Love Is a Four Letter Word (33 page)

Now, she knows what he means, knows what it means.
R.I.P.
Rest in Peace. It is not for the dead, the dead who lie still in the crumbling earth; not for the dead who have no thoughts, no fears, their joys, their pain forgotten.

It is a message for the living.

Early morning. A thin wash of sunlight brushes the room. She opens her eyes and, quietly, begins to weep.

She rummages through her sketch-books. Somewhere here, yes. Here. There are several sketches – and her memory.

She begins to paint. It is as she remembers him best, his long form awkwardly folded into an armchair, one leg draped over the side. If only she could capture the way he rotated his foot as he read, first one way, then the other; she could draw it at an angle to suggest it, perhaps. She knows she must paint it all in one sitting, now while he is so clear in her head. She lets his voice wind its way into her ears once more, recalls now his touch with simple fondness, lets the essence of him quicken the sinews of her hands, spilling out onto the paper.

It is good, she realizes, better than she could have hoped. Sometimes, painting was work, work and more work, a battle with the limitations of the paint, the paper or canvas, frustration with the gulf between the image in her head and the insipid translation of it that she set down with her brush. But, occasionally, rare and precious, one came as a gift, flowing from her eyes, her mind, down through her hand, capturing her vision in front of her like a butterfly come to rest.

She phones first, to make sure it will be all right for her to come, saying she won't stay long, she doesn't want to impose, feeling her way through the pauses, wondering if she is welcome. The picture is carefully wrapped, laid on the back seat of the car.

As she raises her hand to the knocker, the door sweeps open.

‘Bella!' Joseph, Patrick's father, gathers her close.

‘Is that Bella here already?' calls Rose, running through and undoing her apron.

Their delight in seeing her stings her with shame. There is no word of reproach, no veiled hints that she might have visited sooner. Their apparent gratitude that she's bothered to drive all that way to come to see them is more mortifying than any criticism could have been. How could she have been so selfish?

‘Come in, come in – and look who's here.'

Sophie, Patrick's young sister, jumps up and throws her arms around Bella.

‘Soph! I didn't know you'd be here.'

‘We haven't seen you for months. I thought you'd forgotten us.'

‘Sophie!' Rose frowns at her. ‘Don't be so rude.'

‘Oh, Mum. Bel doesn't mind.'

Bella catches a look between Joseph and Rose.

‘Oh, Bel! Don't cry. Shit. What have I said now?'

‘Language!' says Rose. ‘Please excuse her, Bella.'

‘No. It's not that. It's not you, Soph, really. It's just me. And you're all being so
nice.'
She takes Joseph's proffered handkerchief.

‘I can be horrible if you want,' offers Sophie. ‘Mum says I'm horrible most of the time anyway.'

‘I do
not.
You can be perfectly pleasant when you can be bothered, Sophie. But it's not trendy or wicked or whatever the thing is now, so you try and make out you're bored by everyone and everything. But now that
you're twenty, it's just embarrassing.' Rose sweeps out to the kitchen.

‘Wicked? Mum at the cutting edge of street slang as usual.' Sophie makes a naughty-schoolkid face and goofs her teeth at Bella. Bella goofs back. ‘Dear God,' prays Sophie, ‘send me a new mother.'

‘Don't,' says Bella, ‘or I'll give you mine. I'm thinking of hiring her out to improve familial harmony – one week with her and you'd appreciate just how lovely Rose is.'

‘I brought you something, but I don't know if it's the right thing.'

‘No need to bring anything,' says Rose.

‘Just a pleasure to see you,' says Joseph.

‘Is it your sticky lemon cake?' says Sophie.

Bella goes out to the car to fetch it. What if they hate it? What if they burst into tears? This could be a horrible mistake.

She holds it close to her body.

‘I hope it doesn't make it worse. But I did it for you and I want you to have it.'

Bella hands the picture to Joseph. His eyes start to pool above the rims. He nods without speaking. Rose, close beside him on the sofa, clutches his arm. Tears spill down her powdery cheeks, run along the creases around her eyes.

