‘Homemade or jar?’
He scowled. ‘Ah! And I do a mean stir-fry.’
‘All men say they can do stir-fries. Didn’t you see that documentary? Apparently, the Y chromosome is linked with the ability only to cook over a high heat – that’s why men like barbecues.’
Back outside, Will drew her to the far end of the garden. He stood behind her, pointing back at the house over her shoulder. She could feel the warmth of his breath in her hair. Imagined for a moment she could hear him swallow, hear the air swell his lungs, the double beat of his heart.
‘There. See? What I suggested before about the patio? With wide steps.’ She moved away, scraped her fingers through her hair.
‘Fine. Now, what about this awful lawn?’
Will stamped on it.
‘Get rid of it. It’s in a chronic state. We can returf, of course, if you want, but I wouldn’t bother. It’s not a good use of space here. Just think –’ He gestured in a broad arc, a wizard weaving a spell. ‘No mowing. No edging. More space for interesting plants …’
‘Won’t it look too hard? Like a car park?’
‘Not unless you specifically want Tarmac. I was thinking of a sweep of shingle, so we can plant directly into the soil below – ornamental grasses, herbs, whatever. Or big, clunky grey cobbles, with water …’
‘Like a beach? I’d love that. My dad used to take me when I was little. I still go to the seaside when I feel crappy.’
‘Same here. Oh – look at that—’ He strode off and plunged into the border between two overgrown bushes.
Bella stared at the ground, remaking it as her own private beach in her head, a stretched-out curve, water lapping at the stones, the wetness bringing their colours to life, the surf frothing at her feet.
∼ ∼ ∼
She leaves the post-funeral ‘do’ as soon as she decently can, sooner really. Slips silently around the room to say goodbye to the cornerstones of Patrick’s family: Joseph, who hugs her so tight she can barely breathe. ‘Keep in touch, won’t you? Come to see us.’ Rose kisses her cheek. ‘You’ve been such a comfort.’ Sophie, suddenly looking like a child, her eyes large and shadowy. ‘Can I come and stay, Bel?’ Alan just gives her a big squeeze. He cannot speak.
She drives to the coast. Patrick had taken her there a few times, when they’d gone to stay with his parents. Now she needs the sea air in her lungs, the sting of salt in her nostrils, the wind to blow away the surface of her skin, leaving her purged, raw but renewed.
Turning into the road that leads to the beach, she is surprised as always by the sudden emptiness at the end of the road where it curves sharply round. If she carried straight on, she would hurl out above the shingle, sailing into the big sky, soaring like a great metallic gull for one beautiful, arching moment, then falling down into the waves, diving deep, sinking to settle on the seabed. There, fish would nibble at her flesh, weave dances between her bones. Crabs would clatter, sea-muffled, over her ribs. Her hair would wave like seaweed. Barnacles would colonize her, make her their city, and she would be part of another world, her salty tears unnoticed in the sea.
The car slows and she concentrates on turning left into the cul-de-sac, past the ‘Unsuitable for motors’ sign, to park. Pulls her old, crushed mac from its permanent home in the boot of the car. She scrunches down onto the shingle, her black suede court shoes sinking into the pebbles. Slips them off and walks a few steps further. Streuth, these stones are hard; she wishes she’d brought some other shoes. Still, it’s not normally what you think of when you go to a funeral: ‘Have I got everything? Tissues? Black hat? Beach shoes?’
