Love Is a Four Letter Word (30 page)

‘Raspberry finger marks all over the wallpaper. Bella! Come here!' She is almost at the front door when she feels herself grabbed by the arm and whirled round.

‘You did it to spite me, didn't you? Didn't you?' Her mother's face is only inches from hers; she can smell the sweet soapiness of face powder and jasmine bath oil. Her mother's eyes look huge, bright and flecked with fire, like a tiger's.

‘I didn't,' she whispers. ‘I didn't.'

‘Yes, you did. Don't lie to me.' A sharp volley of slaps stings the backs of her legs. ‘Now go to your room and stay out of my sight for the rest of the day.'

She is biting her lip, concentrating on not crying. She won't let
her
see her cry, she won't.

She starts to climb the stairs to her room, then hears voices in the kitchen so creeps back down and slides soundlessly into the cupboard. From the far end, behind the soft bulk of Daddy's coat, she strains to hear what they are saying, but she is not sure what it means.

‘… enough,' says her father. ‘… didn't mean it.'

‘… take her side.'

‘… no sides … the same side.'

‘… try so hard.'

‘… to help you … punishing her won't bring—'

‘Don't, Gerald. Please.'

The sound of light footsteps, running upstairs. The click of the bathroom lock.

She opens the cupboard door a crack. She sees a narrow slice of hallway, a strip of the kitchen door – open. She treads carefully across the hall to peer in. Her father is standing at the sink, with his back to her, looking out of the window. He is washing up. The green and white china cup looks so small in his hands, like part of her dolls' teaset. It must be very dirty because he turns it around and around, scouring at the inside. He must have thought of a good joke because his shoulders are shaking the way they do sometimes
when he laughs. She would like to know the joke, too, but she feels strange and sick and afraid, so she sneaks back past the raspberry-printed walls and out of the French windows into the garden to squeeze out through the gap in the fence to the field and the long, long grass beyond.

∼ ∼ ∼

And in the morning, when her father knocked on her door with a cup of tea, she was gone.

The light on her answerphone flashed manically, the tape full of unreturned calls. Her father phoned most of all, leaving weary messages. She didn't want to phone in case her mother answered and she couldn't see the point of talking to Dad either. He'd only try to do his UN diplomat act, coaxing her into coming for a visit, assuring her it would be different this time, apologizing for Alessandra at the same time as justifying her, defending her.

Anthony had just chucked the office sponge basketball at her head when her phone rang. She hurled it back, hitting his coffee mug.

‘Ant, I'm NOT in the mood.' She ignored his making faces at her.

It was Gerald.

‘Hi, Dad,' she said, without enthusiasm. ‘How are you?' Great, trap me at work, why don't you?

The basketball bounced once in the middle of her desk; she punched it over towards the photocopier and mouthed ‘Bugger off!'

‘Please tell me you're not ringing for the reason I think you're ringing.'

She delivered a series of ‘hmms' and ‘uh-uhs'.

‘If she's so sorry and wants to explain, why is she
unable to pick up a telephone herself, may I ask?'

She sensed Anthony trying to eavesdrop and gave him the Kreuzer Raised Eyebrow, guaranteed to turn most men to stone at fifty paces. He switched on the radio for discreet, camouflaging music.

‘Course I'd have bloody listened,' she dropped her voice. ‘She's damned me without giving me a chance – as usual, I might add. What's she got to be afraid of? That's ridiculous.'

‘I've absolutely no idea. Why should I have? I haven't seen him. You two are so fucking fond of him, you ring him up. Then you can all play Happy Families together. Won't that be
so
sweet? Why not take a picture of you all grouped around the fireplace for your next Christmas card?'

‘Being like what? Dad, I really can't see the point of this. I'd be very happy to see you, on your own, if you want to come over some time, but not to talk about this fairy-tale she-loves-you-really-she-just-can't-show-it
bollocks.
Anyway, I have to go now. Got a meeting. Yes, right now. Goodbye. Yup, 'bye.'

A mug of fresh coffee appeared on her desk and two fingers of Kit-Kat.

‘Thanks, Ant.'

‘No sweat. Sorry about the ball, miss.'

