Love Is a Four Letter Word

by Claire Calman

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Wow – have you dressed up just for me?’ he smiled.

  ‘This is my official impressing-a-prospective-client outfit, not that you bothered when it was the other way round. And it’s to distract people from the repulsive spot on my chin. Don’t worry – it’s not contagious.’

  Shut up, shut up, she told herself, that sounds like you’re planning to press yourself against him all evening. Change the subject and just try to be normal.

  Drinks drifted into dinner. Dinner stretched into coffee. More coffee. It was getting late.

  He said he would walk her home. They meandered through the streets, talking, walking slowly. Zigzagged along the high street, pointing out their favourite hideous objects in shop windows and searching for the ultimate Gift You’d Least Like to Have to Display in Your Own Home.

  ‘So then.’ She paused at her door. ‘Can you stand yet another coffee? Or will it keep you awake?’ What the hell was that supposed to mean? Now he’d think she was trying to seduce him when she was only being friendly.

  ‘It’s late.’ He smiled. ‘I’d better get back.’

  She turned to put her key in the door.

  ‘Still. If you insist. Just for a minute.’

  When Bella came down from the loo, Will was looking at the kitchen pinboard while drinking his coffee.

  ‘Sweet-looking kid.’ He nodded at the picture of Patrick’s nephew, which had survived the move from London still attached to the board. ‘I always meant to ask you who it was.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t he? That’s Lawrence in his school nativity play. Patrick’s nephew,’ she continued. ‘My old boyfriend.’ She gestured at a photo of a drenched Patrick standing by a Scottish loch, his straight hair plastered to his skull by rain. ‘There. That’s Patrick. Not looking his best there though. One of those Scottish holidays where it rains non-stop, day and night, you know, on and on. We got soaked. Rain, rain. Endless.’ She must stop talking about Patrick. She was starting to babble. Will you shut up, woman?

  ‘Oh? Right.’

  She saw his eyes drop to the picture at the bottom of the board, the one of her Patrick together, sporting red Christmas antlers in bed.

  ‘That looks horribly aren’t-we-wacky.’ She made a face. ‘I must take it down sometime.’ Bella turned away and foraged in the cupboard for some chocolate.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a confession to make,’ Will said.

  ‘I knew it. You used to be a woman. You’re an international drug-smuggler. Out on parole. Worse – you’re really a journalist?’

  ‘The roughs for that project. I may have exaggerated its urgency just a tad.’

  ‘When are they needed by?’

  ‘Not for six weeks. I got home and then realized I didn’t have an excuse to see you again. And I felt lousy.’

  Her stomach felt tight, knotted. She couldn’t do this – she couldn’t have this kind of conversation – she must stop him – she’d thought she was ready for this, but she wasn’t. She turned to the sink, poured herself some water, holding onto the cold metal of the tap.

  ‘Do you think you could turn round, Bella? I’m trying to talk to you.’

  ‘OK, OK. I was just thirsty. You’re supposed to have eight glasses of water a day. I read it somewhere. Good for the skin.’

  ‘Thanks for letting me know that. Nice timing. Now I’ve started and I don’t know how to – I’ve never, you know, really liked a client before. It’s probably a breach of professional ethics or something, perhaps I’ll be struck off and never let within a hundred feet of a hebe again, but there’s always been – something – between us, hasn’t there? I’m not very good at this, am I?’

  Bella crossed her arms and shrugged. ‘Good at what?’ Behind Will’s left arm, she could see part of Patrick’s photograph. Half a Patrick: one brown boot, one corduroyed leg, one waterproof jacket sleeve, a corner of closed mouth, one dark eye.

  ‘Oh, shit. Good start, Will.’ He clunked down his mug on the worktop. ‘I feel like such a prat. So you don’t think there is?’

  ‘Why should there be?’

  ‘All the hours we’ve spent talking mean absolutely bugger all to you then?’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed our conversations, of course.’

  ‘You make it sound as if we belonged to a debating society.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘And every time we’ve looked at each other, that meant nothing either?’