‘I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. I thought – I don't know what I thought.'

Rose and Joseph are both shaking their heads.

No – they say – that's not it – they love it – hadn't expected it – there is nothing they could have loved more – nothing better she could possibly have given them – it's just, you see – Joseph looks round for his hankie – it's just so
Patrick.

Sophie agrees, it is
very
Patrick, look at his foot
there, you just know he's winding it round and round like a bloody clockwork toy the way he always did. Won't Alan love it when he sees it?

Alan is not expected until teatime, so Bella stays for tea. When he arrives, he kisses her cheek and holds her arms awkwardly for a few moments. He looks at her half-sideways, the way Patrick used to.

‘The folks have missed you, you know.'

She nods, abashed.

‘The picture. They're really chuffed, you can tell. It was a good thing to do. The right thing. Thank you.'

She had forgotten this feeling, this being part of a family, however briefly. How much easier it was to get on with other people's relatives. Rose has forgotten to defrost the chops she had planned for supper, so Bella insists on making a meal for everyone, spinning a magic
mélange
out of an eclectic collection of fridge foragings. Sophie then begs for zabaglione and the two stand by the stove, swapping rude jokes and taking it in turns to whisk until their arms are stiff. The sweet golden foam is poured into glasses and they all eat in reverent silence, as if honouring some ancient ritual.

Rose won't hear of her driving back all that way at night. Bella must be exhausted. The bed's all made up anyway. They couldn't possibly let her go back so late. Absolutely not.

‘But I haven't got my things …'

A clean nightie is presented, a new toothbrush found. She lets herself be fussed over for once.

After breakfast, Joseph walks round the garden with her, impressed by her new-found knowledge as she admires his plants by name. She holds their leaves between her fingers, comforted by the familiar feel of them, letting the names, the scents, roll round her
head: thyme, she thinks, lemon balm, rosemary.
Rosmarinus officinalis.
Ah, rosemary.

‘I'm glad you came. I don't imagine it's been easy for you either.'

‘I'm much better than I was.'

Joseph clears his throat and leans over a plant to pull off a dead leaf.

‘You wouldn't ever have married him, would you?'

Bella is silent, then lifts her gaze to meet his.

‘It's all right.' He digs his hands down deep into his pockets. ‘I think I knew quite a while ago. Rose doesn't. She thinks you were just being young folk, doing the modern thing.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You don't need to be. It's no good cheating on how you feel, is it?'

‘S'pose not.'

He folds her in his arms, patting her back.

‘Is that why you've kept away?'

She nods into his shoulder.

‘I couldn't. I felt such a fraud. I thought you'd hate me.'

He tuts quietly into her hair, shaking his head.

Joseph walks her to her car and calls to the others to come and see her off.

‘I hope you find him,' he says to her quietly, ‘the one for you.'

‘That is completely gorgeous, much too nice for you, you old slapper. I want it.' Viv lets the sleeve of the cherry two-piece slither between her fingers. Bella had worried that she would look ridiculously overdressed for her private view, especially when she had arrived and met one of the other artists who is wearing green denims and what Bella mentally catalogues as a mixed-media waistcoat, a garment that might be interesting if it was framed but looks ridiculous on an actual person. Fortunately, Donald MacIntyre is wearing an immaculately pressed suit and a snazzy red and black silk tie and Fiona, the gallery assistant, is in a smart little black dress. Both approve heartily of Bella's outfit, Fiona with a sidelong flare of her nostrils at Mr Wacky Waistcoat.

‘You look stunning,' says Viv. ‘I thought you'd be wearing an artist's smock. You can't compete with that waistcoat though – what
are
those strange, crunchy-looking bits? Give us a twirl then.'

Bella obliges and the skirt softly swings out around her legs.

‘You must have splashed out. That never came from Oxfam.'

‘It was Alessandra's. Mum's.'

Viv raises her eyebrows without comment.

‘
Too glam for me really.' Bella looks down at herself.

‘Nonsense. It's very you.'

Nick gives an appreciative whistle and kisses her on the cheek.

