Love in the Clouds

19

Love In The Clouds

    This high up, the sun poured in through the huge floor-length windows. The view over the harbour was breathtaking. Polly looked dazedly at the leather sofas and chairs in the latest extreme styles and the Chinese rugs and Italian lamps which accompanied them. Ugh: the colour scheme was aqua, cream and grey, a horrible contrast with the blue sky and bluer harbour beyond the big windows.

    “I feel a bit sick,” she gulped.

    “Through here—quick!” He flung open a door and ushered her through a pale peach and pale grey bedroom and into a duck-egg blue bathroom, where she threw up painfully into a duck-egg blue basin, since it was nearer than the duck-egg blue toilet. Being Jake, he didn’t retire in shuffling male embarrassment, but held her shoulders as she shuddered and spasmed, sponged her face and neck competently afterwards with an icy-cold wet facecloth, and forced her to drink a glass of water. He rinsed the basin rapidly, finally swirling Dettol into it.

    “All right now?”

    “Yes; ta, Jake,” she said limply.

    “Come on in the other room.” He led her gently back into the living-room and sat her down on one of the hideous aqua leather sofas.

    Polly hunched miserably, hands clasped between her knees.

    He sat gingerly at the other end of the sofa. “You wanna talk about it?”

    She swallowed hard. “He—it was because of Saturday night.”

    “Mm?” He was staring at the rug.

    “He... I went out with him—and I—I did let him touch me,” she gulped.

    “I see,” he said evenly.

    “Yes, but— There was nothing in it, really. I didn’t sleep with him.”

    “No.”

    “And then—and then he asked me to go out with him again, and I said no. Um, well, he’s attractive, only I don’t like him enough— You know. And I thought I’d better not encourage him. Um, well, Jill and Aunty Vi had both given me an earbashing, and they were right.”

    “Mm.”

    “Thuh-then, today... Um, he had a fight with Roger.” She swallowed again. “Literally.”

    “Eh? Rog Browne? Ya don’t mean he actually fought the bastard?”

    Polly nodded. “Mm. Round about lunchtime, it was. It was stupid. Leo was awfully rude to me and Rog lost his temper, and hit him. And then they had a fight.”

    “Good grief! Wish I’d been a fly on the wall!” She didn’t respond and he said on an uneasy note: “So who won?”

    “No-one: I threw a bucket of water over them.”

     Jake gave a shout of laughter. “Trust you! Jesus, I wish I’d seen it!”

     She smiled reluctantly. “It was pretty funny, I s’pose.”

    “So what happened next?”

    “Nothing: Leo went off; and I made Rog help me mop the floor.”

    Jake gave a snigger in spite of himself.

    “And I went back to my office and that was it until—until Rod got that phone call.”

    “And then you rang me.”

    “Mm.”

    She felt him shift his position. “So what about this evening?”

    “Well... I was waiting for you,” she said miserably. “Like you said.”

    “Yes,” he replied hoarsely.

    Polly began to tremble. She pressed her knees tightly together on her locked hands. “I thought I’d make some coffee, and—and Leo came in. He was drunk, I think; anyway, he’d been to the pub... And—and we sat down and drank our coffee; and then—” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t do anything, Jake! He just—just went for me; and I kept telling him I didn’t want to, and I duh-didn’t love him; and I—and he... He just went crazy, Jake!”

    Silence.

    She gulped, and looked at him doubtfully. He was very grim, the lines from nose to mouth strongly marked.

    “Sorry, I’ve gotta go to the loo!” she gasped, and bolted for the bathroom.

    Of course she’d gone right through that lone Tampax; she searched feverishly in the bathroom cupboard, trying not to make a noise: gallons of bloody after-shave; body cologne—yuck!—male deodorants galore; a packet of condoms—executives for the use of, no doubt!—packet soap, liquid soap, shaving soap; talcum powder, foot powder—foot powder?—she swallowed a hysterical giggle; Enos; green gargle-stuff; sticking plaster... No tampons, no sanitary napkins—nothing! She took a deep breath, and went back to the sitting-room.

    “Um, I need some Tampax,” she said glumly.

    Jake shot to his feet. “Is that what made you so sick?”

    “Yes, partly, I suppose.”

    His mouth tightened. “And partly reaction—yeah. I’ll nip out to the all-night chemist. Why don’t you have a nice hot shower? Pop into bed, if you like.” He gave her an odd, searching look.

    “That’d be nice,” she agreed with a sigh.

    There was no soap in the shower cabinet, so she grabbed a bar from the cupboard at random, only realizing once she was under the running water that it was Jake’s own favourite brand, with a subtle sandalwood fragrance that was achingly familiar. Ridiculously, clutching the soap, she began to cry, sobbing and gasping convulsively under the warm spray. She started to soap herself defiantly, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to stop.

    When Jake came in with his neatly wrapped chemist’s parcel she was crouched weakly in the far corner of the shower cabinet, hair in long wet strands all round her, still clutching the soap, still sobbing.

    “Shit!” he cried, dropping his parcel. He reached in and turned the water off, then knelt beside her in the shower cabinet.

    He touched her shoulder very gently. “Polly? Sweetheart?”

    “I can’t—stop!” she gasped.

    Cautiously he put his arms round her.

    “Jake!” she gulped, clutching him.

    His heart gave a great leap of relief, and began to race painfully. “Come on!” he growled, lifting her awkwardly in the confined pace, grunting with the effort.

    “Your lovely suh-suit, it’s soaked!” gulped Polly.

