Love Is a Four Letter Word (26 page)

‘Thanks. No. I'm not jealous. Not exactly. But every time I come into the kitchen I'm confronted by this picture of you in bed with someone else.'

‘Will, we're wearing toy antlers. It's not exactly a writhing bodies shot, is it?'

‘Now you're deliberately missing the point. To be honest, I would have thought you might have been sensitive enough to move it without my asking.'

‘I think you're the one who's being rather insensitive.'

‘Well, I'm sorry if I am, but I don't think it's unreasonable. It's not as if I'm asking you to chuck them out – couldn't you just keep them somewhere out of my sight?'

‘I could burn them on a ritual bonfire if you want.'

‘Why do you have to overreact? I don't think I ask for much. But, seeing as we're practically living together, I thought—'

‘We're not living together.'

‘Oh, aren't we? Forgive me. There must be some mistake. And what would you call spending every night
together and every weekend and me having shirts in your wardrobe? That is my jacket out in your hallway, isn't it? My shredded wheat in the larder? My razor in the bathroom? Or is it Patrick's?'

‘No need to shout. Now you're just being offensive.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.'

She shrugged. ‘No big deal. I meant to take them down anyway.'

‘No. Leave them. It's OK.'

She shook her head. Carefully prised out the drawing-pins and took the photographs upstairs. Standing in her studio, she hovered between her desk drawer and the mantelpiece above the fireplace. She looked down at the photographs, the one of the two of them together and the one of Patrick on that Scottish holiday soaked to the skin. How peculiar it was to have a photograph of someone who no longer existed. It was like a lie in a way, a fiction, as if he were an actor in a film only now it was over and the lights had gone up in the cinema. Perhaps she should go back, she thought, say goodbye to him properly at his graveside, then at once dismissed the idea as self-dramatizing, embarrassingly self-conscious. That didn't feel like him anyway; she felt closer to him when she ordered a Chinese take-away. Still, she felt a flush of guilt as she realized how long it had been since she had last visited his grave. Just after the headstone was erected.

∼ ∼ ∼

Now that she is here, she feels like a bit of a twit. She has seen this scene in films and drama serials so she knows how it's supposed to go. Bella stands looking down at the grave and tries to clear her head from the array of mixed-up, irrelevant thoughts that keep bumping into her mind like so much flotsam and jetsam. The grave is bordered by a concrete kerb, the plot
filled in with small stone chips. The sort used in driveways, she thinks. Patrick used to say you could tell how rich someone was by the relative crunchiness of their drive when you drove up it. This is the moment where she's meant to say something serious and important, she reminds herself. She's meant to say how life can never be the same again, but she will struggle on and be guided by his memory like a beacon. She can hardly say all that to a stupid driveway. And what would be the point of saying it out loud? He can't hear, can he? He didn't listen half the time when he was alive.

And anyway, that's not it, not it at all. She is not even sure if there are words for how she feels.

The headstone is arched at the top, like a church window, with a bas-relief angel, fortunately not too naff. Patrick would have thought it ‘acceptable', one of his favourite words as in ‘This wine's certainly very acceptable' or, to wind her up, ‘You're looking most acceptable tonight.'

She focuses on the inscription:

Here lies
PATRICK DERMOT HUGHES

Streuth. She'd forgotten about the Dermot bit. He hated it, would be well pissed-off about that. ‘You won't believe this,' he'd say, ‘they actually paid extra for those bloody six letters!'

Beneath his name are inscribed his birth and death dates, the too-brief gap between the years more eloquent than any ‘Suddenly taken from us' or ‘Snatched in his prime' could be. Below that:

MUCH LOVED, MUCH
MISSED ALWAYS IN OUR THOUGHTS

R.I.P.

Rest in Peace. R.I.P.
RIP.
An oddly violent word when you looked at it like that, not peaceful at all. But that was right, wasn't it? That was what death did to all those it touched. Rip your lives apart, leaving them in shreds. Ripped you open, too, so you felt as if your skin had been flayed, your muscles and tissues torn, your insides soft, exposed. Ripped you naked, spread out like a pinned butterfly, your fragility on display to be battered by the slightest breeze. R.I.P. What else could it stand for? Really In Pain? Rather Inconvenient, Patrick? Ruddy Irritating Pillock? The dead person got the cushy end of the bargain, the free lunch. All he had to do was lie there. It was those left behind that were stuck holding the bill.

