“Not you especially. Just anyone.” He wasn’t going to get her to admit she actually cared.
“I’ll remember to avoid the cancer sticks around you, then.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just avoid them, end of story.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Polly couldn’t help a grin. “That’s better. I like compliance in a man.”
He threw himself back in his chair. “Wait a sec, I think I have a little studded collar somewhere in my pocket, do you want me to pop it on now or later?”
Now she was laughing. Oh fuckity fuck, and blushing again. She fanned herself with the menu. Time to get right away from the personal stuff. “Can we talk about something else? Like, not dredge up all the personal shit?”
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. “I guess we haven’t really had much of a conversation, despite…”
He trailed off, and she wasn’t going to fill in the space that was full of all the unsaid things that were clearly going on in both their heads. She forced her shoulders to relax. Come on, she asked people questions about their lives all the time, so why was she so churned up?
As the plates of aromatic food arrived, crowding out the space on the chequered tablecloth, conversation halted until the waiter left. Solo motioned for her to go first.
She took a thumbnail of rice and two tiny mouse-sized portions of gorgeous, sticky caramelised pork, hesitated, then took one spoonful of the beef pho. Her stomach grumbled desperately.
“Is that it?”
She broke apart her chopsticks. “How do you mean?”
“Is that all you’re having?”
“Yep. I’ve over-indulged lately.” Heat burned holes in her cheeks. “With food, that is.”
‘You’ve got a distorted view of your body.”
“I do not!”
“Your body is beautiful.” He said the words quietly, firmly. His eyes seared into her, almost angry.
They stared at one another for a long beat. A vein throbbed in her neck, until the throb extended lower, like molten liquid. It was all she could do not to say “forget dinner, let’s move straight along to bed, shall we?”
But she didn’t. “I beg to differ,” she responded stiffly, wielding her chopsticks.
“Yeah, because maybe if that little girl had been perfect back then, she could have stopped her parents from fighting. Right?”
The comment stole the breath out of her lungs, left her hand waving the chopsticks in mid-air and her mouth half open. She’d always refused to dwell on it, her discomfort with just being her, the sense that she was never measuring up, but now it was like Solo had whacked a mallet between her eyes.
“Am I right?”
“I—oh. Jesus. Typical bloody psychiatrist,” she blustered, gripping the chopsticks firmer and digging them into her plate of food. “You can’t help but analyse, can you?”
“I just don’t get how you can seem so confident but want to change exactly what makes you who you are.”
Polly stared down at her plate; a coil of curls fell over her eye and she flipped it irritably away. He was right. She hated her damn curls too, even though most people said they were her crowning glory. Literally. “I guess, like everyone, I’m a complex mix. I mean, look at you, Dr J. Blood phobic, knitting fiend, with a past you’re running away from.”
“What makes you think that?
She shrugged, not looking at him. “A hunch.” How to explain? Other than tell the truth. “Carts said you’d been getting some pretty heavy phone messages.”
Solo’s features tightened. “How does he know?”
She pushed back her shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. “You left your phone in the kitchen and the texts kept coming in so he read a stream. Don’t blame Carts. He wasn’t purposely prying, he just thought it might be urgent.”
“I see.”
They stayed silent for a long moment, both of them scooting food around their plates, then she couldn’t help asking, “Were they from an ex?”
He barked a little laugh. “You could say that. Ex-friend.”
Her mind flew to the photo in his wallet. The boy with the world-conquering smile.
“The photo in your wallet. Is that him with you and your pop?”
“So you saw it.”
“I had to check inside to see whose wallet it was.”
He didn’t seem surprised. Or that worried. In fact, he looked almost relieved.
And then she did something she’d do if Solo were her friend, someone who she cared about, not just a guy she’d had mind-blowing sex with. She reached across the table, put her hand on his arm and asked softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”