Love Is a Four Letter Word (29 page)

‘Hmm. Possibly not.'

‘Oh? How's it going with him?'

‘Going, going, gone, since you ask.'

And, no, she didn't want to talk about it and please would he not tell Alessandra, because she wasn't feeling up to that stoic, ‘my-daughter-is-the-cross-I-bear' look.

She had already bought Alessandra's present – an antique serving platter, its edge patterned with clusters of deep pink rosebuds and touches of gold, but she spent almost as long hunting for the perfect wrapping paper to go with it. Although she usually gave her own hand-made cards to friends, she had long since switched to shop-bought ones for her mother. It was easier, none of that ‘how charming, so lovely to have a home-made one' insincere bollocks, and she was very busy anyway what with trying to fit in some painting most evenings and sorting out her contacts book for freelance work. Friday, the birthday itself, was booked off, so she loaded the car late on Thursday evening – her clothes, the present plus a graceful weeping-fig plant as an extra, a new thriller (unbirthday present for Dad), a bottle of decent claret – and set off.

*   *   *

She slept in her old room once more, but stole quietly into the proper guest room where she had stayed with Will on her last visit. Here was where they had had that stupid row, with Will trying to give her a lesson in Happy Families, what a smug git he could be. She curled her lip, determined to be angry with him. That night, she had turned away from him, pretended to be asleep when he had touched her shoulder, curled his arm over her waist, whispered her name. If only she didn't miss him so much, didn't have this horrible ache in the pit of her stomach most of the time. Picking up her holdall once more, she strode through to her own room and closed the door firmly behind her. It was better this way.

Still wearing the baggy T-shirt she had worn in bed, Bella quickly pulled on her jeans and thick socks to come downstairs. She let out Hund from his preferred sleeping-place in the utility room, squatted to loop her arms around his neck, remembering Will's playful whimpering when he had watched her lavish her affection on the dog. Aside from the clicking patter of Hund's paws on the floor, the house was hushed and still, with the particular quietness of the hour before anyone else is up. It seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the shuffle of slippers on the stairs, the clatter of cups, the muffled whoomph of the boiler, the clinking of milk bottles as the fridge door was opened.

The kitchen, as always, was pristine, with the slight chill of a very tidy room. She was glad of the socks – even through them she could feel the cold hardness of the quarry-tiled floor. She pulled out the prettiest cups and saucers from the glass-fronted cupboard, filled a milk jug, foraged in the cutlery drawer for the best tea strainer. Now, tray? And a cloth. She found a fresh linen napkin and laid that on the tray and set out the
cups on it, pilfered a single bloom and a frond of foliage from the arrangement in the hall to add to a tiny vase.

She heard soft footsteps on the stairs, then Gerald came in.

‘Morning, Dads. Back to bed with you. Go on. I'm bringing you both up some tea.'

He spotted the tray.

‘What a treat, to have it made. Did you find everything you needed?' He paused at the door. ‘Oh, did you know, your mother will only drink Earl Grey in the morning now? I prefer the ordinary, but don't worry.'

‘No, no. That's fine. I'll just find a second pot.'

Balancing the tray on her raised knee and steadying it with one hand, she knocked on their bedroom door.

‘Birthday tea in bed, madam?' Bella bent down to kiss her mother's cheek. ‘Happy birthday. Your present's in the car; I'll go and fetch it in a minute. Your hair's looking nice.' Even first thing in the morning, it was already pinned up neatly.

‘Thank you, Bella-darling. How lovely. Pretty anemone – I have some just like it in the hall. Is this Earl Grey?' Alessandra peered at the tray.

‘Yes, Dad warned me. Shall I pour?'

‘Best leave it for a minute. Oh, could you not find the tray-cloths? They're in the drawer.'

‘No.' Bella turned her back to busy herself with pouring the tea, placing the strainer on each cup with infinite care, remembering to put the milk in last as was correct, carrying the cups over to the bed like a child, her brow furrowed in her eagerness to please.

‘Marvellous,' said Alessandra. ‘Perhaps I could have just a drop more milk?' Bella followed instructions with the milk jug then turned to go.

‘No Will this time?'

‘No.'

‘Oh. Everything all right?'

