The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 4

Polly had barricaded herself in the toilets.

Sooner or later she was going to have to come out and face this frigging mess but, right now, letting her butt cool on the seat seemed like a viable alternative.

There was oodles of work to do. Mondays were like that; patients to interview, paperwork and forms to fill out, the usual disasters of homelessness and government benefits being cut—and here she was, sitting on the loo, wondering what the hell to do next.

Elbows on knees, she let her head sink into her hands on a silent groan. One small curl wiggled out of its restraints and fell over her eye. She flipped at it angrily.

How the hell was she going to deal with this fiasco? She never mixed work with pleasure. It was her golden rule. There was night-time Polly: figure-hugging dresses a la the good old days in Hollywood and her collection of heels—Alexander Wang, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo (all purchased second-hand on eBay)—plus her itsy-bitsy Victoria’s Secret undies and a trusted pack of ribbed multi-colour condoms in her clutch.

And then there was work Polly: sensible slacks and shirts, no make-up, not a single curl allowed to escape. And flat pumps. Designer brands not important. Functionality paramount.

And ne’er the two would meet.

Until now.

The external door to the women’s toilet banged open.

“Polly, you in here?”

Urkkk, Judith in stalking mode.

Polly hunkered down and played possum.

“I actually know you’re here. I saw you come in ten minutes ago.” Long pause. “Poll. Are you okay?”

She’d have to say something or Judith would be scaling the cubicle.

“Sure. Never better.”

“That’s him, isn’t it? The spunky guy from the hotel? I mean, what were the odds of that happening? Like, we were out in the middle of the bush.” Judith was in the cubicle next to her, rustling down her knickers.

Polly reeled out reems of toilet paper. “Mmm. Bit weird.”

“Did he tell you on Saturday that he was coming to work here?”

“No, of course not. We were just having a casual chat.”

“Didn’t look that casual to me.” Judith giggled on a tinkle.

Polly stood and pulled her knickers up her thighs, chucking the paper into the toilet.

“You blushed, by the way,” Judith chirped.

“Did I?”

“Yes, when Death introduced him. You went all blotchy.”

Polly would have described her blush more accurately as a bag of melted pink and white marshmallows; an annoying habit her skin broke into every time she got even slightly embarrassed. She blamed it on her rag-tag mix of Irish and English genes that had homogenised somewhere back in the early nineteenth century before being packed onto a boat to Botany Bay for stealing a loaf of bread.

Somehow she’d have to brave this one out.

“It was a surprise, that’s all. One of those weird coincidences.”

“Are you sure nothing, you know, happened?”

“Jude, will you please stop? Okay, I admit, he’s cute. But we had a five-minute conversation. That’s it.”

If lies sent you to hell then there was a little demon stoking up the fires right now, and getting a pitchfork primed with Polly Fletcher’s name inscribed on it.

Reluctantly, she unlocked her cubicle and came out to survey the damage in the mirror.

Judith glanced at her as they both washed their hands. Polly got a paper towel and dabbed cold water on the V of still-mottled flesh above the top button of her blouse.

“I think they’ve turned the heating up. Either that or I’m in premature menopause,” she grumbled.

“You’re twenty-eight,” Judith pointed out.

“It can happen.”

“Not to you. You’re too fecund. Don’t you think fecund is a lovely word?” Judith mused. “I wish I were more fecund. Maybe Mark would propose if I were fecund like you. Do you want some of my foundation? Our skin tones are about the same.”

Polly hesitated. Her strict no make-up policy ensured that if she bumped into an ex-patient on one of her after-dark forays, the possibility of recognition would be remote.

Except now, it seemed, the situation was much, much worse. Her new doctor colleague had intimately examined her and she was going to have to play all professional, sit next to him in meetings and patient assessments, maybe even, heaven forbid, be in a group therapy situation together. Worse, she’d have to resist morning cake in the staffroom while those silver eyes surveyed her every move across the table.

At least this would make her new diet a complete breeze. With those eyes on her lips, her salivary glands would dry up. No need to start the lemon diet she’d been researching. The sudden image of Solo’s gorgeous mouth sinking into a cream doughnut, his tongue licking those long fingers, had the blotchiness threatening to re-emerge with a vengeance.

She grabbed the foundation from Judith and plastered a layer around her neck and dabbed two blobs onto her cheeks. Countering was her best bet, she decided.

“So, how are you and Mark?”

