Love Is a Four Letter Word (32 page)

Now, a cramp clenches her stomach and nausea swells into her throat. She flails her arm to clutch at the crushed metal for support and lurches forward, bent double, vomit splashing onto the tarmac. A dry inhalation of breath. Again she heaves, her whole body wrenched by spasms, and again.

A hand holds her hair back from her face, cool on her forehead. A quiet voice, soothing. An arm around her shoulders, steadying her, holding her. Viv.

Back at Viv and Nick's, they cup their hands round mugs of tea like shipwreck survivors.

‘That gave me a hell of a fright, seeing your car. I suddenly realized – what if?' Viv stares down into her tea. ‘You must take care of yourself. Who else would make me laugh and cook me lemon chicken?'

Viv asks if Bella has told Will.

‘Why would I? Why would he care?'

‘God, you can be irritating. Because he's probably still mad about you, that's why. I've never seen anyone so in love.'

‘Oh, do you think so?' A polite request. Bella's voice is flat, expressionless.

‘You know he was. And so were you. You were sickening to watch, the two of you, like cute puppies falling over each other. Bleugh.'

Bella opens her mouth to speak.

‘And don't even think about denying it.' Viv cuts her off. ‘I've never seen you so happy. Sorry to say this, but not even with Patrick – nothing like. You had this incredible sort of – radiance. Your skin glowed.'

‘Too much blusher.'

‘Shut up. You always do that. Joke about stuff that really matters to you. Just stop it for once.' Viv drains the last of her tea. ‘Don't you remember Nick teasing you because you wouldn't stop talking about Will? Don't you remember him saying: “So, what would Will say to that? Tell us Will's favourite colour, Bella. It's only midnight. We've got all night. Tell us more about how much he makes you laugh but how he can be serious too. Tell us again why his eyebrows are so adorable.” How can you forget?'

‘I know. I haven't forgotten.'

‘Can't you, well, ring him up or something?'

Bella shakes her head.

‘It's too late.'

He won't want me now. And I don't know how. I haven't the words.

‘How you doing there, babe?'

‘Marvellous. Loving every second.' Bella closes her eyes and starts to cry. ‘Peculiar. Crap. Shaky. Glad to be in one piece. Can I have a hug?' she says.

Viv holds her tight.

‘And don't you dare scare me like that again – or I'll have to shoot you.'

They laugh together, tears streaming down their cheeks.

‘Of course you can. I told you – any time.' Fran sounds genuinely pleased.

Bella explains about her knock in the car.

‘I still feel a bit shaky, but I know I have to drive soon or I won't be able to do it.'

The insurance company are processing the claim; they will decide on the value of her car and, eventually, send a cheque. She intends to start looking at second-hand cars in a week or so, when she feels a bit more robust. In the meantime, she is planning to hire one for the weekend.

‘Thank you for not, well,
exiling
me.'

Fran laughs.

‘You daft thing. You know I'm very fond of you –
whatever
happens – may have happened – with you and Will.'

Saturday morning is grey and dreary, with spots of half-hearted rain. A home-made tarte Tatin is swaddled in place on the passenger seat. At least it would be an undemanding companion. No fiddling with the radio. No ‘Actually, I think maybe you should have turned left back there.' No making her laugh when she was trying to concentrate. No resting a hand
on her leg so that she would be aware of his presence at her side, always.

Fran is out in the garden, apparently undeterred by the damp – ‘Perfect for planting.'

She hugs Bella.

‘You must take some redcurrants when you go. I've a freezer full. I know you'll think of something interesting to do with them. There's only so much redcurrant jelly one person can get through, even if I ate lamb every night.'

Bella works alongside Fran in the garden, now adept at spotting which are weeds and which are not, what to cut back and what to leave. The sound of secateurs reminds her of Will, the way Fran dips in and out of the borders, casually pulling up a weed as she passes, snipping off a faded bloom. Fran avoids talking about him, Bella notices, and speaks instead of her late husband, Hugh.

