Love Is a Four Letter Word (20 page)

‘Um, do you still see your ex at all? Patrick. You look like one of those civilized types that manages to stay on good terms with their exes.'

Bella rootled in the fridge for some mineral water.

‘Hmm?' Her voice floated from inside the fridge. ‘No, I don't. Do you want some water?'

‘No thanks. Sorry. I didn't mean to be nosy.'

Bella shrugged. ‘Doesn't matter. Anyway –' she opened the newspaper and leafed through to find the listings. ‘Do you still fancy seeing a film tonight? I could give Viv a call, see if she and Nick want to come too. We don't have to be stuck just with dreary old us all the time.'

‘Is that how you see us?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Dreary old us?'

‘No, course not.' She banged the fridge door closed. ‘Still, we don't want to get too couply, do we?'

‘Why ever not? I like being couply.'

‘Oh,
Will.
I'm just teasing. Where's your sense of humour?'

‘Had to give it back. Only got it on loan.'

Viv rang the next day to recap on their cinema outing, as Bella knew she would.

‘Lousy film,' said Viv. ‘Why does everyone keep going on about how sexy she is?'

‘Because she's blonde and can't act.'

‘But
Will –
he's so lovely! And he's got you sussed, hasn't he?'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning he knows how to handle you.'

‘You make me sound like a deranged leopard.'

‘Well, you're no giggling pushover, matey, are you?
You need someone like that to stand up to you. But the way he
looks
at you. When's the wedding?'

‘Oh,
behave.
I'm not thinking about the future or any of that bollocks.'

‘Why do you do this?'

‘Do what?'

‘Pretend not to like him. A child of three could've seen that you were mad about each other.'

‘Get me a child of three then. You read too much into everything.'

‘Babe? You bloody well hang onto him.'

‘Yeah, yeah. You just want the chance to wear a puff-sleeved number in apricot sateen.'

‘With flounces?'

‘You can have flounces, sweetheart neckline, basket of rose petals, all the trimmings in the unlikely event of my ever getting hitched. Ladbrokes are offering four thousand to one against, you might like to know, before you hotfoot it to Fabrics 'R' Us.'

‘Bel? You do know about being happy, don't you?'

‘Is this a trick question?'

‘No. It's just – well, it is
allowed,
you know.'

‘Which is my best side, do you think?' Will turned his head this way and that.

‘It's a well-kept secret apparently.' Bella balanced her sketch-pad on her knee.

‘Oh, tee-hee.'

‘Turn to your left. More. Bit more. That's lovely.' She was now looking at the back of his head.

‘Hilarious. Look to your laurels, Oscar Wilde.' He got up and went to the window, gazing down at his garden. ‘That honeysuckle needs a good prune.' He half-turned to look back at her.

‘Stop! There, like that. No, no, don't move.'

Standing by the window, his face half in light, half in shadow, his body twisted towards her, he looked alert, expectant, as if he had heard an unfamiliar sound, or suddenly noticed the extraordinariness of something ordinary.

‘Can I see some of your paintings yet? I know you've been secretly beavering away.'

‘Not secretly. And no you can't.'

‘Yes secretly. And why not? You must have enough for an exhibition by now.'

‘Don't be absurd. Anyway, will you ssshh! Concentrating.' Looking down at the drawing, she sensed his making stupid faces at her. Patrick used to
do that too when she sketched him. Perhaps it was something to do with testosterone, the inability to keep still. Her gaze flicked up to Will's hairline, the clear shape of his brow where the hair jumped up from his scalp, looking eager to grow, to get on with it; she smiled to herself, trying to let its enthusiasm run into the line of her pencil, her tongue touching her lip in concentration like a child. Patrick's hair was soft and fine, flopping down over the left-hand side of his forehead. She remembered the feel of drawing it, the motion of her hand backwards and forwards as if she were weaving. And the way he reached his hand up, pushing it back off his face, the way he fidgeted annoyingly while she drew, even in his sleep, never entirely at rest, never, until— She swallowed.

‘Sssh!' she said again.

‘What?' Will frowned. ‘I never made a sound.'

