The Gift of Girls

Chapter Six: Paul

I couldn't believe how selfish George was being. The rest of us were thrilled to pieces with our new found girlfriends (me especially) and he was determined to put a massive damper on everything. I watched him storm out of the kitchen and off down the hallway to his bedroom. The door banged shut and I was left alone in the kitchen with John.

"Can you believe him?" I asked John.

John didn't respond properly. He just mumbled something indistinctly through his clamped lips. Then he rose from the table and dashed out of the kitchen, gabbling that he didn't want to be late for his date at Jodie's house. I heard the front door slam. I was all alone in the kitchen.

"Typical of those idiots," I mumbled, getting to my feet. I glanced at my watch. I had twenty minutes to scoot over to Polly's flat; that gave me enough time to confront George about his irrational behaviour. I strode down the hallway and hammered on his bedroom door.

"George!" I called. "George, open this door now!"

"Go away, Paul!" George shouted back, his voice slightly muffled.

"I'm coming in if you don't open the door!"

"Knock yourself out! It's locked!"

"I wanted to talk to you about the way you've been acting," I said. "You've been behaving really strangely. What's going on in that funny little head of yours?"

"That's none of your bloody business!" George snapped.

There was a short silence. The door remained closed.

"Whatever, George," I shouted. "Like I care!"

I turned my back on the door and began to march along the hall to my own room. Then I heard a faint noise coming from behind me; a little sob. It sounded George was crying.

* * * *

I arrived at Polly's little flat and knocked on the door. There weren't many telltale signs to give away her personality, but the numbers on the door were made of colourful pieces of tile stuck together with concrete. I smirked.

"It seems like we've got an artsy girl on our hands!" I thought, tracing the outline of the numbers with my finger.

Polly opened the door and grinned brightly at me. Her face was smeared with paints of all sorts of colours: pinks, blues, greens, reds, purples. Her hair was tied up in a bright red scarf and her body was covered by a massive cotton art smock. It looked like Polly had been mud wrestling, only substituting mud with paint. In short, she was a mess.

"Hey, Paul," she crowed, waving the paintbrush in her hand like a wand.

"Hi, Polly," I replied.

"Sorry I look such a mess," Polly said apologetically. "You caught me in the middle of working on my latest project. I'm an artist, you see."

I saw all right. She let me in, telling me to watch my step. There were puddles of paint and glue and goodness knows what else all over the linoleum floor. I had to tread carefully or face the consequences of wet, sticky socks. Polly led me through her cluttered hallway to the living room, and that wasn't very tidy either. Unfinished art projects, jugs of glue, and other things were clumsily stacked in corners and piled high on shelves.

"I lost track of time," Polly explained. "I would have cleaned up, but I'm running out of room to put things. I do apologise for the mess."

"That's okay," I said. "I don't care about the mess. I'm here to see you."

Polly blushed bright red - even redder than the paint that was splattered all over her smock. She unbuttoned the back and took it off. Underneath of her artists gear, she was wearing a tiny cocktail dress, very low cut and clingy. It outlined her figure perfectly, showing off all of her fabulous curves. I tried not to look at her face, but my eyes kept trying to travel south.