    “Damn my bloody suit!” He grabbed up a large bath towel on his way out, and laid her tenderly on the big bed, wrapping the towel around her. The sobs were abating, but she’d begun to shudder uncontrollably. Gritting his teeth, he began to rub her dry.

    “Come on, darling, in ya get.” He peeled back the covers, covered her gently, and switched on the electric blanket. “You’ll soon warm up.” He began to towel the long hair dry. She was still shuddering, bugger it.

    “I cuh-can’t stuh-stop shivering, Juh-Jake!”

    He hesitated, then croaked: “Want me get in and warm you up?”

    She nodded convulsively.

    He began to strip, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor. She was watching him, still shuddering, eyes wide. Finally he had nothing on but his underpants. He hesitated, glancing at her uncertainly. The big eyes were fixed on his face. He climbed into bed with the underpants still on.

    The bed was shaking with the violence of her shuddering. “Come here.” He held her gingerly but she grabbed him fiercely, so he got his arms right round her and crushed her against him. “Better?” he said at last, as the shudders died away.

    “Mm,” agreed Polly into the hollow of his neck.

    “Um, I could get out, let you have a nap in peace—get over it, eh?” he offered glumly.

    There was silence for a moment and then she said in muffled voice: “No, don’t. Not unless you want to.”

    “I don’t want to, no! Thought it might’ve, um, turned you off; you know, off all blokes for a bit.”

    Polly swallowed. “No. I mean, it wasn’t you.”

    “No,” agreed Jake in huge relief, hugging her.

    She gave a deep sigh. “So you’re not wild with me?”

    “Eh?” he said numbly.

    “Um, I did encourage him the other day.”

    He took a deep breath. “I’m not wild with you, no. I’m wild with him, the shit, believe you me! Jesus, I wish I’d bloody well killed him, the bastard!”

    “Don’t,” said Polly faintly. “You’re getting all—all hot.”

    “All HOT?” he yelled, slackening his grip. “Too right I’m getting all hot! I’ll kill the bloody bugger! Jesus God Almighty, mauling you like that— SHIT!” he shouted, sitting up. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” He drew a shuddering breath and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Bugger,” he said sourly.

    Polly raised herself on an elbow. “Have a tissue.”

    “What?”

    She sat up. “Have a tissue. A peach tissue,” she said with a wobble in her voice, pulling out a handful from the silver filigree holder on the cabinet at her side of the bed. “Here.”

    “Fuck,” said Jake numbly, dabbing at his eyes with the tissues.

    “Well, at least he never got that far, thank God.”

    “Are you laughing?” he said dangerously.

    “Um, not really,” said Polly weakly, as the true horrors of the pale peach and pale grey room began to sink in. “Ooh!” she gasped as the hugely swagged peach silk curtain above their heads registered.

    “Look, a poncy decorator did it for the Group, it’s nothing to do with me!” he said heatedly.

    “Ugh, look at the dressing-table!” she gasped.

    “Modern,” he said grimly. “So?”

    It was a slimy, shiny, pale grey, trimmed here and there with chromium, every single corner on it rounded off. “Eighties fake-Thirties at its worst: Jill’d love it,” she said with relish.

    “Well, she’s not being offered the chance to see it, the dykey Pom!” he shouted. “And nor are any other dames!”

    Polly lay back again the peach satin pillows with a sigh. “No. Good.”

    Jake lay down again. After some time he said: “Look, don’t bury it, Polly.”

    “I’m not,” she said in a small voice.

    “I think you are, a bit. Well, you bawled in the shower—think that was probably a good thing. Letting it out, eh?”

    “If you say so, Sigmund.”

    He rolled over to face her, glaring. “You’re doing it!”

    “Um, yeah. Sorry. I do feel better, now.”

    Jake was going to say that that was good, but she burst out: “Only why are you still wearing your underpants?”

    “Eh?”

    “Your underpants!” shouted Polly, suddenly turning puce. “Why are you still wearing your underpants?”

    “Stop shouting,” he said feebly, sitting up. “I’m taking the bloody things off—see? I only wore them— Bugger!” he gasped, struggling. “I only wore them,” he said, having managed to haul them down to his knees, “because I thought you might be off all blokes for a bit, see?”

    “Mm.”

    “See?” he shouted, hauling them off. “They’re OFF!” He hurled them furiously at the hideous bloody dressing-table but the fucking things fell well short of it. “They’re OFF! Are ya SATISFIED?” he shouted. “Aw—shit! Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he croaked as Polly burst into snorting sobs. “Cummere.” He hugged her tight. “They’re off,” he said into the tangled damp curls. “Stop bawling, you’re safe now.”

    “Sorry,” she said soggily at last. “I thought you were wearing them because—”

    “Will ya shut up about me bloody underpants!”

    “No, seriously. Because I, um, sort of disgusted you or something,” she said into his chest.

    Jake took a deep breath. “Right. Goddit. That wasn’t the reason, and none of it was your fault. None of it. No matter how far you went the other day—actually you could have been married to the bastard for forty years and it still wouldn’t have been your fault. Nothing bloody well excuses attempted rape.”

    “No. Well, that’s what they say at Women’s Group,”—Jake just managed not to breathe heavily with his teeth clenched, but it was a close-run thing—“but it’s different when it’s you on the receiving end,” she admitted glumly. “Um, sorry, that wasn’t a pun.”

    “I didn’t think it was,” he said mildly.

    “No. Good.”

    “Got it straight now?” he said, hugging her. “Nothing about you’s disgusting and none of it was your fault. –Bugger it, don’t bawl again, sweetheart!”

    Polly bawled hard. Jake just hugged her tight until it had slackened off. Then he said into the damp curls: “Look, this is bloody silly. Let’s get married.”