  He moved towards her.

  She would not look at him. Could not. Opened her mouth to speak.

  He was standing close, so close. She could feel the warmth of him, smell his skin, his Will-smell that she had sniffed a hundred times in the garden, when he’d leant close to her, showing her how to prune correctly, when he’d squeezed past her in the kitchen to get to the sink. She pressed herself back against the draining board, clutching the curved edge of the worktop. Noticed her knees were shaking. Surely she would pass out. If only he wouldn’t stand so close.

  ‘Oh, Bella …’ His voice quiet. Then, he held her suddenly by her arms, but she turned her head as if she had been slapped. In her short-sleeved top she felt suddenly naked, conscious of her bare flesh beneath his fingers.

  ‘Look at me!’

  His hands were strong, holding her, anchoring her to the ground. His hands on her arms. His skin touching hers.

  ‘Look me in the eye and say, “Will, you’re imagining the whole thing. I’m not interested. I never have been.” Come on. Say it. I’ll believe you.’

  At last, she raised her face to look into his eyes. She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted but there were no words. Her throat felt tight and full as if she were about to cry. Once more her mouth opened, forming a single silent word:

  Will.

  And then she was in his arms. He was holding her, drawing her tight to him, his face buried in her hair, her neck, saying her name again and again, spilling out as if it had been a great secret stored up in him. She tilted her face up towards him and his face was so close, his mouth found hers, but a curl of her hair was caught between them. Bella tugged it out of the way and they both laughed with relief. He was kissing her now, his mouth warm and real, and she was drunk with it and the two of them were gasping and laughing and kissing. He dipped his lips to her neck, kissing it sweetly, tasting her skin, wanting every inch of her. She pressed herself against him, feeling that he was indeed like some great tree, standing firm, safe and strong and true.

  16

  There was no way he would phone the next day. At least they were old enough to have left all that tedious treat-’em-mean-keep-’em-keen nonsense far behind them, so she wouldn’t have to wait a whole week or anything, but he definitely wouldn’t phone the next day. You phone him if you want to. You’re thirty-three for God’s sake. Well, she might just do that. But not yet. If he didn’t phone her at work, then she would give him until, say, nine this evening, OK, eight thirty. After that, she could legitimately call him to ask vital questions about the mayoral mural because they hadn’t really gone through the details properly and she wasn’t sure if she’d noted down the dimensions correctly and she ought to be making a start on it; yes, she decided, she probably should give Will a ring anyway about that, whether she wanted to speak to him or not.

  She had awarded herself bonus points for not going to bed with him straight away, propelling him out of the front door, telling him she wanted to take things slowly, making out she was mature and sensible and not just someone annoyingly on the first day of her period. Her mother would have approved, she thought. Say what you like, Bella-darling, but men don’t respect a woman who falls into bed on the first date. Don’t show your whole hand at once.

  * * *

  Even from the other side of the office, she saw that she had a message, signalled by the semaphore flag of a yellow stickie – SOMEBODY WANTS YOU. She tried not to run to her desk. It was probably only a client. Clients always loved to phone first thing in the morning to catch people out
when they were late in, while a colleague covered – ‘She’s not at her desk right now. I believe she’s in a meeting …’ Or Viv, wanting to know whether Bella had at last broken the longest snog-free spell in recorded history. Bella had managed to suppress the urge to recount the full hideousness of the Julian saga, but Viv had given her that pursed mouth, something’s-going-on-and-you’re-not-telling-me look.

  WILL PHONED. PLEASE CALL A.S.A.P.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, phoning him while she was still standing, her bag hunched on her shoulder. ‘It’s me. Anything wrong?’

  ‘Hello, you. No. Just being a sad sod who can’t get enough of you. When am I seeing you? How about now? I need to kiss you again. They can survive without you there for a day, can’t they?’

  ‘One moment, Mr Henderson. I’ll have to put you on hold while I check Ms Kreuzer’s diary –’ She clucked her tongue officiously. ‘Looking very busy, Mr H., especially with dull clients having just come into season. Oh, but, there may be a small window this evening.’

