The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 3

Polly hurried along the hospital corridor, KeepCup clasped tightly in one hand and her bulky work bag flip-flopping over her shoulder.

As usual, she was late for a ward meeting and now her phone was trilling.

Spying an empty seat, she carefully placed her coffee down—you couldn’t afford to spill a drop this early on a Monday morning—and located her phone in the depths of her bag just as it switched to message bank.

But not before she’d seen the name “Joe” flash up on the screen.

Guilt jabbed at her gut. She’d been only an hour away from home on the weekend. She could have made a detour and seen her older brother and his wife, said a quick hi to Dad and Mim.

But after Solo had jumped out of her bed like he’d been attacked by a swarm of angry bees, she’d been too pissed off to do anything on Sunday morning other than hop in her little Toyota and speed back to Perth with Queen’s greatest hits belting out at full decibels.

So no, she hadn’t gone home and she hadn’t seen Dad, and yes, she should have.

Polly sighed, glanced at the time on the top of the screen, quickly texted, “in meeting call you later” and then, with a couple of gulps of coffee, headed towards Echidna Ward.

When she sidled into her seat at the table, she realised Dr Death (Dr Jonathon Pritchard, head psychiatrist to everyone other than Polly and a few other staff she’d initiated into his alternative title) was nowhere to be seen.

She let out a sigh of relief, opened her bag and removed her notepad and a pen.

There were bound to be new patients after the weekend, and with the way her brain was feeling right now, it would be good to have a few minutes to reset.

Smoothing down her hair to ensure all the crinkles were safely caught in the up-do she’d scraped onto her head this morning, she smiled at Judith across the table.

Judith winked. “All right?” she mouthed, then leaned forward. “How’d the rest of your weekend shape up?”

Polly stifled the tingle of a blush. Judith had stayed at the bride’s parents’ place, no way would she know anything.

She jabbed a thumb in the air. “Great.”

True—until the fizzle of a finale. Amazing, actually. Better sex than she’d had with anyone in recorded history—so natural and easy and, yes, more downright playful than all her short-lived dates and even the six years of falling happily into bed with her dear old fuck-buddy, Jake. She’d reeled through the scenes shamelessly all yesterday: those long, lean limbs and his amazing six pack. And, holy shit, that mouth—hot and demanding, tongue sliding and coaxing, a perfect fit with hers and… and… that totally steamy look on his face as he thrust deep into her…

Oh, no,stop! Shut it down. Now.

Polly crossed her legs under the table and squeezed her clit into silence.

What a bastard, just upping and leaving before she’d had time to order from the dessert menu. No suggestion of “let’s exchange phone numbers, meet up again”. But why the hell was she bothered about that? She had Tinder, didn’t she?

Focusing, she realised she’d doodled phallic shapes all over her nice clean page.

What the hell was her problem?

The nose kiss. Just before he scarpered. That was the problem. It did something weird to her insides, and then there was the sad look in his eyes as he thanked her, like she’d saved his soul from hell demons or something.

Stop fantasising, she ordered herself fiercely as she made hmm-hah noises to Leon, the ward’s senior nurse, who was telling her that they’d had four new admissions over the weekend. Oh yes, and that Bernie Bullman had gone AWOL again and been found at the pub holding court over whisky chasers with the Western Dingos rugby team.

Good old Bernie. Made Jack Nicholson look like an amateur.

She’d just turned to a fresh page and was writing the date when she caught the sound of Dr Death’s low drone. But when she heard a deeper, smoother, and disturbingly familiar voice in answer, her body turned into static electricity. Polly’s head kicked up, her gaze locking onto Dr Death’s familiar bald head in the doorway, his beady eyes peering over the top of his glasses at the assembled staff.

And behind him… Christ… oh God, no. Him.

Polly’s stomach rode into her mouth.

Silver-eyed, piping-hot motorbike man with the perfect bod and stupid smoking habit was standing behind Dr Death, a head and shoulders taller—if you counted the spikes of his short dark hair—amazing pecs concealed under a crisp white shirt, suit jacket stretched over shoulders she’d bitten, yes, actually bitten, as she rode her orgasm. Daring to stand there, all neat and tidy, with those hands that had been everywhere on her body clasped neatly in front of him. All serious and soo fuck-ing professional.

Bastard.

And then he lifted his head and stared straight at her.

Polly’s mind seemed intent on vacating her body. She ground the heels of her pumps into the floor to tether her butt cheeks to the seat. Great waves of heat pulsed up her neck and radiated into her face. She stared back down at her pad and squeezed her pen until the tips of her fingers turned white, then fixed her eyes back on Dr Death’s wizened little face as if she’d never seen anything more lovely.

Totally oblivious to her state of inner pandemonium, Dr Death poked his glasses up his nose and turned, first to him, the sex fraudster, and then back to the assembled team.

“Sorry we’re late getting started. I was showing our new psychiatrist around the ward. This is the locum senior registrar I told you would be starting this week. Let me introduce Dr Solomon Jakoby.”

* * *

Solo already knewshe’d be here.

He’d checked.

When he arrived in Perth at 4 a.m. on Sunday morning he’d ridden down to the Swan River, then did what he only ever allowed himself to do in extreme circumstances: smoked two more cigarettes from his stash, one after the other.

