Love Is a Four Letter Word (6 page)

‘I
do.'
Bella hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her jeans and focused on the toe of her left boot. How nice the worn leather looked against the soft green pile of the carpet, like a piece of fallen bark on a floor of springy moss. Perhaps she should go painting in the woods? Sneak out, as if meeting a secret lover. An image of dark trees came to her, the shadows beneath
sliced by shafts of sunlight.
Ah, Bella-dear, dabbling with your paints again? I am glad. So nice for a woman to have an enjoyable hobby …

Alessandra's mouth formed a rictus-smile as she applied her lipstick.

‘What do you think, hmm? It's new. Amber Spice.'

‘Lovely.' Bella nodded at the reflection. ‘Brings out the colour of your eyes, too.' Alessandra's glittering eyes, flecked like tortoiseshell, brightened in the mirror.

‘Do you really think so?' She smiled, her feathers smoothed. ‘Let's go down and have some coffee.' The reflection blotted its lips, turning to left and right. ‘I've made some new
biscotti.
You must try and guess what's in them.'

Bella inhaled the salt air and looked out across the sea. It was a clear, bright day, but windy, whisking the water into froth-topped waves. She loved the beach on a day like this, cold enough to keep the Thermos brigade cocooned in their cars, watching the ocean with undisguised suspicion. Although she now lived not far from the sea herself, she had a fondness for this particular stretch of coastline, the beach of her childhood ten miles from her parents' house. Dad had evidently wanted to come, too, but she'd just scooped up her car keys and swept out as if she were distracted. But then her mother wouldn't have wanted to be left out and it would have turned into a sad parody of a family outing. There'd be all that hunting for a spot sheltered from the wind and the fussing about her hair and it just wouldn't have been the same.

Two windsurfers bounced over the waves, dipping and soaring, their dazzling pink and green sails like the wings of exotic birds. The tide was out and, down by the water's edge, a small girl shovelled sand inexpertly into a bucket. Her white hat was pulled down so low
that Bella thought she must only be able to see directly downwards. She looked intent on empire-building, but her cardigan sleeves kept getting in the way and she was too young to have mastered the art of rolling them up properly. Her mother sat nearby, reading a magazine and taking swigs from a can of Coke.

Bella chucked another pebble hard towards a small piece of driftwood further along the beach. It skittered along the shingle. A man with a yapping Jack Russell scowled at her, as if she had been aiming at his dog.

‘Nearly,' she told herself. ‘One more go, then back to the House of Fun.'

∼ ∼ ∼

Daddy takes her onto the beach and starts to help her off with her shoes and socks.

‘Fancy a paddle, ding-dong?' He sometimes calls her that for fun, because of Bell, short for Bella, but Mummy says it is silly and not right – Bella is a beautiful name. It means beautiful and she should know because she chose it and she's Italian.

‘Me do it.'

He takes off his own shoes and socks and rolls up his trousers so they are all bunched around his knees. The sea is cold and she squeals as it rushes up over her ankles. Through the water, her feet look as if they do not belong to her, as if she had just found them while searching for shells. They are pale and soft and the sun makes little bright lines on them through the waves. When she steps out of the water, the shingle seems twice as hard and sharp on her soles.

‘Ow, ow, ow!'

Daddy scoops her up and holds her high above his head, up with the big white gulls that he says cry out for all the sailors and fishermen lost at sea. She is not sure how they can get lost because there are no roads
and you do not need a map. You only need to look around and there is the beach. Then he swings her suddenly upside down and the world is shingle and sea and sky then sky and sea and shingle again. She screams with delight.

‘Daddy, Daddy, put me
down.'

She lets him put her socks back on because her feet are still damp and they are hard to do properly. He gets them all crooked so the heels are round at the side, then he buckles her red shoes too tight and the left one pinches her foot a little, but she doesn't say.

He takes her for cherryade and ‘Welsh rabbit' in a café which has bright strips of colour hanging in the doorway, slapping softly in the breeze. All she wants is for this day to be forever: the gulls sailing above her, the sweet pink bubbles of the cherryade, the scrunch of the shingle, the salty taste of the sea when she licks her fingers, and Daddy doing up her shoes, looking down at the buckles as he fastens them, then up at her as she sits perched on the breakwater.