    “What?” she said, peering up at him blearily.

    “I’m fed up with the casual relationship shit, and I’m fed up with types like Leo sniffing round you, and it’s not just tonight, either. Ken told me yonks back I oughta put me brand on ya—sorry, not funny. Anyway, it isn’t only bloody Leo, I’m fed up with that drip Rog Browne as well, if ya wanna know, and I’m fed up with hardly ever seeing you! Will ya marry me?” he shouted.

    “I thought you were the one that didn’t want to?” said Polly groggily. “What about being too old for me?”

    “YES!” he shouted. “I am too old for ya, so if we wanna start a family we better start NOW! Will ya marry me or NOT?”

    “Yes,” said Polly simply.

    “Jesus,” said Jake limply, sagging all over her.

    “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously.

    “Dunno,” he croaked. “Give us a kiss and I might be.”

    She held up her face and he kissed her very gently.

    “That’s better,” he said with a sigh.

    “Mmm… Ooh!”

    “It’s doing that if its own accord,” he pointed out, hugging her.

    “Yes,” said Polly with a smile in her voice. “Um, don’t put it into me.”

    “You are off men!” he cried.

    “I’m not, you idiot, I’ve got cramps,” she sighed.

    “Uh—oh. Forgot. Sorry. Just hold it, then.”

    “Mm.” Obligingly she held it.

    “I might come,” he said in a strangled voice into her ear. “Didn’t think I was— Jesus! Don’t do that!”

    Obligingly she stopped.

    “Uh—no, do that,” he said in a foolish voice.

    She squeezed him again, smiling, and Jake rolled against her, kissed her fiercely with his eyes shut, and gasped: “I love you! Jesus—God! Jesus, Pol! AARGH! Uh—AA-AARGH!”

    Polly waited until his heart had stopped hammering madly and he’d almost stopped panting and had groggily pushed her hand away. Then she said: “Gee, that was romantic.”

    Jake rolled onto his back, gasping. “Shuddup, ya mean cow,” he managed finally.

    Immediately Polly collapsed in helpless giggles. “Go—on!” she gasped as he raised himself on one elbow and groped groggily for the peach satin sheet. “Wipe it on the sheet!”

    “I don’t always— Do I?” he said feebly.

    “Yes!” she yelped, going off in a further fit.

    “All right, ya know me little habits.” Defiantly he wiped it with the sheet, ignoring Polly’s further yelps. “Anyway, ta,” he said feebly.

    “Any time.”

    He snuggled down beside her. “We better get married pronto, since ya know all me most intimate secrets,” he said comfortably, hugging her.

    “Mm. Well, I know how much laundry you generate— Blast!” she gasped, sitting up abruptly.

    “Now what?”

    “The sheets!”

    “Look, a bloke can’t help his flaming physiology!”

    “Not you, me,” said Polly in a hollow voice, flinging the covers right back. “Ugh, help.”

    Jake looked. “I’d say it’s a perfectly natural phenomenon, only after the remarks just passed about my bodily fluids—”

    “Blood stains terribly, you idiot! Who does the laundry for this dump?”

    “Dunno. Marianne found someone. Stop worrying: if she can’t get the marks out we’ll chuck the bloody things out. –I can afford a few odd pairs of sheets, ya know!” he added irritably.

    “Very odd,” said Polly limply. “Um, yes, I suppose you can.”

    Jake got out of bed. “I got you pads and tampons, and if you’ve got cramps, don’t use the ruddy tampons. You got the choice of a belt or them wrap-around ones and if ya that worried about the sheets ya better wear a pair of—hah, hah—underpants.”

    “Thanks,” said Polly lamely. “You’re very practical.”

    He retrieved the bag of chemist’s stuff. “Ya could retire politely to the bathroom, only as I’ve seen everything you’ve got—”

    “Don’t be silly,” she said mildly. “Where are my pants?”

    “Uh… here. Most of the fucking shops were closed, of course, but Marianne can pop out tomorrow, get you a few things, eh?”

    “I can pop out tomorrow, it’s not a disease! And the poor girl isn’t your slave.”

    “You could, but your dress is dirty: don’t they ever clean the floors in that dump?”

    “Oh,” said Polly lamely. “Not much—no.”

    “How long’s this likely to go on?” he asked glumly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

    Polly pulled her panties on, goggling at him. “Five days, didn’t you ever do human biology?”

    “Not officially, no. –Not your period, the cramps.”

    “Oh! Well, I dunno. A day? They usually only last the first day.”

    “When did it start?”

    “Earlier today,” said Polly with a sigh.

    “Good,” he replied insouciantly. “Then I’ll give you a nice fuck round about this time tomorrow.”

    “I’ll look forward to that,” she replied politely.

    “Mm.” He pulled her towards him, smiling, and kissed her. “I love you,” he said conversationally.

    Madam Varsity Lecturer, he was very, very pleased to see, turned a mottled shade of scarlet, and replied in a strangled voice: “I love you, too.”

    “There!” he said with a laugh, hugging her really, really tight. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

    “Yes!” admitted Polly breathlessly. “It was, actually!”

    He’d rubbed her hair with the towel a bit and she was half asleep and he was just starting to think about food when the phone rang. Five’d get you ten it was ruddy— It was.

    “Go on,” he groaned.

    Wal Briggs gave his report.

    “Did I need to know this at this hour?” he groaned.

    “Quarter to eight?” replied Wal blankly.

    “Eh?”

    “Yeah. Thought you must be driving home, or gone to dinner. I’ve been ringing your home number for the last two hours.”