Awkwardly, she dips to lay the small bunch of tight pink rosebuds she has brought. She feels like an actress, as if there is a camera behind her shoulder, zooming in on the flowers. Focus on a single bloom, she thinks, one perfect teardrop balanced on the rim of a petal. Cut to a close-up of her face, looking sad. Patrick would think this all too stupid for words. ‘Don't waste money on flowers, Bel. Go and have one for me at the pub.'

∼ ∼ ∼

She looked again at the photographs in her hands, then propped them up on the mantelpiece.

‘I just know I'm going to regret this.' Bella put down the phone and scrunched her forehead into exaggerated furrows. Will kissed it and cupped the back of her neck in his palm.

‘Stop worrying so much. Everyone's embarrassed by their parents. That's what parents are for. They have to have some sense of purpose in life, don't they? You met my mother and survived, didn't you – and she's pretty odd.'

‘On your own head be it. Just remember that it was your idea.'

‘You want it to be hideous, don't you – then you can get to be right. Come on. How bad can it be?'

How bad can it be? How bad can it be?
Was he kidding? Bella recalled the first time she'd taken Patrick to stay for the weekend.

∼ ∼ ∼

‘Very smart. Did you have a meeting today?' Bella says, looking at Patrick's Prince of Wales check suit, crisply ironed shirt and silk tie. ‘There's time to change before we go if you want.'

‘I just have.' Patrick plucks an invisible fragment of lint from his sleeve.

‘Whatever for? You're not asking for my hand or anything. You don't have to impress them.'

He sets his jaw.

‘To be honest, you seemed so anxious about my meeting them that I thought I'd make a bit of an effort. Didn't want to let you down.'

It was sweet of him, she reminded herself. But what mileage would her mother manage to get out of the suit? I
do hope Bella didn't make you dress up on our account.
Or I
was expecting you to be wearing overalls, Patrick. Bella says you're something to do with buildings.
Perhaps she should dress down a bit herself, even things out a bit? She is wearing a chic grey trouser suit, black suede shoes. Her hair is held off her face by a heavy twisted silver clip, matching spiral earrings that catch the light as she moves. She takes off the earrings, replaces the jacket with a chunky brown wool one and swaps the suede shoes for a pair of old burgundy loafers.

Alessandra eyes Patrick's suit.

‘I feel we should all change for dinner, Patrick. You quite put us to shame with this elegant suit.' She feels his lapel between her finger and thumb as if she is a professional couturier and smiles. ‘Will you not put on a skirt, Bella? You don't want to let down your escort.'

‘Escort!' Bella says under her breath. ‘As if I'd hired him!'

‘Normally, I'm a complete scruff,' Patrick protests. ‘It's just I had this meeting …'

‘Well, you menfolk must think of your promotion prospects, mustn't you? All part of the world of business.'

‘He's not in the world of business. He's a surveyor. And he's not looking for promotion because he's already a partner in the firm.'

Patrick scowls at her and turns to admire a framed engraving on the wall.

∼ ∼ ∼

The drive was punctuated by Bella's explanations of the various idiosyncrasies of the house and her parents.

‘And in the downstairs loo, people can hear you if they're near the back door so you might want to sing or hum loudly but sort of casually, as if you always do that.'

‘Rightio. Note 312b: downstairs cloakroom – HUM. Got that. Is “Fascinatin' Rhythm” OK or is there a list of prescribed melodies posted up on the wall?'

‘Oh, oh, I forgot – most important of all, don't forget to be nice about my mother's cooking. That should be easy because she's an exquisite cook—'

‘Do you know, I think that's the first time I've heard you say anything complimentary about her?'

Bella shrugged.

‘Have you been taking notes? Haven't you got better things to worry about?'

‘Strangely enough, I do actually spend quite a lot of time thinking about you.'

‘Right. But you have to be specific. About the cooking. Don't just say, “That was lovely” or she'll think you've been coached. And ask her questions – give her a chance to show off.'

