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Polly wasn’t. Many of the businesses who came to them at Northern Eagles were desperate enough to invest in their expertise. Old family firms that had no idea how to adjust to suit present markets, or fledgling businesses who had ploughed everything they had into their dreams and badly needed guidance. People’s livelihoods were at stake, their health as well as their money. She’d felt pride when it was her ideas that had been adopted and made the difference; she still did, but ever since the new regime began, just over two years ago, not once had she been given true recognition for what she’d achieved, even though the honours had been handed out too readily to those who had done so little to earn them. She hadn’t a clue what she was going to do about it going forward but she was going to do something. On Sunday, a new phase of her life would begin and she hoped that her new-found freedom would give her the confidence to make changes for herself at work as well as at home. And she’d have a woman called Sabrina to thank for it: a character she had invented in her writing class. Sabrina was everything Polly aspired to be, a new creature springing up from the ashes of her old self, like a brilliant phoenix, no longer happy with her lot and ready to alter things. It was beyond bonkers that Polly found herself stirred by a person who didn’t exist that she’d conjured up from her own head and yet who was showing her way forward. Fictional Sabrina was leaving her cheating shit of a husband Jasper because it was the right thing to do to save herself, and Real Polly was primed to follow in her footsteps.
‘Oh you little sod, behave,’ said Sheridan to her stomach. ‘I’m as tight as a drum. Braxton Hicks contractions. To be fair, they don’t hurt, it’s just your body tuning up for delivery.’
Polly knew what they were.
‘Can I feel?’ she asked.
‘Course,’ said Sheridan.
Polly walked round to Sheridan’s side. She placed her hand on her bump, felt the shifting underneath her palm. She closed her eyes and remembered how it was to have a small life growing inside so close to her heart.
‘This time next month you’ll be holding him,’ said Polly, removing her hand long before she wanted to.
‘And then my stomach will be the equivalent of a deflated balloon.’ Sheridan sighed. ‘Just as well I’m going to fill it up with another one as soon as I can.’
She had it all planned out. She’d come back to work for a bit and then get pregnant again and leave permanently to be a hands-on mum. Her husband Dmitri was ten years older and a scientist earning a packet, not that Sheridan ever showed off about their financial status. The only things she liked to show off about were her latest bargain finds in discount shops. She and Polly had a thing that they could only buy each other birthday and Christmas presents from the pound shop.
‘So what did you do at the weekend?’ asked Sheridan, throwing over a packet of chewy toffees. Polly took one and threw it back. They called this ‘confectionery tennis’. They did a lot of daft things to offset the frustrations of working in this patriarchal black hole.
‘Final check on my bridesmaid dress.’
‘Oh yes, thedress,’ said Sheridan, giving the word a weight all of its own as she held up two fingers arranged as a crucifix. ‘And does it still fit?’
‘That’s the problem. It would fit me and half the guests. Look, I took a photo of the whole ensemble for you in the changing room.’ Polly fished her phone out of her bag, found the picture and then handed it over the partition.
‘Fuck me, it’s worse than I imagined,’ said Sheridan, when she realised her eyes weren’t deceiving her. ‘To be fair, it would probably look okay on Harry Styles.’
‘Everything looks okay on Harry Styles,’ returned Polly.
‘And what for the love of god is that on your head? It looks like a mucky swan.’
‘It’s a fascinator.’
‘Why does your sister-in-law hate you so much?’
Polly laughed at that. Camay didn’t hate her, even though she would very shortly. Camay viewed her as a mere extension of her beloved brother and as such had never bothered to grow fond of her as a separate entity. Polly had always wanted to embrace Chris’s family as her own, but his daughter was devious and his sister an inveterate show-off whom it was hard to warm to. Polly was under no illusions: Camay hadn’t insisted she be the bridesmaid because they were close – Camay had all her ladies’ group cronies for friendship. There had to be another reason, though Polly couldn’t for the life of her work out what it was.
‘In Camay’s eyes, if a price tag is hefty and the designer is well-known, a garment cannot possibly be awful. It’s out of the question.’
‘You have far too nice a figure for that… sack, Polly. I mean, why hasn’t she chosen something for you that goes in at the middle and shows off that lovely small waist you have?’ Sheridan crossed her arms as if she meant business. ‘I reckon she’s jealous.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Polly refuted that. She wasn’t the sort thatCamay would envy. She might if she owned a wardrobe full of Victoria Beckham outfits. Or was tall and willowy like a catwalk model so that everything she wore looked fabulous on her. As it was, Polly was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, with mid-brown, mid-length poker-straight hair. Once upon a time though, her tawny eyes used to shine and she had a smile that could light up a whole city, someone kind said. The only beauty contest she’d ever have a chance of winning now would be Miss Average Great Britain.
‘It’s just one day, half a day really I suppose. I can cope with wearing it for that long,’ said Polly. ‘Then I’ll gladly take it off and –’walk away from them all‘– put it in a charity bag.’
She had so wanted to share what she’d been planning with someone and if Sheridan hadn’t been pregnant, that’s who she would have confided in; but she couldn’t offload all that onto her, especially now when the bun in her oven was almost fully baked. She had to be strong for herself, something she should have been long before this.
‘Are they having a honeymoon?’
‘Apparently so but she says it’s top secret. It’ll be somewhere exotic no doubt.’
‘Benidorm?’
‘Ha. I’d put my life savings on it not being.’
‘I love Benidorm,’ said Sheridan. ‘I’ve had a lot of fun there, both with pals and Dmitri.’
‘Me too.’ Polly remembered getting off the plane at Alicante and feeling the blast of hot air almost knock her backwards. She’d gone with mates that she wasn’t in touch with any more. Her first ever trip abroad. It was sensory overload. They’d come home with all the souvenir tat, the Spanish dancer doll, the castanets, the fan, the big furry donkey. And, thanks to a young handsome Spanish waiterand a split condom, Polly brought home an extra souvenir she didn’t know about until two months later.
