Love Is a Four Letter Word (19 page)

In her mind, she called him, her voice echoing around shadowy recesses.

‘Patrick!' she called softly, then louder, ‘Patrick?'

When she enters she sees he is reading, lounging with his legs over the side of the armchair. He doesn't look up when she opens the door, but she knows he must have heard her.

The fire is lit in the grate, but the flames yield no comforting heat.

‘Busy?' he says.

‘Mmm.' She stands facing the fire with her back to him. ‘But I do think of you. Often.'

‘Yeah.' And now she senses him look up. ‘Right.'

‘I'm sorry.' She turns to face him.

He shrugs and returns to his book.

‘Doesn't matter. You can't be bothering about me all the time.'

‘Don't be like that. I'm with you now. I'll stay for a little while.'

‘If you like,' he says, not looking up from the page. ‘It's up to you.'

‘So what happened to surprising me in the shower?' Will came into the bedroom with a towel over his head, drying his hair.

‘I didn't come in. That was the surprise.'

‘Hey – you OK? You look a bit pale.'

‘Fine. Don't fuss.'

Will made a face and asked her what her plans were for the rest of the weekend. Painting, she told him, working up one of the drawings from her life class or the one she'd done in the cathedral cloisters.

‘Good. Why don't we meet up later then? This evening?' He buttoned up his shirt.

‘Mm.
Quite a lot to do. Maybe another day.'

She sensed his eyes scanning her face, trying to read her.

‘Shall I call your secretary? Sorry. Am I being too intense? I sort of assumed …'

Bella laughed and patted him lightly on the head.

‘Relax, will you? What's the rush? At this rate, we'll be married by next week and divorced the week after. And, by the way, I don't care what your lawyer says, you're not having half the blue dinner plates.'

The phone rang. It was Viv.

‘I was going to call you anyway,' said Bella. ‘It's official. I've finally lost my virginity. Again.' She refused to count Julian, mentally sweeping the incident under the mat, best forgotten. The management cannot be held responsible for the occurrence of embarrassing one-night flings.

‘Oi, Nick!' Viv shouted away from the phone. ‘Guess what? Bella's got herself a shag at last!'

‘Oh, feel free. Tell everyone. Semaphore ships at sea, why don't you?'

‘Nick's not everyone. He's really an honorary girlie. Garden man, right? Or have you had someone else up your sleeve?'

‘Certainly not – that would make a disgusting mess. Garden man it is.'

‘You really like him. I can tell.'

‘No I don't. Well. I do a bit. But don't tell anyone.'

‘OK, OK. But, Bel?'

‘What? Yes, it was good. No, I'm not giving you a blow-by-blow – let me rephrase that – detailed account so you can tell Nick.'

‘Bel – don't forget to let
him
know you like him, will you?'

‘I'm sure he does.'

‘No, really. Men can be amazingly stupid about
things like that. You have to spell it out.'

‘Perhaps you could coach me via an earpiece?'

‘I may have to. Are you taking him to meet your mum and dad?'

‘Sure. Of course. Excuse me? Do you think I'm completely stupid? He can meet them once we've made it to our golden wedding anniversary and not before.'

‘Oh, come on. They're lovely really. He'll probably charm your mum to bits.'

‘We'll never know. I can just see her smirking at his springy hair – “Oh,
William,
there's a clean comb in the bathroom if you want to tidy your hair at all. I suppose all that manual labour does take its toll on one's appearance.
^”'

‘She's not that bad. She's always been very nice to me.'

‘Teacher's pet. It's only because you didn't have the misfortune to be born her daughter.'

‘Give the woman a break. She's only human.'

‘No she's not. She was put here by aliens to make humans feel so flawed and inferior that we'd all top ourselves.'

‘Why are you sounding so miserable anyway? You're supposed to be full of post-shag afterglow.'

‘I am, I am. I just feel a bit, you know …'

‘What?'

‘Weird. Like I've been un— I can't explain it. Got to go. I can hear Will coming downstairs.'

