Love Is a Four Letter Word (2 page)

There was a banging on the front door.

‘Why didn't you use the bell, you old bag?'

‘I did. It obviously doesn't work, slag-face.' Viv gave Bella a hug and pushed a gold cardboard box into her hands.

‘Just what I need. A cardboard box. I was running dangerously low on them. How on earth did you guess?'

‘It's cakes. Emergency rations. My God – are all the rooms as full as this?' Viv waggled her head in disbelief, sending her precariously pinned carroty hair lurching from side to side.

‘I seem to have more stuff than I thought.' Bella shrugged.

‘What's in them all?'

‘I don't know. Books. Paints. Kitchen things. Families of refugees. You know, stuff.'

Viv opened a nearby box.

‘Old exhibition catalogues?'

‘I've been meaning to go through them and weed out the ones I don't want, but I haven't got around to it yet.'

‘Is that the Kreuzer family motto:
Dulce et decorum est procrastinati
…?'

‘Thank you for those few charming words. Make yourself useful, can't you? Help me look for the kettle. It's in a box marked KTCH, which stands for kitchen not kitsch before you make any smart-arse comments – it's probably up in the BTH.'

That first night in her new home, Bella left a light on as she always did – she'd had to dash out to the latenight corner shop to buy light bulbs because the vendor had removed every single one of them. She lay awake, looking at the slit of light under the bedroom door. I ought to be feeling excited, she told herself. New house. New job. New city. I mustn't be so negative. So what if I've only got one week to sort out the house before I start at Scotton Design? So the house needs a few things seeing to? That's why it was so reasonable. A counter voice cut in: Are you completely clueless? As if you didn't have enough on your plate without turning your entire life upside down. Now you'll be living in mouldy chaos for ever and you don't even know anyone here except for Viv and Nick and you can't expect to see them all the time. They've got each other. They don't need you.

As her eyelids drooped, she thought of Patrick. If he'd been here with her now, what would he be doing? Snoring, probably, she reminded herself sharply. He'd have liked the house, she decided, yawning and snuggling down under the duvet. That was the bugger about not having a chap around the place. He would have got
the damp sorted. And the boxes. No, she thought, he wouldn't: Patrick would have stepped over the boxes, saying, ‘We really must sort these out.' But at least he would have rubbed her cold feet to warm them up.

Bella bit her lip. Enough with the self-pity, OK? Consider the plus points: lovely house of her very own, with loads of potential especially now Mr Petty had stripped it of his beloved wall lights and nauseating carpets; near Viv so her phone bill would plummet because they wouldn't have to have their epic longdistance calls any more; no longer having to hold her breath every time her colleague Val (known as Valitosis) came within exhalation range; interesting new job that should be less stressful. Yes, she comforted herself, less stress, that was the main thing. No more having her face stuffed into someone else's armpit on the tube. No more spending a fortune on taxis to get home safely late at night. No more dingy flat where she had to have the lights on even in the daytime. No more thoughts of Patrick confronting her every time she opened the front door to a flatful of silence. She made herself do her Pollyanna voice – Golly gosh, wasn't she just the luckiest girl in the whole wide world, a fresh start. Gee, it sure was exciting. She could hardly wait.

Right. Pens, briefcase. Shoes polished. Lipstick. Hair. Oh, bollocks. It wasn't supposed to do that. It made her look like a sheepdog that had been lolloping through the undergrowth. She stuck out her tongue and panted to complete the effect. Perhaps her hair would be better pinned up? She scooped it up off her neck and made what she hoped was an elegant face in the mirror. Tremendous – now she resembled a coiffured poodle. She had a hat somewhere. Out There, in the Box Zone, there was definitely a fetching little item of headgear. The question was: which box? She kicked the nearest one as if it might make a hat-containing-type noise. A look at her watch. Now was not the time to start hunting for hats. And what would she do with it anyway? She could hardly keep it on all day. Perhaps she could claim to be Muslim. Or having chemotherapy. She stood at the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water to settle her stomach. Good grief, this was worse than going on a date or preparing for her first day at school. You're thirty-three for God's sake, she told herself. They're not going to pick on you or try to nick your pencil case.

