Love Is a Four Letter Word (14 page)

From across the other side of the room, Julian caught her eye, raised his glass, and beckoned her with his head. God he was tasty. Bella hastily excused herself from the cul-de-sac argument – ‘Must just … old friend … excuse me' – and tried not to appear to be rushing over towards him.

She should definitely have stopped drinking at that stage because she'd already had more than she was used to. At some point in the evening, she noticed a burst of too-loud laughter and was inwardly curling her lip in smug disapproval when she realized that it was her own; but she didn't seem to care any more. For once, she wanted to forget about being sensible and play the wanton woman, to act the bimbo, flirt outrageously and simply enjoy the obvious effect it had on men. So she found herself laying her hand on Julian's arm and gazing at him with rapt attention while she asked him to tell her all about his travels. He returned her eye contact with frank interest and happily talked about himself.

It was well after one a.m. when the last guest had finally been folded into a taxi, and Viv had ushered her into their spare bedroom.

‘Don't argue. You're in no condition to go anywhere,' she scolded affectionately. ‘Julian‘s volunteered to have the sofa bed, so you're in here, though I think he'd have been more than happy to squeeze in here with you judging from the way he's been eyeing you all evening.'

Viv started to make up the bed. Bella pulled pathetically at one side of the sheet but subsided into giggles when she tried to remember how to do proper hospital corners.

‘Will you stop it?' said Viv, suppressing a spurt of laughter herself. ‘You're supposed to be the sensible one.'

‘He could have this little corner here.' Bella keeled slowly over onto the bed while it was still only half made. ‘I promise not to touch him. Or only a little bit. Do you think he fancies me then?'

‘Shift off. If he'd stood any closer he'd have been in that dress with you. But I wouldn't bother if I were you – he's off to Washington in a few days. Anyway, he
may be quite hunky, but he's not all that interesting really and he's got an ego the size of the EU butter mountain.'

‘Nice shoulders.' Bella smacked her lips in appreciation. Viv sighed and pulled the quilt over her. ‘Night-night,' she said. ‘No rush to get up in the morning.'

‘Just ask Room Service to send him along,' Bella mumbled into the pillow. ‘I'll look after him. He'll be quite safe with me.'

‘You said you'd show me around town.' Julian's voice on the phone was confident, expecting assent. ‘I'm only here for a few days and I've got to shoot up to Coventry tomorrow. How about Friday, after work? I'd love to discover all those secret places the tourists never see.'

I bet you would, Bella thought, hearing herself accept with a flirtatious laugh. Why bother with innuendo when you could be blatantly suggestive? God, she had been so drunk at the party. She hadn't done that for, what, two years? It was after she'd had that pregnancy scare.

∼ ∼ ∼

She is nearly two weeks late. At a large, anonymous Boots, she buys a do-it-yourself test kit; sitting on the bus, she runs her finger along the prophetic box in her bag as if it already knows the answer. Women are often late when under stress, she reminds herself. That must be it. When she steps inside her front door, she makes an effort to be casual, flicking on the kettle and idly scanning the newspaper rather than running straight to the bathroom, as if being unbothered could influence the result.

Awkwardly, she tries to pee into the minuscule
phial, getting wee all over her shaking hand. The result should be almost instant, but still she lives through each second, waiting to see if the little blue line would appear in the white square, meaning ‘Rejoice, a babe shall be born' or, as in her case, ‘Oh fuck'.

The square remains white and the relief is overwhelming, as if someone has thrown open all the windows letting in a heady flood of fresh air. But by now Patrick has already talked himself into the idea that she is definitely pregnant. She had noticed him limbering up for the Proud Father role. Caught him holding the foot of a tiny blue fluffy all-in-one while they were supposed to be looking for a dressing gown for his dad in Marks & Spencer's. He'd taken to peering into estate agents' windows at absurdly large houses they couldn't possibly afford.

That tiny blank square seems to strike him like a physical blow. His skin looks grey, his eyes dark with disappointment and loss. She holds him tight, hugging him to her as if he were a needy baby himself, kissing his hair again and again. Later, they go out for dinner and drink two bottles of spectacularly expensive wine, followed by numerous drams of malt Scotch at home, each with their own reason to be numbly intoxicated. Bella relishes each sip, feeling the relief swirl round her mouth, seeping into her nostrils on a tide of smoky peat and dry oak.

