Love Is a Four Letter Word (11 page)

‘So she offered him this piece of Brie and he said, “Actually, I'm a
Stilton
man myself,” and laughed, expecting us to acknowledge him as a great wit. Jill and I couldn't look at each other. And he was wearing a blazer, with those shiny buttons with little anchors on them.'

‘A blazer, eh? Hangin's too good for the likes of 'im.'

The telephone rings.

‘Get that, will you? I have to keep whisking – this is looking a bit blobby. It's probably Patrick. Running late. Can we save him some supper? Blah, blah. Tell him we've got baked bananas – that'll speed him up.'

‘Good evening, Kreuzer and Hughes residence.' Viv's over-corrected receptionist voice is spot on.

‘Yes, yes, she is. She's just here.'

Viv hands her the phone, saying it is Patrick's father.

‘Hello, Joe? How are you? Patrick's not back yet. He—'

She is silent.

There is only the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Viv stops whisking and looks up. Bella's face is a mask, pale and blank.

‘Mm-mm. Still here. I'm OK. Where are you? Hang on.' She casts about for a pen. ‘OK. Where do I come to?'

Her writing scrawls unevenly across the bottom of a shopping list on the back of an envelope. Looking at the loops and lines of ink as they appear on the paper, she knows she will remember this moment for ever: standing in this kitchen, seeing the name of the hospital as she writes next to words that suddenly seem pointless, incomprehensible – butter, potatoes, green veg., coffee – NOT decaff, disp. razors for P. Wasn't potato a peculiar word when you thought about it? Had she really been in such a hurry that she had put disp. razors? The look on Viv's face, the way the whisk falls from her hand into the sauce. How loud the kitchen clock is. Why is it so loud?

Bella's eyes rove across the cork pinboard and its patchwork of cards, lists and messages: Taj Mahal Take Away. Call for Free Home Delivery. Friday Night Tandoori Special. A picture of herself on the beach at Arisaig, from a holiday they'd had together driving up the west coast of Scotland. A preposterously cute photo of Lawrence, Patrick's nephew, dressed as a nativity shepherd, wearing a tea towel on his head. A lone jet earring, optimistically waiting for its companion to be found. An old note: B. Don't forget, not back till 10. Please save some nosh or I'll manage with toast (sob …). Big snogs. P. A blurry picture taken on automatic timer of them both in bed wearing red felt antlers last Christmas.

She is shaking. This is probably normal, she tells herself. She feels as if she is outside her own body, watching her hand clutching the phone like a lifebelt, looking at her bare feet on the floor. She cannot feel the floor properly beneath her; presses her soles hard into the cork tiles, making contact with the ground. She is nodding, saying yes, yes, she is on her way, she will be there as soon as she can.

‘It's Patrick isn't it?' Viv says.

‘There's been an accident. On a site.' It sounds like a line from a poor movie. She wishes she could rewind the tape and say something more meaningful, more poignant,
better.

‘Is he …?'

Patrick is alive but unconscious, suffering from severe head injuries and internal haemorrhaging.

‘Shoes?' Bella is saying. ‘I need some shoes.'

Her legs start shaking compulsively as she sits and tries to lace up her boots, her knees pumping up and down like pistons. Viv kneels by her feet and ties the laces, holds Bella steady by her shoulders.

‘You can't drive like this,' Viv says. ‘I'll take you.'

∼ ∼ ∼

‘… or the weekend?' Will was saying.

‘Mmm?'

‘Sorry if I'm boring you. It's just that now's a good time to get your garden under way, so call me soon. Yes? Am I being too pushy?'

‘No. Yes. You're right.'

‘I am pushy?'

‘No. About coming back. Soon. Next weekend? Or perhaps that's not—'

‘Fine. It's fine. See you then, then. Never sounds right, that, does it?'

‘Which?'

‘Then then.'

‘Have you thought of having treatment? They're working wonders with laser surgery these days. Burn whole lobes of your brain right off.'

‘Thank you. I'll bear it in mind. I'm going now, but don't forget.'

‘I won't.' She nodded decisively.
Forget what?
she wondered.

‘Croissants,' said Will, waving a paper bag under her nose as she opened the door. ‘As I've made you get up early.'

