Love Is a Four Letter Word (16 page)

The mural was completed, the painted arch offering a glimpse of another garden beyond, with a moss-cushioned woodland floor in the foreground, opening to a sunlit clearing, at once tantalizing and out of reach.

‘This will be the main scented area,' Will said, putting in the lavender plants alongside buddleia, daphne, sar-cococca, ‘near your willow seat.' Bella inhaled as if she could already smell the plants, as if the air was thick with fragrance. She smelt just-laundered cotton, a touch of soap but not too soapy, a hint of fresh sweat, warm skin, the faint tang of something citrusy. Nice. Not too much aftershave.

*   *   *

Silently, he leant past her, stretching into the cupboard for two mugs. They moved around each other in the narrow kitchen, a silent dance, sidestepping, anticipating, not touching. The gaps between them fizzed; she felt the air charged and trembling, making her skin prickle, her body light and buoyant. She wondered what he would do if she were to touch his back as he stood by the sink washing his hands, imagined his warmth beneath her palm, her fingers. She swallowed. Avoided looking at his face. Clattered about in the cutlery drawer, hunting for a particular teaspoon. A hollow ache in her gut. A slight feeling of nausea. Low blood sugar, she told herself, that's all it is. Wished he would go away, leave and not come back – ever. Wanted him to stay – always. Wanted him to hold her, stroke her hair, make her safe. She banged the cutlery drawer shut.

‘Having fun there?' he said.

‘I can never bloody find anything in this bloody stupid house!'

Will threw back his head and laughed.

‘I'm glad you find it amusing. I'm surprised you ever get any work if you treat all your clients this way.'

He giggled into the depths of his mug, his eyes shining over the curve of the rim.

The work, inevitably, took longer than he had originally estimated – ‘It's your fault, of course,' he said. ‘Too easy to talk to' – but, finally, it was done.

‘Well then.' Will lingered on the doorstep. ‘I'd better be off.'

She thanked him again for all his hard work. It was stunning, she said, she would try to look after it properly.

‘You better had or I'll come round and deface your
mural. Oh and – nearly forgot.' He turned back towards her.

Her heartbeat quickened.

‘Would it be OK for me to come back soon to take some photographs? For my folio?'

He waved at her, once, from the end of the street, and then he was gone.

Bella stood at the door for a moment, then went into the kitchen to fill the kettle. Wiped the surfaces, opened first one cupboard then another, as if looking for something. Padded through to the sitting-room to plump the cushions. It was a good thing, she told herself, pounding the cushions, tweaking at the corners to make them pointy, that he hadn't kissed her goodbye or anything silly like that because then he would still have left and she'd be feeling a whole lot worse. Yes, all things considered, she was very lucky that he hadn't kissed her. She picked up the phone and called Viv, to see if she wanted to come and admire the garden before Bella had a chance to mess it up.

‘Wow. It looks stunning now it's all finished. Lemme out there.' Viv rattled at the French windows. ‘Is this all the work of the wunderkind Will?'

Bella unlocked the doors. ‘Yup. And me. I have the scars to prove it.' She shoved back her sleeves to reveal the long-gone marks on her brambled forearms. ‘Well, they were there.'

‘So, tell me more.'

‘More what?'

‘Since you found out he was single – has he –'

‘Declared his intentions? No. I think I've lost the
knack, Viv. Anyway, it's too late to impress him. He knows me too well.'

‘But?' Viv raised her eyebrows into an exaggerated arch.

‘But what?'

‘Oh, come on. But you do think he's a bit of a potential shagmeister, don't you? I know you do.'

‘Good grief. I told you before, he's not drop-dead gorgeous or anything …'

‘Orange toupee? Nicotine teeth?'

‘I admit I do think he has a nice face – the kind that makes you think you must always have known him. Comfortable-looking, like an old sofa. And he's got this little scar here –'

‘I know, I know – you told me, it makes him look vulnerable. Never mind all that.'

‘I keep wanting to reach out and touch it.'

‘You're bloody smitten, woman. Admit it.'

‘Nonsense.'

‘Yes you are. You're all glowy and smiley. You're in l-u-u-r-r-v-e.'

