Polly by Freya North

England, and all briefly at lunch-time? Was that really all he had done?
    Polly felt quite sick. Sick with dismay that it had only been a damn dream, sick with worry that she should be thus dismayed and sick at herself for her perceived infidelity. That she had had the dream at all deeply distressed her and yet she was also troubled by her disappointment at being woken. She worried that she had been writhing as Kate tried to wake her. Had she said anything revealing in her sleep? Why had she never dreamt about Max in such a way? Had he ever dreamt so explicitly about her? About anyone else? But it made her feel sick that he might have done; about someone else. And yet how could she have done this? To Max? Would she even have noticed Mikey had she not felt so uneasy about the phone call with Max?
    I haven’t fantasized like this at all. Haven’t ever needed to. Hang on, it wasn’t a fantasy at all – it was but a dream. Phew! I can’t determine what I dream. I’m innocent.
    She lay in bed, her hand resting gently over her pubis. The hair there was damp. She tunnelled between the lips of her sex; she oozed wetness. With an ear peeled and eyes clamped to the slightly ajar door, she masturbated. She didn’t think of Max. She didn’t think of Mikey. She thought instead of a film star and closed her eyes as she came.
    Dominic’s party was OK, Max supposes, as he settles at his drawing board and leafs through the briefs clipped at the top.
    Quite good, actually. Except for being lumbered with the clearing up because Dom’s hangover rendered him immobile all day. Shame that Polly phoned. I can’t believe I forgot, that’s not like me.
    Max must work on the design for a media agency’s Christmas party invitation, and comes up with an idea to manipulate the text into the shape of a wine glass. Because he must perfect the design first, he ignores the precise wording the client has ordered. A letter to Polly will provide the perfect practice vehicle. He doodles wine-glass shapes quickly and then commences.

    It’s a good design, Max is pleased with it. He can’t show the client this particular one, of course, not least because he’s going to send it to Polly straight away. After lunch, he’ll re-do it and insert the commissioned wording. Somehow, he feels closer to Polly just writing to her than he did when speaking to her by phone but he’ll call her at midnight because he must, because no doubt she’ll be waiting. That’s in twelve hours’ time. Currently, Mikey McCabe is laying her down under the trees. Max isn’t to know, though. How can he know what Polly is dreaming?
    Polly beat Max to it. She skipped dinner easily because she hadn’t been able to eat all day anyway. She felt wretched, believing herself to have been unfaithful. She also felt sick with worry that she was far from Max’s mind anyway, that she was perhaps slipping from his heart. Why else would he have forgotten to call her? Why else would he be so preoccupied with some stupid party of Dominic’s? Adrenalin surged as she dialled.
    â€˜Hullo?’
    Bloody Dominic.
    â€˜Dominic, it’s Polly. Max, please.’
    I don’t like you any more.
    â€˜Hey Polly!’
    Party animal, bad influence.
    â€˜Max, please.’
    â€˜Sure,’ said Dominic, unaware of his crime and presuming Polly merely being frugal with the transatlantic call. ‘Take care, girl, speak to you soon.’
    Hopefully not.
    â€˜Polly?’
    He sounds tired.
    â€˜Hullo.’
    She sounds low.
    â€˜I,’ stumbled Max, ‘I wrote to you today. Posted it Swiftair.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ Polly responded, having still not received his first letter.
    Well, have you written to him?
    I’ve almost finished a very long letter, actually, that I started before I even left England and continued on the flight.
    â€˜Saturday?’ she started, feeling low and little and