The Polly Principle by Davina Stone
Chapter 5
This was bad.
She’d been talking to herself most of the drive home, muttering and cursing out loud. When she’d finally navigated her car into a sardine-sized parking space in the narrow street, several houses up from hers, Polly’s mood was in deep conversation with the soles of her shoes. Storming inside, she slammed the front door and threw her bag in a crumpled heap on the floor. She’d spent the last thirty minutes replaying her conversation with Solo, batting around in her head what she should have said, how much cooler and wittier she could have been.
Saturday night shag, he’d called it. By default, that meant her. She was a shag. A shag was a rather ugly sea bird with a big beak. Not a woman.
Nice to know.
Except a part of her, the small rational part that was no bigger than her pinkie right now, knew she’d started it. She’d used the shag word first, not Solo. She wanted to hate him, but it was actually herself she hated for completely losing her cool and behaving like a bitch in the first place, and that made it even worse. She stomped into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge to be met by a shrivelled carrot, two sticks of celery and a half-consumed pot of hummus.
Oh, and three lemons.
No way could she face starting the lemon diet today. She scanned the shelf for anything worth drinking. But she’d cleared out the alcohol in anticipation of the new eating plan and besides, she rarely let herself drink when she was alone. That was a slippery slope and she knew too well where it could lead. Nor, for that matter, would Rowena take kindly to her raiding her stash of fine reds.
Especially when Rowena was overseas visiting Alice and Aaron. By rights that should make Polly really happy, because pairing those two up had been her piece de resistance.
Except right now the house felt so damn lonely without them.
She grabbed a glass, held it under the tap and filled it to the top with water, before sinking down at the kitchen table. She wasn’t one to fret, didn’t allow herself bad moods. Life was too short. And even if her childhood had been less than happy, when Gran had bought her a thumbed copy of the kid’s classic Pollyanna from the book exchange van that used to rotate around their wheat-belt towns, she’d just about inhaled the “be glad” philosophy. They shared the same name, more or less, so in her nine-year-old logic, they were almost the same person. Always see the bright side, find the silver lining in even the worst experience, right?
Except now.
Because now she didn’t feel like being glad. She had prickly sensations behind her eyelids and her nose was oddly stuffy.
The guy seemed to have got to her. Which was unheard of. That didn’t happen to her, did it?
So what was it about Solo Jakoby? Doctor Solo Jakoby. Sure, yeah, mind-blowing chemistry, fantastic sex, yadda, yadda, yadda, but there was something else, wasn’t there? Something brooding and troubled about him, something that belied his super-sexy looks, the Jack Sparrow swagger and repartee of the other night.
It hooked her in, intrigued her. Pissed her off.
Gah! A few days of proximity and she’d start to notice all those jerky annoying things that always put her off guys. He’d develop a nervous tic in one eye, or keep saying some annoying word, like seriously, or joy, or he’d eat pickled onions straight out of the jar for lunch and talk with his mouth full. Besides, she reminded herself, she had the sticking power of a Teflon pan when it came to dating, so she’d be over the whole thing in the blink of an eye.
Straightening up, Polly opened the freezer, feeling relieved when she found one Weight Watchers’ chicken korma staring back at her. The lemon diet could start tomorrow. Lemon juice for breakfast. Lemon and rice soup for lunch. Shit, did she even have any rice?
About to forage through the pantry, she heard her phone ring and had to sprint down the passage to her bag. When she managed to grapple it out, Joe’s name flashed to message bank. Again. Damn, she’d meant to call him on her way home but all her obsessing had pushed it out of her mind.
She rang back and her brother picked up immediately.
“Poll, finally. Did you listen to my voice message?”
“Um, no, sorry, super-busy day at work. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I was calling about Dad’s seventieth.”
“Oh, of course.” Guilt did a 180-degree twist in her gut. She kept trying to forget the fact that Dad was turning seventy in a month and a party was planned up at the farm.
“You are coming, aren’t you?” Joe’s voice held an edge of worry. Her older brother was in charge of holding the farm together, overriding the bad times, putting money aside during the good times while Dad swung from frenziedly working 24/7 to drinking binges that saw him disappear for days on end.