‘All right then, ding-dong. Off we trot. Mummy will be waiting.'

∼ ∼ ∼

Alessandra was fussing with her hair.

‘Beautiful,' said Gerald. ‘As always.'

She waved at him dismissively with a gesture of her long, tapering fingers.

‘Why do we bother spending so much time and money making ourselves look lovely for you men?' She turned to Bella, including her, silently noting her faded jeans and hair pulled back into a hasty ponytail, then turned away again. ‘When you can't even seem to tell the difference?'

She walked towards the kitchen.

‘Amuse yourselves, and keep out from under my
feet, both of you. I'm just going to prepare a few bits for dinner. Nothing special as it's just us.'

‘Nothing special' turned out to be individual asparagus and gruyère tartlets followed by a layered terrine of smoked chicken and spinach with salad.

‘Any news?' asked Alessandra to the air in general once they were safely on the home stretch of dinner, warm pears poached in port served with crème fraîche.

Are you seeing anyone?
Bella sensed the silent question crawl across the starched linen tablecloth, edging its way around a china bowl of tight apricot rosebuds.
Are you even trying?
crept in its wake.

‘Nothing major,' said Bella, concentrating on scooping up a wayward piece of pear, while redirecting the conversation with the practised ease of a politician. ‘The house needs some work to eradicate the damp.' Held out her hand at waist height. ‘The plaster's got to be hacked off up to here.'

‘Sounds expensive,' Gerald said. ‘Do you need any help?'

‘Have you—' Alessandra began.

‘Thanks, but I'm fine money-wise … and Seline seems to be very happy with me so far, probably because I've brought some juicy clients with me ready to be squeezed. She said if all goes well, we might discuss setting up as a partnership next year.'

‘But that's wonderful. Shall we drink a toast?'

‘Of course it's good that they appreciate your talents, but isn't that rather risky?' asked Alessandra. ‘Wouldn't you be liable if the company went bankrupt?'

Bella took a drink of her wine.

‘Well, of course, it's always good to look on the bright side,' she said, starting to get up from the table. ‘Shall I make some coffee?'

‘Perhaps I'd better make it, Bella-dear. The percolator's being rather temperamental.'

‘It has my sympathy,' Bella said under her breath.

In the garden on Sunday morning, Gerald took Bella for the traditional guided tour. They stood together by his vegetable patch, pointing, assessing, as if judging it for a medal at a horticultural show.

‘It won't be at its best for a while yet, of course. I'm planning to grow some squash this year. Your mother says they make good soup.'

‘Oh? Don't they make an
excellente
soup?'

‘Behave yourself, daughter dear.'

Every time Bella mentioned or admired anything, Gerald would weave along the narrow paths between the beds with surprising grace, saying, ‘Have some, have some. Here, let me dig some up.'

It was depressing, she hadn't done anything yet with her small plot, while Dad was doing such wonders with his large garden.

‘I'm wondering whether I should have it redesigned – make it easier to manage somehow?' she said. ‘It's getting out of hand already.'

‘Very sensible. I'll have a look if you like, or get someone who actually knows what they're doing.'

‘Of course, I've no idea what's fashionable any more,' Alessandra said, plucking a blouse from her walk-in wardrobe to offer Bella. ‘But this has always been useful.'

And it has to be better than that awful shirt.

‘It's gorgeous,' Bella said, stroking the slippery satin sleeve against her cheek. ‘Are you sure you don't want it?'

‘We don't go out as much as we used to. I've far more evening clothes than I can use.'

If I were your age, I'd be out dancing very night, fending off strings of suitors.

Bella held up a silk chiffon top and looked at herself in the mirror. It was delicious, red and rich as cherries.

‘The colour's wonderful with your hair. I'll never understand why young people seem to wear so much black all the time. Take it.' Alessandra pulled out a matching skirt from the rail. ‘Here – I can't get into it any more. All part of the joys of ageing.' She patted her still slender hips.

You won't be young for ever.

