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She’d not slept properly; she’d even lost her appetite. At least that was a small bonus. She’d got on the scales this morning and found she’d lost two kilos. In a week. A week!
Any other time she’d be air-punching.
As an act of defiance, she’d gone partying with some old friends from university on Friday night, a crowd who she saw less often but who were fun and frivolous. Sure, it had been a blast and she’d had a humdinger of a hangover on Saturday morning, but it hadn’t filled the space inside her that had Solo written on it.
Somehow—when she’d finally dragged herself out of bed to get some shopping—she’d found herself in a craft shop, staring at knitting needles, because if you were going to be an auntie, you had to knit something for the baby, didn’t you? But after the mess she’d made of a single blanket square, the poor kid would probably be a teenager before Polly got something finished. And worse, she kept seeing Solo’s hands in her mind’s eye, and what she had them doing didn’t remotely resemble knitting.
So work had ticked by with stilted conversations over morning tea and Solo rushing off after PTSD group yesterday saying he had something urgent to do. What was urgent at 9.30 on a Wednesday night? Officially, she was losing her mind.
Sighing, Polly laid the 7 out to dry and started on the 0.
“Carts is a really nice person,” she said without knowing whether she meant it as a warning or encouragement.
Clearly Judith saw it as the latter. “He said yoga might help, that it really calmed his mind after a major break-up. Do you know what happened?”
Polly made a careful stroke with her brush. “He got engaged, or rather, didn’t. Anyway, he’s… he’s not that lucky with women.”
Judith swivelled, surprise on her face. “Why ever not?
“Way too nice.”
“Oh, that’s sad. He’s got lovely eyes.” Judith removed her art apron. “Anyway, I said I might see him there tomorrow night. The Thousand Petalled Lotus, at the surf club on the beach.”
“Jude, your voice has got that sing-song note it gets when you’re pretending you don’t want a piece of Leon’s apple strudel.”
Judith skipped around with jam jars of paint water, clattering them into the sink. “Why don’t you come too?”
Polly looked at her askance. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, you’ve been really jumpy lately. I reckon some deep breathing would do you a world of good.”
What she needed, Polly decided glumly, was some wild tantric sex. With somebody who seemed to have opened all her chakras, then slammed the lid shut when he got to the most important one.
But maybe Jude was right. She needed to centre herself. Regain her inner focus and re-align herself with her single status.
Which was why, Friday after work, Polly found herself lying with her back supported on a bolster, arms out to the side, palms up and her legs in a weird, froglike pose, feeling like she was at a pre-birthing class.
“Breathe deep into your belly…. feel it expand… now let the breath go in three stages… belly… ribs… shoulders. Fully empty the lungs of air… Beautiful… That’s right. Imagine the air reaching your fingertips as you breathe back in.”
The woman sounded like she was in some kind of mesmeric trance. Polly squeezed her eyes closed, because otherwise she’d see Judith or Carts doing the same weird froggy thing and she might get the giggles.
Like this, with her bits practically swinging in the breeze, it was hard not to think about Solo. How could he totally open up to her and then suddenly withdraw? In fact, if you wanted to really explore it, that’s what they’d done since they met, hadn’t they? Both of them. Night one, Solo exited the stage; night two, she’d done a runner; potential night three, there she was slathered against her car door, panting, and he’d turned and walked off.
So now she knew who the guy in the photo was. And it filled in some pieces of the puzzle. But not all of them.
Because who the bloody hell was Em?
He wasn’t telling her everything.
Oh, shit, now where was she? Breathing in or out, ribs or belly?
She wriggled her back into the bolster, which started her thighs cramping. This was actually really anxiety-provoking. Not at all freakin’ calming.
Focus on Miss Mesmeric.
After what felt like an hour of pan pipes, Polly was practically ready to claw her Lululemons off. She rolled off her bolster in an ungainly heap, rolled up her mat and was out of the room already waiting when Carts and Judith exited.
They were both looking remarkably floaty and enlightened. Which clearly meant the problem was with her.