Polly sighed and tugged her hair out of its confines—she could almost hear her curls sigh with relief. “Of course, what do you want me to do?”
“Mim’s making up a list.”
“Right. Are Dad and Mim in a good space?” She tried to keep the cynicism out of her voice.
“Yeah, they’ve actually been getting on well recently.”
“None of Dad’s dark nights of the soul then?”
Joe laughed like a man guarding enemy lines. “Not for a while now. Fingers crossed.” He paused and Polly knew what was coming next. “Call him, Poll, he’d love to hear from you.”
“Sure,” she said lightly. “I messaged him last week. He didn’t reply.”
“You know Dad doesn’t check his mobile. He’s completely old school. Ring on the landline.”
“Tomorrow. Promise,” she said quickly.
“Good girl. And how are you? Missing Alice?”
Polly traced a pattern in the dust on the hall console with her finger. Time she did some cleaning. She missed her best friend more than she’d imagined. Alice’s quirky smile, her big brown eyes behind her glasses, nose buried in a book at the kitchen table. Herbal tea in a mug beside her.
But hey, she didn’t regret a thing, did she? Helping Aaron realise he was madly in love with Alice had to be one of the finest things Polly had achieved in recent years.
The words “always the bridesmaid, never the bride” popped into her head as she answered, “It’s fine. Great to have the place to myself. Organising wild orgies and smashing Rowena’s antique glasses—beats washing up.”
Rowena, Alice’s mum, ran the best second-hand bookshop in Perth: The Book Genie. Polly had worked for her when she arrived in Perth from the bush and desperately needed a job. A couple of years back when her rent had escalated beyond affordable on a social worker’s salary, Rowena had offered her a room. And here they’d been ever since: Polly, Rowena and Alice, a happy trio of oddball women who adored each other. Until Alice finally got her happy ever after. And found her long-lost father and went to visit him in England.
Joe was chuckling. “Rowena would kill you if you broke her best crockery.”
“Okay, then, lighting fires with her first-edition classics.”
“Liar. How’s work?”
“Work’s… fine.”
“Do I detect a note of hesitation?”
Joe knew her too well. Being six years her senior, he’d always looked out for her when things weren’t good with Dad and Mum. Gran and he had helped her to choose happiness instead of continually chewing on the proverbial shit sandwich.
“Oh, just busy, you know how it is with mental health.”
“We could sure do with your skills up here; can’t get social workers for love or money in the wheatbelt.”
“I’m used to being in the city now, Joe. Not sure I could take living in a small country town again. But you? How are you and Kate?”
He paused. “Funny you should ask. We’re expecting.”
Polly squealed and nearly dropped the phone. “OMG, when?”
“We’re just past the three months’ phase. You know, with the miscarriages, we wanted to keep this one quiet from everyone, which is why I didn’t say last time we spoke.”
Polly bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’m going to be an auntie.”
“Yep—the scan looks pretty much like the little fella’s stuck in for keeps. Not that you can tell for sure, but Kate’s been sick as a dog, which is always a good sign, apparently.”
“Does little fella mean a boy?”
“We’re choosing not to find out, but it’s a hunch, I guess… or wishful thinking maybe…”
“I’m so, so happy for you.” Polly’s eyes were prickling again, this time with joy. Joe and Kate had been trying for a baby for three years now, with several heartbreaking miscarriages. It was the best of news, and maybe it would give Dad reason to shape up once and for all.
They chatted a bit more after Polly had finally calmed down, mainly about the party arrangements. When she placed her phone down, she let out a big sigh. Tomorrow she would phone Dad. Not now. Staying happy meant having as little contact with the past as possible, and too much of the past surfaced at the sound of Dad’s voice.
She stopped still for a second, breath hitching in her throat. She hated remembering the shitty times. The skin of her forehead was a painful band as she hurried back into the kitchen, ripped the lid off the container and shoved the curry in the microwave.
