The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 24

Shit, shit, shit.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Solo pitched towards Emma like someone trying to avert a tsunami with a bucket and spade.

From across the room, Polly’s eyes lasered into his spine as he managed, “Em, hi, this is a surprise!”

Next to Emma, Carts bounced on his heels, looking apologetic. “Sorry, mate, I completely forgot to tell you, with all the party excitement.”

Solo could only stare at him, perplexed.

“I rang,” Emma explained, placing a hand on Solo’s arm. It was all he could do not to jerk away from her touch. “Carts picked up and said you were in the shower, and”—she gave a nervous laugh—“invited me to come to his party tonight. He said he’d tell you. I didn’t do the wrong thing, did I?”

He smiled and shook his head, though his features felt like they’d crumple right off his face. Emma’s eyes travelled past him and somehow— Christ, the thought made him want to punch himself repeatedly in the jaw—he needed to introduce Emma to Polly, explain this debacle to Polly. And still retain his balls.

“No, no, look, I’ll introduce you to some people. Drink?”

“That would be nice,” Emma said, following him.

In the kitchen, Polly was leaning against the sink with her champagne glass hovering around her nose. He went over and muttered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was coming.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Her eyes were like iceberg chips over the rim of her glass. When she looked past him, her smile took on angelic proportions. “Hi, you must be Emma. I’m Polly, I work with Solo at the hospital. So lovely to meet you; Solo’s told me such wonderful things about you.”

“He has?” Emma’s brows rose as she cast a quick glance at Solo.

Polly shrugged a shoulder. “Just in chatting, you know how it is. Anyway, I’ll let you two catch up, sooo lovely to meet you, Emma.”

Solo tried to will Polly to look at him. His telepathy attempts bombed. She sashayed past, her movements fluid, shoulders pinned back, but he wasn’t fooled for a second. There were poison arrows darting at him from every cell of her body.

Fuck! This was the price you paid for hiding the truth.

He stifled a groan as he handed Emma her drink and glanced quickly past her to see Polly deep in conversation with the Chris guy, whose face looked strained just from the effort not to gawk at her breasts.

A spasm of violent rage tore into his gut. He’d happily take the guy by the scruff of his shirt collar and throw him out, but he’d asked for everything he got. And if Polly chose to leave with this guy, it would serve him right.

The rage was directed at himself, not the poor man who was being razzle-dazzled by Polly’s charm. Heart in his stomach, Solo turned back to Emma and forced a grin. “It’s great to see you, Em,” he lied.

* * *

She didn’t meanto be rude to the Uber driver, but thirty minutes after her major humiliation Polly couldn’t help snapping out her address to the poor guy like a volley of ammunition.

She threw her bag on the seat and ripped off her stupid fake designer shoes because her toes had gone completely numb. That’s what you got for investing in fakes.

And hate it though she did, yeah, absolutely hated it, she was having to face the fact that she was hurt.

No. Scrub that. Fucking devastated.

All the memories of being sixteen and staring at Danny’s naked arse as it gyrated on top of some faceless girl came flooding back, but the one thing she remembered with clarity was how long and slim the legs were that were wrapped around his butt.

And so, okay, Solo hadn’t got that far—yet —but you bet later tonight he would be shagging that stunning twig.

She ground her back teeth together until she was sure they’d turned to powder and tried to stop the violent stabbing at the back of her eyes; the huge lump that was strangling her ability to take in oxygen.

She gulped hard, fixed her gaze on the passing scenery.

The buildings blurred into a moving haze.

Oh, Christ, she’d promised, promised herself she would never, ever cry over a guy again.

She stared down the big blob of a tear that was threatening to dangle off her eyelash. If she let this one out there would be a flood and the poor Uber guy would be sloshing water out of the back of his car for hours.

Polly blinked hard. Squeezed the monster tear back into her eye somehow and forced air into her lungs.

After flirting madly with Chris until he was almost panting, she’d not been able to stick around any longer. Solo had been trying to catch her eye, which she avoided, but after holing herself up in the toilet for ten minutes, he was waiting for her when she exited. She’d tried to push past him but he followed her, his face taut.

“Polly, can we talk about this?”

“Nope.”

“I was going to tell you. Emma wasn’t due to arrive until tomorrow.”

“Oh, fantastic, kiss me goodbye in the morning, shove me out the door and offer Emma the next spot.”

“Christ.” Solo was tunnelling into his hair with agitated fingers. A girl squeezed past with a loud, “Excuse me, but I’m busting.” They shifted.

Polly searched for her jacket on the rack.

“You’re going?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Please stay.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“Because I want you to.”