∼ ∼ ∼

Mummy stands talking to Mr Bowndes, the headmaster. She lays a hand on his arm and tilts her head back as she laughs. Bella looks down at her own feet, at her new shoes. They are navy blue with shiny silver buckles and straps that are still too stiff to do up herself. It is September but she is wearing pristine white ankle socks with neat blue anchors around the cuffs. The other girls, she sees, have knee-length grey socks. Autumn socks.

Through her new blue felt hat she feels a pat on her head. She looks up.

‘So nice to see a pupil properly dressed with the correct school hat,' says Mr Bowndes, leaning towards Mummy, ‘So few parents bother now.' He laughs as if he is making a joke, but Bella supposes it must be a grown-up joke because she does not know what is funny.

‘But it's so
charming,
I think, no?' Mummy does that thing with her voice, almost as if she is going to start singing, and taps the brim of Bella's hat with one long finger.

Standing still in her hat, Bella imagines she is a navy blue mushroom. She wishes she were in the woods, her feet sunk in velvet moss, her toenails growing, stretching, becoming roots in the earth. Rabbits would stop and talk to her and tickle her with their noses. She would listen to the leaves as they rustled in the wind.

Mr Bowndes waves bye-bye to her mother then deposits Bella with an older girl who shepherds her to the correct classroom.

She is the only one wearing a hat.

∼ ∼ ∼

It took her longer to find Scotton Design than she had expected. This was probably because she was coming at it from the other way round, she decided. Still, there seemed to be a Brigadoon-like quality to the place. Surely it had been down that turning just past the shoe shop? Hang on a tick – last time, she'd come from the station, so that meant she should have turned left back there, not right. Or did it? She stood still for a moment, trying to ignore the flutter of panic rising in her stomach. A passer-by sighed loudly as he detoured around her, impatient at yet another gawping tourist blocking the pavement. The tower of the cathedral loomed large to her left – ah-hah, cathedral on left, so – yes, past greasy chip shop and Waterstone's.

Renewing old London habits, she veered automatically into a café as she neared the office, to pick up a cappuccino and a Danish. Excess froth splurged out of the steam hole in the lid, sidling lava-like towards her fingers.

She was still licking her fingers as she entered the reception area to be greeted by her new boss.

‘Bella! You're here! Great!' Seline checked her watch. ‘New client meeting at 2! But I'm out most of the morning so I'll have to brief you in two mins! OK!'

‘Fine!' Bella lifted her voice, attempting to interject exclamation marks to match Seline's tone. Had she really been like this at her two interviews? ‘Of course!' She looked around for somewhere to set down her cascading coffee. Tomorrow, she'd be sure to get herself a quadruple espresso so she could boost her energy levels and not sound like the dormouse from
Alice in Wonderland
by comparison.

‘Gail! Do the honours, will you!'

‘Here – let me take those.' Gail disentangled Bella from her cup, her coat, her briefcase. ‘Pay no attention to Seline. She's just trying to impress 'cause you're t' swanky art director from t' big city. There's the loo, by
the way – kitchen – coffee-maker – tea bags in there. Now come and meet the other inmates …'

‘Shall we go to the tapas place again?' said Viv on the phone the next day. ‘But I always go there – is it too pathetic?'

‘Why spend ages traipsing around town hunting for somewhere new just to prove you're an exciting, adventurous person who doesn't always go to the same two restaurants when you already know that you aren't adventurous and they are clearly the two best places to go? Count yourself lucky you've not got much choice.'

‘Neither have you. You live here too now, remember?'

‘Yes, but I've retained some semblance of urban sophistication, whereas you probably think focaccia is a Romanian folk-dance.'

For now at least, Bella genuinely preferred this provincial paucity of choice. In London, she had felt like a hero from Greek legend faced with an impossible dilemma: Patrick used to narrow it down in stages – first, by continent, then country. ‘Right, Europe. Italian, French, Greek?' Then to the quest for the elusive Holy Trinity of decent food, friendly service and good atmosphere, juggling combinations until it was almost too late to be worth going. ‘The Conca d'Oro has that nice waitress but the veg was soggy last time.' ‘Le Beaujolais? Good chips but can you handle the look of condescending superiority when you ask for vinegar?'