Three o'clock in the morning. The yellow light from the bedside lamp shone on a tangle of limbs, heavy with sleep. Bella shifted and took in an eyelid-slit view: the light, the pillow by her cheek, Will's face from below. The stubble on his chin, dark pinpricks. His hair, flattened against the pillow. Even his nostrils were lovable, she thought. She moved slightly to nuzzle his neck.

‘Hello, you,' he said, opening his eyes a peep to match hers.

‘Hello, you.'

‘You know –' He yawned, catlike. ‘You know when I first realized I was in love with you? You had this incredibly sexy dress on and you came running down the stairs and – you looked – so – beautiful I couldn't speak.'

‘Makes a change.'

‘Shut up. Then you started wibbling on about your tummy and you suddenly seemed so young and vulnerable, as if you were going out with the grown-ups for the first time.' He closed his eyes again and his mouth smudged a kiss across her left eyebrow before he settled back to sleep.

She nuzzled closer to his chest, as if she might absorb him through every pore in her body. Her eyelids
shut tight, clenching onto the moment, feeling tears start to well.
Let me have this,
she prayed silently, like a child not daring to jinx her wish by speaking aloud.
If I'm good for ever, can I? Please let me have this. Please.

Bella woke first and slid out of bed, carefully lifting the covers so as not to wake him. She made a pot of tea and brought it up to the bedroom. He was lying on his back in a straight line instead of his usual diagonal sprawl, taking up most of the bed. His body was absolutely still, his face expressionless. She put down the tray and drew closer, leant over him.

‘Will?'

No response. Her brows bunched into a frown. Dry mouth. Her hands clammy and cold, heartbeat loud in her ears.

∼ ∼ ∼

Patrick's father gets slowly to his feet as Bella is shown into a side room. He holds her by her upper arms.

‘I'm too late, aren't I?'

Joseph nods.

‘He never woke up. They said he didn't suffer.'

She hears the words, thinking, ‘That's what they say in hospital dramas.'
He didn't suffer.
Does that mean you're supposed to feel OK about it? Joseph crushes her in a tight hug so she can barely breathe. Rose, Patrick's mother, looks blank and numb. Bella dips to hold her and they clasp each other for a minute, survivors in a storm. Sophie is on her way down from Newcastle, Joe tells her. They still haven't managed to get hold of Alan. Bella can tell that his parents need her presence, they need youth around them, some reminder of life.

‘Do you want to see him?'

A silent, screaming ‘NO' echoes inside her head, ricocheting around her brain. She is afraid and then ashamed. ‘What would Patrick want?' she asks herself. ‘What would Patrick do if it were me?'

She nods once and a nurse leads her to just outside the room, saying she can take her time, have as long as she likes.

She peers through a small glass panel in one of the double doors. Patrick is lying on a narrow, trolley-type bed in a small room. She breathes a slow breath, squashing down a wave of nausea and palpable dread, and pushes open the door. A side table covered with a crisp white cloth holds a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers: pale lemon-yellow carnations, feathery fronds of maidenhair fern, orange trumpets of alstroemeria, flecked with brown.

She looks down at Patrick. His mouth is open and she can see the dull silver glint of his old fillings and the small chip in his front tooth that he had never got around to having fixed. He should have gone ages ago. That was typical of Patrick. Absurdly, she starts to cry at the thought, small, tight, breathy sobs. She wipes them away impatiently with her hand. Not much point getting his tooth done now.

She wishes they had closed his mouth. Weren't they supposed to do that? His eyes were shut. She half-wanted to close it herself, but – but she couldn't. What if it sprang open again?

He looks slightly paler than usual, as you might expect under the circumstances. And there is a padded bandage covering half his head, though Bella suspects that, as this looks pristine, it is to protect the bereaved from the sight of their loved one with a squished skull. Bereaved. That's what she is, she realizes – a bereaved person. People will look at her with pity in their eyes, speak to her in hushed tones. They'll be embarrassed
and won't know what to say. Aside from the bandage and two scratches on his forehead, Patrick looks surprisingly normal, as if he's dropped off, as he tends to do, for a quick doze. Perhaps if she prods him, he'll sit up with a jolt and say ‘I wasn't snoring. I was just breathing deeply' the way he does. Did, she corrects herself.