She grabbed her jacket and spat out, “No, what you want is a cat-fight in the middle of Carts’ party. Typical fucking man. I must say, you had me sucked in that you were over her.” She swung the jacket around her shoulders, dug her fingers in her bag and felt like belting him with it. “How could you be? She’s just about the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“What that meant to mean? That I’m uglier than a witch, but good in the sack?”

“No!”

“No, Fuck you, Solo.” She couldn’t help it; she gave him a push in the centre of his chest with her handbag.

Solo’s jaw set and his eyes sparked. He stood his ground. “You know your problem?”

She tossed her head. “I’m sure you’re planning on enlightening me, so go right ahead.”

“You always think you’re right. The world according to Polly Fletcher. Black and white. No room for grey.”

She gritted her teeth and hissed, “I’ve got eyes. Funny thing, but I’ve learned to trust them. What’s more, they see in glorious technicolour.”

Solo dared to smirk. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable.”

“Fuck off.” Her fingers itched to shove that bag into his chest again and back him down the whole length of the hallway.

He braced his chest, as if expecting as much. “You don’t know the full story.”

“I think I do. It’s called a truckload of bullshit”

“So you won’t stick around to find out if you’re wrong.”

“Cor-rect.”

His jaw ticked, his eyes silver slits. “Coward.”

Something ripped in her chest. No-one called her a coward. “No, I’m a fucking survivor. Have a nice night with your girlfriend.” She turned as she yanked at the door and glared at him. “On second thoughts, have a nice life together.”

With that she was out the door and down the path, the sound of the Backstreet Boys ringing in her ears, wishing he’d follow her just so she could give him another very satisfying earful. But when she’d walked as fast as she could to the end of the road and taken out her phone to call an Uber and he hadn’t followed her, she’d deflated like a pricked balloon.

And now here she was, dying inside at the memory.

And she couldn’t breathe because there was a big metal band around her chest.

And that stupid tear was back, teetering like a trapeze artist on the end of her eyelashes.

When she got home she dropped her gear on the bench and headed for the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of wine out of the fridge and rummaged around for the corkscrew. She was digging it relentlessly into the cork when she stopped. Froze, more like. The bottle sandwiched between her thighs and this desperate feeling rising up her throat.

The word coward banged around her skull like a deranged monkey.

Fuck, no!

She was behaving just like Dad. Emotional pain, running to the bottle, drowning out her feelings with alcohol. Sure, she loved a drink, maybe a bit too much sometimes, but she was a social drinker, she knew the dangers of drinking alone. But this, this was different. She wanted to obliterate the slimy black monster in her chest. The one with hideous green eyes.

Fingers shaking, she placed the bottle on the table. The opener back in the drawer.

Then she marched into her room and searched in the bottom of the wardrobe until she found it. Her purple journal, “Polly Fletcher’s Journal STRICTLY PRIVATE” written on it in childish rounded handwriting, flowers and glitter and sticky things all over the front cover.

She plonked down on the bed, pushed her curls behind both ears, and opened it.

Flicking through to the most-thumbed pages, her heart pounded as she read the entries about Danny. The outpourings of love and yearning and hopes of a sixteen-year-old. Her dreams of being with Danny, marrying Danny, riding off into a hazy sunset with Danny. The night she’d given him her virginity. “It was beautiful, though it hurt a bit and it was over real quick, but Danny held me close and told me he loved me after.” Hearts with arrows through them, three of them, coloured in pink. She flicked through to a page four weeks later, “I HATE HIM, I HATE HIM” scribbled so hard in red ink the pen had punctured the page…

“I am now the proud owner of a serpent on my inner thigh. I am woman HEAR ME ROAR.”

So young, so passionate, so sure she would survive.

She shut her journal, smoothed her fingertips over the glitter and transfers. Stood up. Peeled off her dress and let it fall to the ground and looked at her body in the mirror without blinking. Her inner left thigh where the serpent’s tongue curled towards the little patch of dark hair, her small waist, the full mounds of her breasts and large nipples. The way her hips spread into rounded buttocks. Yeah, they were bigger than she wanted them to be, but… She turned sideways and stared at her butt cheeks over her shoulders. She had cellulite; those ripples had been there since her late teens, no matter what diet she tried, no matter how many lemons she sucked. So what. It was always going to be this way. And yes, her legs were too short for ideal beauty, her boobs way too big.

But she was her.

Polly.

And she didn’t need anyone to make her feel beautiful. She didn’t need to compare herself to anyone, however tall, and stick-thin friggin’ beautiful they were. Even if she’d clearly just been a rebound fling for someone who she’d made the mistake of letting wangle his way under her skin and into her bed, and make her omelettes like a happy married couple…

Fuckity fuck.

Just as she was beginning to feel better, here came the memories of every glorious second with Solo, like a thousand needles in her brain, digging away at all that soft stuff that she’d thought she’d surgically removed years ago.