When they stopped for a break, Will told her how weird it was to be looking at her looking at him as she drew.

‘You seem to look at me so intensely, but right through me at the same time. I see your eyes flicking over me, scanning me, but you don't seem to be registering me as me.'

‘Don't take it personally. Drawing's like that. You just become a body, a face, not Will, the man I know and— so forth.'

‘Excuse me? The man I know and so forth? Is that English as she is spoke?'

‘Are you ready for the second sitting?'

‘What were you going to say? You can't say it, can you? Not even casually.'

‘What – the “L” word? Of course I can. Don't be silly.'

‘The “L” word. That's exactly what I mean. Love really is a four-letter word to you, isn't it?'

‘I'll do the jokes thank you.'

‘This one's not funny. Go on, have a go. You might get to like it. I L-L-L – golly, you're right, it is tricky, isn't it?' He folded his arms.

‘You can be bloody irritating sometimes. You are such a big kid. Unbelievable.' She rummaged in her pencil case for her putty rubber. ‘The man I know and love. See? OK?'

He staggered backwards.

‘Overwhelmed with the force of your passion. Look, ease up on the slushy stuff, will you? I'm not sure I can handle it.'

Bella sharpened her pencil into the bin.

‘Yes, dear. Pose please. Left arm round a bit. Yup. And could you twist a little more this way. Whoa, not too much. Yup. That's it.'

Her gaze flicked back and forth from Will to the paper, the paper to Will, as she set down the bones, the flesh, the form of him, but she did not see the expression in his eyes.

Will asked her if she would be free at the weekend.

‘I hate it when people do that.'

‘You hate it when people invite you to things? Forgive me. I'm sorry. It's unpardonable. I'll never do it again.'

‘Oh, shut up. You say you're free, then they say “Ah, good, I've got tickets to see Bernard Manning.” People should say what it is first so you have a chance to refuse graciously.'

‘So are you free or what?'

‘Yes. No. Yes. I should be doing some painting – I want to work up that drawing of you. What is it?'

‘I thought you might like to meet my mother.'

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Oh, charming. She's lovely. She's just like me.'

‘Smug with stupid hair?'

‘No. Easygoing. Loves plants.'

‘It's really a bit tricky this weekend. Got loads to do.'

‘Such as?'

‘
Will.
I'm not on trial. I don't have to account for my movements every second of the day. You know –
things.
Washing and stuff.'

‘Oh,
washing.
Well, obviously that comes first. Heaven forbid you should actually put yourself out to meet my family.'

‘Deep breaths. I'm sure she's not exactly sitting there, crocheting in her rocking chair, wondering how much longer she can carry on without meeting me. Some other time would be lovely. Of course I'd like to meet her. I can't imagine the paragon of patience and fortitude who could have put up with you for so long. Now, will you please get back to your pose.'

Will moved to the window.

‘Can I just ask – is there some particular reason why you don't want to meet my mum?'

‘Course not. I'm busy. Please can you just drop it for now? I really want to finish this.'

Over supper that night, Will got out his diary and raised the subject again.

‘If it really is that you're just busy this weekend, let's make it another time.'

‘We don't have to do all that meeting the parents stuff, do we? I'm in no rush for you to meet mine.'

‘Have I ever asked to meet yours? We'll come to that when you're ready, but Mum's dying to take a look at you.'

‘Why is she?' Bella held her fork poised, pointing towards his neck like a lynch mob armed with a pitchfork. ‘What have you told her about me, boy?'

‘Nothing. Nothing. Back off, you big bully. I may
have gone on about you a bit, well, a lot. I couldn't help it. It'll be painless, I promise.'

‘All right, all right. Don't go on about it. Next weekend, OK? Let's get it over with so you'll stop nagging me.'

She hadn't seen Patrick's parents for quite a while; looking back, she was worried to realize she couldn't remember exactly when her last visit had been. In the beginning, she had gone almost every weekend.

