Love Is a Four Letter Word

by Claire Calman

  ‘Come on, Will. You’re not my therapist or social worker. You don’t have to put on your special concerned voice for my benefit.’ She turned away from his face, stung as if she had slapped him. Easing herself from his grasp, she picked up a cloth and started wiping the table, sweeping the crumbs into her cupped palm.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not – it’s not how it seems,’ she told the crumbs. ‘I can’t. But I’m fine. Really.’

  She felt the brief pressure of his hand on her arm, then he turned to the sink and covered the silence with the reassuring clatter of washing-up.

  Could she use the phone, she asked Will, to pick up her messages from the answerphone.

  ‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’

  There was a call from Viv – ‘Sorry, just remembered you’re staying with Mr Wonderful for the five-day shagfest. We’re suffering from a lack of gossip and a lack of your chicken in lemon sauce. Don’t forget me just because you’ve found your soulmate’ – and another call from her dad; she still hadn’t responded to his last one. Sorry, she said to Will, would it be all right to phone her father as well.

  ‘You’re so polite.’ He shook his head, amused. ‘I keep saying, treat the place as home.’

  ‘Hi, Dads. It’s me.’ She covered the mouthpiece with her hand, whispering to Will. ‘I can’t be long.’

  Will made a ‘T’ sign.

  ‘Take as long as you like. No rush.’

  She nodded and pouted him a kiss.

  ‘No, it’s just I’m on someone else’s phone.’

  She heard Will’s voice, deliberately audible from the kitchen: ‘Yes, folks, that’s me. Someone else. Not “my boyfriend”, not “my partner”, not “Will” even, just “someone else”. She loves me, nah, nah, nah …’

  Fine, she said, she was fine – house fine – damp actually being treated that very moment – OK, not at that actual moment, but that day and tomorrow and soon it would be done and she could unpack and live like a real grown-up – yes, work fine, bit dull but paying the mortgage and keeping her in croissants – painting, surprisingly fine, she was less rusty than she’d thought – no, silly, not nearly good enough for that – yes, of course he could see them some time –

  ‘How come I’m not allowed to see them then?’ Will called through.

  ‘Don’t be so nosy,’ she called back. ‘Get on with the tea, boy.’

  ‘Oh. That’s Will,’ into the phone. ‘Well, he’s – y’know … hmm … yes, I guess he is really.’ She might as well admit it. She couldn’t sidestep the issue for ever.

  ‘Quite a while. He originally came to do the garden, which, incidentally,’ she said as he came back into the room with two mugs of tea, ‘is in dire need of attention. He’s falling way behind in his duties.’

  Will came up behind her, put his arms around her and whispered in her ear, ‘That’s because I keep getting distracted.’

  She shook him off and waggled her fingers at him to wave him away.

  ‘Yes, yes, he is.’

  Will was standing very close.

  ‘Is what, is what?’ he said. ‘Gorgeous? Lickable? Most Rampant Man on the Planet?’

  ‘Is right here,’ she hissed at him. Will wrinkled his nose.

  ‘No, no, don’t be leaping ahead, Dads. That’s not on the agenda.’

  ‘What isn’t? What isn’t?’ said Will, nibbling at her neck. Bella covered the mouthpiece.

  ‘Go away, Annoying Person. I’m trying to have a sensible conversation with my esteemed father here.’

  Will stuck his tongue in her ear and waggled it about slurpily. She grabbed his sleeve and raised his arm to her ear to wipe it – ‘You’re disgusting,’ she mouthed. He smiled and shrugged – ‘I know.’

  She dropped her voice and turned her back to him.

  ‘Funny, playful – yes, hmm-mm, very bright, thoughtful, direct. Sensitive, too. OK, if you like that sort of thing, I guess.’

  Will craned his face round into her vision and beamed at her. She shoved him away.

  She laughed. ‘No, no, not a wimp.’

  There was a pause. A long pause. Bella was frowning.

  ‘It’s a bit tricky. He’s very busy.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Will.

  The volume dipped again. Will tried to get closer to hear. Bella kept him at elbow’s length.