‘Fine, thanks. Why shouldn't it be?'

‘Sorry. I didn't mean— Give him our best won't you?'

‘Hmm-mm.'

They spent the morning in town, where Alessandra wanted to find a scarf to offset the beautiful amber brooch Gerald had given her.

‘He says it reminded him of the flecks in my eyes. Really, your father's a hopeless old romantic.' She smiled indulgently.

They met up with Gerald for lunch, and he duly admired the new scarf.

‘And Bella-darling, do let me treat you to something nice to wear,' Alessandra said. ‘You must have had those trousers for ages.'

‘They're comfortable. I do have smart clothes for work, you know.'

Her mother nodded.

‘Well, of course, I can't keep up with what's in fashion now.' She tweaked at the edge of the deep cuff of her silver-grey crêpe-de-Chine blouse. ‘I just stick to the classics.'

Bella had insisted on cooking the birthday banquet. They started with hard-boiled quails' eggs, sitting on a salad of mixed leaves, fresh rocket, shreds of purplered radicchio, blanched sugar snap peas, strips of grilled red and yellow peppers, with a warm sesame oil dressing.

Alessandra had ‘just popped in for something' while Bella was cooking.

‘Mmm. Wonderful colours. Your father won't eat peppers, you know.'

*   *   *

‘Is this from that cookery book I gave you at Christmas?' asked Alessandra at supper, cocking her head to one side, assessing.

‘No, actually, I just made it up. What do you think?'

‘Delicious!' said Bella's father. ‘The peppers are lovely cooked like this.'

‘It's very good. But the
rucola
must have been expensive,' said Alessandra.

The main course was poached salmon, served warm with a watercress sauce, pommes Anna, layered with translucent slivers of onion and moistened with milk, and fine French beans with glazed carrots. Nothing innovative, nothing risky, nothing with too much how-interesting-I-never-cook-it-that-way potential.

‘And there should be some left over for having cold tomorrow,' said Bella.

‘Oh, but I've plenty of food in for tomorrow already.'

‘You still haven't opened your present from me yet. It's in the hall. I'll go and get it.' Bella rose from her chair.

‘Please don't bother, Bella-darling. I'll open it later.'

‘Please open it now.'

Bella cleared the plates and placed the present in front of Alessandra.

‘Well, isn't this wonderfully wrapped? What pretty paper.'

‘I hope you like it.' Bella straightened the salt and pepper in front of her, brushed crumbs from the cloth into her palm. ‘I'm afraid I can't take it back.'

‘Of course you won't need to take it back.' Alessandra delicately picked off the sticky tape. ‘Well now.' The platter lay exposed in its nest of pale pink tissue and rose-covered wrapping paper. ‘That's really very charming, Bella. Thank you.'

‘We must give it pride of place,' said Gerald. ‘Why
don't we move that boring green one and put it in the middle of the big dresser?'

‘But Gerald-darling, that was Mamma's. Perhaps we could fit this one on the dresser in the hall.'

Bella went into the kitchen to get the dessert.

‘I hope you'll use it sometimes,' she called through as she looked for the silver cake slice.

‘Well, of course we don't entertain as much as we used to, Bella, not like I did when I was your age. It's a bit big just for the two of us.'

Bella appeared bearing her chilled lemon mousse cake, circled by a red moat of raspberry coulis. The perfect, smooth surface was piped with a large A in curlicued chocolate script.

‘Dah-dah,' said Bella, flatly, a token fanfare.

‘That looks simply delicious, but you know I don't think I could manage another mouthful just now. You and Dad have some.'

‘It's very light,' said Bella. ‘It's mostly air.'

Alessandra smiled, gestured gracefully with her hand in refusal, and wiped her lips conclusively with her napkin.

‘Now,
I'll
make the coffee,' she said, getting up from the table.

Bella looked down at the mousse cake. There seemed to be a large drop of water on one twirl of the A. Another. Her tears fell as she stood, poised with the cake slice.

‘Oh, Bella, sweetheart, don't,' said her father. ‘It's all right. She can't help it.'

She was gulping now, her breaths coming in great waves, pulling at her ribcage.