“Oh, you know, much the same. Chugging along.” Mark was Judith’s childhood sweetheart. He worked as the manager of a packaging company and was terminally boring. Honestly, Judith with her coltish legs, truly lovely smile and seriously warm heart could do better than a guy whose idea of being a bit daring was watching two episodes of Orange is the New Black in the same evening.

Give me a chance, sweet Judith, thought Polly. I’d do for you what I did for Alice. Find you your Mr Perfect. She was so darn good at matchmaking. Strictly reserved for other people, of course.

With a last look in the mirror, Polly hitched back her shoulders and gave her now-evened-up complexion a final pat.

There. Utterly professional, cool, calm, and collected. And that, Dr Solo Jakoby, is all you are ever going to see of Polly Fletcher from now on, she told herself as she marched out with her head held high.

So why, as she followed Judith, trying not to let her eyes flick wildly around the ward for a sighting of hunky suited shoulders and thick cropped dark hair, did a small part of her want to throw a holy fucking tantrum?

Fecundity. That’s what it did to you. All those freakin’ hormones.

But when she walked into the nurses’ station a few minutes later, Polly’s professional façade almost crumbled. Her breath hitched at the sight of Solo, his head on one side, brows pensive, deep in conversation with Ben Tan. Brooding and sexy. Freakin’ forget the psychiatrist’s couch. He was the kind of shrink whose lap you’d jump right into.

As for Ben, he had the look he got when he was buttering someone up: pleasant, eager, interested. The perfect psychologist putting you at ease, bum hitched on the edge of the desk, one leg swinging casually.

Oh yes, he was up to something for sure.

Polly watched Solo’s silver eyes narrow in response. He looked less than enthusiastic about whatever Ben was suggesting

As Solo gave a final nod and turned away, Ben stood up and spotted her. His face lit up. “Here she is!” He grinned. “Polly, I think I’ve found our fill-in therapist for while I’m on leave.”

Shite. The PTSD group.

Ben. Europe.

Double shite.

Not Solo.

Not her co-facilitator.

Oh, no way.

* * *

Solo’s heartrevved like his faithful Ducati when he went full throttle on the accelerator. Polly looked so prim and proper, which made her almost hotter than when he was ripping off her silky little pyjama shorts. Something about knowing what she was really capable of made him jittery as all hell as she eyed him with cool professionalism. Before he knew it, the words were flying out of his mouth, the backdrop to a story he’d prefer not to share.

“PTSD is an interest of mine, I guess. I worked with quite a few ex-military back from Afghanistan, so I was quite intrigued when Ben suggested it. Hadn’t exactly agreed yet, but—”

“And I haven’t accepted,” Polly cut in smoothly. “We don’t know if our facilitation styles are compatible.” Her chin tilted and her eyes gleamed. “Can I ask, do you prefer group therapy to working on construction sites, Dr Jakoby?”

Ben was watching them with a puzzled frown. “You—um, know each other from somewhere?”

“Nooo,” they both chorused in unison.

Fucking get me out of here.

“We bumped into each other before work. This morning, that is,” Polly filled in.

Her eyes stared him down, china-doll wide and innocent, but issuing some wordless challenge. Then she draped herself behind a nearby desk and logged onto the hospital network.

“Right,” Ben said. “Perhaps we could all have lunch together and discuss it.”

“Can’t. I’m way too busy today.” Polly pulled a face at the screen. “Shit; I forgot Mavis Clegg’s husband and daughter are coming in at nine for family counselling. Gotta go. Why don’t you two have lunch and you can tell DrJakoby all about the PTSD group.” Her shoulders moved in a shrug. “Guess I can’t be choosy who I co-lead with. It’s not like anyone else has offered to give up their Wednesday evenings.”

Solo watched with a sense of helplessness as she swung out of the chair and practically flounced out of the room, the sway of her butt in those neat slacks sending inappropriate messages to his groin even now. A curl popped out of the top of her bun and bounced as she closed the door behind her.

“Ok-aaay.” Ben raised his hands in the air. “She’s a bit grumpy this morning. Guess we’ll be discussing it without Polly. I’ll see you at 12. Hospital canteen. Level 5. Food is edible, mostly. Avoid the rissoles at all costs.” He picked up his laptop. “Sorry about my colleague. She must have got out of bed on the wrong side.”

Solo was trying to form an answer when Leon walked in and saved him. “Have you had a chance to review Bernie’s notes? I need you to talk to him about actually taking his meds, not flushing them down the toilet.”