  ‘She is. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘It’ll put him off and then she can play her sympathetic-but-not-at-all surprised part.’

  ‘Mmm. You always say that. Possibly. I’ll consider it. No promises. Yeah. Bye, Dads, bye.’

  Will was standing with his arms folded.

  ‘They want to meet me, don’t they? You can’t hide me from them for ever.’

  ‘It’s the other way round, silly. I’m protecting you from them. Her. We’ll go if you insist, but don’t blame me when it all goes horribly wrong.’ She stomped upstairs. ‘Can I run a bath?’ calling back over her shoulder.

  ‘You don’t need to ask, for the 45th time. Only if I can come and molest you with my rubber duck.’

  ‘Hmm? I’ve never heard it called that before.’

  ‘I had such rude thoughts about you last night, you have no idea.’ Will rested a glass of chilled rosé on Bella’s tummy for a moment as she lay in the bath. The circle of cold sang against her skin.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Tell you my fantasy? You sure? It was pretty rude.’

  She nodded.

  ‘It is a hot, hot day and I have been walking for hours across the downs. At last, I come to a meadow with long grass, rippling like water in the wind. Far off, on the other side, I see a splash of colour – an orange blanket spread out with a figure lying on it in a white dress. I weave a cautious path through the grasses, then stop a few yards away. I am very thirsty but now I notice nothing but you. Your hair allows me only a tantalizing glimpse of your face, your eyelids flickering as you dream. A gust of warm wind lifts your dress, sliding it higher up your legs. For one brief moment, I am treated to a flash of white cotton at the tops of your thighs, then your dress settles once more.

  ‘I do not want to alarm you, but I am feeling so hot and flushed and I can see you have a cool-bag with you. Perhaps you have water. I start to sing quietly, to waken you gently: “… and when she passes, each one she passes goes ‘Aaah …’…” Your eyes flicker open, I reassure you, and you give me chilled water to drink, gesture to the ground by your side. Drowsy from the sun, we lean back on the blanket. Slowly, your hand strokes up my side and round to my chest. You start to unbutton my shirt, saying I must be very hot. You pour a little water into the well of your palm and rub it into my chest, cold against my skin.

  ‘“I’m hot, too,” you say. “You must cool me down.” I kneel beside you and drizzle water from the bottle over your dress. The wet cloth clings to you, outlining your luscious curves, moulding itself to your shape. “Blow on me,” you say, looking down. I begin at your feet, blowing cool breaths between your toes, over your insteps, around your ankles. Your murmurs mingle with the breeze, the whispering of the grasses.

  ‘As I blow just above your knee, you tremble and your legs ease apart a little way. “More,” I say, blowing along your thigh, “part for me.” The V of your legs widens, welcoming me in. I blow softly, then, as I breathe in, I take in your scent. Intoxicating. I cannot resist. My tongue plays around your inner thigh, flicking higher and higher. My lips press against you. The softness of your skin is like silk against my cheek, my chin.

  ‘I nudge my head forward beneath the white awning of your dress. I am so close to you now. I can see your knickers clinging to you damply. I want to pull them off, tug at them with my teeth … but first I must tease you a little more. My breath finds you again and your murmurs are deep, almost moans. At last, you arch towards me, pushing yourself against my mouth and I—

  ‘Bella?’

  She clambered out of the bath, sloshing water over the rim, and sat astride him, kissing hi
m, her mouth hard on his. He scooped his hands under her and pulled her close.

  ‘Sorry I’m getting you all wet.’ Bella tugged at his belt.

  He slid his hand between her legs.

  ‘You certainly are,’ and he laid her out in front of him on the bathroom floor.

  They talked late, murmuring into the early hours. Will asked if she’d mind leaving the bedside light on for a while.

  ‘I want to see your face.’

  His fingers stroked the length of her upper arm.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Will said, ‘sometimes I feel you’re not really here. I want to say I miss you but it seems silly when I can see you in the room with me. Um, I’m sorry if I upset you earlier. About Patrick. I wish you’d told me before.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear me droning on about my exes.’