The wind flicks her hair across her face, into her mouth, and she huddles closer to the breakwater for shelter. How weathered it is; the wood is smooth to the touch, sanded by the waves and – well, sand, she supposes. She leans her head against it and squints along its length. The narrow gaps between the boards have tiny pebbles lodged in them, but whether by a determined child or by the force of the sea, she cannot tell. She wiggles her toes down into the shingle, incongruous against her sheer black tights.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she says, under her breath. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’ How could he do this to me? That’s just so typical of Patrick, it really is. He’s so bloody perverse. Always has to go his own way. Only he would go and get himself killed in such a ridiculous fashion and with such bad timing. There is a kind of pleasure, a comfort in this facetiousness. Better to be pissed off with him, better to rail against his annoying habits than to allow her mind a stretch of silence, where the darkness lies in wait, curled up patiently, ready for the moment when she would let it in. If she could hold out long enough, perhaps it would just slink off, bored with waiting? But she knows; she knows it is there. It would slither around her ankles, coiling and uncoiling itself until she let down her guard. Then it would wind itself about her, sliding over her, heavy and cold as stone, pulling her down into a well of dark. She would never be able to climb up again. No. She had peeked over the edge and the fear of it had clawed at her stomach. She would not do it. Could not.
‘Bloody Patrick.’ She shoves the shingle down sharply with her foot.
∼ ∼ ∼
‘… OK with that then?’ Will stood close, looking down at her. He seemed to be expecting something.
‘Mmm?’
‘Welcome back. Are you happy for me to take out those shrubs? They’re eating up space.’
‘Won’t it feel very exposed?’
‘Trust me. There’ll be plenty of seclusion. We can put a pergola across that corner, with a purple vine and some spring clematis. Oh, I know—’ He ran to the end of the garden and Bella found herself following. ‘Say just here – a secret hideaway seat with a living willow roof. Just wide enough for you and whoever to sit—’
‘Yes.’ She turned away from his gaze. ‘I’d love that. But without the whoever. A single seat’s fine.’ Pretended not to hear him behind her as she walked towards the house.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, is it your birthday? How old are you?’ Will nodded towards the ornate lamp from Bella’s parents, still half-shrouded in tissue. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Yes I do mind, and no it isn’t anyway. House-warming present from the parents. I haven’t got round to exchanging it yet. Vile, isn’t it?’
He shrugged. ‘Not at all. Just a bit stately-homeish. Not quite you, I’d have said.’
‘Oh? Are you an expert already then?’
‘Yes – I have teams of detectives working round the clock, faxing me hourly updates on you.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘That’s classified. Besides, they haven’t got round to lampshade preferences yet.’
She shook her head, suppressing a smile. ‘That reminds me, I’ve got to phone the old dears. Weekend duty call.’
‘Ah. You’re a close family then?’
‘Help yourself to tea.’ Bella pointed Will towards the kettle. ‘In the blue tin, with the adult-proof lid. Coffee’s in the right-hand cupboard.’
‘Come on, Dads.’ Bella silently willed her father to answer the phone.
‘Oh. Hi. It’s me.’
‘Bella-dear! How nice!’ Her mother’s voice sounded tinged with veiled panic. Bella pictured her in the hallway, twiddling with her silk scarf, looking around desperately for Gerald. ‘Well. How are … things?’
Are you going to be single for ever?
‘All well with the house?’
We don’t seem to have been invited for a visit yet.
‘We got your card. I’m glad you liked the lamp. I wasn’t sure, you know, whether it was quite … Anyway.’
You’re impossible to please.
‘It’s very elegant.’ Come on. Go and get Dad, can’t you. ‘I’ve started drawing again.’ Bugger. She hadn’t meant to reveal that. Now her mother would give one of those indulgent laughs, Bella playing at being artistic. How amusing.
‘That’s marvellous, dear.
I am pleased. It always seemed such a waste when you let it go. You should make use of your talent.’
What a shame that you never stick with anything.
God, she never lost an opportunity to have a dig.
‘How’s Dad?’
‘I’ll just get him for you.’ Relief whistled down the phone line in two directions. ‘Gerald! It’s Bella on the phone.’
Will appeared and made a ‘T’ sign with one hand laid at right angles on top of the other. A question.
‘Yes please.’ She nodded.
‘Yes please, what?’ Her father’s voice came on the phone.
‘Hiya, Dads. How’s tricks? Just getting the staff to wait on me.’
‘As it should be, of course. Is Viv there? Say hello from us.’
‘No. I followed your advice—’
‘Makes a change.’ Gerald laughed.