‘And you could do with some decent things. With your looks, it's such a waste not to make the most of yourself.'

Why don't you try harder? You won't catch a man if you don't.

With the blouse and skirt on, Bella felt different – unfamiliarly elegant, graceful, grown-up. The skirt swirled softly about her legs as she walked up and down the bedroom. The voluminous sleeves of the top were translucent, semi-revealing, more alluring than bare flesh.

‘That's really very glamorous on you,' said Alessandra, assessing. ‘Lovely for a special occasion. Or if someone takes you out to dinner?'

‘Women don't get taken out to dinner any more.' Bella ignored the implied question. ‘We all pay our own way nowadays, I think you'll find.'

‘Oh. Well, yes. I just meant …' Alessandra gave a small laugh. ‘It needs high heels, of course,' looking down at Bella's weekend boots.

Don't you want anyone to notice you?

‘I do have some smart shoes, you know – just because I don't—'

‘No. Well, of course, we can't expect you to waste your best things on us.' She turned and left the room.

Alone in her parents' bedroom, Bella faced herself in
the mirror. Her reflection looked back, coolly appraising. The cherry top and skirt seemed suddenly ridiculous, absurdly glamorous, too obviously not her own – like a little girl all got up in her mummy's high heels and feather boa. Who would be fooled by it into thinking she was really beautiful? They would know she was a fraud, a cuckoo in the nest, trying to acquire something she could never have. She tugged at the zip, jamming it in the fabric before pulling it free, and reached for her jeans.

‘Don't forget your house-warming present,' Gerald said as she was marshalling her things by the front door. ‘Have you space on the back seat?'

‘Gerald-dear, can you manage it, please?'

She didn't need to unwrap it to see what it was. There were two bits: one large and heavy piece that was evidently some kind of lamp base, and one awkward-looking shade. Even without seeing it, Bella could tell it wouldn't look right in her house. It was too large and, knowing her mother, too grand. Chances were the base would have exotic birds painted on it or tasteful flowers. It was bound to have been expensive. She could have had some decent new towels for the money. Or a couple of seriously good saucepans.

‘Gosh, how wonderful,' she said. ‘How exciting to have a proper present.'

‘Aren't you going to open it?' Alessandra stood poised behind it proprietorially. It was evidently of her choosing.

‘But it looks so well protected as it is. I'd better transport it wrapped, I think. Then I can have it to look forward to when I get home.'

‘Of course.' Alessandra smoothed back a wisp of hair and folded her arms. ‘Well, safe journey then.' She hovered forward, printed a bird-like kiss on Bella's cheek.

Gerald handed her an envelope once she was in the car.

‘Not a big fat cheque, I'm afraid. Something for the garden.'

‘Looks a bit flat for a cherry tree.'

‘Be off with you.' He bent down to kiss her goodbye. ‘The receipt for the other present's in there too, in case you want to exchange it for whatever we should have got you in the first place. Feel free to invite us to your house-warming. If you're not too embarrassed by your crumbly old parents. We'll come early and lend a hand.'

‘Don't be daft, Dads.'

No chance, she thought. She could imagine it now.

Her sitting room. Friends standing and talking, doing the buffet balancing act with plates and glasses and napkins. Carefully manoeuvring themselves around the still-stacked boxes. The Arrival of the Parents, like the Entrance of Cleopatra into Rome, with much fussing and removing of scarves and gloves and coats and saying they'd left such-and-such behind then realizing they hadn't, and where might one find the …? Her father worrying about the car, fretting like an old man, surely something could be done about the parking problem? And Alessandra sweeping into the kitchen, eyes flicking over the photograph of Bella and Patrick still in place on the pinboard, and saying how absolutely
sweet
the kitchen is – how convenient to have everything so close to hand – how much easier to manage – and gesturing at the drapes where they pooled deliberately onto the floor – of course, there was always so much to do in a new house, wasn't there – never enough time for hemming curtains and all those dreary little jobs – oh and bare boards with rugs in the bedroom – Bella should have said – they'd have been quite happy to help out with the cost of a
carpet – more than happy – or was that the thing to have nowadays? It was so easy to lose touch with what was
in.