  ‘Hardly droning on. We’ve all got a past.’

  ‘Really, Will. You wouldn’t like it if I started making comparisons – “Oh, Patrick used to do that too – that aftershave smelt quite different on Patrick – Patrick loved being touched like this in bed – ”’

  ‘Thanks, Bella. Why do you do that? You know that’s not what I meant. You’re just being – I don’t know – thingy.’

  ‘I’m just being thingy? Well, that makes everything so much clearer. I’m so glad we’ve sorted that out.’

  ‘Now you’ve got your Snow Queen voice on. I always feel like I’m interrogating you if I dare to ask you anything, like you’ve sworn some blood oath never to divulge how you feel. I’d like to think you can tell me stuff.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  He sighed.

  ‘Can I just ask – I mean, you must miss him, right?’

  In her mind, Patrick watches her, his face half in shadow, his expression veiled. He does not speak.

  ‘It’s not – you don’t – you couldn’t understand. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I might. I lost my stepdad, remember? I’m not a bereavement virgin. Won’t you even let me try? How do you know if you won’t tell me?’

  ‘Will. Please don’t.’ She closed her eyes, silently speaking to Patrick: ‘Patrick. Please don’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bella. I’m sorry. The last thing I want is to hurt you. I’m being selfish, I know – but I just want you to love me – as much as you obviously loved him.’

  There was a barely discernible shake of her head, then her eyelids flickered and she was silent. She felt his soft kiss on her brow, the breath of his silent sigh.

  He reached over to turn out the light and she heard his whisper in the darkness,

  ‘I wish I could really know you.’

  22

  After a mere eight days rather than the promised five, the DAMP was done, the walls replastered and painted, and there was no excuse for her not to return home. Bella repacked her clothes into her holdall, took her dress, her tops down from the hangers in Will’s wardrobe, retrieved her underwear from the drawer. She knew now that she shouldn’t have stayed with him, how much worse it was bound to make her feel.

  Will watched her as she retrieved her bits and pieces from the bathroom, as she zipped up her toilet bag with a final flourish.

  ‘Come on, sweet pea. I feel like we’re getting divorced or something. You don’t have to take every little last thing with you. Leave some stuff. Here – ’ He started shoving aside his own deodorant and shaving foam. ‘Let me clear you some more space.’

  She laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Thanks, Will. Really. But it’s not necessary. I need to have my things around me at home.’

  ‘I – well – I thought, maybe …’

  She stretched up to reach him, silencing him with a kiss.

  ‘Come and stay with me this weekend. I can spoil you for a change. I want to paint you anyway. And you can help me unpack the dreaded boxes.’

  He gathered her into a hug.

  ‘If you really want to spoil me, will you do that duck thing again? With the sauce?’

  ‘You’re squishing me. Yes, you can have the duck thing, but you’ll have to do extra box duty.’

  ‘It’s a deal. And don’t forget your promise.’

  ‘I won’t. Which promise?’

  ‘I knew you’d do that. About the galleries. You said you’d take in your pictures.’

  ‘I will. At some point. There’s no rush. Don’t go on.’

  ‘There is a rush. Life’s short, you know.’ He saw her eyes flicker. ‘Sorry. But you must … otherwise I’ll be forced to suck your toes until you beg for mercy.’

  ‘So?’ asked Will, manically raising and lowering his eyebrows at her when he met her from work on Friday evening.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you go and see any galleries?’

  She kept it brief. Yes, she had, so could he please now stop nagging her about it. She had tried to arrange appointments but two places said just to turn up on the off chance; the third had said they weren’t looking at any new artists at the moment. At the first gallery, the manageress had said they were certainly ‘well-painted, very well-executed, but slightly disturbing’; they preferred still lifes, landscapes, more conventional interior scenes. At the second, the decision-making person had turned out to be away for a week and she couldn’t see why they hadn’t just told her that on the phone because she had dragged out of her way to go there; they said she was welcome to leave a couple of paintings for him to see on his return, but she had declined and said she would call again later.