‘I still miss him, y'know? It's over five years ago now. I used to wonder when I'd “get over it” – as if it were some kind of obstacle course. I remember seeing it in my head like a great, craggy rock I'd have to climb. I thought I'd get to the other side, then maybe life would go back to normal. No bloody idea.' She laughs at herself. ‘Come in out of this drizzle and let's get some tea.

‘I went through all these different feelings. At first, I just could not believe it. Hughie was so alive, do y'see? I kept thinking I saw him. I followed some man in a similar sort of corduroy jacket halfway around Sainsbury's. Daft I know.'

Bella shakes her head.

‘It's not daft.'

‘And I was so angry with him. Why hadn't he looked after his health better? – he'd already had a minor stroke before – how dare he leave me alone? Then I felt it was all my fault. I should have done something,
anything. I was a bad person because I'd let him eat butter. I should have made him take up tennis. When it really sank in, I kept crying in all the most unlikely places. I had to run out of the chemist because I – so stupid – saw that Mycil powder he used to use for his athlete's foot. And I thought how ironic it was when he didn't take enough exercise. Then in the garden, I'd be digging up potatoes for supper and I'd suddenly look down and see that I'd dug enough for two and I'd be off again.'

Bella tops up their mugs.

‘But – it did get better.' Fran waves a hand at Bella's eyebrow, twitching into a doubting arch. ‘No. I know what you're thinking. It used to make me so angry when people patronized me with all that time's the best healer stuff. But my feelings did shift. I haven't forgotten him, God knows. Things can never go back to being as they were before. Life's different. I'm different. But the pain's not sharp now. I can
enjoy
my memories of him without feeling wretched all the time. And, somewhere along the line, I let myself off the hook.'

There is a silence. Fran gets up and refills the kettle, delves deep into the bread crock for ‘something to toast'.

‘You've lost someone, too, haven't you?'

The clink of the kettle lid. The striking of a match. The soft hiss of the gas.

‘I'm sorry. Perhaps you prefer not to talk about it?'

‘I – it's not – I find it hard. I don't. It's so—' She presses her lips tight shut, to hold it in, then, suddenly, her mouth trembles and opens, gaping wide. And Bella is babbling. She is so scared – she couldn't let go of Patrick – she didn't dare – it would be like a betrayal – he needed her to cling on or he'd be really, really gone.

Around her, the kitchen swims into a blur.

And then she'd met Will and she'd felt bad, guilty for loving him so much – then terrified she'd lose him
as well. She wouldn't be able to bear it – not Will – she couldn't – she'd be eaten away by the pain of it – cease to exist. And she'd messed things up and driven him away and it was awful. He didn't even know that she loved him because she couldn't say it, she was so afraid. She just knew if she owned it, admitted it, he'd be taken away – she'd be punished – she wouldn't be allowed to be so happy, not for long – just enough to lull her into a false sense of security. She'd get used to him, and life would be rosy, then – BAM – and he'd be hit by a truck or get cancer or flit off to Auckland – and she wouldn't be able to stand it. Only now she'd lost him anyway, but it wasn't so very bad because at least she'd expected it, engineered it – at least she knew where she was this way. Really, it wasn't so very bad. Not so very bad.

And Fran's arms are around her; she is stroking her hair and holding her. She is making comforting, ssshusshing sounds into her hair.

‘And now I'm getting you all – sno-o-o-t-tty,' Bella wails.

‘Ssh, ssh. I never liked this shirt anyway.'

Bella's breaths lurch from her lungs. Her shoulders shake in spasms. Unleashed sobs wrench at her chest. She tries to gulp them down. Tears scrawl mascara in a spidery calligraphy over her cheeks; she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

‘But it's much worse than that – m-much worse.'

Fran is still holding her, and Bella looks up at her.

‘I've never told anyone. You'll hate me when you know.'

‘Hush, hush. I could never hate you.'

Bella is quiet now, even calm. She blows her nose and lets out a long sigh as she remembers. At last, it is time to tell.

