Love Is a Four Letter Word (3 page)

‘I think I'll slope off to bed,' she says, half-suppressing a yawn. ‘So tired!'

‘Good idea. I'll come too.'

She undresses slowly, pulling off her things distractedly, tugging her still-buttoned cuffs over her hands because she can't be bothered to undo them. Reaches for her big black T-shirt under her pillow, her fluffy bedsocks. Pads through to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

‘You reading tonight?' asks Patrick.

Her Christmas books are still in a carrier bag in the hall. She shakes her head. A click as he switches off the light.

She feels his hand snake over her side, under her T-shirt, cupping her tummy from behind.

‘You're nice and warm.'

She turns over to kiss him goodnight.

‘'Night,' she says.

She feels his tongue push tentatively between her lips; starts to murmur that she's really too sleepy, it's been a long day. He strokes her hair, speaks softly, telling her he loves her, how soft her skin feels, how sexy she is.

Her body starts to respond automatically to his touch, his hand moving between her thighs; she feels herself growing wet, hears his low sigh as his fingers find her.

∼ ∼ ∼

Boxing Day, the year before the one just gone, she remembers. That's when it was.

‘Now he's rather nice. Over there – don't look.' Viv's voice shifted to a stage whisper.

‘Fine. I'm not looking.'

‘No. Look now, quick.'

Bella craned her head round to see the unwitting quarry, pretending to be looking at the Spanish poster advertising a bullfight on the wall above. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Viv, he's
with
someone. See that other person at the same table with the earrings and the polka-dot blouse. She didn't come as a side order with the meal, you know. Here's some bread and a woman for the evening.'

Viv waved her away dismissively.

‘She could be his cousin, come for a visit.'

‘She could be the Dalai Lama in disguise, but let's look at the most likely option first, shall we? Two people: one male, one female, in a restaurant, in the evening. Sounds suspiciously like a couple having a relationship to me. You ought to know. That's what normal people do. I read it in one of the Sunday supplements.'

*   *   *

They walked as far as the cathedral together before their routes took them separate ways. How stunning it was lit up at night – and not a tourist in sight to appreciate it. By day, it was a magnet for Japanese groups following their tour guide bearing a rolled umbrella aloft like a drum majorette, and troupes of French schoolchildren sporting identical blue caps and matching plastic pouches round their necks advertising: ‘My passport and all my money. Steal me.'

Bella walked across the bridge. The river glinted darkly below. A few boats bobbed gently, clunking woodenly against each other. It looked mysterious and exciting, the kind of night when your partner might turn to you and say, ‘Let's go to Rome for the weekend – now!' Did anyone really have a relationship like that? Viv frequently complained that she and Nick never managed to get away. And even when Bella had been with someone, they had never done spontaneous things like jetting off to the Continent on the spur of the moment or having sex on the kitchen floor or in the bath. Once, in a fit of horniness, she and Sean, her boyfriend before Patrick, had tugged down each other's jeans and attempted to do it on the stairs. But the jeans were in the way and there seemed to be far too many knees involved in the proceedings, and after two minutes the step digging into her lower back was all she could think about. They'd had to stop and trip upstairs to his bedroom, their legs pinioned by their half-mast jeans, by which time much of their fiery passion had fizzled into a damp squib.

It was just one of those pointless ideas they use to fill up the pages of women's magazines: ‘Love-life lost its magic? Spice it up: initiate sex at unexpected moments and in surprising places.' But they were always special magazine-world clichés about romance and sex, stuff like ‘Tuck little love notes into your partner's pockets
for him to discover during the day' and ‘Surprise your man by whispering to him that you're not wearing any panties when you're out together.' He'd just think you were going prematurely senile. What if you told him while you were tootling around Tesco's hunting for decent olives? That would certainly be a surprise. Would he really be so overcome with excitement that he'd lean you back over the long-life milk? Or take you over a freezer filled with coffee Viennettas and Arctic Rolls? Wouldn't that be awfully cold on your bottom? Would other shoppers ignore you – how English – and perhaps try to reach past your thigh, saying, ‘Excuse me, dear, could I just get to the mandarin cheesecake? See, I've my sister-in-law coming at the weekend.'