  ‘Did you go to that Mackie one, what’s it called? The top one?’

  ‘MacIntyre Arts. No, I didn’t. What would be the point?’

  Will shrugged.

  ‘Can’t see what you’ve got to lose. Don’t be so negative. They’ve got to hang somebody’s stuff on their walls – why not yours? We could go there now, just for a look.’ He stopped in the street, blocking the narrow pavement.

  ‘No we couldn’t. Why have you stopped? Can’t you walk and talk at the same time? Does it run down your batteries?’

  ‘Yes it does. I stopped because I like to see your face when you talk. Can I see any of your paintings yet, by the way?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Just one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A little, tiny one?’

  ‘Good grief. What are you like? OK, but no smartarse comments.’

  ‘But these are stunning.’ He held a small canvas up to the light to see it more clearly.

  ‘What’s the “but” for? No need to sound quite so surprised.’

  ‘Don’t be annoying. I’m not surprised that they’re so good, Paranoid Person. But I can’t believe that anyone could produce anything so beautiful and – and powerful and want to keep them under wraps. I love the colours. I’m glad I nagged you to try the galleries now. You’re bonkers.’

  ‘Thank you for your support.’

  ‘You have to try that top gallery. You know that, don’t you? If you don’t, and you exhibit in some ordinary, run-of-the-mill place, you’ll always know you settled, that you didn’t go for what you really wanted, never even tried to see if you could have it.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me that much. Anywhere would be wonderful.’

  He blew a raspberry.

  ‘Yes, dear. I believe you. Now look at this one—’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. I painted it.’

  He ignored her.

  ‘It’s almost creepy – in a good way. It feels hushed, something about the light and this shadow over here. I feel I should whisper, the woman looks so sad. No, not sad exactly. Bereft.’

  Will pointed to details.

  ‘… and these flagstones, the dip there where it’s been worn by footsteps. Is that the cathedral? Odd. Bits of it look like the cathedral, but it feels like somewhere else, like in a dream.’

  ‘Full marks, boy. It’s a fusion, innit? A synthesis of reality and imagination. All paintings are to a degree, anyway – because the way you see the world is never quite the same
as the way it is.’

  ‘You mean you can paint what you see inside your head?’

  She nodded.

  Monday lunch-time. She stood looking in the window for a long time. Good stuff, very good: a first-rate portrait of a slightly cross-looking woman in oils, rather quirkily done; two small pastel nudes; a set of four woodcut landscapes – beautifully stylized, accomplished. She tried to look beyond the window, to see inside.

  ‘Going in?’ A tweedy, middle-aged man about to enter the gallery was holding open the door for her.

  ‘No. I just—’

  Why not? She was here now. Nothing to stop her from having a quick look.

  She went from picture to picture, her mood swinging from elation – ‘this is wonderful’ – to depression – ‘I haven’t got a hope in hell.’ She must bring Will here. ‘Oh, look at this, and this, and this,’ she wanted to say to him. A tiny ceramic enamelled piece caught her eye, glittering like a jewel. Even the pictures that weren’t to her taste were at least well done. They would never take her work here. She couldn’t possibly ask. They’d probably laugh and look embarrassed; they’d say, ‘But you’re only Bella. Perhaps you didn’t understand: we only exhibit proper artists here.’

  The tweedy man was standing by the desk, talking to the assistant.

  ‘So.’ He swung round towards her while looking through his post. ‘Have you come to see me?’ He nodded at her portfolio, her brown paper parcel.

  ‘Let’s have a look then.’ He held out his hands.

  Mr MacIntyre nodded as he looked through, without speaking. Oh, God, she thought, he couldn’t even think of anything polite to say. This was awful, worse than being at school, standing there while teacher read through her story. Would she get a single red tick? A ‘could try harder’? She focused all her attention on her toes, clenching and unclenching them inside her shoes. He hovered a long time, looking at the five cathedral paintings she had brought. Were there any others? he wanted to know. Yes, several, more than a dozen she thought, and some other water-colours. Was she planning to do more? She couldn’t stop at the moment, she said.