‘Nonsense. Been up for hours. Done my ten-mile morning run. Hundred press-ups. Hoovered the house. Licked the windows clean. Retiled the roof.'

They took their croissants and mugs of tea out to the garden, stood talking as they leant with their backs against the French windows, pleasantly warm from the spring sun. What kind of plants did she like, he wanted to know.

She closed her eyes to picture it, to see it fresh and alive in her head: grasses, she said – feathery heads waving in the wind, catching the light – different textures, felty foliage and shiny stems and those plants with the downy, pleated leaves that held the raindrops like glass beads – drifts of colour – scented things, big blowsy roses and lavender and jasmine – herbs, lemon balm, plants for cooking – dramatic, spiky jobs, maybe a yucca, something that could be lit up at night, throwing its shadow on the wall.

They talked of shapes, proportions, styles, materials. He sketched ideas, paced up and down, swirling his arms like a manic conductor, showing her, squatting to
model the position of an urn, standing tall like a tree for her to assess the effect from the house. Discussed the budget – ‘Don't go mad, I'm not the Sultan of Brunei.' ‘No marble patio, then? No cavorting gold nymphs in the fountain?' He asked her even more questions, how much time would she spend looking after the garden? ‘Be honest,' he said. Was she lazy? What else did she do with her time?

‘Is this OK? My mother calls me the Spanish Inquisition.'

‘Hah! My mother makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a church outing.'

Would he like a bite to eat, only odds and ends from the fridge, she said, embarrassed that she had taken up so much of his time again, but perhaps he would have a proper hot roast lunch waiting for him at home?

‘No chance.'

‘Help yourself.' She set out dishes on the kitchen worktop. ‘This is sort of a grazing lunch. Just pick at whatever you fancy.'

‘What a treat. Like a midnight feast – I love picking.'

‘Me too.'

‘Me three.'

Bella looked at him. ‘I used to say that when I was little.'

Will insisted it was a banquet compared with the contents of his own fridge.

Cold chicken with basil dressing, home-made coleslaw, hot ciabatta bread, runny Brie. She shrugged.

‘'s just leftovers. Don't you eat properly?'

‘I
do.
Why do women always imagine that men don't cook? I can do a good roast chicken. A stew sort of a thing.' He seemed to be thinking. ‘Chops!' he said triumphantly. ‘Pasta with sauce.'

‘Homemade or jar?'

He scowled. ‘Ah!
And
I do a mean stir-fry.'

‘All men say they can do stir-fries. Didn't you see that documentary? Apparently, the Y chromosome is linked with the ability only to cook over a high heat – that's why men like barbecues.'

Back outside, Will drew her to the far end of the garden. He stood behind her, pointing back at the house over her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his breath in her hair. Imagined for a moment she could hear him swallow, hear the air swell his lungs, the double beat of his heart.

‘There. See? What I suggested before about the patio? With wide steps.' She moved away, scraped her fingers through her hair.

‘Fine. Now, what about this awful lawn?'

Will stamped on it.

‘Get rid of it. It's in a chronic state. We can returf, of course, if you want, but I wouldn't bother. It's not a good use of space here. Just think –' He gestured in a broad arc, a wizard weaving a spell. ‘No mowing. No edging. More space for interesting plants …'

‘Won't it look too hard? Like a car park?'

‘Not unless you specifically want Tarmac. I was thinking of a sweep of shingle, so we can plant directly into the soil below – ornamental grasses, herbs, whatever. Or big, clunky grey cobbles, with water …'

‘Like a beach? I'd love that. My dad used to take me when I was little. I still go to the seaside when I feel crappy.'

‘Same here. Oh – look at that—' He strode off and plunged into the border between two overgrown bushes.

Bella stared at the ground, remaking it as her own private beach in her head, a stretched-out curve, water lapping at the stones, the wetness bringing their colours to life, the surf frothing at her feet.

∼ ∼ ∼

She leaves the post-funeral ‘do' as soon as she decently can, sooner really. Slips silently around the room to say goodbye to the cornerstones of Patrick's family: Joseph, who hugs her so tight she can barely breathe. ‘Keep in touch, won't you? Come to see us.' Rose kisses her cheek. ‘You've been such a comfort.' Sophie, suddenly looking like a child, her eyes large and shadowy. ‘Can I come and stay, Bel?' Alan just gives her a big squeeze. He cannot speak.