The next morning, both of them feel ill and Patrick makes some lame comment about knowing what morning sickness must be like and how it was all good preparation. Bella silently makes the coffee and avoids his gaze. He does not mention it again.

∼ ∼ ∼

Friday morning was bright and sunny, definite skirt weather. Shaving her legs in the shower, Bella told
herself it was just because of the skirt. She certainly had no intention of letting Julian run his warm male hands all over her silky-smooth calves, no siree. Similarly unconcerned about which underwear to put on, Bella foraged through her top drawer then scooped up the contents and chucked them onto the bed. Her decent cream-lace set and her sexy dark red bra and pants were in the linen basket. She should have done a load of washing yesterday; too late now – not enough time for it to dry. What if Julian were to come back afterwards for coffee or something? She didn't think she could pass off lines of hung-out socks and pants as welcoming bunting.

She picked through the garments, holding them aloft between finger and thumb as if sifting through a rubbish tip. Three pairs of ageing, greyish, allegedly white cotton briefs; a Valentine's Day pair emblazoned with a red heart on the front and the legend ‘I'm Yours' – I
don't think so.
She dropped them back into the drawer. A pale pink pair with too-loose elastic. Peach ‘controlpanel front' pants that came up to her waist and pressed against her bladder so she had to go to the loo every twenty minutes. Black lacy knickers that were so skimpy that knickers seemed too big a word for them; they were constructed from so little material that they made her hips and bum feel unusually large by comparison and they had a just-clinging-by-a-thread sensation that was far from relaxing. Besides, they had been a present from Patrick. She stuffed them back into the drawer.

She could nip to the shops at lunch-time and pick up a plain pair of cotton pants to change into at the office. This was ridiculous, she reproved herself, no-one would be looking at her knickers; this was a stroll around the city and perhaps a spot of supper – theoretically, no underwear assessment would be involved. Still, she really could do with some new
tights and things anyway, and it wouldn't take long.

As she was dashing out the door to go to work, the phone rang. She let the answerphone click in but hovered by the door to hear who it was. It was Will.

‘Oh, hello you. I'm glad you're there. Are you in tonight?'

‘No, I'm not for once. Do you need to get in?'
How's your wife?
she wanted to say.
Baby doing nicely?

He only wanted to check those shrubs they'd transplanted, he said, and had she remembered that he couldn't work tomorrow but that he might pop in, and that Douglas should be coming at 11? Was she off somewhere nice?

‘Mmm. Just, you know. Out.' Bet he thought she had some pathetic crush on him. ‘On a date actually,' she added.

‘Oh.' He coughed. ‘Have fun then.'

Julian wasn't there when she arrived by the east door of the cathedral, a little breathless as she was slightly late, so she leant against a bollard and simply enjoyed the sun on her face while she watched people walking by. The sea-green silk of her skirt fluttered around her in the breeze. She pushed aside a straying tendril of hair that had adhered to her Mulberry Dew lipstick.

Two teenage boys loping past in bodies they had not yet grown into attempted a wolf-whistle that emerged as a shrill squeak. They shoved each other on the arm to show that they were still very manly all the same and laughed. A mumbling man marched by in a battered straw panama and a blazer that had long since shrugged its shoulders and given up any thought of passing for smart; he seemed to be towed by his unlikely-looking companion, a small, snuffling terrier that resembled a shaggy bathmat gone grey in the wash. She should have brought her sketchbook. This
was a perfect spot to catch people. She closed her eyes, trying to imprint the pictures in her mind.

A shadow stepped into her sun.

‘Do you know you look even more delectable today than you did in that sexy dress?' said Julian. ‘So, do I get a kiss?'