A young couple wove towards her, stopping every few feet to kiss, veering erratically in their path like drunken crabs; an older pair, in their fifties she guessed, passed by holding hands. When she was first with Patrick, she had usually felt glad at the sight of other couples laughing and kissing and canoodling. There seemed to be a secret bond between them all. Sometimes, four pairs of eyes would meet and smile: ‘We know how good life is, don't we?'

Now, it just made Bella depressed. God, how smug couples were. If she were ever stupid enough to be in a couple again – that sounded dreadful: in a couple, like
in
prison, in detention,
in
a mess – she would shun smugness. How can you be so ungenerous about other people's happiness? she reproached herself. She lengthened her stride and resolved to be more positive. Things were fine. Time for herself so she could concentrate on her house. She could slump about all weekend in slobby clothes. Go out with lots of different men. No need to keep tidying the towels because he couldn't grasp the concept of folding. No need to
buy that ridiculous, expensive, three-fruit marmalade just because he liked it.

But I grew to like that marmalade too, she reminded herself. And I don't seem to be going out with lots of men, do I? That was true, she admitted. But she could if she wanted to; it was the principle that mattered.

Lying in bed that night, Bella thought about Viv and Nick. Strange how seamlessly Viv had gone from being Viv to being Viv and Nick, as if he had always been there. He was unmistakably a fixture, built in to Viv's life, and Viv to his. Wouldn't be Bella's choice, of course. Hair had evidently been on strict rations when Nick reached the head of the queue. He had soft, malleable features that looked as if you could squish them out of position and they might stay that way, like plasticine. And his devotion to his car, a pale blue Karmann Ghia, was a bit sad, especially since it was overfond of the hard shoulder, tending to break down on any journey over twenty miles. Still, he and Viv obviously loved each other to pieces. She could certainly think of worse matches. Her own parents for a start, her father so mild, so eager to please, her mother … well, at least she wasn't like her.

Perhaps Viv was at that same moment thinking about Bella. Was she lying there in bed, snuggled up to Nick, saying to him: ‘Poor Bella seems to have thrown in the towel. No sex for more than a year. Probably never find anyone half as nice as Patrick again. Still, should be over him by now.'

Bella could hear it cycling round and round in her head.
Should be over him by now, should be over him by now …

Beneath the two words ‘YOGHURT – IDEAS??' on her notepad, a sketch of Bella's new boss was taking shape nicely. The gap between her neck and her shirt collar, the glasses propped on top of her head apparently watching the ceiling. As if it were a thing apart, Bella watched the line of her pencil recreate the angle where Seline's chin jutted forward in eagerness, a chicken heading for corn.

‘Bella?' Seline raised her eyebrows at her.

Bella clunked her coffee mug down on top of the sketch and tried to look thoughtful, as if weighing up all the various options before giving her opinion. Could they possibly still be talking about the yoghurt campaign or had they moved on to the corporate design deal for the country-house hotel? She felt like a schoolkid, about to be told off for not paying attention.
Bella Kreuzer! Are you daydreaming again?

‘Erm …' she volunteered, trying to peer sideways at Anthony's pad to read the note he was scribbling for her.

‘Lifestyle Yoghurt?' Seline prompted. ‘Any more thoughts on the redesign? The focus groups research suggests it looks too healthy. The client wants a new look.'

‘Yes, I've been thinking.' Bella nodded wisely, every inch the creative director, keen to consider yoghurt-carton design very seriously indeed. ‘I certainly think we could strengthen the idea that these yoghurts are fun and sensual, too. The customer – consumer – wants to feel that she can be healthy yet self-indulgent and just a bit sinful at the same time. I'll do some roughs tomorrow, with a sexier typeface.'

‘Great!' Seline clicked her pen against her teeth, pleased. ‘Anyone else?'

The inside of Bella's lower lip was sore where she had been biting it. She had only been in the job for a fortnight and already she was finding it hard to keep a straight face; it was as bad as when she'd been in advertising or women's magazines. How was she supposed to maintain a sensible, grown-up expression when people started talking about yoghurt or detergent or a new paint range as if it were a cure for cancer or a way to bring about world peace?