*   *   *

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.' Viv swept into the tapas bar twenty minutes late. ‘There was a complete
crisis
at work. The entire network crashed because some total arsehole plugged in a hair-dryer and overloaded the electrics.'
Viv loved a good crisis. They ordered a couple of beers, and debated over whether the
pinchos morunos
or the
pollo al ajillo
was a better bet.

‘What do you think?' Viv indicated the waiter with her eyebrows. ‘Bit tasty?'

Bella wrinkled her nose.

‘You're
so
fussy. I thought you liked Latin men?'

‘He's probably from Bromley,' Bella said. ‘I know, I know. I'll never get anyone at this rate. You sound just like my mother.'

‘Did I say that? Of course you'll find someone else. No need to panic – not for ages and ages.'

‘What's that?' Bella cocked her head as if listening for something.

‘What?'

‘Tick. Tick. My biological clock. Surely you can hear it? My mother can hear it over fifty miles away apparently. I don't care. I've decided not to worry about having sprogs. I'm just going to get some on time-share for two weeks a year.'

‘How are the parents anyway?' Viv said, speaking through the lime wedge that she had decorked from her beer bottle and clamped between her lips like a comic mouth. ‘Have they been to view the new Kreuzer estate yet?'

‘Fending them off as long as possible.
Alessandra
asked after you, as always, last time we spoke.' Bella coloured her voice with theatrical timbre as she said her mother's name. ‘I can just see her peering at the damp – “Oh is that a
deliberate
paint effect, Bella-darling?” ‘

‘What you need,' said Viv, ‘is an action plan. To meet men.'

‘I never turn down invitations, no matter how dull they sound.'

Thanks,' said Viv. ‘That's the last time I ask you out.'

‘Not you, stupid.' Bella took a swig of her beer straight from the bottle. ‘I told you, I'm not bothered. I like being on my own.'

‘Liar.'

‘Pig. I do. Why shouldn't I? Just because you've found Mr Perfect, you think anyone single must be some pathetic half-person.'

Viv shook her head.

‘Even Nick's mum would hardly describe him as perfect. What about the new job? What's the official rating?' A vestige from when they used to hunt in a pack. The other two, Kath and Sinead, had long since defected by committing the cardinal sin: getting married. And since Viv had been living with Nick, Bella was the sole remaining singleton.

‘0.5. Two married, one gay, and one too wet to risk leaving in the same room as a packet of crackers.'

‘Not even a whiff of a man lately?'

‘I can't even remember what one looks like. They're the ones with the stubble and the big egos, right? I went out a couple of times with that account exec. from the ad agency, Tim, remember? But he was deathly. Wittered on about his shares portfolio and what I should be buying and selling. Bleugh. I'm better off without. I hate all that couply stuff anyway.'

‘Which stuff?'

‘You know. All that having joint opinions about everything:
“We
think this and
we
do that.
We
consider
Citizen Kane
to be overrated and
we
prefer Szechuan cuisine to Cantonese …” Their personalities go all amoebaed into one like a matching pen and pencil set.'

‘That's such crap. We're not like that.'

‘See?
We're
not…? Whatever happened to
I
?‘

‘Anyway.' Viv sighed and signalled to the waiter for another two beers. ‘There's lots of good bits: love, companionship, sex for a start.'

‘Sex? What's that? Is that the thing that happens
somewhere between the first snog and the slamming of the front door? Ah, yes, I had some of that once …'

‘So, have you not –' Viv nodded euphemistically, ‘since—?'

‘No. No-one since Patrick. I have been designated a shag-free zone. It's official.'

No-one since Patrick. She could remember the last time. It was Christmas. Boxing Day. They'd just got back to the flat after a slow and drizzly drive home from visiting his parents in Norfolk.

∼ ∼ ∼

The flat is cold and unwelcoming, the fridge pathetically unChristmassy, bare except for a half-used tube of tomato purée, a sad lemon and two bottles of wine.