She caught her expression in the mirror, the pit of sorrow in the depths of her eyes, the sense of bewilderment and hurt.

Nope. Not happening. She’d have to bring in the big guns.

She looked around but her phone must still be in the kitchen. Barefoot and naked, she nipped down the corridor and found her phone on the kitchen table.

No messages. Really, what was she thinking? Solo would be happily entwined with the supermodel by now. His lovely, strong, muscled, lean legs would be perfect with… NO!

Her lips tightened into a hard line as she brought up the number on automatic dial and put the phone to her ear.

“Munchkin,” she said, trying to control the crack in her voice when Alice answered.

“Hey, Poll, lovely to—Oh—what’s wrong?”

Polly’s shoulders slumped. The stuffing had been ripped out of her and she so needed someone to help her put it back, then sew her carefully back together again. And the only person who could do that right now was Alice.

“Munchkin,” her voice wavered, almost cracked, but she firmed it up. “I need you to tell me I’m wonderful.”

* * *

As the sunwinked between the rooftops of two houses, Solo leaned on his bike handlebars and lit a cigarette. It was 6 a.m., he hadn’t slept all night. And he was smoking. On a Sunday morning. As the sun rose.

Fantastic. His temples throbbed as he dragged in a slow inhalation and stared down the deserted street of neat little houses. Number 26. He could see the rose bushes poking out over the top of the picket fence from here. And any minute now he was going to walk into what looked like a sweet little English country cottage and probably have his balls broken.

But he had to talk to her. Had to have this out with her. At ten o’clock he was meeting Emma and he had to come clean about all of it with Polly before then.

Sighing, he ground his cigarette but out on the tarmac and took out his mints. Shoved a couple in his mouth and ground them down quickly under his teeth.

He couldn’t add smoker’s breath into the equation, he needed every one of his powers to persuade Polly that he… he…

That he loved her?

Would he, could he, go that far? He ached for her, longed for her when she wasn’t with him, felt better, brighter, more alive, laughed more than he’d ever laughed before.

It was nothing like he’d once felt for Emma. The kind of reverent worship you had for a beautiful work of art you had no idea how you’d come by.

No, his feelings for Polly tore him apart, shredded him. And had the potential to make him whole.

He pushed off from his bike and sauntered slowly down the street, pretending that he felt cool, calm and collected while his hands sweated in tight fists in his pocket and his heart pounded.

Finally reaching the fence, he made his way up the path, the steps to the veranda and knocked on the door.

No answer. The blood thundered in his ears.

He skirted round the house. Polly’s window was at the side, the curtains still pulled, so he went round the back, tripped over a watering can with a loud clatter-clunk, and arrived at the back door as Polly’s head thrust out.

She was a mess, he could see that. She still had the remains of last night’s make-up round her eyes, so panda-like, in fact, he had to ask himself if she’d been crying. Her hair looked like a thousand birds had taken up residence. His heart lurched.

Was he responsible for her looking so… so damn miserable?

When she saw him, her brows pleated and her mouth turned down. “What the fuck?”

She pulled her dressing gown round herself and made to slam the door but he vaulted over the felled watering can and got his foot in the door before she could shut it.

“This is breaking and entering,” she squealed and tried to slam it again. A little tussle ensued but Solo realised he wasn’t having to use any strength whatsoever before she gave in, tossed her head, crossed her arms and stomped inside.

He followed.

She turned fiercely at the kitchen bench. “I’m warning you, I have a full set of sharp knives here.” She scowled.

He shut the door gently and leaned on it. They faced each other, and he suddenly sensed the weariness flowing between them; she hadn’t slept either, it was obvious.

“I’ve come to explain.”

“I don’t want an explanation.” But her green eyes held a different message. They were plaintive, raw, and it hurt like hell to see, but it also gave him courage.

“Well, you’re getting one.”

She slumped visibly, one hand fisted close to her mouth. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I should have told you Emma was coming over. She told me a while back she had a modelling assignment here.”

She let out a derisive snort. “She’s a model. I should have guessed

Urggh. Why hadn’t he just said she was here for work? Her eyes were walls. Ice-covered walls. Her face was snowed in.

He cleared his throat. “That’s not relevant to us,” he said and she snorted again but didn’t speak. “I was going to meet with her today, she, um—she and I are going to FaceTime Drew, for the first time since he’s been hospitalised.”

“Does she have to hold your hand while you do it?” Her tone was cold, jeering. He didn’t blame her, he’d behaved appallingly.

He took a deep breath, preparing to open himself up to further humiliation. There was nowhere else to go. Not if he had any chance to make amends.

“Emma left me for Drew. They’d been having an affair behind my back for months before I found them pretty much in bed together.”

This time her eyes flew to his. Round, horrified. He braced for the caustic, “you deserved it” response.

Her mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head.