    Feebly he looked at his watch. Five to, actually. “Uh—yeah. Well, thanks, Wal. Uh—hang on, ya might as well hear the good news. Polly and me are engaged. … Yeah—ta. … Eh? Dunno. Haven’t thought. Well, soon!” he said with a laugh. “Yeah—see ya, Wal!”

    “What did he say?” asked Polly anxiously the minute he hung up the pale peach phone.

    “Congratulations and when’s the wedding?” he replied, grinning all over his face.

    “Um, yeah. Not that,” she said weakly. “About Jack.”

    “Oh! It’s not as bad as we thought: they haven’t actually arrested him.” He pulled a face. “Assisting them with their enquiries. Wal says they’ll have to let him go tomorrow, or arrest him.”

    “I see. Did Wal find out what he was doing that night? Rod said he wouldn’t tell him.”

    “Nope; he’s gonna have another go at him tomorrow.”

    “Does he really think the police might arrest him if—if he doesn’t come up with an alibi?”

    Jake frowned. “It’s on the cards. There is some evidence against him: footprints in the shrubbery; and the cops found traces on his shoes.”

    “His footprints?”

    “Wal doesn’t think so: vague marks. Well, the bushes are well mulched up, eh? Think Collingwood would’ve arrested him already if he’d identified his footprints. Uh—think ’e might be flying a kite, actually,” he said, clearing his throat. “Saw Jock McElroy the other day, and he didn’t seem to think they were interested in Jack.”

    “Flying a kite?” she cried indignantly. “What about his poor mother?”

    Jake cleared his throat. “Er—yeah. Well, um, that moo ya sent up with young Rod seems to’ve calmed her down a bit. Uh—look, if the silly young tit won’t say where he was that night, you can’t altogether blame Collingwood.”

    “No,” she admitted glumly. “It was Tuesday. My bet is he was with Gary.”

    “Who?”

    “Ja-ake! Gary! Gary McNeish, the chef from the Cheese Basil!”

    “Right; goddit. A flaming fairy storm in a teacup,” he groaned.

    “Don’t say that! Um—yeah,” she admitted.

    “Anything that might suggest ’e was, other than the fact they’re all gays together?” he asked heavily.

    “Um—yes, Rod dragged Roger to some dumb student party just after exams and apparently Jack was there with Gary.”

    “Snogging or merely on opposite sides of a crowded—”

    “Yes! Snogging!” said Polly, glaring.

    “Would it surprise you to learn that I’d bet me entire bank account that ruddy Browne hasn’t breathed a whisper of this to the cops?”

    “The Zurich one, would this be?” said Polly evilly as he reached for the receiver again. “What are you doing?”

    “Ringing Wal, what the fuck do ya think I’m— Yeah, gidday, it’s me—NO!” he roared. “Whaddareya, MENTAL?”

    Suddenly Polly clapped her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook. Strange strangled noises escaped her.

    “Look, shuddup!” he hissed. “And pull that ruddy peach eiderdown up: the sight of ’em’s driving me crackers! –YES!” he shouted into the phone. “Are ya SATISFIED? Just shut up and listen!” Rapidly he relayed the Jack and Gary theory. “Oh,” he said in a dashed voice. “Didja? Well, good on ya. –No, ya won’t flaming hear from me again tonight!” He hung up with a crash. “He flaming knows already,” he said sourly. “Got it out of bloody Rod. Only it doesn’t count, if he can’t get Jack to—”

    Polly went into hysterics, pulling the peach duvet right up over her face and writhing ecstatically under it.

    Jake gave in almost entirely and slid down beside her. “Ooh, it’s nice under here,” he said, managing to get a handful of tit.

    “Mm!” she squeaked.

    “Hearsay doesn’t count, ya s—”

    “Yes!” she gasped. “Stop! –Did the moron really think we’d busted up already?”

    “Yeah,” he said feebly, pulling her round a bit so as he could shove his face between them. “Well, he’s a moron. –Ooh, these are nice!” He grabbed her hand and put it on his prick.

    “Already?” said Polly feebly.

    “It has been known to happen,” he said smugly. “Ooh! Cripes, whaddareya doing?’

    “I’m seeing if your balls feel hot, with all that new sperm that’s being made,” replied his brand-new fiancée on a clinical note.

    “What?” the poor man croaked.

    “They don’t, particularly.” she said, palpating them. “Well, no more than usual.”

    “Don’t!” he gasped. “I’ll get on top of you and fuck like mad if ya keep on doing that, cramps or not!”

    “Oh. Sorry,” said Polly sheepishly, stopping.

    Jake sighed deeply. “Just give us a nice kiss and—uh—hold it, eh?”

    “Mm,” she agreed,  holding it and pressing against him.

    Jake kissed her nicely. Then he went on kissing her, with a bit of squeezing of the tits. Then he found he was panting. “Blast!” he croaked, rolling onto his back.

    Polly raised herself on one elbow and peered at him. “You could have another, if you like.”

    “Mm.” He flung the covers back, “I do like, actually.” He tried arching his back suggestively and she must’ve got the point because she bent down without having to be asked and—Jesus!—sucked it a bit. Then she did that trick of hers of rolling her tongue round the tip—

    “Jesus!” he gasped. “I am gonna come!”

    “Mm. Like this?”

    “Uh—no.”  He knew she didn’t like the taste. “By hand, okay? Lie on top of me.”

    Obligingly she lay on top of him. It was so good he just about shot his load on the spot. “Uh—yeah. Come on! Do me!” he grunted. “Jesus! AARGH! Uh—AA-AARGH!”

