Love Is a Four Letter Word (15 page)

‘You were great,' he said. ‘You really got into it.' She smiled, then buried her face in his neck so that he could not look into her eyes.

The doorbell rang. She rolled over, dopey from lack of sleep. The shock of another face on the pillow next to hers.

‘Expecting visitors?' asked Julian. ‘Not the vicar, I hope.'

Bella laughed and shook her head. Why was she humouring him? Glanced at her watch. Nearly ten thirty a.m. Could be Douglas a bit early. A horrible thought: it might be Will. Perhaps she should ignore it.

The bell rang again. No time to get dressed. Well, what did it have to do with him anyway? It was certainly none of his business whom she chose to sleep with. Have sex with. Absolutely none. She pulled her robe close around her, crossed her arms over her chest and stomped downstairs to open the door. Framed her face in a look of defiance.

‘Morning,' Will said. ‘Sorry if I got you out of bed, but you should be up anyway. Glorious day. Come out to the garden. I promise not to look at your stubbly legs.' He steamed through to the kitchen.

‘They're not stubbly.' She covertly rubbed one against the other. Hmm. ‘I only did them yesterday. See?'

‘They look lovely to me anyway.' How had he managed to make it sound as if she were trying to get him to notice her legs? He had such a way of twisting things around.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea before I head off?'

‘Why? Have you lost the use of your hands?'

‘I didn't want to just barge in and make myself at home.'

‘Why not? You do normally.'

Will turned to look at her.

‘You're as prickly as a hedgehog holly this morning. What's up?'

‘Nothing's
up.'
Why couldn't he go away? She crossed her arms again and looked down at her feet. ‘I'm just in the middle of something.'

‘In your dressing gown?' Will laughed, then flushed. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry.' He clunked the kettle back down on the worktop. ‘Why didn't you say? I'm only the gardener after all. You don't have to pussyfoot around my feelings.'

‘No, I – it's not. I –'

‘There's no need to look embarrassed.' He was looking at her directly now. ‘I'm sure you don't need to justify yourself to the hired help.'

Bugger him. How dare he try and make her feel ashamed?

‘No. I certainly don't. You've got a fucking cheek, trying to make me feel guilty when you've been flirting with me all this time and you've got a wife and babies and everything.'

‘What?' Will looked behind him. ‘Are you talking to me?'

‘Yes, don't pretend. It doesn't suit you. You didn't exactly advertise it, did you? How very peculiar that this minor detail of your life seemed to have slipped your mind during all the talks we've had. But I
saw
you. In Tesco's with
millions
of
nappies.'

He sighed loudly and shook his head.

‘Have me put down now and put me out of my misery. Did it not occur to you to speak – try communicating sometime, why don't you? Try saying: Will, why have you bought a load of nappies? Then I say: Bella, I'm glad you asked. It's because I'm a proud
and devoted uncle which, in fact, I believe I'd already told you. I was helping my sister out because what with her five-year-old girl, her baby boy and her workaholic husband, she's bloody knackered. OK?'

Bella was silent, bunching and unbunching her fists by her sides. Her breastbone felt tight, as if it were clamped against her lungs, squeezing, pressing the breath out of her.

‘I just sort of assumed …' Her voice a croak.

‘Why didn't you ask if it was bugging you?' Will took a step towards her.

‘Why on earth should it bug me?' She rallied, defiant once more, moving away. ‘It's nothing to do with me how many babies you have. You could have a whole crèche-load for all I care.'

‘Thanks. I'll bear in it mind next time I come into season. Anyway, for the record – not that anyone's remotely interested in me or my life or my marital status – I am: a) childless, b) single, and c) open to offers. Thank you. I am now going into the garden to check those shrubs, then I'll be out of your hair.'

‘There's no need. Take as long as you like.' She bit the inside of her lip. She wouldn't cry. Would not. Dug her fingernails hard into her palm. I
don't care,
she told herself, I
don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

‘Just make sure you drag yourself out of bed to give them another watering tomorrow if there's no rain. I'll be back on Monday anyway before you go to work – eight a.m. sharp. Please make sure you're up.'