Seline, who ran Scotton Design (or Scrotum Design as Anthony liked to call it), was in many respects a perfectly sane human being and, as she frequently claimed, ‘as fond of a joke as the next person' – which would be true if the next person were also a stranger to the concept of irony. But she often acted as if the sky would fall in if the lettering on a packet of panty-liners didn't convey dryness, freshness, a carefree attitude, a healthy sex life, and a busy, affluent lifestyle. And that was just the lettering. Who needed panty-liners anyway? That's what knickers were for. Soon they'd be marketing liners to keep your panty-liners fresh and dry.

Bella told herself she shouldn't knock it. On a good day, she prided herself on her ability to know exactly which typeface looked more carefree than any other. Besides, it kept her off the streets, and someone had to
pay for all that damp treatment – and the extractor fan, and replacing those two sash-cords, and the buggery doorbell, and she could do with a freezer, too … On cue, The List of Things to be Done appeared in her head, winding itself around her, binding her like an Egyptian mummy. She closed her eyes at the thought and comforted herself with the knowledge that she could go and see Viv soon if she could escape without Seline heading her off at the pass.

‘Bella! What a surprise.' Nick came into the kitchen and started filling the kettle. ‘It seems like only yesterday that we saw you. Ah. It
was
yesterday. So, how've you been in the last twenty-four hours?'

‘I'm going, I'm going. It's her fault. She made me come.' Bella pointed at Viv.

‘I did. It was me.' Viv held Nick around his waist. ‘But she's doing it for you. She's showing me how to make her posh fish pie so I can do it for your parents at the weekend.'

‘Correction. I am in fact making the fish pie for the freezer while Viv stands there and nods and says “Oh, I think I see. Show me how to peel just one more potato and then I'll have a go”.'

‘Cup of tea, anyone? No? You found the wine then?' Nick topped up their glasses.

‘Then you take the olives …'

Nick's hand shot out and grabbed one.

‘And you give them to Nick because Dad doesn't like them.'

‘… And lay them on one side to pass to Nick.'

Nick went and stretched out on the sofa.

‘I'm out of earshot now if you two want to talk about men and sex and girlie stuff.'

‘Shoes, Nick!' called Viv from the kitchen.

There was a discreet rustling, as of the sound of a newspaper being tucked under feet.

‘Nick, imagine you're a proper man for a minute.'

‘Cheers, Bella.'

‘Oh, shush. You know what I mean. Viv says I should ask you how to attract a bloke.'

‘Since when did you start taking Viv's advice? I didn't think you wanted one.'

‘That's just what I said. Viv doesn't believe me. I wouldn't mind some sex though before I forget how to do it.'

Viv joined in.

‘Come on. She's lovely. She should have queues of chaps banging on her door.'

‘No. People always say they want your honest advice and then they get pissed off with you.'

‘I promise not to, Nick. Scout's honour.' Bella held up her hand in a three-fingered salute.

‘When were you ever a scout?' hissed Viv. Bella waved her away.

He shook his head and kept on reading a magazine while he nibbled gerbil-like on a mint Matchmaker.

Viv made little kissing noises at him. Bella joined in on the other side. Nick sighed.

‘At your own risk then. Of course, it's only my opinion and I realize I'm not a
proper
man or anything, but if you really just want a fling, then get your legs out, woman. Wear a short skirt and laugh at our jokes. That should do it.'

‘Is that the best you can do?' Viv flicked his magazine.

‘What? What? I've read this bloody sentence twelve times now. Kindly bugger off.' He rested his magazine over his face.

‘Nick, we promise to bugger off in a minute.' Bella slowly lifted one corner of his magazine-tent and peered underneath. ‘And we'll make you a coffee and be sure to laugh at your jokes – when you make one – but do I, you know, look all right?'

‘Jeez. What are you like? As I said, skirts are good. Aside from that –' Nick started counting off on his fingers ‘– one, you wear too many dark things. It's depressing. Two, do something about your hair – it's great but half the time no-one can see your face, which seems a bit of a waste. Can't you pin it back or up or something? Three, you want to burn that terrible jacket. Don't you own anything else? It's miles too big – you look like you're hoping no-one will notice you.'