She drives to the coast. Patrick had taken her there a few times, when they'd gone to stay with his parents. Now she needs the sea air in her lungs, the sting of salt in her nostrils, the wind to blow away the surface of her skin, leaving her purged, raw but renewed.

Turning into the road that leads to the beach, she is surprised as always by the sudden emptiness at the end of the road where it curves sharply round. If she carried straight on, she would hurl out above the shingle, sailing into the big sky, soaring like a great metallic gull for one beautiful, arching moment, then falling down into the waves, diving deep, sinking to settle on the seabed. There, fish would nibble at her flesh, weave dances between her bones. Crabs would clatter, sea-muffled, over her ribs. Her hair would wave like seaweed. Barnacles would colonize her, make her their city, and she would be part of another world, her salty tears unnoticed in the sea.

The car slows and she concentrates on turning left into the cul-de-sac, past the ‘Unsuitable for motors' sign, to park. Pulls her old, crushed mac from its permanent home in the boot of the car. She scrunches down onto the shingle, her black suede court shoes sinking into the pebbles. Slips them off and walks a few steps further. Streuth, these stones are hard; she
wishes she'd brought some other shoes. Still, it's not normally what you think of when you go to a funeral: ‘Have I got everything? Tissues? Black hat? Beach shoes?'

The wind flicks her hair across her face, into her mouth, and she huddles closer to the breakwater for shelter. How weathered it is; the wood is smooth to the touch, sanded by the waves and – well, sand, she supposes. She leans her head against it and squints along its length. The narrow gaps between the boards have tiny pebbles lodged in them, but whether by a determined child or by the force of the sea, she cannot tell. She wiggles her toes down into the shingle, incongruous against her sheer black tights.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,' she says, under her breath. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.' How could he do this to me? That's just so typical of Patrick, it really is. He's so bloody perverse. Always has to go his own way. Only he would go and get himself killed in such a ridiculous fashion and with such bad timing. There is a kind of pleasure, a comfort in this facetiousness. Better to be pissed off with him, better to rail against his annoying habits than to allow her mind a stretch of silence, where the darkness lies in wait, curled up patiently, ready for the moment when she would let it in. If she could hold out long enough, perhaps it would just slink off, bored with waiting? But she knows; she knows it is there. It would slither around her ankles, coiling and uncoiling itself until she let down her guard. Then it would wind itself about her, sliding over her, heavy and cold as stone, pulling her down into a well of dark. She would never be able to climb up again. No. She had peeked over the edge and the fear of it had clawed at her stomach. She would not do it. Could not.

‘Bloody Patrick.' She shoves the shingle down sharply with her foot.

∼ ∼ ∼

‘… OK with that then?' Will stood close, looking down at her. He seemed to be expecting something.

‘Mmm?'

‘Welcome back. Are you happy for me to take out those shrubs? They're eating up space.'

‘Won't it feel very exposed?'

‘Trust me. There'll be plenty of seclusion. We can put a pergola across that corner, with a purple vine and some spring clematis. Oh, I know—' He ran to the end of the garden and Bella found herself following. ‘Say just here – a secret hideaway seat with a living willow roof. Just wide enough for you and whoever to sit—'

‘Yes.' She turned away from his gaze. ‘I'd love that. But without the whoever. A single seat's fine.' Pretended not to hear him behind her as she walked towards the house.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Oh, is it your birthday? How old are you?' Will nodded towards the ornate lamp from Bella's parents, still half-shrouded in tissue. ‘If you don't mind me asking?'

‘Yes I do mind, and no it isn't anyway. House-warming present from the parents. I haven't got round to exchanging it yet. Vile, isn't it?'

He shrugged. ‘Not at all. Just a bit stately-homeish. Not quite you, I'd have said.'

‘Oh? Are you an expert already then?'

‘Yes – I have teams of detectives working round the clock, faxing me hourly updates on you.'

‘And what do they say?'

‘That's classified. Besides, they haven't got round to lampshade preferences yet.'