‘Show us some o' yer art then.' He feigns a nose-wipe-with-sleeve.

She points out her section of the exhibition and the two paintings in the window.

‘I thought that looked like Will,' says Viv. ‘Not his face exactly but something about the posture, the way he's standing. Shit, you
are
good. Why've you been footling about all these years when you're a bloody genius, woman? Well, at least you're winding down at Scrotum Design.'

‘Ssh.' Bella nods towards Seline.

‘Where're the proud parents then?' asks Jane, a friend from London.

‘Not here.'

‘Oops, sorry, have I put my foot in it?'

‘You
did
ask them, Bel, didn't you?' Viv joins in, narrowing her eyes at Bella.

‘I did send them an invite.' Bella reaches for another canapé. ‘But I forgot to post it till this morning.'

‘Forgot, yeah. You meanie. They'd have loved to come. Don't scrunch your nose like that – it makes you look like a pig. Well, more fool you – they might have bought one.'

It should be one of the best evenings of her life. It almost is. She has good friends around her. Her work is on show in the best private gallery in the city and people are praising it. A pleasant, fizzy feeling hovers just beneath her skin. People are showering her with compliments, but she finds it hard to let them sink in. She feels herself discounting them, repelling them like water bouncing off an oilskin.
They're just being polite.
They have to say something nice. They've drunk too much wine.
She smiles and nods and says her thank-yous, makes self-deprecating jokes, on guard against feeling too pleased.

But all she can think of is Will. She is glad
his
picture is in the window, facing the street, so she doesn't have to keep catching sight of it as she looks around the room. She keeps thinking how much he would have enjoyed this evening, what he would have said: he'd have been amused by that man over there, inspecting her brushwork at such close range that he is practically wiping his nose on it. She thinks of the way Will's hand would rest on the small of her back for a moment as he passed her, how he would stroke her hair away from her face casually, almost without noticing. He'd have liked Donald MacIntyre with his dry wit and keen intelligence. And they even had canapés and dippy things. Will loved food on sticks. (‘Don't you love the word goujons?' he had said. ‘Sounds so
chubby,
like your upper arms,' as he bent to chomp on them. ‘They are not chubby; they are gently rounded.' ‘Chubby, chubby,' he insisted, nibbling away.)

‘Sign mine on the back for me some time, will you, Bella?' Seline says. ‘You've only initialled it on the front.'

Seline has bought a picture. Spent money – and quite a lot of money – on a painting by Bella, a person she actually knew. How could you take someone's work seriously when you'd argued together, fought over chocolate biscuits, borrowed Tampax from each other?

‘But they're so expensive – you mustn't – the gallery sets the prices – and their commission is high – I must do you another one.'

Seline tells her to shut up and stop babbling.

‘I love it and I have the perfect spot for it, so let me
enjoy it.' She smiles. ‘And I also suspect that I have made rather a wise investment.'

She spots Nick writing out a cheque and runs over to try to stop him. Fiona threatens to lock her in the kitchen – ‘People are supposed to buy them. That's the point of having an exhibition.' Bella corners Viv.

‘You're just doing it because you feel sorry for me, aren't you? Confess.'

‘You're right. That's the only reason. We're even going to put it over the fireplace – that's how sorry we are for you. Don't be daft, babe. Nick's never polite, you know that.'

‘'s true.' Nick gargles briefly with his wine. ‘I can't be arsed. We're just cynical collectors, snapping you up while you're still cheap. Well – not that cheap …'

‘Shut up and have one of these mushroom thingies.'

Work the next day flies by for once, with Anthony returning from lunch with a beret which he plonks on her head – ‘You are now officially a bona fide
artiste,
and must wear this at all times'. Back home, she sinks back onto the sofa to relive yesterday evening. The doorbell rings.

It's just a Jehovah's Witness, she tells herself, pausing by the mirror to tweak at her hair, bite her lips to make them more pink. Someone collecting for orphaned gnomes. Viv wanting to know how to sift flour.

She opens the door.

‘And what exactly is this, Ms Kreuzer?' Gerald is waving the exhibition invite under her nose.