Love Is a Four Letter Word

by Claire Calman

  ‘I have to have some vicarious pleasure, don’t I? Don’t you feel sorry for us dreary couples, stuck in our routines, the highlight of our week a Chinese and a video on Friday night? Anyway, you must have thought about it.’

  ‘Why must I? I’m not the one who’s obsessed. I told you, I haven’t got the energy to have a relationship. All that going out and doing things. Being pleasant. It’s too complicated anyway. Your lives get all interwoven, then afterwards you have to try and disentangle the mess. Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what? There isn’t always an afterwards, babe.’

  ‘There is with me. The relationship’s just the bit that happens before I get to the afterwards.’

  Viv sighed. ‘So, is he tasty or what?’

  ‘He’s not really the kind you have mad passionate fantasies about. Not handsome, but quite attractive. Cuddly. His eyes are nice. He’s sort of solid-looking, like a tree, as if you could lean on him. And he has this little scar – here.’ She raised her hand to her eyebrow.

  ‘Not that you’ve spent any time looking at him at all.’

  Bella wrinkled her nose. ‘His hair’s a bit peculiar, springy, bits of it stick up oddly.’

  ‘Golly. Wild hair. How awful.’ Viv’s eyes widened, taking in Bella’s sprawling curls.

  ‘Very droll. I’ll have you know I’ve got fourteen asylum-seekers nesting in here – would you have me comb them out onto the street?’ Bella knocked back the remainder of her wine. ‘Anyway, he’s certainly no dashing Mr Rochester. He’s just an ordinary bloke.’

  ‘Do I get any wine at all? Don’t write him off though, babe. Remember, Mr Rochester did have a bonkers wife locked in the attic. There’s a lot to be said for an ordinary bloke.’

  When Bella had first moved in, the weekends dragged terribly. She floated from the shops to Viv’s back to home, drifting from room to room, ineffectually shifting things from one place to another, tackling the occasional task as if it were an epic obstacle requiring mammoth reserves of energy – the making of a velvet cushion-cover, the stitching of a curtain hem. Now, the weekend seemed to retreat before her, like Christmas when she was a child, impossibly far off. The week at work stretched out, a predictable cycle of meetings, designing, staring glassy-eyed at her computer, and chatter, nipping out for cappuccinos – I think you mean cappuccini, Bella-darling. She found herself drawing more often. Her layout pad filled with sketches of her colleagues in a gallery of postures, her pen moving at speed over the paper, capturing the way they stood, sat, leaned, stretched and worked.

  On Thursday, she trawled through hundreds of transparencies, her eyes blurry from squinting through a magnifying lens, her back aching from hunching over the light-box. Almost every hour, she went and dawdled in the office kitchen, wiping the surfaces and cleaning the coffee jug and chucking out the dodgy milk, anything to kill time.

  Viv phoned.

  ‘Are you all right? You sound terrible.’

  ‘This just feels like a very, very long week. Finding it a struggle to feign enthusiasm about Buck’s-fizz-flavoured yoghurt.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, I’m just not in the mood for it, you know.’ Bella was already wishing she’d asked Anthony to get her two Crunchies on the chocolate run.

  ‘No – Buck’s-fizz yoghurt. Were you joking or is that a real thing?’

  Viv invited Bella to a party on Saturday.

  ‘Nick’s cousin Julian has just breezed in from Rio and we’re trying to show him that we have an exciting life, too—’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘You know that, we know that. He doesn’t. Nick says he can’t bear Julian being all smug because we’re so settled and couply and boring. Say you’ll come. You’re not doing anything else, are you?’

  ‘Charming. I could be. Masked ball. Movie première. Romantic weekend in Hull.’

  ‘So you’re free then?’

  ‘Unbelievably, yes.’

  Bella offered to turn up early, to lend a hand.

  ‘And can I bring anything?’

  ‘Anything but Buck’s-fizz yoghurt.’

  Saturday. At last.

  ‘No croissants?’ Bella peered at Will from behind her front door.

  ‘I knew I’d spoiled you too early on.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’re here now. Come in anyway.’

  She passed him a plate. And a croissant. Tried to stop herself from grinning like a fool, biting her lip. Annoyed with herself for being pleased to see him. Surprised. Bustled into the kitchen, speaking to him over her shoulder, avoiding his gaze. Don’t be too keen.