‘Oh, shut up. I’ve got someone in to sort out the garden.’
‘Good. Does he know his stuff?’
‘Hang on, I’ll ask him. Will?’ She called through to the kitchen. ‘My dad wants to know if you know your stuff.’
Will’s head appeared round the side of the doorframe.
‘Tell him I learnt it all from a garden-design-by-numbers kit when I was eleven.’
‘Did you hear that, Dads?’
‘He sounds all right. Is he single?’
‘Oh, Daddy! I’ve no idea. You’re worse than Viv.’
‘Well, is he?’
‘How should I know? Probably not. What’s it to me anyhow?’
Will’s head reappeared in the doorway, this time at knee height.
‘Biscuits?’ he said. ‘I must have biscuits if I’m to be creative.’
‘I was wondering about having a mural on the end wall.’ Bella indicated the far end of the garden.
Will said, sure, she could have what she liked, but it could be expensive. His artistic skills didn’t extend that far so he’d have to subcontract it. Bella explained she was planning to do it herself.
‘Your face.’ She laughed. ‘It’s such an open book. I can see you thinking, “Oh no, a client who thinks she can paint. She’s going to mess up the whole garden with some terrible scene of Tuscan olive groves.”’
‘Not far off. I thought you’d favour a Gothic folly actually, covered in creepers. Some wild romantic fantasy.’
‘Touché. You’re pretty close.’ She described what she planned: a trompe l’oeil crumbling archway, framed by a real climbing rose perhaps, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a sunlit secret garden beyond, with a path curving off into shadows. He didn’t mean to be rude, he said, but it sounded like quite a tricky feat to bring off.
‘I can always paint it out if it looks hideous.’
‘Or train the rose right over it.’
‘Are you this rude to all your clients?’
‘Only the ones on a tight budget. Add another couple of grand and I can be a real smoothie: “A mural! What an inspired idea! And you’ll paint it yourself? How delightful! That will give it your own unique stamp.”’
‘Doesn’t suit you. I’d rather have the rudeness, thanks.’
‘Erm, your downstairs loo seems to have been invaded by boxes. Where are they all coming from?’ Will asked.
‘I had to clear some space in my studio. Surely you can manage the stairs?’
He explained that many clients didn’t like the gardener to use the upstairs one. Some of them wouldn’t even let him in the house. In the past, he’d gone for a pee behind a bush in the garden because these people had made it all too clear they weren’t expecting him to cross the threshold. He always took a flask because he could never count on even being offered a cup of tea.
Bella was outraged. Didn’t it make him angry?
He shrugged.
‘Some people are like that. It’s no good getting yourself worked up about every little thing that annoys you. You’d never get through the day.’
‘But I love ranting about things that annoy me. It’s practically my favourite pastime.’
‘Hmm? What’s your favourite then?’
His words were accompanied by that look again. That peculiar, assessing look as if getting her measure, as if he were trying to see inside her head.
‘Arguing.’
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I got my own back. I slapped on another grand to the bill. They could have built a whole separate tradesmen’s loo for the money.’
‘The bathroom’s round to the right.’ Bella pointed up the stairs. ‘Oh, hang on.’ She followed him upstairs. ‘I think I used up the soap.’
He watched her foraging in boxes.
‘There’s definitely some in one of these. Hang on, hang on.’ She caught sight of his expression. ‘Do you find it amusing that I can’t find anything in my own house?’
‘I do. Why don’t you just blitz all the boxes in one go and unpack everything so you know where it is?’
‘Because of the DAMP!’
‘Ah, now I know why you’re letting me use your posh loo. You want me to have a quiet word with my brother-in-law-in-law, don’t you?’
Bella opened the door to her studio to look for another box. There was definitely some soap somewhere.
‘But this is fantastic!’ Will was standing in the doorway, looking at the almost-completed mural on the wall with the crack. ‘You realize I feel like a total prat now? Why didn’t you say you were a professional?’