She looks at the flowers again, traces the crinkled edge of one carnation with her finger. Someone has bothered to arrange these flowers, trim the ends, pull off the lower leaves; laid this cloth on the table, smoothing the iron-creases with a cool palm. They must have known that the bereaved see everything, that no detail is too small to be significant.

One arm lies outside the crisply turned hospital sheet. She wants to touch his hand, reach over and give it a reassuring squeeze, though whether for Patrick or herself she can't be sure. She wants so much to feel his warmth, to feel him return the pressure of her hand. Perhaps she should touch it? Shock herself with its coldness, its waxy softness, so she would understand that it was true, know that he was really dead.

But she can't. Instead, she pats the other arm, the one safely under the sheet.

Her voice, when finally she speaks, is a hoarse whisper, sounding to her ears as if it comes from someone else.

‘I'm sorry,' she says.

Joseph comes in then, and stands behind Bella, solid and comforting. He squeezes her shoulders.

‘Do you want to stay longer?'

‘I don't know.' A small shake of her head.

‘Come on.' He puts his arm around her, supporting her and steadying himself. ‘Come and have a cup of tea. The nurse has made us some. It'll do you good.'

‘But I can't just leave him here all alone.'

‘It's all right.' Joseph strokes her hair back from her eyes and dabs tenderly, clumsily at her cheeks with his cotton handkerchief. ‘He's gone now. It's not him any more.'

He leads her from the room, but she turns at the door for one last look.

‘Bye,' she whispers.

∼ ∼ ∼

‘Will?'

Silence.

She tweaked his nose.

‘Will.'

He opened one eye.

‘Boo,' he said.

‘You pig.' She pinched him. ‘You bloody scared me.'

‘Hey, sorry. Ow. That hurt.'

‘Good. Don't do it again. I'm confiscating your tea now.'

‘Tea in bed?' He lifted his head from the pillow and whimpered. ‘Oh tea, tea, oh please.'

She poured it out, then took her own cup and went to run herself a bath.

Will picked up her post from the doormat. As he handed it to Bella, his gaze dropped to a postcard on the top. His eyes met hers, then he glanced down again. She looked at the card: ‘Hi Sexy!' it said in large capitals. Bella felt herself flush slightly and Will quickly turned away. The card was postmarked from Washington. Julian. ‘Sorry we couldn't get it together again before I had to leave – the price of being a jet-setter! Great to spend time with you. See you on my next visit!?! Best to Nick and Viv. Luv, J XXX.'

She put the card on the mantelpiece, next to one she'd recently received from Patrick's parents – ‘Very
glad to hear you've escaped from the big smoke. We did worry about you in London on your own … Do keep in touch … visit any time …'As well as the occasional card or letter, there were still periodic phone calls. Rose would ring and ask with maternal concern how she was doing, as if she were a child struggling with a too-advanced sum. Bella would call and speak to Joseph. They were bearing up, he'd say. Things were, you know … his pauses closed by a small cough, just like Patrick. Sophie was doing well, he reported. Alan and his wife had had another baby. Rose was raising funds for a village in Bangladesh. He himself had taken up bowls to pass the time. Life ticked on.

She felt she should ask them for permission to be happy. Knew, of course, what they would say: ‘You've got your own life to lead now, Bella. Don't waste it. He wouldn't have wanted that, not Patrick.' And no, she realized, he wouldn't, not exactly. How would she feel if it had been the other way round? ‘You wouldn't feel anything, stupid, you'd be dead,' she told herself. But still – what if she died and Patrick had been left alone? Or – her scalp prickled – what if it were Will? Would she want him to grieve for ever? In a horrible way, she would – at least in some small corner of himself. What a vile, mean-spirited person she was. How could she ever want Will to be unhappy? No. That wasn't it. She'd want him to remember, that was all, only so she wouldn't be lost without trace. She wouldn't want to have him hunched over his grief, treasuring it and hoarding it like a miser, allowing no-one near – a second death.

‘Can I ask you something?' Will said after breakfast. Then, without pausing, ‘Are you seeing anyone else?'

‘No. Whatever gave you that idea? I can barely cope with you.'

‘Nothing. Just a feeling.'

That postcard from Julian, she thought. HI SEXY! He must have read it.