∼ ∼ ∼

The knowledge has been swirling through her for weeks now, maybe even months if she dare admit it. When had she framed that first thought? Allowed herself to think it? It feels as if it had started deep in her bones, then seeped out, slipping into her bloodstream, making its way to her heart, her head. Now it is like a prickling itch beneath her skin, refusing to be ignored. She can only create the luxury of forgetting when she hurls herself into something else, so she spends long hours at work, gets up early to go swimming, relishing for once the smell of chlorine, climbing up her nostrils, stinging her eyes, scouring her shameful, selfish thoughts. She even begins a tapestry, transferring an old painting she had done of her parents' house onto graph paper as a guide; in the evenings she has licence to concentrate only on the tiny, colour-pencilled squares, sink into her own tiny stitches, a technician hovering over a microscope, on the verge of discovery.

Patrick comments with a laugh, ‘Anyone would think you had a lover, Bel. All this staying late at the office.'

‘Er … nonsense, darling. Important client, that's all.' She had pretended to be flustered to tease him, as if he had found her out, unearthed her great secret, and he had laughed.

But he hasn't discovered it. Doesn't seem to have a clue. Bella almost wishes she did have a lover, a proper reason, something tangible, someone else she could point to and say, ‘See? That's why.' How simple that would be.

As each day passes, she can feel the gap widening between her intentions and her actions. She watches herself moving around the flat, one step behind her false ghost image, sneering at its bright manner, its smiles. Why can't Patrick see it? Surely he will
suddenly catch a glimpse of her there, shivering behind that horrible smiling façade?

‘Okey-dokey?' Patrick pats her knee, tapping the crossword in the paper with his pencil in unison.

‘Yup. Fine,' she answers, feeling like a trained spaniel.

She starts to timetable ‘Telling Patrick' in her head, then in her diary. Not this weekend because we're going up to his parents. Not in the week because he'll be coming back late from that job in Walthamstow every night. Next weekend? Maybe. Then next weekend comes and they have friends for supper or Patrick seems under the weather or she has a period pain. Maybe she'll do it Tuesday, quickly before it's in the run-up to his birthday or, oh my God, then it'll be Christmas. Maybe it'd be better to wait till after then.

And so, now it is January 18th and she is standing in a small white room, looking down at Patrick's body spread out before her.

‘I'm an impostor,' she tells herself, ‘a horrible cheat who didn't deserve him.' But still, through the shock, she knows she is glad she didn't tell him, didn't spoil his last few months; she is glad she never said the words:

‘Patrick. I can't do this any more. Be with you. I don't – I don't love you.'

∼ ∼ ∼

Fran comes to say good night, tucking her in tightly as if she is a child. Bella pokes her chin over the turned edge of the sheet, comforting as a folded sandwich, and looks around at the rose-patterned wallpaper, with its oddly cheering misaligned joins and irregular edges. The bedside lamp shines on a few bright buttercups,
sprawling in a tiny blue jug with sprigs of feathery fennel and daisy-like feverfew. Funny, she thinks, I've never noticed how pretty buttercups are before – how perfect each petal is, how smooth. She drifts into a doze, their yellow heads like tiny suns warming her as she closes her eyes.

Patrick is walking ahead of her, but she is finding it difficult to keep up, his long legs carrying him further from her with each step. Breathless, she reaches him at last and she taps him on the shoulder from behind. He turns round and seems surprised to see her there, annoyed even. Then he lies down on the ground, gesturing with his hand, inviting her to join him.

It is cold here, and the air feels thick and clammy on her skin. She stretches out on the ground beside him. In this milky light, even his face before her is a blur. Behind her, she feels the concrete kerb at her back; beneath her, the sharp stones of his grave. They dig into her skin, her flesh, but she tries not to wince, not to let him see. He doesn't seem to notice them at all. Suddenly, he strikes the headstone with his palm.

‘Good solid headboard, eh?' And he laughs.

She starts to smile, trying to join in, to share the joke, but his face is at once serious again. As he takes her hand, she gasps; his skin is cold as stone and loose, like the skin on molten wax. She watches him lift her hand, as if it is a thing apart, and guide it towards the headstone. He makes her finger trace the inscription at the base.

R.I.P.

And he looks at her, then closes his eyes. She traces it again, feeling the grooves in the stone beneath her finger, letting them etch the letters in her mind. It is suddenly clear to her, obvious; even a fool could see it.