    About fifty aeons later he was capable of hugging her into his side, getting her head on his shoulder and saying— No, he wasn’t.

    About ten aeons after that he said weakly: “Ta. That was good. –That way ya roll ya tongue round me tip—that’s really good.”

    “Good,” replied Polly mildly.

    “And don’t dare to say it wasn’t romantic,” he added feebly.

    “I wasn’t gonna,” she said, smiling up at him. “Life isn’t.”

    “Uh—no,” said Jake groggily. “That good or bad?”

    “Good,” she said definitely.

    That was a relief. “Yeah,” he agreed gratefully. He could feel it drying in the creases, bugger it, so after a moment he reached stealthily for a handful of peach satin sheet—

    “I’ll do it,” said Polly, sitting up and grabbing a bunch of tissues.

    “Um, yeah,” said Jake dazedly as she wiped his old man carefully. “Uh—dries in the creases,” he ventured.

    “I know.”

    “You can rub harder than that,” he said feebly. “Pull it out a bit—go on.”

    She stretched it very gingerly.

    “It does stretch, ya know,” he said mildly.

    “I know—it’s weird,” she murmured.

    “Uh—not to them that have one, Pol,” he croaked.

    “No,” she agreed, suddenly awarding him a brilliant smile. “Just to the other side! –There! I’ll just put these down the toilet.”

    He watched numbly as she padded off across the giant peach Chinese rug. She’d never done that for him before.

    “When you get in there,” said Polly, coming back—Jake jumped—“these beautiful tasteful peach tissues that tone delightfully in here clash horribly with all that duck-egg blue.”

    “Right,” he croaked feebly. “They would do, yeah.”

    “So much for poncy interior decorators,” said Polly, getting back into bed.

    “Mm. How’s the tum?”

    “Still achy. The cramps as such aren’t so bad, though.” She wriggled down in the bed and pulled the covers up.

    “That wasn’t on account of being engaged, was it?” he said cautiously.

    “What, the come?”

    “No. Uh, the tissues.”

    “No,” said Polly placidly, “that was on account of satin sheets aren’t very absorbent.”

    Jake found he actually believed that. “Uh—yeah,” he said limply. “Goodoh. You peckish yet?”

    “No, but I wouldn’t mind a hot drink.”

    “Yeah. Well, I’ll see what there is.”

    Polly watched dubiously as he got out of bed, padded over to the huge built-in wardrobe and put on a dark navy silk dressing-gown that was a dead ringer for the one he wore at home. “What do you use this place for?”

    “Visiting execs, mostly. Sometimes use it meself, if I’ve got a late night in town. Keep a few things here. No pants you could get your hips into, though. There won’t be much in the kitchen, never make more than a cup of coffee in there, but I’ll do me best.”

    When he came back with a tray she was sitting up in bed watching some crap on TV, hiding the view with one of the terrycloth robes that the dump featured—visiting execs for the use of: Marianne hadda replace them every so often, evidently most types considered them a legitimate perk.

    “Sorry,” he said glumly, putting the tray on her knees.

    “That’s all right, Humphrey,” replied Polly in a hollow voice, looking at the offerings before her.

    “Eh?”

    “Sabrina. That scene in Humphrey Bogart’s office suite. He had crackers, too. But I think he might’ve had eggs rather than Maggi soup,” she added weakly.

    “Right, gotcha. You fancy chicken noodle, or tomato? Well, pale yellow or orange.”

    “I’d like the pale yellow, thanks, with the very, very thin noodles.”

    “Ever noticed how you only get them in packet soup?”

    “Exactly!” agreed Polly with a laugh.

    Smiling, Jake ate salty orange fluid and water biscuits—crackers to some. “What is this crap ya watching?”

    “Dunno. But there’s a repeat of Minder on later.”

    “Good. Pass me the remote.”

    Polly passed it to him but warned: “This is not gonna be the sort of marriage where the husband’s in charge of the blab-out.”

    “Eh?” he said vaguely, switching channels again. “Still crap. –Aw. S’pose you’ll wanna go on top in bed, too?”

    Her eyes twinkled. “You didn’t seem to mind just now.”

    “That was because I felt like being squashed with your tits and belly,” he explained, smiling. He watched as she crumbled biscuits into the soup. “Better?”

    “No, but the biscuits are a bit dry.”

    “Yeah. No butter or marg—sorry. What sort of marriage is it gonna be?”

    Polly went red. “I don’t really know. Can I go on working?”

    “Look,” he said loudly, “I can tell ya what sort of marriage it isn’t gonna be, and that’s one where I tell you what to do! Do you want to go on working?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, do it. And for Pete’s sake, I’ll be in at the office all week: what on earth do you imagine you’d do if you aren’t working?”

    “I dunno!” said Polly with a sudden laugh. “What do women like Natalie Cohen do?”

    “Dunno. Arrange the flowers? Sit on committees and polish the Meissen?”

    “She is on the University Women’s Association committee, yes,” admitted Polly, smiling. “But I think it’s Worcester she collects, not Meissen.”

    “Yeah. Apart from that I think it’s tennis clubs, over-priced fancy lunches they only pick at because they’re all on diets, and spending the hubby’s money.”

    “Ugh!”

    “Thanks,” he said drily. “What’s so horrible about spending my money?”

    “Conspicuous consumption,” said Polly with a frown.

    “Look, ya keep telling me about the lovely pots or nice screen-prints you’ve seen in those dumps of galleries you haunt: you’ll be able to buy them, now! Support the struggling artists, see?”

    “Oh—yeah. I’ve never really envisaged buying them.”

    “Envisage it now.”