‘Am not. You know I'm immune to that sort of thing. And please don't use the “L” word before the 9 o'clock watershed or I'll have to report you.'

‘Hello.' It was Will.

‘It's me,' he said.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘How could you tell?'

‘Don't be annoying. You're probably wondering what reason I could possibly have to call you when I only left your house a few hours ago and the garden's all done?'

‘You're calling to tell me to check the peonies every half-hour and to tie in any traily bits on the clematis. You told me.'

‘Did I? Good. And don't forget those newly planted shrubs. Don't let them dry out.'

There was a pause.

‘And I've got a possible commission for a Kreuzer mural.' He told her about an urgent civic project he had, two alternative designs for part of the area behind the mayoral offices. It was a plum job, high-profile, could bring in lots of new clients. Would she be interested in coming up with a couple of ideas for a mural at the back? Only on spec, but could be worth it.

‘Thing is, we'd have to meet up to go through the brief. I could pop round or we could go out, save me always using up all your provisions. How would tomorrow suit you? Evening?'

It was a first-rate opportunity, so why did she suddenly feel disappointed? A large-scale commission – what could possibly be better? You're just scared, she told herself, scared to try anything new.

Could it really be true?
Another
spot? Smack dead centre on her chin. It couldn't have been more perfectly centred if she had used a measuring tape and painted it there herself. She had managed to steer through the entire spot-minefield of puberty, and some years afterwards, with an almost unblemished record. She had dared to believe – naïvely and somewhat mistakenly it now appeared – that she ‘just wasn't the sort of person who gets spots'. She had, of course, been suitably sympathetic to her more carbuncular friends, offering them such small consolation as: ‘It's only because I've got such dry skin. I'll age really badly' while telling herself that she could bathe in moisturizer morning, noon and night if she needed to in that then far-off time of ageing.

God evidently did not believe ‘Blessed are the smug' for she was paying for her complacency now. Perhaps He got some cheap thrill from watching her relax in a non-spotty identity, only to spatter her when she was off guard – at an age when any sensible person would
be worrying about wrinkles, not spots. She teased her reflection in the bathroom mirror: why are you so nervous, you idiot? It's not a date or anything. It's only Will. He's seen you with a spot before. He's seen your stubbly legs, tangled hair, smudged panda eyes because you're too lazy to take off your make-up.

The spot gleamed back at her from the mirror. Will wouldn't be able to take his eyes off it; it was like a homing beacon. Ships at sea could probably use it to navigate by. He wouldn't be able to think of anything else, only ‘Don't mention the spot, don't mention the spot' cycling through his brain, terrified to speak in case he blurted out ‘So, can I get you another spot?' Perhaps she should try to cover it up? But that always looked so obvious – so very like a spot with a blob of cover stick on top of it, never quite the same tone or texture as the surrounding skin. And anyway her cheerily named ‘Hide the blemish' stick must be somewhere in the crammed-full bathroom cabinet, the Cupboard that Time Forgot with relics in layers displaying her personal history like a cross-section of an archaeological find: purple eyeshadow, too-pink blusher, various hopeless hair-taming products, dental floss still hermetically sealed in its bubble pack purchased after a resolution to Be Good and floss every day, bronzing gel – abandoned after one use which made her look as if she had bathed in orange squash.

If she wore the black top that was quite low-cut, he might not notice the spot. Sort of like creating a diversion. Good grief, it was a meeting, not a seduction, will you be sensible, she told herself. Her fingers wandered over her smart charcoal suit: too formal. Back to the black top, teamed with a sober skirt to show that she was capable of being a serious, professional person. She looked at herself in her old barley-twist mirror: first, the top half – the black top clung as closely as a drunken friend. Better cover herself up with a jacket.

She tilted the mirror to inspect her lower half. Perhaps she should go wild and buy a full-length mirror one day. Then again, perhaps not; she felt she was best seen only a small portion at a time.

The doorbell rang.

‘Wow – have you dressed up just for me?' he smiled.

‘This is my official impressing-a-prospective-client outfit, not that you bothered when it was the other way round. And it's to distract people from the repulsive spot on my chin. Don't worry – it's not contagious.'