It went on and on. Julian seemed to be taking immense pride in the fact that he could carry on for a long time, as if a marathon were in some way inherently better than a sprint, no matter how dull it was. Boring sex was bad enough, but if the person had staying power as well … Bella felt she was starting to go numb. She'd have had more fun doing the crossword on her own. Perhaps she could reach for the paper and do it looking over his shoulder. He was so enraptured by his physical prowess that he probably wouldn't notice. Although it might be pushing it to ask him to help with the clues: ‘Mmm, mm, ride me, Big Boy. What do you think “illusion” is? Seven letters, ending in “y”.' Maybe if she squeezed a bit more, that would speed him up. She should have been more diligent about doing those pelvic-floor exercises.

Her gaze roved around the room. That lampshade wasn't ideal in here. The shape was a bit odd and you could see the bulb, especially from this angle. Perhaps she could make one from that parchmenty stuff and draw on it? She'd better get some shopping in tomorrow, too – she was definitely running out of loo paper. And bleach. More olive oil. She mentally sifted through the kitchen cupboards. Pasta – rigatoni or tagliatelle? Shells?
Do try a little
conchiglie alla genovese. Better check detergent, too.

He was still going.

‘Mmm,' she said encouragingly, trying to urge him on. What did he want – a medal? ‘That's nice.' She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift, her thoughts
float free, watching herself from the outside. When she was alone, touching herself, she fantasized. Now, she willed Patrick to be here, warm and alive, reassuring and known, loving her, absolving her.

His face before her, now, smiling his familiar smile. He kisses her once, hard, then reaches up under her skirt. As he lifts it, she feels the thrill of their long-disappeared brocade bedspread, textured like a low-relief map, rough beneath her naked thighs. Surprised by his sudden urgency, she starts to pull away, to look at him, read his eyes. But, even as he touches her, his brown eyes swim to sea-grey, his jaw broadens, his hair gets lighter, shorter, growing springy as cushion-moss beneath her hand – and it is Will's face she sees. His tender face. She feels her eyes well with tears and she moves towards him then, her lips on his, their mouths hungry, greedy, grateful.

He puts his hands under her now and pulls her hard onto him. She gasps at his intensity, at her own, and pushes towards him, moving faster and harder, pulling at his back. And he clutches her, clinging onto her as if for his life. Then there is only the heat and the smell of him, and the pulse – starting like the low notes of a bass, throbbing and thrumming, then rising and spreading and – she arches back, stretching away from him, then clinging to him once more, her insides warm and soft as melting butter.

At last, her breathing eases and she lies there, her skin hot and prickling, her thighs tingling from the friction of the brocade spread.

‘Well, well,' said Julian, ‘you certainly warmed up all of a sudden. Bit of a slowcoach, eh?' He slapped her bottom playfully.

‘Guess so.' She lay back, flushed with lust and
pleasure and guilt. She rolled over then on the rumpled sheet, suddenly appalled at its unfamiliar, reproachful softness, her body still alive to the touch of the rough brocade.

‘So, then this guy says, “You'll have to move it, sir.” I mean, he was just totally non-helpful about it. Unbelievable.'

It certainly is, she thought. I can't believe I've actually gone to bed with someone who says non-helpful. This was such a bad idea.

‘Really?' she said out loud, injecting interest into her voice as much for her own benefit as for his: he was interesting, she told herself, really he was.

‘Do you want some tea or something?' She slid out of bed.

‘A brandy if you have it.' Julian watched her reach up for her robe from the back of the door. ‘Nice arse.'

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Bella stared down at her feet, pale and soft against the cold quarry tiles. Her toe-nails could do with a trim, and her nail varnish was chipped.

What on earth did she think she was doing? She had just leapt into bed with a virtual stranger and had to fantasize about another man – two men – she was getting seriously weird – and yet here she was thinking about her toenails. Still, it was better than thinking about how extraordinarily, incredibly, mind-bogglingly stupid she'd been. And it hadn't even worked anyway. She still felt horrible about Will, worse if anything because thinking about him had made her so turned-on, only now she felt bad about Julian and guilty about Patrick as well. Three for the price of two. Marvellous. A complete matching set.

But what if she could never enjoy sex again without pretending it was with Patrick or someone else? Her
sense of shame stung her afresh. Embarrassed, she poured Julian an extra-large brandy and wiggled her hips provocatively as she took it up to him.