  ‘I’m not sure I could fit into a small window. I’m not the svelte little snip I once was, you know. Now I’m a man-sized hunk of 100 per cent pure, bulging flab.’

  He was working outside the city in the afternoon, he said, overseeing the landscaping of the area around a swimming pool at a swanky health club, but he could be back a bit after seven. They arranged to meet in the little garden behind the cathedral.

  There was still over an hour to spare after Bella had left work, so she went inside the cathedral and leant against one of the massive pillars to draw the tourists. She wondered whether it might be considered blasphemous, drawing in a cathedral. She’d never noticed anyone sketching there before, though it was certainly less intrusive than taking photographs, which no-one seemed to bother about. How odd it must be to try to pray when all around you the stately gloom was pocked by white flashes, the solemnity punctured by discordant voices – ‘Say, isn’t it big? It’s, like, really old too.’ Perhaps drawing was her personal form of prayer; that complete absorption in itself, that reverence for form and line, light and shadow, that willing subjugation of self – surely it was a kind of worship? And if so, why couldn’t they turn up the lights a bit? – she could hardly see to pray.

  Outside, by the cloisters, she quickly sketched a couple pointing up at the carved masonry, a toddler journeying across the central square of grass. As she looked up from her pad, a woman settled to lean on one of the stone ledges, crossing her arms over her body like an Egyptian mummy, holding her shoulders. She stood watching the child for a little while. Please don’t move, Bella willed her, please don’t move. Speed gave her strokes greater boldness, confidence, mapping the angle of the woman’s arms, the shape they formed around her neck, capturing the tilt of the chin, almost defiant. Her pencil set down the symmetry of the arch, framing the woman, echoing the line of her arms.

  If only she had her paints with her; the evening sun falling at an angle seemed to pick out every element: the single strand of hair in front of the woman’s eyes, the shadow her arm cast, the drape of the fabric around her shoulders, the shape of her elbow leaning on the flat stone. As if Bella had willed it, the woman suddenly looked up and straight towards her, without moving her head. It was hard to read the expression in her eyes, half-shaded as they were by the swag of her loosely pinned hair. There was something wistful about the angle of her head, as if she were trying to catch the faint strain of far-off music. Bella’s pencil moved over the paper once more; she must paint this later, must, must, must. She closed her eyes, drinking in the image, the light, the shadows, feeling the picture sinking into her skin in thousands of points of colour like a tattoo.

  ‘You’ve missed a bit.’ Will’s chin appeared over her shoulder. ‘I may be a complete oik where art is concerned, but that’s bloody good. Why aren’t you in the little garden where you should be?’

  A glance at her watch.

  ‘I’m only five minutes late. Sorry. I got immersed.’

  ‘Just as well I spotted you on my way there. Can pick out your squiggly hair from a mile away.’

  ‘What do people do on dates? We should probably go see a movie or something.’ Will rubbed his chin.

  ‘You’re hardly a toyboy. What do you normally do? Even you must have found the occasional female to take pity on you.’ She felt his hand gently laid on the small of her back.

  ‘So you’re just doing this out of pity? Excellent. If I’m truly pathetic, will you seduce me?’

  ‘Nope. It’s just part of a local initiative to help keep our city clear of roving bands of garden designers rampaging along the high street, dead-heading the petunias.’ Bella veered off into a newsagent. ‘Shall we get a paper? See what’s on?’

  ‘But then we can’t talk.’ Will followed her in. ‘I wish we could do everything, all at the same time.’

  ‘We could whisper all the way through the film; don’t you love people who do that? Give a running commentary even though the other person’s right there watching it too: “This is the best bit. This is when he jumps out and you’re really not expecting it.”’

  They strolled to the public gardens just inside the city wall, spread out the paper on the grass. Will ran his finger down the columns.

  ‘Daft thriller? Daft courtroom drama? Or daft kids’ film with talking animals? Not much choice. What haven’t you seen?’