Shut up, shut up, she told herself, that sounds like you're planning to press yourself against him all evening. Change the subject and just try to be normal.

Drinks drifted into dinner. Dinner stretched into coffee. More coffee. It was getting late.

He said he would walk her home. They meandered through the streets, talking, walking slowly. Zigzagged along the high street, pointing out their favourite hideous objects in shop windows and searching for the ultimate Gift You'd Least Like to Have to Display in Your Own Home.

‘So then.' She paused at her door. ‘Can you stand yet another coffee? Or will it keep you awake?' What the hell was that supposed to mean? Now he'd think she was trying to seduce him when she was only being friendly.

‘It's late.' He smiled. ‘I'd better get back.'

She turned to put her key in the door.

‘Still. If you insist. Just for a minute.'

When Bella came down from the loo, Will was looking at the kitchen pinboard while drinking his coffee.

‘Sweet-looking kid.' He nodded at the picture of Patrick's nephew, which had survived the move from
London still attached to the board. ‘I always meant to ask you who it was.'

‘Yes, isn't he? That's Lawrence in his school nativity play. Patrick's nephew,' she continued. ‘My old boyfriend.' She gestured at a photo of a drenched Patrick standing by a Scottish loch, his straight hair plastered to his skull by rain. ‘There. That's Patrick. Not looking his best there though. One of those Scottish holidays where it rains non-stop, day and night, you know, on and on. We got soaked. Rain, rain. Endless.' She must stop talking about Patrick. She was starting to babble. Will you shut up, woman?

‘Oh? Right.'

She saw his eyes drop to the picture at the bottom of the board, the one of her Patrick together, sporting red Christmas antlers in bed.

‘That looks horribly aren't-we-wacky.' She made a face. ‘I must take it down sometime.' Bella turned away and foraged in the cupboard for some chocolate.

‘I've got a bit of a confession to make,' Will said.

‘I knew it. You used to be a woman. You're an international drug-smuggler. Out on parole. Worse – you're really a journalist?'

‘The roughs for that project. I may have exaggerated its urgency just a tad.'

‘When are they needed by?'

‘Not for six weeks. I got home and then realized I didn't have an excuse to see you again. And I felt lousy.'

Her stomach felt tight, knotted. She couldn't do this – she couldn't have this kind of conversation – she must stop him – she'd thought she was ready for this, but she wasn't. She turned to the sink, poured herself some water, holding onto the cold metal of the tap.

‘Do you think you could turn round, Bella? I'm trying to talk to you.'

‘OK, OK. I was just thirsty. You're supposed to have eight glasses of water a day. I read it somewhere. Good for the skin.'

‘Thanks for letting me know that. Nice timing. Now I've started and I don't know how to – I've never, you know, really
liked
a client before. It's probably a breach of professional ethics or something, perhaps I'll be struck off and never let within a hundred feet of a hebe again, but there's always been – something – between us, hasn't there? I'm not very good at this, am I?'

Bella crossed her arms and shrugged. ‘Good at what?' Behind Will's left arm, she could see part of Patrick's photograph. Half a Patrick: one brown boot, one corduroyed leg, one waterproof jacket sleeve, a corner of closed mouth, one dark eye.

‘Oh, shit. Good start, Will.' He clunked down his mug on the worktop. ‘I feel like such a prat. So you don't think there is?'

‘Why should there be?'

‘All the hours we've spent talking mean absolutely bugger all to you then?'

‘I've enjoyed our conversations, of course.'

‘You make it sound as if we belonged to a debating society.'

She shrugged.

‘And every time we've looked at each other, that meant nothing either?'

He moved towards her.

She would not look at him. Could not. Opened her mouth to speak.

He was standing close, so close. She could feel the warmth of him, smell his skin, his Will-smell that she had sniffed a hundred times in the garden, when he'd leant close to her, showing her how to prune correctly, when he'd squeezed past her in the kitchen to get to the sink. She pressed herself back against the draining board, clutching the curved edge of the worktop.
Noticed her knees were shaking. Surely she would pass out. If only he wouldn't stand so close.