∼ ∼ ∼

She senses that they seem to need her presence, as if she emanates some essence of Patrick from her skin, as if they can remember him more clearly when she is in the room. It is a comfort to her, too. The flat is cold and echoing without him, like a stage set when everyone has gone home, and she feels frightened sleeping alone. The hall light is left on at night but still she has a horror of going to sleep. When she wakes in the early hours, for one, two seconds, she forgets. In that haze of half-sleep, he is still alive. Then the knowledge strikes her like a physical blow. Her breath seems to rush from her body, leaving her lungs hollow, her stomach aching. She closes her eyes to seal in her pooling tears. In her mind she finds her refuge, her solace. There, his voice is clear and strong, his face bright and alive, and she could breathe again.

At his parents' house, the family photo albums have taken up permanent residence on the coffee table, displacing the copies of
Homes & Gardens,
the neatly folded
Daily Telegraph
and
Daily Mail
relegated, unread, to the hall stand where their callous normality can be overlooked.

‘Look,' they say. ‘Here he is ready for his first day at
school. That grey cap kept sinking over his eyes. Remember when he went off to college and he was tall and lanky but he suddenly looked like a little boy again.'
Do you remember?
they say.
Do you remember?

Seeking refuge in the kitchen, Bella cooks and clears up, grateful to lose herself in the rhythm of topping and tailing beans, the predictability of cooking: you put a shepherd's pie in the oven, it comes out brown; you whisk a sauce, it becomes smooth.

Rose fusses around her.

‘You're doing everything again, Bella. You're a treasure.' Rose removes the colander Bella is about to use and puts it in the dish-drainer. ‘I don't know where I am today. Have you seen my reading-glasses? I found my fountain pen in the fridge yesterday. I wonder where …'

Rose drifts in and out of rooms, leaving behind her a trail of untouched cups of coffee, miscellaneous bits of sewing bristling with wayward pins, her spectacles, her wristwatch, her unfinished sentences.

Joseph, Patrick's father, pats Bella's shoulder as he passes, his affection, his gratitude all the stronger for its silence.

‘We always hoped …' he begins late one night, then stops, knowing it is better left unsaid, that there is nothing to say.

Sophie times her visits to coincide with Bella's, dragging her to the pub at every possible opportunity.

‘They're driving me mad, Bel. Mum can't remember anything for more than ten seconds and Dad phones me twice a day just to check that I'm still breathing.'

‘I know,' says Bella. ‘Be patient. It's hard for them. It's just too hard.'

∼ ∼ ∼

Pleading tiredness after a long and draining week at work, Bella managed to talk Will out of driving to his mother's on Friday night. She would get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, she promised. She would bring him tea in bed. It would take her only one minute to pack.

It was after 11 a.m. by the time they left.

Several tapes clattered onto the floor from Will's overstuffed glove compartment as Bella poked about in it.

‘What's up, pumpkin?'

‘Nothing. Just
trying
to find the Ray Charles.'

Had she looked in the side pocket? She had. That was just the empty box.

‘Why don't you keep the tapes in their boxes? Then you wouldn't have this problem.'

I'm sounding just like my mother.

‘I don't have “this problem” because I don't care. I just plunge in and play whatever comes to hand. Potluck.'

‘Men are just so annoying.'

‘That's always a good answer – dismiss half the human race in one fell swoop. Keeping the tapes in their boxes doesn't bring about a cure for cancer or herald the dawn of world peace, does it?'

‘What's that got to do with the price of fish, as they say?'

‘Because you are fretting over a speck of dust in this Great Creation. But it's not about tape boxes, is it? Oh-oh, I feel a bout of smugness coming on. Why are you so nervous?' he asked, looking at her sidelong. ‘She's not an ogre or anything.'

‘I'm not nervous. Isn't it an ogress?'

‘Bzzz. Pedantry alert. Stop trying to change the subject. She's fine and she'll love you.'

Bella delved into the depths of her handbag, foraging for a mirror.

Will snorted with delight.

‘Not nervous. No, course you're not.'

He rootled around under his seat, retrieved a tape with the tips of his fingers and clunked it in.

‘… dah-dah dee, dah dee dee – dee …' Will hummed along with the tape.
Ray Charles.