‘She – never –' Bella slapped at the top of the cake with the flat of the cake slice, hitting it as she gulped in air. ‘Says – anything – nice.'

‘Hush, now.' He put his arm around her stiff shoulders. ‘That was a delicious meal you made. Of course she liked it.'

‘She –
hates –
me.'

Alessandra swept in with the tray of coffee.

‘Oh, have I interrupted something? What happened to that lovely-looking cake? I was just about to have a piece.'

Gerald silenced her with a look.

‘Well, I'm sure I don't know why she's crying. It ought to be me. I'm the one who's a year older.'

‘Ali! That's enough now.'

She sighed and shrugged.

‘All this fuss Bella turned on her, shouting, choking out words:

‘Yes, all this
fucking
fuss. Nothing's ever good enough for you, is it? No matter what I do, it's just wrong because it's me.'

Bella looked down at the cake slice clutched tight in her hand; it felt hard, solid – comforting. The cold glint of metal. She couldn't seem to let it go.

‘What do you
want
from me? What can I do that would be
right?
You don't even like me, never mind love me. Why did you bother to have me?
Why?
You've never wanted me, have you?
Have
you?' Bella screamed into her mother's face.

Alessandra's eyes looked huge, flecked with shock and fear; she recoiled in tiny flinches as the words struck her.

Bella raised the silver cake slice high and slammed it down hard into the middle of the cake, splattering great gobbets of mousse across the table. Raspberry coulis spurted blood-like over the crisp white cloth.

Gerald folded his hand around hers, firmly guiding it down to the table, releasing her fingers.

‘No,' said Bella, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and laughed. It seemed so obvious. ‘You never have. It's as simple as that.' She looked down at the smashed cake, the silver slice, the white cloth with its splatters of violent red.

She was too weary to drive back now. She'd go in the morning, as soon as it was light. Now, all she wanted was a long, hot bath and some sleep. Her ribs seemed to hurt from crying, but there were no tears now. She was calm. The unsayable had been said, and it was a release.

Gerald came up to her room as she was getting ready for her bath.

‘Your mother wants to talk to you. She wants to explain. Just talk to her. Please.'

‘I'm sorry, Dad. I've had enough. I'm not in the mood to hear her justifying the way she is.'

‘I know it's hard. She does try. She can't help it really.'

‘Dad.
Let's just leave it, OK?'

‘All right.' His shoulders sagged and he looked tired. ‘Maybe in the morning though, hmm?'

‘Maybe.' She smiled, and gave him a hug. ‘I'm sorry about the mess.'

He shooed away her apology with a wave of his hand.

‘Forget it. Still – mostly air, indeed!' He patted her cheek.

∼ ∼ ∼

She is sitting on the floor, clutching her knees close to her chest, in the big cupboard under the stairs. If she stands on tippy-toes, she can just reach the light-switch, so sometimes she comes in here with Fernando, her fluffy toy frog, and some paper and her
best felt-tips. She draws princesses, herself as Chief Princess of course, attended by her friends as smaller, minor princesses, all wearing long dresses and yellow crowns studded with painstakingly drawn over-large jewels.

So far, she has never been discovered in her secret hideaway, partly because she is careful not to stay too long and her mother is by now resigned to her habit of disappearing into thin air, and partly because, with the ironing board propped against the wall and Daddy's big winter coat and fishing things hanging from the coat hooks, she can't be seen by a casual glance. But today she does not have her paper or felt-tips. There was no time to get them.

This morning, she had been in the garden, pulling up the little weeds that Daddy had pointed out to her and picking raspberries from under the great green tent of the fruit cage. Mummy wants them to make into a special dessert. She eats as she picks, counting as a ritual: one, two, three plop into the bowl, and one is pushed into her mouth. When the bowl is full, she takes it into the house, trailing her hand dreamily along the wall as she goes. Mummy says thank you for being such a good girl and she hoped she hadn't eaten too many while she was picking because it would spoil her appetite for lunch. Mummy swishes through to the dining room.

‘Bella!'

She freezes in the kitchen, her hand poised to take another raspberry, then starts to creep towards the other door, the hall, the front door and safety. Alessandra is screaming for Gerald to come and see what that impossible child has done now.