“And you had no idea?”

“I always knew Drew had a crush on her. I didn’t know she reciprocated. It came to a head when Drew was touted to be the next Bachelor. Emma became so moody and dark. Quite unlike her—she’s a level-headed kind of girl, mostly.”

He felt a spike coming from Polly, could sense her comparing her volatile nature to Miss Perfection, and wanted to say how dull it was now he’d found Polly. But it would look crass, try-hard, so he kept quiet.

“We weren’t seeing much of each other. She was busy with work, so was I, and then one night I went round to Drew’s and he wouldn’t let me in. Emma was in there with him. It all fell into place after that.”

“Why would your best friend do that to you? I would never—how could she—?” Her eyes were sparking with anger and he realised she wasn’t ridiculing him, she cared that he’d been hurt. Hope flew around his chest like some manic little bird.

Until she said, dully, “So no wonder you’re not over her.”

Fuck.This was not the direction he’d planned. He moved towards her. She wound her arms tightly around her waist.

“You’ve got this all wrong. I’m over her,” he said.

“Yeah, like hell. You couldn’t even mention your ex was coming to the woman you’re…” She stopped and he felt his brows lift as their eyes met.

“What are we, Polly?”

She looked at him helplessly, then her eyes skittered away. She wasn’t going to get out of it that easily. Not this time.

“Exactly what are we to one another?”

She shrugged, stared at the collar of his shirt.

He gave a bark of a laugh. “There we have it. That’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know where I stand with you.”

It was her turn to shoot out a harsh laugh. “So you just hedged your bets by having Emma waiting in the wings.”

“No! Jesus Christ. No.” He rafted both hands through his hair in sheer frustration. “God, are you being this difficult on purpose?” She didn’t answer. “Okay.” His palms came down on the table between them and she jumped. “Sorry,” he said. “I just don’t know where to go next. You block every attempt I make to talk to you about us. Every time I try and say what I feel, you just laugh it off… push me away.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

She glared at him now. “Okay, I’ll tell you what we were. We were friends. And fuck buddies, if you want to add another minor detail. But that doesn’t give you the right to hide things—”

“From where I stand, it does,” he almost snarled back. “If you think your fuck buddy won’t think of you as this cool guy anymore, that they will view you as a loser who couldn’t hold on to his girlfriend, who didn’t even see it coming… if you are worried about all that while trying so hard to impress the woman you’re crazy about…”

He had the grim satisfaction of seeing her jaw go slack.

She wrapped her dressing gown tighter around herself. “W-what?”

“You heard me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

He squared his shoulders. “You better believe it. Now I’ve shown you mine, perhaps you could show me yours? Tell me where I stand with you, Polly?”

She stared down at her feet. The silence stretched on for what seemed like forever. Then she said, “Last night I realised you’d got to me.” She spread her hands wide in a helpless gesture. “Okay. I’ll admit it. I let myself feel too much for you.”

“How can you feel too much?”

“I can.” Her arms swung back and hugged around her waist again. He had to work hard not to reach for her. She looked so lost, bleak. “And you know what I finally worked out? The only way I can be happy is to be on my own. The only way I can control this is to not let my emotions get involved. Just. Not. Feel that stuff for someone.”

“Seriously? You counsel people for a living—you work with feelings every day. How can you believe you can just not feel?”

Her smile was brittle. “I’ve done it brilliantly for years. I live off everyone else’s feels vicariously. I—I can’t take what it does to me. Inside. Feeling like my happiness depends on someone else. It messes me up big-time.”

“So, what you’re really saying is you’re not prepared to risk it. To make yourself vulnerable enough to care about someone.”

He eyeballed her, but all he got was the top of her head.

Finally she said in a small voice, “What we had was fun, Solo, okay? End of story.”

“Was?” His voice was hoarse. “Past tense.”

“Yeah, past tense. Seeing you with Emma, realising you had such a long-term relationship with her, I—I realised, I’m just not capable of that, you know, and even if I was, I can’t cope with the fact it will turn to shit. Which it inevitably will. For me, caring for someone always turns to shit.”

“Blocking off your feelings won’t work,” he hurled at her. “It won’t protect you from getting hurt.”

“Just watch me.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“I told you, it works for me.”

Rage was gnawing at his chest now, biting chunks out of his heart. He was bleeding out from gaping invisible wounds. She was willing to just discard them like some useless, soiled rag.

He hardened his bones. Braced his ribs as if fending off blows. “Seems like you and I are not on the same page then. Because despite losing my girlfriend to my best mate, despite losing my parents and my nan and pop, you know what? I’m willing to keep feeling. I’m willing to keep believing there is someone special out there who I can spend my life with, who I can love and who will love me back.” He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “For a brief moment in time there, I thought it might be you.”

She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said, “but it’s not.”