‘Sir! Yes, sir!' She saluted him, but he had already turned his back on her, so he failed to see the joke.

‘A small token of apology.' Will pushed a small plastic bag into her hands. ‘Still a bit early for roses.'

The bag was filled with stems of rosemary from his garden. Rubbing it between her fingers, she dipped her head to breathe it in: heavenly – rich and pungent, but a clean smell, almost antiseptic.

She
should apologize, she knew. It had been entirely her fault. Making assumptions. And then she'd practically thrown herself at Julian to make herself feel less crappy. Another inspired idea from the woman who brought you Moving to a City where She Knows Only Two People, Moving House and Starting a New Job at the Same Time, and that old favourite, Dreaming of Being a Painter. What was the point of indulging in a brief bout of meaningless sex if it made you feel so bloody miserable afterwards?

Once Will had stomped off on Saturday morning, she couldn't get Julian out of the house fast enough, babbling about vital work – she had to go into the office, she'd said – would love to loaf in bed all day – still it couldn't be helped – ushering him down the stairs – giving him coffee in a small cup so he'd drink it quickly – kissing him in the hallway, her hand already on the doorknob – saying yes, yes, it had been wonderful – would love to see him next time he was
over – yes, of course – have a great trip – kissy, kissy, bye-bye.

‘I know you're a bit of a foodie. Sorry about the inelegant wrapping.'

‘Isn't that a euphemism for complete pig? Thank you. I love it. Why are
you
apologizing anyway?'

He gave a small cough. ‘I'm just sorry if I was a bit snotty on Saturday.'

No sweat, she said, it didn't matter.

Definitely, she should apologize. She scrunched her toes in her shoes at the thought of it, the shame, admitting she'd been wrong. As a child, her head dipped like a wilting flower, she'd seemed to be having to say sorry almost every day: Sorry, Mummy, I didn't mean to – sorry, I forgot – sorry, I didn't know – didn't realize – thought it would be all right – sorry, sorry – sorry for being a nuisance – sorry for being naughty – sorry for being me. Her mother's mouth, twitching in silent triumph, suddenly gracious in victory:
That's all right, Bella-dear. You'll know better next time, won't you?

‘Yes,' Will nodded, ‘it does. I – was – well. I apologize.'

‘Me too. Really.'

‘Me three.' He smiled. ‘Really.'

‘You can make the tea – if it'll help you feel better.'

Will said he couldn't stay now, had only come to check a couple of things and drop off the rosemary, but was she still all right for Saturday?

‘Or are weekends likely to be a problem in future? For any reason?'

‘Is that Will-speak for is there likely to be a recurrence of last Saturday? I'd say it's about as probable as my being commissioned to fresco the dome of the Albert Hall.'

He shrugged. ‘So quite possible then?'

‘And you say
I'm
a dreamer?' She shoved him playfully.

‘You
are.
Now, have you started the mural on the far wall yet?'

‘It's still in the planning stage.'

‘That'd be a no then, as you would say.' He turned to leave. ‘Better get on with it, hadn't you?'

‘You're
so
bossy!'

‘I know you, you'll float around in a dream all week otherwise and I need you to be useful at the weekend.'

‘But I'm not designed to be useful.'

‘You'll love it. It'll be a new experience. Trust me.'

Bella resolved to ignore the fact that she was now drawing every day as well as in her weekly life class and had started to paint again in the evenings. It was presumably a temporary quirk, a mere glitch in the fabric of the Universe that would shortly be righted. It was easier when she tricked herself into it, casually picking up a pencil, balancing her pad awkwardly as if making a brief note. If she made it too important, treating herself to the luxury of thick paper, buying new brushes, clearing her studio properly, it would never happen. It was like walking a tightrope over an abyss – you mustn't stop and look down or you'd suddenly realize what you had been so daring, so foolish to attempt.

Starting the mural on the garden wall, she felt once more that old rush of excitement, giddy and disturbing. Years before, when she'd been accepted for art school, she'd considered herself a lucky fraud: being allowed – encouraged! – to draw and paint all day! A licence to play. Remembered Alessandra's baffled smile, explaining Bella's peculiar peccadillo to the neighbours, ‘Of course, dear Bella could have gone to university, Oxford or Cambridge, but she's set her heart on being an artist!' It sounded no less ludicrous to her own ears, like wanting to be a ballet dancer or an
astronaut, a silly childish fantasy. She'd kept herself in check. Opted for graphic design. Practical. Commercial. Focused on building her career.