Afterwards he’d got out his phone and scrolled through the website of Western State hospital.

Echidna Ward staff, he read.

Psychologist Ben Tan.

Head Nurse, Leon Novac.

Occupational Therapist, Judith Davenport. The photo looked familiar; the pleasant girl-next-door smile and long blonde hair—oh yeah, she’d interrupted them on the hotel patio.

Which likely meant… Yep, sure enough.

Senior Social Worker, Polly Fletcher.

Solo inhaled, let a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth and stroked his thumb over the image. It was the typical mug shot you had taken for passports or work ID, and it certainly didn’t present her at her best. Without make-up her complexion was pale and her curls had been harnessed into a tight ponytail, giving her face a round, bland appearance. But those wide green eyes, the full definition of her lovely mouth…

His groin sprang alarmingly to life. Because he knew what those lips were capable of, the way her eyes turned vivid at his touch.

He got up and paced, took another drag, threw the half-smoked butt on the ground and drilled his heel into it.

What were the chances?

He’d lied to her. She’d sure find that out soon enough, wouldn’t she? Solo Jakoby, manual labourer turned psychiatrist—slightly different job description. When she’d said she was a social worker he’d freaked out and said the first thing that entered his head. Perth wasn’t as big as Sydney when it came to their line of work.

It was supposed to be a one-off. They weren’t supposed to ever meet again.

Christ! He’d run away from complications over east, straight into the arms—literally, it seemed—of another one.

So here he was, and here she was. Solo could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of his collar as he tried to keep his face expressionless.

As their eyes met, colour erupted like hives from her neck up to her cheeks, her mouth forming a momentary O before she snapped her gaze away.

Solo braced his shoulders and made polite noises as Pritchard went laboriously through the introductions.

Judith the occupational therapist gave him a quizzical smile. He smiled blandly back and wondered if his skin was going to shed.

“And,” Pritchard was bumbling on in his peculiar toneless voice, “last but not least, Polly Fletcher, our very experienced social worker. Polly can help you out with any practical issues.”

An explosion threatened at the back of Solo’s throat. He swallowed and almost gagged.

Polly’s eyes drilled into him for a second before sliding past his shoulder.

“Hi,” she said woodenly to the air.

“Hi,” Solo replied. He managed to stop himself tugging at his collar and sat down quickly in the seat next to Pritchard’s.

He wasn’t quite sure how he survived the meeting, except it involved absolutely not letting his gaze stray in Polly Fletcher’s direction. Even when she spoke, her tone firm and confident about finding a patient some temporary accommodation or getting their welfare payments sorted, he managed to studiously keep writing notes, ignoring the buzz in his gut—or was it lower? The fact was, this Polly woman messed with his head, and apparently a number of other parts of his body, too.

Later, when everyone had scattered to get on with the day’s work and he’d seen Polly’s modest black slacks and pale lilac blouse heading at speed down the corridor, Solo finally found himself in the nursing station in front of a screen full of patient lists.

“Hey there. Good to have you on board.” A guy Solo recognised as Ben, the team psychologist, sauntered up.

“Thanks, good to be here.”

“Are you interested in group therapy?” Ben said.

Solo gave a grin. “Having some or giving some?”

“Ha, sorry—bad phrasing, I meant, have you ever led therapy groups? Some of the psychiatrists we’ve had on rotation tend to be more medication-focused and others enjoy getting involved in the talking side of things.”

Solo shrugged. He had done his fair bit of psychotherapy in training. “I’m not into psychoanalysis, but I think cognitive therapy combined with medication shows pretty good efficacy.”

Under the scrutiny of the guy’s earnest dark eyes he felt uncomfortably like he was being analysed.

A moment later Ben’s face relaxed into an easy smile and Solo decided maybe he’d misjudged him. At the teaching hospital in Sydney he’d just left, the professional jealousies had got a bit out of control, but maybe here in the west everyone was on friendlier terms. He cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just that I’m heading off to Europe for four weeks and that leaves the PTSD group with only one therapist. We prefer for that not to happen. Thought you might like to take on co-leading while I’m away.”

Post-traumatic stress disorder. Solo consciously relaxed his spine, breathed in and released it slowly, letting the breath pinch out of his lungs in three measured exhalations. It helped.

“Yeah, sure, if Pritchard doesn’t have too many other things lined up, and it doesn’t overlap with any ward meetings.”

“Oh no, it definitely won’t, it’s an evening group. That’s probably why I’m having trouble getting someone to take it on, if I’m honest, but thought, you know, with…”

“Me being new to Perth and having no social life, you mean?”

Ben gave a polite laugh. “No, not at all. Anyway, happy to talk you through it. Besides, you’d be working alongside another very experienced member of the team.”

The hairs on the back of Solo’s neck stood to attention. “Oh, right.”

“Yeah, Polly, the social worker you met this morning. She’s brilliant. The group was her brainchild and basically she holds it all together. Just let her take the lead and you’ll get the hang of the dynamics real fast.”

What bad joke was the universe playing on him? A momentary image of Polly flipping him onto his back and shaking her curls in his face as he palmed her amazing breasts, nearly erased Solo’s last morsel of self-composure. It took a moment before he could trust himself to speak.

“I’ll give it some thought and let you know,” he muttered and stared back at the computer screen.