  ‘Went out early and got them. Hardly slept anyway, so thought I might as well get up.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ She turned the tap on full, concentrated on scrubbing the sink.

  Plastic sheeting topped with dust sheets was spread all the way from the front door to the French windows; everything – bricks, rubble, shingle, plants – would have to go through the house because it was midterrace.

  They set to work, clearing the brambles, moving plants to protect them from the debris.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he said. ‘You’ll do your back in if you’re not used to this kind of work.’

  ‘I suppose you think I’m just a fragile female?’

  ‘Why are you so defensive? It’s nothing to do with what sex you are. It’s what you’re used to that matters. You can’t spend all week sitting at a desk and then leap straight into heavy physical work.’ He leant his garden fork against the wall. ‘Time for a break anyway.’

  ‘This is going to be so beautiful.’ He gestured with a sweep of his arm as if already he could see it completed. ‘But it is going to get worse before it gets better, so be warned.’

  Douglas arrived at lunch-time, to lift the turf from the lawn and prepare the sub-base for the patio. He was a quiet man and merely nodded hello to Bella.

  ‘Very shy,’ Will whispered. ‘Frightened of attractive women.’ Will marked out on the ground where the pergola would go.

  ‘And this is where your little bower will be. See? You’ll be invisible even from a few feet away once the plants are in.’

  ‘Perfect,’ she said.

  Bella seemed to have been staring into the black hole of her wardrobe for a very long time. Perhaps if she stood there long enough, some gloriously expensive, chic little crêpe-de-Chine number would find its way onto one of her hangers. She could really do with some new clothes. It was basically down to three options: black silky trousers with brown wrapover top or cream silk shirt, short red skirt with sexy black top which helped divert attention away from the fact that her stomach stuck out, or purple dress that was too clingy and made her feel clammy under the arms.

  Her gaze fell on the cherry-red two-piece that Alessandra had given her. The fabric was glorious. She took it out and held it up against herself. It was beautiful; too good for her really. She didn’t feel smart enough to do it justice. Besides, it was probably way too dressy for the party. No. Back to her three options: the trousers were the most comfortable, but she was in the mood to give her legs their annual outing. The purple, then. At least it was a change from black. What the hell, she’d just use loads of deodorant and hold her stomach in. It was a good dress to flirt in. It made her feel more forward, more daring.

  She was definitely spending far too much time thinking about sex. Probably because she wasn’t having any. She still had an unopened packet of condoms in her bedside drawer. ‘You should always be prepared,’ Viv had said. ‘Keep some in your bag, too.’ As if she might suddenly be overcome with lust in the greengrocer’s and wrestle some unsuspecting shop assistant to the floor as he was trying to arrange the cauliflowers. Viv evidently imagined she had bouts of spontaneity, although there was little enough evidence for it. Even if she was just nipping out for a pint of milk and a loaf of bread, she wrote a list. She was beginning to regret that she’d splashed out and bought a packet of twelv
e condoms rather than three. At this rate, she’d be lucky to get through it before its expiry date; good grief, at this rate, the packet could constitute a lifetime’s supply.

  ‘I’ll be off then.’ Will called up the stairs.

  ‘OK. Hang on a sec. I’ll be right down …’ She thundered down the stairs.

  ‘Ah, do I hear the patter of a tiny buffalo stampede? Are you—’ He stopped.

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Sorry. Haven’t seen you in all your finery before. Didn’t recognize you without mud on your face.’

  ‘Er – do I – look all right? It’s not too –?’

  ‘Too what?’

  ‘Well, too clingy. See –’ she turned side on, ‘my stomach sticks out.’

  ‘My God! You’re right. People will be whispering in corners about it. Perhaps you could hire a small marquee to wear instead.’

  ‘We are not amused. Just answer – does it make me look fat or not?’

  ‘No. You answer a question. Do you seriously imagine people will be looking at your stomach in that dress?’

  ‘Was that no, I don’t look fat or no, you’re not answering the question?’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Will shook his head. ‘Is there some weird mass hysteria that only affects women? Why does every female on the planet think she’s fat?’

