If Polly Fenton had thought for one moment that a year in America was going to have serious ramifications for her accent and her relationship with Max Fyfield, she very probably would not be going. But the concept hasn’t crossed her mind and so she is trading Belsize Park, London, for Hubbardtons Spring, Vermont, on a teachers’ exchange programme.

Tomorrow.

Today, she must pack and prepare.

Currently, she is wrapping articles of clothing around bumper-sized jars of Marmite.

‘Look, Buster, I’ve never been to America,’ she explains to her oversized ginger tom-cat who regards her reproachfully. ‘This is an amazing opportunity,’ she clarifies, as much to herself as to Buster’s withering yawn. ‘Max said so,’ she furthers, looking at a photograph of him, clasping it to her heart before swaddling it in pairs of knickers and placing it in the suitcase.

Apart from Buster, Polly actually has everyone’s blessing. The offer of the exchange wasn’t even put out to tender amongst the school staff and when Polly asked Max what he thought, he declared, ‘Go West, young woman. Wow!’

Her friends have taken to talking to her in American accents, scattering twangy sentences with liberal dashings of ‘sonava’, ‘goddam’ and ‘gee’. Such supportive reactions have enabled Polly to feel just on the verge of rather excited about her year away. And why shouldn’t she be? Her life in London is safe and lovely and she knows it will greet her as such on her return. And yet, over the last week and particularly today, on packing, those quivers of excitement are masking tremors of fear.

She is twenty-seven years old, petite in stature but large in character. Her dead straight, rich brown hair hangs in a neat, fringed bob, the gloss and hue of dark, clear honey (though she wishes it were a more Marmitey shade and sheen, of course). Eyes that are mostly rich hazel turn khaki in times of extreme emotion. They invariably change colour on a daily basis when some fact or fantasy subsumes her.

Presently, with some trepidation, she is rifling through her bathroom cabinet deciding what to take.

‘Do you know, I’ve never been away from home for more than a fortnight,’ she says to herself, very quietly. ‘I haven’t been apart from Max for more than four days – and then only twice in our five years.’

She sits on the edge of the bath and her eyes well army-issue green. Her throat is tight. Here it comes. She cries sharply for a few seconds until her throat loosens.

‘Oh dear,’ she says, catching her breath and sniffing loudly, while a sorry smile etches its way across her lips. ‘That’s better. Much better,’ she laughs, as the ablutionary effect of the sob settles in and her eyes shine hazel. ‘Absolutely fine. Where was I?’

Though she taps her temples and scrunches her brow, she can’t remember what she was to do in the bathroom so she returns to her bedroom and regards the open suitcase on the bed, gaping like a cavernous, ravenous mouth. She fears that once the lid is closed, the contents might be consumed. She giggles at her ludicrously active imagination developed, as a necessity, in childhood.

If you’d been brought up by an aunt who made Trappist monks seem fervent conversationalists, you too would turn to the most unlikely of objects for a chat.

Polly regards the suitcase, half tempted to take everything out and place it all back in her cupboard and drawers.

Do I really want to go? But, for a whole year?

Too late to back out now.

‘Is that enough Marmite? Have I packed enough clothes?’

Polly weighs the merit of another jar of Marmite against another pair of jeans, looking from one to the other, chewing her lip and procrastinating.

I’m going to the home of the Blue Jean – bloody brilliant!

I’m going away from the home of Marmite – why would I want to do that?

The clothing loses, easily, and the jar of Marmite is wrapped in a T-shirt currently lying unproductive in the suitcase.

She returns to the bathroom. Dilemma. To pack a half-empty bottle of shampoo or buy new. Where? At the airport? Or over there, in America?

‘Saved by the bell!’ Polly cheers, straightening her brow and running away from the shampoo conundrum to answer the door.

‘Lalalalala-America!’

It’s Max. Singing. He has a lovely voice. Polly throws her arms about his neck and buries her face there while he wraps his arms about her waist and lifts her up. They waddle through the communal hallway back to her flat.

‘Switch the light off, bitch!’ comes the familiar tirade from Edith Dale, the old woman living on the top floor.

‘Hullo, hullo? What is the noise please? Is it Sunday?’ asks Miss Klee, the frail Swiss woman who lives on the floor above Polly.

‘It’s Monday, Miss Klee, the eighth of September,’ a muffled Max informs, Polly still clasped on to him, while he flicks the hallway light back on.

Back in Polly’s flat, Max sets her down. She goes over to the French doors, sighs at her minute patio and then returns to him.

‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go,’ she whispers, drumming her fists lightly against his chest. ‘Tell me I don’t have to!’ she pleads. ‘Tell me to stay.’

Max holds her wrists and lays her hands either side of her face. ‘Daft thing,’ he says with affection, noting her eyes are currently a very sludgy green. ‘Of course you’re going. It’s an amazing opportunity.’

‘A-maze-ing,’ Polly repeats ruefully. ‘Will you miss me?’ she implores, scanning Max’s face which she knows off by heart, wondering how on earth she’ll cope without easy access to it over the next year.

‘Will you miss me?’ she asks again, this time pouting becomingly.

‘Just as much as you’ll miss me,’ Max assures, pressing his finger gently on the tip of her nose. Her eyes smart with tears but she swallows them away for the time being.

‘Packed?’ he asks, ‘ready?’

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