    “Ye-es. It’ll be really strange…. What if I go nuts and spend all your dough?”

    “You couldn’t,” he said on a dry note.

    “Um, no, but… Actually I’m awfully ignorant about how rich people live,” she said glumly.

    Jake was about to say you got used to it. He thought better of it. “There’s no need to rush round like a cut cat spending up madly just because we’re getting married. Though I grant ya most dames would. Uh—sorry, didn’t mean to say that. Just take it as it comes, eh? One day at a time.”

    “Mm… Do rich people have joint bank accounts like ordinary people, though?”

    “Perish the thought: you can’t even balance your cheque book, Miss Statistical Linguist!”

    “Be serious!”

    “Uh—well, actually, I’d better talk to my accountant,” he said on a weak note. “Um, well, these days you’d mostly be putting it on the plastic, anyway. Um, well, joint account for everyday cash, kind of thing, if ya like? Can’t see why not.”

    “Mm… We’d better have one of these pre-marital things,” decided Polly, frowning over it.

    “Thought we had had? Well, two.”

    “No! –I think that might’ve been the wrong word.”

    “Pre-nuptial agreement, and I won’t be asking for a divorce, believe you me,” he said grimly.

    “Nor will I,” she replied simply.

    “No,” he said weakly. “Good. But if you want a pre-nuptial agreement, we’ll have one.”

    “It seems only fair.” Polly stared into space. “What if I can’t do it?” she said in a voice that shook a little.

    Jake replied mildly: “You won’t be doing it alone. –That wasn’t a joke!” he added quickly. “No, uh, what I mean is, we’ll both have to work at it, eh? Watch ourselves. Go easy on the other one. Make a few allowances—not expect it to go like clockwork, eh?”

    “Yes, you’re right,” she said slowly.

    “Mm. And don’t try to be the perfect corporate wife, or even the perfect wife—okay? No rushing home from your lectures to slave over a hot stove.”

    “Um, no. Actually I don’t know what a perfect corporate wife is. But we have to eat.”

    “Yeah. Keep the freezer stocked, same like now, okay? Well, if you wanna tell Daph Green to buy us something a bit more interesting than those single-serve lasagnas and TV dinners she specialises in, I won’t object.”

    “No. Good. You’ve got a big chest freezer, haven’t you?”

    It wasn’t precisely the sort of conversation he’d envisaged for his engagement night, but Jake didn’t object. If she wanted to get things straight, so much the better. Added to which, it was her systems thing again, wasn’t it? “Two: there’s another one in the garage. Got half a wild pig in it. Aw—and a few trout Wal gave me.”

    “Is he a fly fisherman?”

    Jake coughed. “He is now—yeah.” He took the tray off her, piled their plates together and set the lot neatly on his bedside cabinet. Then he lay back against the banked peach satin pillows and told her a long, boring story about him and Wal and a mate called Pete McLeod in their misspent twenties. Trout and a few sticks of dynamite featured largely in it. Strangely enough she didn’t tear a strip off him about polluting the sacred Environment, she sniggered. Then she said: “What’s Pete doing these days?”

    “Still lives round Taupo.” He cleared his throat. “Turned the old bach into a poncy ecolodge for tourists with—” He stopped, she’d gone into hysterics. “Yeah,” he said with a silly grin. “Tourists with them giant suede safari boots and more money than sense. Mind you, they all eat the trout ’e serves without asking—”

    “Yes!” she gasped, collapsing again. She groped for some tissues and blew her nose hard. “Is he married?”

    “Sort of. Well, ’tis permanent, yeah. His third round. The first, Alison, she was into your fully carpeted three-bedroom job with them frilled pelmets.”—Polly gulped.—“Yeah,” he said with a certain satisfaction. “Busted up about six months after she made ’im do the bathroom out in primrose Formica. –Fully lined,” he elaborated. “Them dead fluffy dogs round the foot of the bog hadn’t come in yet, as I recall it, but she made up for that with the crocheted holder for the spare toilet roll. Took their two little girls and lit off for Brisbane once she’d got the house and full custody.”

    “What had he done?” asked Polly weakly.

    “Nothing. –Well, that was half the trouble: wouldn’t spend all his weekends shaving the lawn and clipping the hedge with ’is level in ’is hand.”

    “His—Oh, right.”

    “Wouldn’t paint the trellis turquoise, either,” he said thoughtfully.

    “That’s apocryphal!”

    “No, it isn’t. She was the sort of woman that likes standard roses, clipped within an inch of their lives, and she thought she’d try a climber for a change, so she nagged Pete into putting up a bit of trellis against the house. He just slapped a bit of white high-gloss on it—left over from the last time she made him paint the house, see? Only then she decided she wanted the concrete garden wall and the trellis and the windowsills all to be turquoise.”

    “A concrete wall as well as a hedge?”

    “Out the front: yeah. One of those really low walls, about two foot high, completely pointless, and so ya gotta plant a hedge behind it.”

    “Oh, yeah! I know!” she cried pleasedly.

    “Yeah. Pete’s idea was ya leave the wall and the hedge to it and the hedge grows up and covers most of the wall anyway, so it doesn’t matter what colour the fucking thing is.”

    “Yes. Poor woman,” said Polly seriously. “They were certainly incompatible.”

    “Good word for it,” said Jake with a sigh.

    “So what was his second like?”

    He winced. “Completely different type, but it was just as big a mistake. She was a Yank. Well, by that time Flower Power and stuff had come in—love beads and all that crap. She was one of those. Came out here for the simple life with the Indian muslins and the Afghan coats that only cost an arm and two legs and the home-grown pot. Came with a bloke: the idea was they were getting back to nature. And escaping the draft.”