  ‘So is that a yes, then?’

  ‘Mind-boggling. Have fun, Moby Dick.’ He turned to go. ‘I’m off to fight my way round Tesco’s.’

  Odd. She was sure she had a couple of bottles of wine left. The mice must have drunk them. Now she’d have to go via the supermarket on the way to the party.

  It was surprisingly crowded. Who on earth would choose to shop on a Saturday evening, she wondered? Maybe they were all swinging singles out looking for action. She was always reading that supermarkets were a great place to meet people. Was that so you could see in advance whether you had compatible tastes? Never mind whether you had any interests in common or similar politics, values, ideologies. Did he buy gravy granules, chicken nuggets or Quorn burgers – that was what you really needed to know. She started peering into people’s trolleys; what she wanted was someone with fresh pasta, decent wine and plenty of chocolate, who kissed sexily and could make her laugh. Was it so much to ask?

  A voice came over the tannoy: ‘Make your way to the fish counter for smoked haddock fillets – on special offer today only …’ Bella looked up. Perhaps she would make a kedgeree. Suddenly, there, at the far end of her aisle, she thought she saw Will, apparently absorbed in his shopping list. Ha-ha – she’d go up and tease him about looking for love among the baked beans. She could sneak up behind him and pinch his bum. No. She could say something suggestive. No. She could pretend to be a normal person and say hello in a friendly manner. Yes. She would do that.

  As she moved towards him, Will abandoned his trolley for a moment and disappeared around the corner. She wondered what kind of things he bought, bet it was frozen lasagne, beer and probably something unexpected – Battenberg cake maybe. A look into his trolley. Apples. Bananas. Frozen lasagne – hah! Tins of things. Nothing exciting. Two large plastic packets: Newborn Ultra-Dry, they said. Unisex. Soft and Snug. A large blue plastic bottle: Johnson’s Baby Bath.

  She recoiled as if she had been bitten. Backed away into a gangly youth in a bow tie who was rearranging the shelves.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ Turning, clutching her basket, swinging it into a woman. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Heading for the wine, the till, the exit.

  12

  ‘Ah-ha!’ said Viv when she opened the door. ‘The sexy purple. Are you out to entrap someone in particular or is it just a lure for any unsuspecting male who happens to be passing?’

  ‘It’s either part of a cunning plot to overthrow the Government and change civilization as we know it or a sad and desperate attempt to inveigle some feebleminded myopic man with excess testosterone into chatting me up. You choose. So you don’t think it shows off my stomach too much?’

  ‘I see there’s been no unexpected rise in self-esteem on the stock market then.’ Viv waved her in.

  Bella raised one eyebrow. ‘Call yourself a hostess?’ she said. ‘I’ve been here 45 seconds and not been offered so much as a Twiglet. Have you got anything decent to drink or shall we have what I brought?’

  Viv slavered garlic and herb butter onto slit baguettes while Bella tipped pistachios and olives into dishes.

  ‘Getting enough to eat there, are you?’ said Viv as Bella cracked open yet another pistachio nut with her teeth. ‘Are you all right, babe? You look a bit peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine. Give me a top-up, will you?’

  ‘Steady on. You’ve got a whole evening to get through. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything. It sounds stupid.’

  ‘What’s stupid?’ Nick breezed into the kitchen. ‘Ah, do I spy pistachios?’ He scooped out a handful from the dish.

  ‘I just saw Will in the supermarket with a trolley full of nappies.’

  ‘What a bastard!’ Nick shook his head. ‘What? I thought that’s what I’m supposed to say. Thought I’d get it in before you did. Who’s Will anyway?’

  ‘Bella’s garden man. I said you bloody liked him. Well, he’s obviously not worthy of you, then.’

  ‘I feel such a fool. Ever since I met him, there seemed to be this thing between us –’

  Nick raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘Go away,’ said Bella and Viv at the same time.

  ‘This unspoken assumption that we like each other. I bet he flirts with all his clients just to butter them up. He’s probably turning to his wife and cooing over their baby – and laughing about me and my stupid boxes and my stupid mural – and I hate him now only not as much as I hate me and I wish I’d never met him. It’s really all my fault because I allowed myself to like him which was stupid, stupid, stupid. And I can’t even send him away because he’s started and there’s soil everywhere and if he doesn’t finish the garden, it’ll look like a total tip and the house already looks like a warehouse. More wine, please.’