‘Class detention tonight.'

Now, when she got home from work, she plonked herself in front of the TV, letting the stream of fleeting images wash over her without absorbing them: game shows with audiences apparently all on Ecstasy, soaps where she didn't know the storyline or the characters, even sports programmes where she didn't care who won or understand any of the rules. Sometimes, she forced herself to go into her studio, pushing open the door against stacks of paintings, blank prepared
canvases, old sketch-books. The brush in her hand felt awkward, as clumsy as a trowel. Pictures lumbered into her head as if wading through molten lead, then merged into muddy pools as soon as she tried to capture them. Downstairs again, she stared at the brush still in her grasp as if it were an alien object, its purpose a mystery.

The post plopped onto the mat. Bound to be nothing but bills and circulars, she thought, but a postcard on the top caught her eye. She picked it up, with a few envelopes beneath it.

The postcard was from Viv, still in Birmingham spending some time at head office – ‘Hello, snotface. Hope you're OK and not brooding too much about Will. Sorry if I was bit of an insensitive so-and-so – it was only because I thought you two were so right for each other. Now I suppose I've only gone and made it worse. Sorry, sorry again. Do go and see Nick if you need cheering up (he'll need it if you don't and he loves your spicy prawn thing). Back next week.' Estimate for replacing broken sash-cords on three windows. Creditcard bill – open that later. Flyers advertising a new restaurant and a beauty salon with ‘Special Offer: Half Price Eyelash And Eyebrow Tinting!' Was that two eyes for the price of one? And why did they capitalize each word? Was it supposed to make you think they were Telling You Something Important? That was one thing she didn't need, she thought, furrowing her straight, dark brows at herself in the hall mirror.

Oh, hello, she hadn't seen that elegant script for quite a long time: Letter from Her Mother (that did merit capitals). What beautiful handwriting she had, with elongated ascenders and descenders like elaborate scrolls of icing on a wedding cake; no doubt the letter within was packed with poison, a razor-sharp dagger in a jewelled scabbard.

Don't say Alessandra had actually written to apologize? She'd better phone up the Vatican to report a Modern Day Miracle. No, more likely it would be a justification, an implied blaming of Bella. This should be entertaining.

She hotted up her coffee with water from the kettle and opened the letter.

Dear Bella
I'm surprised she didn't put the Dear in quote marks.
I am unaccustomed to writing, or indeed talking, about my emotions so you may appreciate how difficult it must be for me.
Indeed? How difficult it all is – poor Alessandra, got at by nasty Bella.
I think we are so alike in so many ways.
Alike! Ha! Bollocks we are. We're completely different.
I know we both tend to shut ourselves off from those we love most when we feel hurt or vulnerable.
I do not. I'm very open.
Will's face came into her mind, his voice: ‘I wish I could really know you.' She saw flashes of herself: her own averted face, her pinched-shut lips, her swift exists through doorways, leaving awkward conversations behind.
I apologize …
Couldn't she actually say ‘I'm sorry'? Did she have to be so formal all the time?
… if you feel let down by me or that I have not shown you as much love or warmth as you would have liked.
This could have been worded by a lawyer. Wouldn't she take some responsibility for being so cold? Some – some blame? (Will's voice echoed through her: ‘… she's the Wicked Witch of the West and you're sweet little Dorothy.')
I do not believe that I have been such a bad mother.
Ha! You wouldn't, would you?
I wish I could have been a better one. Perhaps all mothers do. We both did our best to feed and clothe you, provide a safe and stable home for you. We always welcomed your friends, encouraged you to develop your talents, allowed you a great degree of independence.
Hmm. Only because you didn't give a toss.
All I can say is that I did the best I could – being the person I am. I would never deliberately upset you. I dare say I could have been a ‘better' mother …
Ah-ha. Interesting you put that in quotes – definitely an alien concept.
… and I will try my hardest. I do not want to justify myself or feel that I ought to …
But you will anyway.
… my own upbringing was very different. We had very little money, as is often the case with immigrants, so perhaps I gave too much importance to providing for you rather than giving you the attention you feel you needed. Later, there were other problems too that affected me very badly. Perhaps, one day, I will tell you about them.
Oh, a cliffhanger? Very slick. Problems, such as? Lost a lipstick when you were twenty? Curdled the hol-landaise once fifteen years ago? Won't specify because you know it would sound feeble?
You are wrong in thinking I don't love you. Very wrong. I'm sorry if I do not show it as much as you would like – or as much as I would like.
Why couldn't you put you do love me? I love you. Is that really so hard to say, to write? (She thought of Will: ‘You can't say it, can you?' and her response, ‘What? The “L” word?') But surely only her mother could manage to phrase it so that it actually appeared on the page in the negative.
A quiet voice in her head asked, ‘And have
you
ever told her you loved her?'
I hope we can both try to be better friends to one another. With much love, Mum.

