Page 110 of The Polly Principle (The Laws of Love 2)

Something ripped in her chest. No-one called her a coward. “No, I’m a fucking survivor. Have a nice night with yourgirlfriend.” She turned as she yanked at the door and glared at him. “On second thoughts, have a nice life together.”

With that she was out the door and down the path, the sound of the Backstreet Boys ringing in her ears, wishing he’d follow her just so she could give him another very satisfying earful. But when she’d walked as fast as she could to the end of the road and taken out her phone to call an Uber and he hadn’t followed her, she’d deflated like a pricked balloon.

And now here she was, dying inside at the memory.

And she couldn’t breathe because there was a big metal band around her chest.

And that stupid tear was back, teetering like a trapeze artist on the end of her eyelashes.

When she got home she dropped her gear on the bench and headed for the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of wine out of the fridge and rummaged around for the corkscrew. She was digging it relentlessly into the cork when she stopped. Froze, more like. The bottle sandwiched between her thighs and this desperate feeling rising up her throat.

The wordcowardbanged around her skull like a deranged monkey.

Fuck, no!

She was behaving just like Dad. Emotional pain, running to the bottle, drowning out her feelings with alcohol. Sure, she loved a drink, maybe a bit too much sometimes, but she was a social drinker, she knew the dangers of drinking alone. But this, this was different. She wanted to obliterate the slimy black monster in her chest. The one with hideous green eyes.

Fingers shaking, she placed the bottle on the table. The opener back in the drawer.

Then she marched into her room and searched in the bottom of the wardrobe until she found it. Her purple journal, “Polly Fletcher’s Journal STRICTLY PRIVATE” written on it in childish rounded handwriting, flowers and glitter and sticky things all over the front cover.

She plonked down on the bed, pushed her curls behind both ears, and opened it.

Flicking through to the most-thumbed pages, her heart pounded as she read the entries about Danny. The outpourings of love and yearning and hopes of a sixteen-year-old. Her dreams of being with Danny, marrying Danny, riding off into a hazy sunset with Danny. The night she’d given him her virginity.“It was beautiful, though it hurt a bit and it was over real quick, but Danny held me close and told me he loved meafter.”Hearts with arrows through them, three of them, coloured in pink. She flicked through to a page four weeks later,“I HATE HIM, I HATE HIM”scribbled so hard in red ink the pen had punctured the page…

“I am now the proud owner of a serpent on my inner thigh. I am woman HEAR ME ROAR.”

So young, so passionate, so sure she would survive.

She shut her journal, smoothed her fingertips over the glitter and transfers. Stood up. Peeled off her dress and let it fall to the ground and looked at her body in the mirror without blinking. Her inner left thigh where the serpent’s tongue curled towards the little patch of dark hair, her small waist, the full mounds of her breasts and large nipples. The way her hips spread into rounded buttocks. Yeah, they were bigger than she wanted them to be, but… She turned sideways and stared at her butt cheeks over her shoulders. She had cellulite; those ripples had been there since her late teens, no matter what diet she tried, no matter how many lemons she sucked. So what. It was always going to be this way. And yes, her legs were too short for ideal beauty, her boobs way too big.

But she washer.

Polly.

And she didn’t need anyone to make her feel beautiful. She didn’t need to compare herself to anyone, however tall, and stick-thin friggin’ beautiful they were. Even if she’d clearly just been a rebound fling for someone who she’d made the mistake of letting wangle his way under her skin and into her bed, and make her omelettes like a happy married couple…

Fuckity fuck.

Just as she was beginning to feel better, here came the memories of every glorious second with Solo, like a thousand needles in her brain, digging away at all that soft stuff that she’d thought she’d surgically removed years ago.

She caught her expression in the mirror, the pit of sorrow in the depths of her eyes, the sense of bewilderment and hurt.

Nope. Not happening. She’d have to bring in the big guns.

She looked around but her phone must still be in the kitchen. Barefoot and naked, she nipped down the corridor and found her phone on the kitchen table.

No messages. Really, what was she thinking? Solo would be happily entwined with the supermodel by now. His lovely, strong, muscled, lean legs would be perfect with… NO!

Her lips tightened into a hard line as she brought up the number on automatic dial and put the phone to her ear.

“Munchkin,” she said, trying to control the crack in her voice when Alice answered.

“Hey, Poll, lovely to—Oh—what’s wrong?”

Polly’s shoulders slumped. The stuffing had been ripped out of her and she so needed someone to help her put it back, then sew her carefully back together again. And the only person who could do that right now was Alice.

“Munchkin,” her voice wavered, almost cracked, but she firmed it up. “I need you to tell me I’m wonderful.”

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