  Bella leant closer to look.

  ‘You smell nice,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She focused on the paper. ‘Anything at the Marlowe? “Leo Sayer – one night only.” Does he still exist? For a theatre, they don’t seem to have any actual plays on very often, do they?’ She turned to see him looking directly at her.

  Her eyes returned to scanning the columns.

  ‘Will. What are you doing?’

  ‘What? This?’

  ‘You’re making me nervous.’

  ‘Are we too crumbly to snog in the park do you think?’ He moved closer.

  ‘We? I’m not, but I’ll let you join in if you like.’

  Lips on lips, his tongue finding hers. Her insides felt as if they were unravelling. Will steadied her with his hand and drew her closer. They stopped for a few seconds, only to indulge themselves with the delight of looking at each other and moving together again, to relish that first touch, teasing themselves with anticipation.

  How many kisses? she wondered. How many would there be between now and – afterwards? You’re only making it worse for yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Closed her eyes, blocking it out.

  ‘We don’t really want to go to the cinema, do we?’ Will lightly nuzzled her cheek. ‘You’re probably desperate to invite me back to your place, but worried I’ll lose all respect for you, so I just want to assure you … that I’ve never respected you anyway.’

  ‘Thanks for reassuring me on that point.’ She got to her feet and held out her hand to him. ‘Come on, you. We’re going to your place. I want to see your garden.’

  She stood in his hallway where he insisted she wait while he did a lightning clear-up.

  ‘Two minutes! Give me two minutes!’ A clattering, as of cutlery being hurled into a sink. The sound of water running.

  ‘Coming, ready or not. I’m not hanging around out here while you try and do a year’s worth of washing-up.’

  ‘Only my breakfast things. Just because I’m a bloke doesn’t mean I’m a complete slob, you know.’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t.’ She bent to pick up something from the floor. ‘Oh, what an unusual miniature rug!’

  He took the sock from her hand and tucked it into his trouser pocket.

  ‘Oh, Will…’ Bella laughed with the pleasure of it.

  ‘I thought you might like it.’ She thought she had never seen him look so pleased.

  It was large by town-garden standards, and Will said he shouldn’t be showing it to her and she must sign a confidentiality agreement because it went against all the current thinking about town gardens, which w
as that they should be fairly formal so that they related to their architectural surroundings, and he wouldn’t have recommended it for any of his clients because it could easily slide into chaos without careful management. It was like stepping into the most beautiful countryside. There was a pool, fringed with rushes, irises and a clump of giant gunnera, like an alien forest, each leaf an inverted umbrella; this melded seamlessly into a bog garden, filled with lush foliage plants and candelabra primulas, as neat and straight-backed as convent girls.

  A small dining-table and two simple benches were set beneath a pergola swamped in blue and white clematis and the acid-green leaves of a twining golden hop.

  ‘Now it’s warm I’ll bring out my lanterns so we can sit here after dusk.’

  She hurried from one part to another, descending on each delight like a butterfly alighting for a draught of nectar: a cherry tree with bark gleaming like polished mahogany, tubs splurging with white bell-flowers and silvery filigree foliage, tiny ferns growing in the crevices of a wall, like the ones he had planted in her own garden.

  ‘Can I?’ Her eyes were wide with anticipation.

  ‘Course. You’ve been eyeing it ever since you came out here.’

  Bella ran to the far end of the garden.

  All her life she had wanted one. Dreamed of having one. None of her friends had ever had one when she was a child. Now that she stood right beneath it, she realized how big it was, a proper, scaled-up, adult version. Quickly, she clambered up the ladder.

  The tree house had been built into the branches of a large oak. It had a proper pitched roof and a glazed window; inside was a chair, a tiny table and a small wooden chest. How wonderful it would be to live here, she thought, away from all the irritations and nonsense, away from everybody; here a person would be safe, free to dream through the days alone with only the birds and the wind.

  Leaning out of the window, she waved at Will standing below on the ground.