“Sure.” Solo jumped up, glad to focus on having a job to do. Clearly, he’d have to find a way to cope with this snitchy professional Polly—hopefully her barbed tongue would be enough to get his libido under control over the coming weeks.

Right now, with the way his body was behaving, that seemed like no easy task.

Luckily the day went quickly, one patient interview after another. A lunchtime catch-up with Ben clarified that the PTSD group happened on Wednesday evenings between 7 and 9 and was for outpatients who were working but struggling with their symptoms.

Confidence started to return.

Yep, he could do this.

He caught sight of Polly twice: once as he was about to enter a patient interview room with Bernie, as she chatted to a nurse. And again when she was talking to a young woman who was curled up and rocking in her chair. From the safe distance of the nurses’ station, he watched as Polly squatted down next to the woman, clearly reassuring her. She placed a hand gently on the woman’s arm and handed her a tissue box.

This was a very different Polly. An empathetic, gentle Polly. Suddenly Solo recalled the way she’d looked at him, wide-eyed, the momentary glint of vulnerability as he kissed the tip of her nose.

And for some weird reason his heart almost ground to a halt.

As Solo climbed onto his motorbike at the end of a long, tiring first day, he was aware of a figure close by, and then, holy shit, there she was beside him, one hip jutting, her big work bag over her shoulder, car keys jingling in her fingers.

“Good first day?” Her face was bland but her eyes sparkled dangerously.

“Great.”

She flashed a too-bright smile. “Guess it beats huffing and puffing on a building site.”

He sighed, looked down at his hands. “Sorry about that. I guess I thought—”

“We’d never have to cross paths again? Reasonable deduction. I would have thought so too. A quick shag out in the middle of the bush and on your bike. Literally, it would seem,” she finished with a laugh. Not a particularly nice one.

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched on for several hideously awkward moments.

“So, Dr Jakoby—”

“Solo.”

“Solo-man Jakoby.”

Jeesh, she was being Miss Bitch. Guess he couldn’t really blame her. He eyed her warily.

Her head kicked back in a gesture that told him he was barely worth her breath. “Okay, Solo, I guess seeing as we have to work together, and it seems you may be running a therapy group with me, we had better clear the air.” She stepped forward, dropped her voice. “Just for the record, I love sex. We met by chance and it seemed you quite liked sex too, so, we had sex—really nice sex, I have absolutely no complaints on that front. But I never, ever mix work with pleasure. So there’s no risk of me coming on to you, again. I thought I should make that crystal clear to avoid any further misunderstandings.”

“Very good policy.”

She bared perfect teeth at him. “Fantastic, we’re on the same page then.” An exaggerated eye-roll. “So good to clear the air, it’s been worrying away at me all day.” Her foot, he noticed, was tap-tapping on the tarmac. “Just one thing I’d love to know before we put it all behind us. Why did you lie to me about your work?”

He shrugged. “Guess I thought it might spoil the fun. It can put people off, once they hear you’re a shrink.”

“By people, I presume you mean women.” She gave a shrug and her bulky bag slipped. “Must admit I’d never have placed you as one. Psychiatrist, I mean, not casual shagger. You’re clearly great at the latter.” She yanked the bag almost viciously back onto her shoulder. “Though something was a bit off about the construction work thing. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at the time, but of course… now it makes total sense.”

She cocked her head, eyes too bright. “So, your official chat-up line is manual labourer? Rough and ready works, huh?”

Hell, no.He wasn’t prepared to let her think he was like that. He didn’t do casual sex the way she clearly did, and for some reason that fact stabbed him in the solar plexus.

He met her exaggerated innocent look steadily. “I’ve never said that to a woman before in my life.”

A perfect eyebrow flicked up. “No?”

“No. Despite what you may think, I’m not in the habit of wild Saturday night shags in hotels. And yes, you’re right, it was very nice sex. Don’t worry, I won’t make another move. Strictly professional from now on.”

He shoved his helmet onto his head, flicked up the visor. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way—it’s been a long first day.”

She nodded, lips curling. “Go home and have yourself a smoko, why don’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, shoved the key in the ignition, and revved the engine.

As he drove off, Solo made sure he did a couple of zigzags along the street, just in case Polly Fletcher thought for one moment that he actually cared about the possibility of never having sex with her again.

Very. Very. Nice. Sex.