On Saturday morning, Will stood back to admire the bunch of rosemary stems standing in a blue jug on the kitchen window-sill.

‘Rosemary's lasted well then? See, aren't you glad I didn't get you a boring old bouquet of roses?'

‘Tremendously glad. Every morning I wake up and think “Thank God Will didn't buy me any roses.” Stick the kettle on, will you? I'm all paint-spattered.'

‘So you are.' He reached out and touched the side of her nose. ‘You've got a dab of grey just … there. Or have you not quite got the hang of doing your eyeshadow?'

‘Glad to see you've started to obey my every command.' Will looked at the beginnings of the
trompe-l'oeil
arch on the garden wall. ‘You probably want to carry on, or shall I show you how to plant and stuff?'

‘The Henderson patented Instant Green Fingers Course? Will that really make me a proper gardener?'

‘Oh no, my lovey, takes years 'n' years to become the real thing. See? Look at those hands.' He held his palms outstretched towards her. ‘That's ingrained that is, never come out.'

Bella started to stretch out her finger, to trace the lines in his hands. She wondered what his skin would feel like beneath her fingertip, how he had got that scar at the base of his thumb. Their eyes met.

‘Nonsense,' she said, withdrawing her hand and diverting its direction to push back a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘You just need a good scrubbing, that's all. Show me the secrets of the soil then. I can't paint with someone else watching me anyway.'

‘Really? Why's that?'

‘You're very nosy, aren't you?'

‘Yes. Why can't you?'

She stopped, not having really thought about it before.

‘I think it's a bit like having someone in the same room when you're in the bath or on the loo. Kind of –'

‘Intimate?'

‘Mmm-mm.' She nodded. ‘Does that sound wanky?'

Will laughed through his nose.

‘Tremendously, you old pseud. No, not at all. Makes sense. But what about once you've finished a painting? People are going to look at it then, aren't they? It's still revealing.'

‘Ye-e-e-es. But it's separate from you then. Like an ex-husband or something. You had a relationship once, but he no longer has quite the same power to embarrass you in public.'

He showed her how to plant, carefully firming the soil around a lemon verbena, giving it his undivided attention. He passed her another pot.

‘Here. Your go. About there, so it has room to grow.'

‘You really love this, don't you?' she asked, looking across at him. The tips of his ears went slightly pink, then he nodded.

‘Always have. Ever since I was a kid. Used to sow sunflower seeds, radishes, anything I could get my hands on. My mum gave me my own little patch of garden when I was eight. And Hugh, my stepdad I told you about – ex-stepdad now, I suppose. Whatever. He helped me lay a course of bricks all round the edge to make it my own little kingdom.'

‘They sound nice. You must miss him. My dad's a keen gardener.' Bella got up from where she'd been kneeling on the ground and stretched herself. ‘You'd like him.' She said it without thinking, seeing Will and
Dads in her mind, the two of them together, bending over plants, pointing, talking, at ease. Swung her arms, pushing the thought away.

‘Are you stiff? Sorry if I've been too much of a slave-driver,' he said. ‘And your mum? Does she garden too?'

‘Ha!' The thought was amusing, absurd. She looked down at him. ‘She might snip a few flowers, but the rest of it – too messy. Might spoil her hands.' Bella held up her own hands and stroked one delicately against the other, as if admiring their charms in the sunlight. ‘Oh no! National crisis! Call the Emergency Services! Bella-darling, I've chipped a nail!'

Will laughed.

‘I'm sure she can't be all bad as she produced you.'

‘I'm a changeling. Didn't I tell you?'

They fell into a routine over the following month, working each weekend, stopping too often to talk or to survey their progress, adjusting the plan slightly here and there as they went. As she dug her trowel into the soil, she could hear the confident clipping of his secateurs, methodical and comforting, his quiet humming as he tied in a climber or cut back a wayward stem.