Wallowing in the past never helped anyone. Look at Dad: blaming Mum for leaving. Blaming his time in Vietnam for his drinking problem. Blame, blame, blame.
She’d vowed she would never, ever do that.
No, she chose to help people improve their lives. Because that was what worked. Understand your past but live in the now; make the changes you can and leave the rest behind.
Oh yes, she knew how to handle personal pain. Rely on yourself. The thought made her feel a tad more like her usual optimistic self again. She opened the microwave, jabbed a fork into the chicken and gave it a vigorous stir.
And when she’d lost these extra ten kilos, heck, there’d be no stopping her, would there?
Polly Fletcher versus the world. Tight butt cheeks, slender thighs and all.
She looked at the little square of steaming plastic and her glass of water, and something inside her rebelled. Joe and Kate were having a baby. Surely this called for a celebration?
“Oh, fuck it,” she said, then grabbed her mobile and rang Judith.
When Judith picked up, Polly barely allowed her a “hi” before rushing in. “Fancy joining me for a glass of bubbly at the pub? I’m going to be an auntie!”
* * *
Solo guessedthis was what was meant by the expression not enough room to swing a cat. In this case, even a very small cat with a very short tail. The walls of his new room were barely the span of his straightened arms. It was one of those modern townhouses that should really only be described as a shoebox, in a suburb inhabited mostly by young professionals. He’d barely met the guy he was renting from since he moved in. All he knew was that he was an extremely tall dude with a terrible haircut who worked as an accountant and needed help paying the mortgage.
His name was Carter, but, he’d told Solo with a grin that lit up his otherwise rather unremarkable face, “Everyone calls me Carts.”
Apart from that, all Solo had deduced about Carts so far was that he wasn’t into crockery or cutlery, because there seemed to be very little of it around. Apparently it saved on the washing up, but when he decided to rent out a room, maybe he could have thought about buying a few more plates and an extra knife and fork?
Solo sighed, placed his bike helmet on the bed and peeled off his leather jacket. He needed to unpack the contents of his rucksack, still sitting in the corner of the room from when he got here yesterday. He’d literally brought just what he could carry on his back. One suit, two work shirts, two pairs of jeans and two T-shirts. He’d have to go shopping at some stage but for now he’d make do.
Guess this was what happened when you decided to duck and run.
The last text message had made the decision for him.
He’d erased it straight away, but it was grafted onto his eyeballs.
I’m better off dead.
Fuck you for fucking that up.
Now U R dead to me.
He’d known the best thing was to leave for a while. Get out of Sydney, let everything calm down. Allow the treatment to start to take effect.
Hopefully after a few months…
He closed his eyes for a second and another image, of a gorgeous woman eyeing him with a serious degree of animosity a mere half hour ago, jumped into his head. He ruffled a hand through his hair. God, they needed to clear the air. Otherwise working with Polly was going to be hell.
And he’d taken this locum position to get away from hell, hadn’t he?
Right now, he didn’t want to think. What he wanted was a drink. There must be a bar or a pub close by somewhere. He bounded down the stairs to find Carts coming through the front door, swinging a briefcase in one bony hand.
“Just the guy I was hoping to see,” Solo managed with false cheer. “Where’s the best pub round here?”
Carts, who had the look of a man bowed down from a day dealing with bad-tempered small business owners, noticeably brightened. “Hell, yeah, I could do with a drink. Shit of a day. Let me go change and I’ll take you to the best Irish pub in Perth.”
“Cool,” Solo agreed, almost salivating at the thought of an icy cold draft beer.
“Yep, imaginatively named the Shamrock. Been going there for years. It’s a fifteen-minute walk. We can grab a bite to eat, too.”
At least they wouldn’t have to fight over the one knife, fork and spoon, Solo decided as he watched Carts’ long legs leaping up the stairs two at a time. Maybe after a couple of pints and some comfort food like beef and Guinness pie—didn’t all Irish pubs serve beef and Guinness pie?—he’d feel better about his move to Perth.
Feel better about a certain curvaceous, insanely sexy and totally off-limits someone.
Maybe even feel better about himself.