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Polly nearly choked. She looked at the bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut in her hand; she’d only bought it so she’d be able to go up to Solo, and that had backfired. What had she expected, that he’d drop his packet of salt and vinegar chips and fall at her feet, beg her to reconsider?
Judith patted Polly’s arm and skipped off.
Polly stared morosely after her and threw the chocolate bar in the bin.
The rest of the week passed in a haze of misery. She spent the weekend eating cookie-dough ice-cream out of the tub and watching re-runs ofSex and the City. By the middle of the next week she felt like someone had gutted her with a fishing knife.
In bed at night she played over what she’d said. She kept her old journal on the bedside table, and every night re-read her entries about Danny, and Dad, and all that past stuff to stiffen her resolve.
And then on Tuesday she slammed into a brick wall.
Okay, metaphorically speaking. She’d walked into the tea room and Ben was talking to Solo. Her ears pricked up when she heard the word “interview”. Busying herself making a coffee, she hummed to pretend she wasn’t interested, then realised she couldn’t eavesdrop with her own inane, off-key version of “Baby, You’re Dead To Me” in her ears, so she stopped and listened, stirring her cup.
“So, what time is the interview?” This from Ben.
“Three pm,” Solo replied, “via Skype.”
“Does Pritchard know to leave you alone?”
“Yes. I’ve told him I won’t be available on the ward for an hour.”
“I’m sure he understands you’ve got to look after your career.”
“Yeah.” A pause, Polly’s ears pricked. “Though he’s had a talk with me about something that’s coming up here at the hospital. Part of a psychiatry first-response team in ED.”
By now Polly was sure she resembled Dumbo. Gigantic ears flapping in the breeze. She went and got milk out of the fridge. Very, very slowly.
Ben said, “God, it’d be great if you stayed, the patients love you. Would you consider it?”
There was a long loud silence, the air buzzing with electric current. Polly plonked the carton on the bench and milk slopped everywhere.
“I don’t think so.” Solo’s voice was clipped and hard. “Nothing for me here in Perth.”
She couldn’t help herself, she turned around. Two silver lasers bore into her. All she could do was stare at him helplessly.
Solo flicked his gaze away. Face blotching madly, Polly turned and focused on scrubbing at the milk on the bench.
“Hey there, Poll, come and sit with us,” said Ben cheerfully.
Solo got up, washed his mug and walked out without another word.
Ben’s features creased into a perplexed frown. “What’s bitten him?”
Polly shrugged. “Interview nerves, maybe.” Utter misery coiled into her stomach. “What’s the job?” she forced out.
“The Mayfield neuropsych hospital in Sydney. A senior registrar position.”
“Oh, nice,” said Polly, and tried to pretend her heart hadn’t just made a really loud cracking noise.
Things didn’t improve over the rest of the day.
By the end of it, she’d decided she had two choices. 1) Grovel and tell Solo she missed him like fucking crazy and would he please come back into her bed. (Further than that, she refused to let her thoughts go.)
2) Forget him and go and party. Hard.
She sat in her office and let the choices percolate while she should have been writing up a family therapy session. The first option made a ball of terror barrel up her throat; the second made her feel numb and flat. She’d just decided numb and flat was preferable to death by fear when her phone trilled.
It was Dad.