Bella peered at the signature. She could see where her mother had started to write ‘Alessandra'. The down-stroke of the A had been carefully turned into the too-deep central valley of the M instead.
Oh please. Mum. Very convincing. Why didn't you send a coconut cake along with it? That would prove you were a good ‘Mum'.

She refolded the letter to put it back in the envelope. There was something else in there; she shook out the envelope. Two photographs fell onto the table. She had never seen them before, nor any like them. Most of the family photos were slightly formal, awkward poses or ones of Alessandra looking glamorous or a few of Bella on her own or playing with a friend. Her father had taken most of them, so was hardly in any himself. But these were different. One of them was slightly out of focus: in it, Alessandra stood, looking pretty and relaxed in a summer dress with her hair loose; she was carrying Bella on one hip, apparently tickling her under her chin; little Bella was laughing. When had it been taken? Bella turned it over. No date. She looked about two, maybe three.

The other photograph was sharper, clearer. It was a beach. Alessandra was kneeling on the sand, holding her hair out of her face and watching Bella, who was just sticking in a flag on top of a large sandcastle that reached up to her shoulders. It had turrets studded with shells, and a moat. Again, there was no date, but Bella thought she couldn't have been more than three. Looking at it more closely, she recognized the little swimsuit she was wearing in the picture. It had been navy, she remembered now, with a little white skirt and a stripy, V-shaped bit at the top. She'd forgotten all
about it until now, although she'd been absolutely thrilled when her mother had bought it for her. It had been so grown-up, her first proper swimsuit, instead of wearing just her pants with no top as if she was a baby. Perhaps she would ring Dad and ask him if he knew the date and where it had been taken. Bella stared deep into the first photograph. What was so odd about it? It was like a thousand family photographs. It was delightful, but ordinary. She looked more closely at her mother's face. There, that was it. Although it was slightly blurred, she could see that Alessandra was looking at the young Bella with rapt attention. The photograph was a whole little world, with only Alessandra and Bella in it, mother and child completely absorbed in each other. She shut her eyes as if she might recapture it.

Warm arms around her. The smell of jasmine and face powder and sea. Rubbing noses.

She looked down at the photos in her hand, then propped them up on the mantelpiece.

Bella went round the supermarket in a daze, gliding up and down the aisles as if guided by remote control. She picked up packets and tins in a trance, mechanically transferred vegetables from their heaped displays into bags, dropping them into her trolley. What did she need? Why was she here? She picked up a pot of yoghurt and stood staring at the label, biting her lip as if considering her selection; another careful shopper expertly assessing the list of ingredients, the price, the weight, the nutritional analysis. Modified starch, she read, citric acid; 104 kcal per 100g, 208 kcal per pot. Was that good? Did that mean she should have it or not?

Again and again, Will filled her thoughts, her vision.
She saw him asleep, his irrepressible hair curling against the pillow; out walking, stopping frequently when he got excited by their conversation. ‘Can't you walk and talk at the same time?' she'd say. ‘No,' he'd catch her arm and hold her so he could talk face to face, see her reaction; in the shower, letting the water stream over his face, running down his chest, washing the lather down his legs; even here in the supermarket, skidding down the aisles with the trolley at breakneck speed, making car-chase screeching noises as he sharply rounded a corner; in bed, his face relaxed, his eyes shining as he looked at her, wound his finger into a lock of her hair – ‘See? We're entangled. You'll never get shot of me now.'