‘I should have come in black tie. Then I could have written notes on my stiff cuffs.'

‘What should I call your mother anyway?' Will unwound a tube of fruit pastilles to find the one he wanted.

‘Will you not pinch all the red ones, pig? You may call her “O Perfect One” as this is a fairly informal occasion.'

‘Fine. Did I mention that I prefer to be addressed as “Divine Sex God”? That's just to my close personal friends, of course, but seeing as they're practically family …'

Bella scanned his expression.
Practically family.
He touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘So, do I call them by their first names or what?'

‘Dad's Gerald. He'd find “Mr Kreuzer” just puzzling and you'll see he doesn't look like a Gerry: he has these little half-moon spectacles for doing the crossword and he looks a bit vague, as if he's just been set down on the planet but he's not quite sure what he's doing here. Gerry's more of a dynamic, striped-shirt, espresso-quaffing, marketing-person sort of name.'

Will gazed at her.

‘I've never met anyone who could read so much into the tiniest detail. Completely extraordinary. What about Will? What can you tell from that – as opposed to William, say?'

‘Well, William's more what your financial advisor might be called, or the boy at primary school who wears hand-knitted jumpers that are too big. Trustworthy, stable. A tad wet maybe. The kind of boy who always has a small trail of slime descending from one nostril. Not sexy. Bill sounds too short to be a proper name – and a bit suspiciously genial, like an uncle who smiles a lot but you wouldn't want to sit on his lap.'

‘But Will's the same length as Bill. Be gentle with me …'

Bella cocked her head on one side, assessing.

‘Yes, but it doesn't feel so truncated. It's more confident but relaxed. You feel safe with a Will. Reliable but not dull. Enough edge to be sexy.'

‘Sexy, yes. That'll be me then. Anyway, back to the Aged Ps. No Gerry. What about Old-timer or Pops?'

She slapped his thigh.

‘It might be a thought to call Mum Mrs Kreuzer. I know it seems absurd but it will allow her to play Lady Bountiful for a few moments as she graciously insists that you call her Alessandra. Don't, whatever you do,
shorten it to Sandra, which she considers a horrid, flock-wallpaper type of name, or she'll feed your entrails to Hund before you've even taken off your coat.'

‘What's a Hund? Fire-breathing dragon? Mad aunt kept locked in the attic?'

‘Dad's golden retriever, though I don't think he's ever retrieved anything more energetic than a chocolate biscuit. Hund's German for dog, as you no doubt know. It's Dad's idea of a joke.'

They turned into the driveway through a white, five-barred gate; the tyres crunched on the gravel, signalling their arrival. Hund lolloped around the corner of the house to greet them. Bella bent down to hug him.

‘Hello, Hund.' She fondled his ears. ‘You lovable old thing.'

Will looked at her and whimpered, dog-like, for attention.

‘Oh, you,' she said.

He hunched down to check his hair in the wing mirror and pressed it with the flat of his hand to smooth it down. It bounced back.

‘C'mon, Springy Hair. Into the lion's den.'

Alessandra smiled and extended her hand.

‘You must be William. Do come in. We've heard so
little
about you.'

Will joined in as she laughed at her jest.

Bella dipped forward to exchange dual cheek kisses with Alessandra.

‘It's Will,' Bella said. ‘Not William.'

‘Whatever.' Will waved his hand.

‘Perhaps you'd like a sherry?' Alessandra ushered him by the elbow towards the drawing room. ‘Bella's
last
boyfriend was
very
fond of a glass of fino, wasn't he?'

Surely any man would be driven to drink by living with Bella?
She made him sound like an alcoholic. Who wouldn't want a glass of fino? A bottle, for that matter? A Quaker would be tipping meths into his cocoa to get through a weekend with her mother.

‘Well, a little—' Will started.

‘Of course, we rarely drink this early ourselves, but we're rather green when it comes to sophisticated city habits. Perhaps you'd prefer coffee?'

‘Yes, whatever you're making. Coffee, of course.'

Gerald came in from the garden and shook Will's hand and patted him on the arm.

‘So you're Will. Good, good. We're very pleased to see you here.'