‘But I’m not really. You know I’m only a so-called creative director, which is fancy-schmancy for designer. I only paint for me. You can’t earn a living at it.’
The crack had been incorporated into a painting of an old, peeling wall including a half-open window. On the window sill there stood a small stoneware pot. Part of the wall was brightly lit, as if illumined by the fake window, the part beneath the sill in deep shadow.
‘I bet you could earn a crust doing murals.’ He pointed at the window. ‘I thought the pot was real. And this bit of tree that you can see through the window. It’s a winter-flowering cherry, isn’t it? Maybe Prunus x subhirtella “Autumnalis.”’
‘Show-off. I haven’t a clue. It’s whatever that is out there, in the neighbours’ garden. It was in bloom when I first moved in.’
‘This is bloody good, you know. I bet you I could get you a couple of commissions if you’re up for it.’
‘You mean I’d be a proper artist?’ Bella clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, I’ve dreamed of this for so long! Slaving away in my humble garret over a hot paintbrush. Going without cream doughnuts in order to buy paint. At last my genius has been recognized!’
‘Do you do this about everything?’
‘Sorry, sir. Can’t help it, sir.’
‘You’re doing it again.’ Will shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you one thing though—’
‘Should I get my notebook?’
‘Can you shut up for a second? If you always joke about something that’s really important to you, you’re selling yourself short.’
‘What makes you think painting’s important to me?’
He said nothing. He leant against the door-frame and just looked at her. She felt herself flush as if he had accidentally caught sight of her naked.
‘So what if it is?’ She crossed her arms and bit her lip. ‘Still got to eat, haven’t I?’
‘Of course. But if you don’t take your work seriously, you can bet your bollocks no-one else will either.’
Bella laughed. ‘Bet your bollocks? Good grief. Where on earth did you get that from? Haven’t got any bollocks. I’m a person of the female persuasion, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Will went into the bathroom and closed the door.
‘Your metaphorical bollocks,’ he called from the other side. ‘Which you certainly have got.’ She could hear him weeing, which felt very intimate. Bella started to go downstairs. ‘And, yes, I had noticed,’ she heard his voice from above.
Over a number of phone calls, a few faxes, and many cups of
tea in the following fortnight, the garden plan was finalized and a modest budget agreed. Some of the construction work – the patio, the pergola – was to be carried out by Will’s subcontractor Douglas. Will explained that he could keep the costs down if Bella helped with the clearing and planting, and it would speed it up. ‘My other projects are all civic stuff at the moment, so we could do most of it at the weekends if you’d prefer it,’ he said. ‘Then you can help and oversee it and change your mind completely and say you’d envisaged something rather more Versailles-ish and please could we move the garden a little to the left.’
‘You sure you’re happy?’ Will said. ‘You can do any amount of fiddling with the details later but we’ve got to get the foundations right at the beginning or it’ll never work.’
‘So,’ said Bella, ‘the acid test: do you share your brother-in-law-in-law’s belief that work is more of an interesting concept to be discussed rather than something to be actually done, or can you make a start soon?’
He could. He would. He was raring to go, he said. It was up to her.
11
‘So what’s he like then?’ Viv leaned back in her chair at the tapas bar.
‘Oh, hello, this is a bit of all right.’ Bella turned round the wine bottle to examine the label. ‘Who?’
‘Your garden man. Is he a rugged man of the soil? Tough, but secretly sensitive underneath?’
‘Not as such. I think Will and sensitive are not words that would naturally fall in the same sentence.’
‘Still, you seem to be spending a lot of time in his company. I miss you. And Nick’s hankering for your prawn thing again.’
‘Glad you both appreciate me for my lovable qualities and not just my magical way with a piece of ginger root.’
‘So, when are you next seeing him?’
‘I am not “seeing him” at all. He is coming to start work on Saturday morning.’
‘Bet you get up early to put on your make-up. Tastiness quotient?’
‘What are you like? You’re obsessed. You’re supposed to be past all this.’
Love Is a Four Letter Word Page 9