  ‘Oh, babe. I’m sorry. We’ll find you someone nice, won’t we, Nick?’

  ‘Me? What are you looking at me for? You’re always saying my friends are clueless.’

  Bella dug into the pistachios again. ‘Forget it. It’s a lost cause. I don’t care any more. I’m going to be celibate for ever and devote myself to art.’

  ‘Like Sister Wendy?’

  ‘Yes. But with a better orthodontist.’

  ‘Right, that’s your lot.’ Viv plucked the dish of nuts out of her grasp and put it in the sitting-room. ‘By the time you two’ve finished, we’ll have to put them out in an eggcup.’

  Nick loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and waggled his fingers, as if limbering up to perform a little something by Chopin on a concert grand.

  ‘If someone,’ he nodded at Bella, ‘would care to chop the tomatoes for the salad, I will prepare –’ he paused for effect’- the dressing.’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ Viv pouted and opened her eyes wide in mock awe. ‘May we really stay and watch?’

  He washed his hands and held them up straight, surgeon-like, from the elbows.

  ‘You may,’ he said. ‘Towel?’

  The Making of the French Dressing – Nick’s sole culinary skill – was a five-act epic drama starring Nick, ably supported by a pestle and mortar, fat cloves of garlic, two types of mustard, some extremely overpriced olive oil from one particular Tuscan olive grove, and other rare unguents that Nick liked to hide from view ‘to preserve the mystique’.

  Bella washed and chopped the tomatoes, while Nick embarked on Act One: The Crushing of the Garlic with the Sea Salt.

  ‘It’s a joy and an education to watch you, Nick,’ Bella said. ‘Have you thought of giving master-classes?’

  ‘Mock if you will,’ said Nick, ‘but I have yet to see you leave so much as a caterpillar on your plate when I serve up a salad.’


  ‘True, O Great One, but it’s such a waste for so small an audience. Why don’t you wait till the guests arrive, then we could judge your performance and give you marks.’ Bella raised her hands in turn as if lifting score placards: ‘Technical merit, 5.6. Artistic impression, 5.9.’

  * * *

  The doorbell rang. Nick was still on Act Three: The Mixing of the Two Mustards with the Garlic, and Viv was ‘elbow-deep in bloody lollo rosso’, so Bella went to the door.

  It was Sara and Adam, a couple whom Bella had already met, and Nick’s cousin Julian, who had been sent out for more paper napkins but had tried three different shops with no success and arrived back at the same time. Bella offered them drinks and tried not to look at Julian too much.

  More people started arriving and Bella got hooked up in an argument two couples were having about nursery schools. When she ventured an opinion, all four of them turned as one and gave her that look; one woman voiced the predictable statement on their behalf: ‘Of course, when you have children of your own, you’ll feel differently.’ How could she argue with that? She felt about six years old, being admonished for yet another piece of naughtiness or folly, her mother giving her that patronizing look – When you grow up … When you’re older … Then you can do what you like. Hah! When would that magic day ever come? She was tempted to embarrass the couples, to tell them that, tragically, she could never have children because … because she had some horrible disease, she had donated her womb to science, her Fallopian tubes had been mangled by a mad surgeon, her ovaries refused to release any eggs without written authorization.

  From across the other side of the room, Julian caught her eye, raised his glass, and beckoned her with his head. God he was tasty. Bella hastily excused herself from the cul-de-sac argument – ‘Must just … old friend … excuse me’ – and tried not to appear to be rushing over towards him.

  She should definitely have stopped drinking at that stage because she’d already had more than she was used to. At some point in the evening, she noticed a burst of too-loud laughter and was inwardly curling her lip in smug disapproval when she realized that it was her own; but she didn’t seem to care any more. For once, she wanted to forget about being sensible and play the wanton woman, to act the bimbo, flirt outrageously and simply enjoy the obvious effect it had on men. So she found herself laying her hand on Julian’s arm and gazing at him with rapt attention while she asked him to tell her all about his travels. He returned her eye contact with frank interest and happily talked about himself.