    “The Americans would never have issued him with a passport,” objected Polly.

    “Eh? No, he got on out of it before his number came up, geddit? Anyway, once he got a good look at a New Zealand winter up the boo-eye without central heating or proper American plumbing and ran slap up against our regulations about pasteurising your milk before you make homemade cheese that’ll poison your customers, he gave it away. But she stayed on, and looked round for some other mug, and Pete was it. Well, she was a good-looking girl, I’m not denying it. Called herself Namrita, only turned out her name was really Susan. Red hair, big tits and that sort of milky skin that red-heads often have. Well, it was helped along with henna, but it was naturally gingery. Pete made the mistake—well, one of them—of believing her when she said she wanted the simple life. Only her version of the simple life included spending a fortune on that tofu muck—funnily enough it wasn’t readily available in Taupo round 1970—plus the dried lentils and stuff that went with it. Used to drive all the way up here every week, if ya please, to load up the waggon at a special health food shop and buy fresh fruit and veges at that really nice shop in Newmarket.”

    “The one that supplies the Governor-General’s mansion,” said Polly in a hollow voice.

    “Yep. On the one day of the year he’s up here—yeah. Anyway, Namrita didn’t work, of course, that woulda been giving in to the bourgeois whatsaname. Not that there were any jobs round Taupo way that she woulda been capable of doing, mind you. What she did do— No, I’ll let ya guess.”

    “Pottery?” said Polly weakly.

    “Good guess, but in this instance, no.”

    She swallowed. “Screen-printing?”

    “On Indian silk, ya mean? Yep, she tried that, all right. Hadda drive down to Wellington to get the supplies for that. Only that wasn’t the main interest. But you’re close.”

    Polly stared at him, frowning. “Not tie-dying?”

    “No. She was too arty for that, anyone could do that. Cast your mind back. You’d’ve been… Uh, just starting secondary school? Didja take art at St Ursie’s?”

    “They made us, in the Fourth Form. Oh, good grief! Batik?”

    “You got it,” he said, winking. “Hot wax everywhere, nasty little instruments imported from Indonesia with Pete’s hard-earned—”

    “What was he doing to earn a crust, back then?” said Polly feebly.

    “Bit of everything, really. Well, getting up before sparrow-fart to milk the neighbours’ cows for a pittance, then milking her bloody goats that she’d lost interest in six months after she’d got ’em. After the milking he’d go off to his jobs in Taupo. One was unpacking and shelving at one of the supermarkets, that took the best part of a morning, and then he worked eight hours at one of the big service stations on the main drag.—Two to ten,” he explained. “Got home in time to eat a sustaining meal of tofu and lentil sprouts and pass out until it was time for milking. She found a dump in Wellington that’d sell her batik stuff, and what with that and the women’s group she was in with down there, she was away every weekend. Actually Pete didn’t mind, it meant she was out of his hair and at least she wasn’t messing up the place with hot wax and leaving piles of crap for him to fall over. Anyway, to cut a longish story short, after they’d actually got married—long robes, bare feet, flowers in the hair, ya don’t wanna know,” he said, wincing, “she ups and decides she’s really a Les and what she wants is this dame down in Wellington that runs the gallery, and goes off to live with her. Leaving the goats, but taking all that real silver jewellery and the roomful of stereo gear she’d made him cough up for,” he finished drily.

    “Help,” said Polly feebly.

    “Yeah. After that he was off women for quite a bit.”

    “No wonder! Are they still together?”

    “What, Namrita and the Les? ’Course not. She went home to the States about three years later, changed her name back to Susan, and married a college professor in California. A male college professor,” he finished drily.

    Polly gulped.

    “Poor ole Pete… Jan’s okay, though. Nice woman. Face like the back of a bus, figure a bit like the bus itself, but they get on really well. She’s a qualified accountant; used to work for quite a big firm in Wellington. Her parents retired to Taupo, bought quite a nice place—not on the lake, of course, they weren’t in that income bracket. The mum died after a few years and the dad hung on but he wasn’t looking after himself properly and he had a bit of Alzheimer’s. So Jan decided to come and look after him. She hung up her shingle but ya know what these small towns are like, she didn’t get much custom. Anyway, Pete was selling some of the goats—these woulda been the great-grandchildren of Namrita’s original nannies that he’d never forced himself to get rid of: too soft-hearted,” he said smiling at her. “And Jan came out to see them, thought she might do a bit of spinning and have the milk as well, ya see. Only of course they weren’t angora goats, Namrita wouldn’t have risked buying anything that might’ve actually been an earner for them. He was back at the bach, of course, couldn’t keep up the payments on that other dump so he hadda sell it back to the neighbour that had let Namrita and the American bloke have it at a really good— Yeah. Anyway, he’d started taking guests for the fishing only he hadn’t been able to do much to the place and his accounts were in a mess, so he asked her if she’d mind taking a look at them in exchange for regular goats’ milk, and they sort of took it from there. When Jan’s old man popped off she put everything he left her into the ecolodge. They’re not making a fortune but they’re happy.”

    “Yes,” said Polly, smiling at him. “I’m glad.”

    “Uh—could look in on them,” he said cautiously. “Um, bit of a honeymoon down there, eh?”

    “Um—yes! Why not?”

    He smiled a little and squeezed her knee. “Mm. Time for Minder yet?”

    Polly tried the blab-out. “Um… no.”

    “No, still quite early, “he said, looking at his watch. “Um… Look, I oughta ring Jock McElroy.”

    “But Wal’s on the job.”

    “Eh? Not about young Jack,” he said, frowning. “About bloody Leo.”

