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“Are you certain about that? I mean, if you’d rather not…”
“Em, don’t worry. I’m not angry about it, okay? I’m doing fine. How are you two going…?”
He sensed her moment of hesitation. “We’re… okay… good, I think, now he’s more himself.”
Before, those words would have hurt like hell. Now the whole sordid business felt distant, hazy. Unreal. Like it had happened to someone else.
Solo stifled a sigh. Filled his voice with smiles, so she’d hear he was fine. “That’s great news.”
“Are you enjoying Perth?” Emma asked.
“I am.”
“The job and all? You’ve made some friends?”
“Yep. Job’s good. And yes, I’ve made some friends.” He’d count Carts as a friend, and Leon was someone he felt he could warm towards. And then there was Polly.
What on earth would he call her? Frenemy? Sexemy?
“Anyway, got to go, Em, I’ve got patients to see. Text me the date. Are you set for accommodation and everything?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got a hotel. The Sheridan.”
“It will be good to show you around Perth.”
“That would be nice. And it’s good to talk to you, Solo.”
“Good to talk to you, too, Em.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
When he’d pocketed his phone he glanced along the hospital corridor.
Polly was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Hi Mim,
Fingers hovering over the keyboard of her laptop, Polly chewed on the inside of her cheek. What the hell should she offer to bring to Dad’s seventieth?
It was a mere two weeks away, and she hadn’t even thought of a present.
A new shirt? Dad wore the same old things on the farm, his blue overalls with a white Bonds T-shirt underneath. A shaver, to get rid of his beard? Maybe a clean shave would do him good. A book from The Book Genie? Dad had started reading once and had actually gone through some classics. They’d even managed to have some good conversations, but the problem was that other than the farm—and drinking—Dad hadn’t developed many hobbies. Sure, the farm took his time, but he was a man without a rudder. A man whose past would never quite set him free. He never spoke about Vietnam, but Polly knew his experiences there had broken him. Broken his relationship with Mum, which had—according to the occasional conversation she’d had with Gran on the subject—been so vibrant and romantic before he left, only to turn into a nightmare of mood swings and drinking binges when he got back.
The only thing that Polly could remember between her parents were long periods of tense silence punctuated by raised voices and smashing crockery.
She stuck her chin on her fist and sighed. She knew what he’d like her to give him, and it made her heart curl into a tight little knot. His favourite Irish whisky. But it had been years since anyone would buy Dad alcohol.
She wasn’t a great cook, so baking anything was out. Then an idea struck her. The decorations. A big 70thsign. She’d make it after work in the OT department. That would do. And she’d take some snacks, nice cheeses, gourmet crackers. Hardly imaginative, but better than subjecting the guests to her cooking.
Smiling, she started to type the email again, then stopped, chewing at her lip once more. God, how these two had managed to get this far was anyone’s guess. When Mum had taken off over east when Polly was fourteen, Mim had moved in barely nine months later. Polly had nothing against Mim, she was a nice, warm-hearted woman. She took Dad’s flack most of the time, always came back to him after the occasional spat, and she’d been good to Gran in her final year of life. Yeah, Mim had put up with a lot.
Polly straightened. She’d never do that. Put up with shit and keep on smiling and forgiving. She’d go to her death for a friend, but not a lover.
She’d meant it when she’d told Solo friends came first. She’d learned to value friendship over any liaison, no matter how good it felt. Once burned, twice, thrice, a thousand times shy.
