“I don’t want to talk about your wife.”
“I thought you did.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Polly shifted her weight slightly from one bare foot to the other; it was a tiny move, but sexual. A loosening of the body. Jack glanced up. She still stood that same way that she used to, relaxed, a little lazy on the hips. He felt his whole resolve dissolving.
“Yeah, well anyway, I never told her. I never told anyone.”
“As if anyone would care now?” said Polly. “As if it matters in the slightest after all these years. Unless you’re embarrassed or something. Is that it? Are you scared that one day someone else but me might find out that you’re a craven shit?”
“Maybe it’s just that I don’t want to share you, even in my memories.”
Polly’s emotions were on a knife edge. They could not have been more mixed if she’d run them through the washing machine. It is true that her desire for him had begun to overcome the anger she felt about his ancient betrayal. However, it did not take much to bring sixteen years of resentment back into focus.
“That’s nice,” she said. “Especially considering all you left either of us with is memories.”
Jack looked so crestfallen that she felt sorry for him. Something she would not have imagined possible only an hour before.
“OK, OK,” she put in quickly. “It was a long time ago. Different decade, different world order. It happened, that’s all. I suppose you’re not the only guy in history who did the dirty on a girl. And anyway. You did come back…”
Polly’s stance relaxed further and the room positively hummed with Jack’s longing. Her left hip dropped a little lower, pushing the knee forward. Her mouth fell slightly open. She rested her hands upon her thighs and was reminded that she was still dressed in a rather unflattering plastic rainmac.
“Think I’ll take off this raincoat,” she said. “My nightie’s probably slightly less stupid.”
Polly let the raincoat slip off as if it had been a neglige and stood before Jack dressed only in a shirt, the top couple of buttons of which were already undone. She was breathing more quickly now and her bosom was again rising and falling defiantly. Her hair, which Polly had thought a mess, might also have been described as gloriously tousled, ravishingly unkempt.
She was so beautiful, Jack could hardly bear it, yet still he hesitated.
“It’s been a long time, Jack,” said Polly, which was clearly a nice way of saying, “Come to bed.” She took a step or two towards him.
Jack could not help but catch a momentary glimpse of Polly’s thighs as the movement of her legs parted her shirt at its hem. He was inches from the soft, pale splendour of Polly’s most private self, and he could scarcely bear it. This had been no part of his plans.
Polly bent down and took the glass from Jack’s hand. In so doing her nightshirt fell forward and Jack was almost painfully aware of her breasts as they hung before him inside the gaping shirt. He looked. How could he resist? He stared. For a moment he could actually see between her breasts and through to her stomach beyond and the top of her knickers, which were crimson against her skin.
“I’ve missed you too,” Polly whispered softly, her mouth not nine inches from his ear. “I’ve been lonely.”
“It’s an international epidemic.”
Polly put Jack’s glass down on the little table beside his chair. Or rather on top of the pile of magazines, books and coffee mugs already on top of the. little table by his chair. Then she took Jack’s hands and drew him to his feet. Jack could now feel the warmth of Polly’s breath, the warmth of her body. Her hair smelled exactly the same as it had always done. He could see that her nipples had hardened again beneath the thin cloth of her nightshirt. She had always had such responsive nipples, he remembered. They were up and down all night, leaping into life at the slightest provocation, an infallible barometer of the state of her arousal. The current provocation was scarcely slight. They were both consumed with a taut, vibrant desire and the points of Polly’s breasts seemed almost to be straining to reach him.
“You’re such a beautiful girl, Polly. Still just the same.”
“Nearly the same,” Polly replied. “It’s all still here, just a little closer to the ground.”
It did not seem so to Jack. She appeared to him as beautiful as the day they had first met. As the day he had left. Polly reached up to him and took his face in her hands.
“Hello, old friend,” she said and drew his lips towards hers.
And then they kissed. This time Polly did not break away as she had done when Jack first arrived. It was a kiss that spanned sixteen years, a kiss so charged and full of memory and emotion that it was a wonder that the mouths of two people could contain it all.
Now their arms were about each other, mouths working with a desperate urgency. Even through the thickness of his uniform Jack could feel the soft splendour of Polly’s body against his. If he chose he knew that he could be upon it in an instant. He had only to throw off his clothes and that divine skin would be against his, those adored breasts crushed against his chest. He clasped her even tighter to him.
“Is that a gun in your pocket?” Polly whispered playfully into Jack’s ear, “or are you pleased to see me?”
Jack loosened his grip, slightly embarrassed. “Actually it’s a gun in my pocket.”
Stepping back for a moment Jack reached under his jacket and took a pistol from his trousers.
“Sorry about that,” he said and laid it down on the table beside his glass. Then he made as if to resume their embrace, but Polly raised a hand to stop him. She could hardly believe her eyes.
“A gun!” she gasped. “You’re carrying a gun! You’re armed!”
“Sure,” Jack replied casually. “I’m a soldier. It’s what I take to work.”
“I’m a council worker but I don’t have a file full of pointless forms and a leaky biro stuffed into my knickers! I can’t believe you’ve brought a gun into my home.”
Where Jack came from, of course, everybody had a gun in their home. People didn’t even think about it. In fact if you didn’t have one you were weird. Obviously Jack knew that things were different in Britain, but it still did not seem like a big deal to him.
“I’m sorry, Polly, but I need it.”
“You need a gun in Stoke Newington in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, I do,” Jack replied. “I’m a target.”
This was not the type of conversation that Polly would have chosen to conduct in the middle of making love, but she could not just let it go.
“You do know you’re breaking the law, don’t you?” she said. “I mean, this is Britain, not Dodge City! You can’t just wander around with a gun in your pocket.”
But it seemed that Jack could.
“I’m one of America’s most senior soldiers. Quite a lot of people about the place would like me to be dead. It’s a diplomatic thing. We have an informal understanding with Special Branch.”
Polly still could not accept it. “You come to my house dressed like Oliver North, you have informal understandings with the Special Branch, you carry a gun! I hate people like you. I’ve spent my life protesting about people like you!”
Jack shrugged and smiled his smile.
“So how is it…” Polly continued, “how the fuck is it… that you’re the only man I’ve ever loved…?”
“Bad luck, I guess,” said Jack. Then he drew her back into his arms.
For a moment Polly thought about resisting. She thought about informing Jack that she was not a tap who could be turned on and off, that she did not consort with gunmen. But then he held her and she held him. Their lips met again with even greater passion, it seemed, than they had done a minute or two before. Again Jack could feel Polly’s divine form crushed against him, could feel her hands pulling at the belt of his jacket. Now he really had to see her naked once more. He stood back a little, not so far as to stop Polly from undoing his belt but far enough for him to raise his hands to the buttons of Polly’s nightshirt. Whatever his original plans might or might not have been, he simply had to see her naked again. He would die if he did not. He knew that it was wrong. He had promised himself that what was about to happen was the one thing that would not happen but he didn’t care. He had been mad to imagine that he could control it. He loved her and he wanted her. Nothing had changed.
Now his hands were at the middle buttons of her nightshirt, his eyes straining, waiting to feast themselves on what lay beneath. His face, usually so mature and assured, was suddenly like a boy’s, eager and scared. Polly, too,