    “No, don’t.”

    “Look, it was attempted rape!” he said loudly.

    “Well, yes, I suppose he would’ve gone that far. If it was only him and me I’d say go ahead, Jake, but what about his parents?”

    “Uh—shit.” He thought about it. “I dunno which of them’d take it worse. His mum’s getting on, but… No, it’d half kill old John,” he said, swallowing.

    “Mm.”

    “Uh…” He scratched his chin. “All right, I’ll give the bastard the option. Have ya got his home number?”

    “Um, in my address book, but it’s at home. Try the phone book.”

    Jake went out to the sitting-room. Polly stared blankly before her, frowning.

    “He is in the book: doesn’t he get plagued by students?” he said, coming back with the phone book.

    “No, because he never picks up,” said Polly with a sigh. “You’ll see.”

    Jake dialled. She was right, he got the fucking machine. “This is Jake Carrano,” he said grimly. “I’m giving you the option: get out of the country or be prosecuted for attempted rape. I’ll give you until Sunday. And I am reporting it, but I’ll tell the cops to hold off until then.” He hung up.

    Polly licked her lips. “I suppose his passport’s up to date… What if he can’t get a flight?”

    “He may not be able to book a tourist-class seat all the way to France, supposing that he inflicts himself on his relatives over there for free board and lodging, but there’s always business-class seats going begging.”

    “Right.”

    He looked at her face. “Don’t dare to start feeling sorry for the bastard!”

    “I can’t help it. He’s the unhappiest person I’ve ever met.”

    “He brings it all on himself,” he said grimly.

    “Yes, that’s why it’s so sad.”

    “Okay, it’s sad, but I’m ringing Jock McElroy. Don’t worry, I’ll get him to agree to hold off until we see if the bastard does shake the dust.”

    “Mm.” She listened silently as he rang Superintendent McElroy at home. Help: he gave him the news of the engagement, too! That made it really official, didn’t it!

    “Lucille,” he said, passing her the phone.

    Polly goggled at him frantically.

    “Go on. She wants to congratulate you.”

    “Hullo. It’s Polly here,” she said a small voice.

    “Polly, my dear! I’m so glad!” cried Mrs McElroy whom she’d never met. Polly just listened dazedly as she went on and on and on…

    “Thanks, Lucille,” she said finally. Immediately Lucille asked her if they’d set a date for the wedding.

    “Um, no, not yet,” she said, looking frantically at Jake. “Um, well, it depends. I mean, not in the middle of lambing.”

    “Give that here!” he said with a laugh. “Hullo, Lucille, it’s me again. ... Yeah, her Dad’s got a backblocks farm down the East Coast. … No, well, soon as possible! … Well, anything. She likes modern pottery.”

    “Jake!” hissed Polly in horror.

    Jake ignored her and after considerable more interrogation by Lucille was finally allowed to hang up. “They are all gonna ask us what we want for a wedding present, ya know.”

    “We don’t need anything: that house of yours has got everything that opens and shuts and then some!”

    “Nevertheless,” he said, grinning.

    “Help,” she muttered.

    “We’re gonna have to invite them,” he said, grinning. “I was thinking of well before lambing, actually.”

    “What? Oh—yes.”

    “Look, if it was just you and me I’d say nip off to the Registry Office, but there’s your mum and all your aunties and so forth. And your friends. Plus all my old cobbers and their wives.”

    After a moment Polly said glumly: “I was sort of thinking that it was just you and me.”

    “No. Well, the bits that matter are, sure.”

    “Yes. –The younger ones are all gonna fight over who gets to be a bridesmaid, how ghastly.”

    “Uh—yeah. Oh, your cousins and so forth! Right. Well, could settle their hash, just have a couple of friends from up here.” He looked at her face. “Uh—your mate Joanie, she’s the type that like weddings, eh? She could be your matron of honour. Don’t imagine Jill Davis’ll want to be a bridesmaid. Um… tell ya what! Marianne can help plan it!”

    His secretary was a lovely girl, but she was very young. She’d topped her commercial course and was both very bright and very capable, but… “Jake, unless she’s been involved in organising a wedding before—”

    “Her and Joanie together, then.”

    “Um, that might work.”

    “Good. Soon as you talk to your mum, we can set the date, eh?”

    “Um, yes,” said Polly feebly. “Okay.”

    Jake smiled. He pulled the covers up. “Snuggle down. Have a cuddle.” He put his arms round her. “Mmm… How are the cramps? Still achy?”

    “Yes,” she admitted with a smothered sigh.

    “When did you take those Panadol?”

    “Um, I dunno.”

    “Well, you can have another couple in a bit, though they don’t seem to help much.”

    “No. Aunty Vi recommends raspberry leaf tea, only it’s so sour it gives me worse cramps. Or the runs. Or both.”

    “She’s so old she’s forgotten what it was,” he said, snuggling his nose into her soft arm. “Mmm…” After quite some time he ventured: “Happy?”

    There was a long silence. Jake looked up at her in alarm.

    “Yes,” said Polly, smiling at him. She put a hand on her chest. “It’s a really funny feeling… I thought it was just a cliché to say your heart sang. But that is what it feels like: as if my heart’s actually singing. I—I feel all warm and zingy in my chest.”

    Jakes eyes filled with tears. “Yes,” he croaked. “Hug me.”

    She put her arms round him and held him very tight.

    “I love you so much! I’ve been so bloody miserable,” he said in a choked voice.

    “Yes,” said Polly, hugging him. “Never mind, it’s all right now.”

    Minder or not, the television didn’t get turned on again that evening.