‘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 driv
e 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.
‘I think I’ll slope off to bed,’ she says, half-suppressing a yawn. ‘So tired!’
‘Good idea. I’ll come too.’
She undresses slowly, pulling off her things distractedly, tugging her still-buttoned cuffs over her hands because she can’t be bothered to undo them. Reaches for her big black T-shirt under her pillow, her fluffy bedsocks. Pads through to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
‘You reading tonight?’ asks Patrick.
Her Christmas books are still in a carrier bag in the hall. She shakes her head. A click as he switches off the light.
She feels his hand snake over her side, under her T-shirt, cupping her tummy from behind.
‘You’re nice and warm.’
She turns over to kiss him goodnight.
‘’Night,’ she says.
She feels his tongue push tentatively between her lips; starts to murmur that she’s really too sleepy, it’s been a long day. He strokes her hair, speaks softly, telling her he loves her, how soft her skin feels, how sexy she is.
Her body starts to respond automatically to his touch, his hand moving between her thighs; she feels herself growing wet, hears his low sigh as his fingers find her.
∼ ∼ ∼
Boxing Day, the year before the one just gone, she remembers. That’s when it was.
‘Now he’s rather nice. Over there – don’t look.’ Viv’s voice shifted to a stage whisper.
‘Fine. I’m not looking.’
‘No. Look now, quick.’
Bella craned her head round to see the unwitting quarry, pretending to be looking at the Spanish poster advertising a bullfight on the wall above. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
‘Viv, he’s with someone. See that other person at the same table with the earrings and the polka-dot blouse. She didn’t come as a side order with the meal, you know. Here’s some bread and a woman for the evening.’
Viv waved her away dismissively.
‘She could be his cousin, come for a visit.’
‘She could be the Dalai Lama in disguise, but let’s look at the most likely option first, shall we? Two people: one male, one female, in a restaurant, in the evening. Sounds suspiciously like a couple having a relationship to me. You ought to know. That’s what normal people do. I read it in one of the Sunday supplements.’
* * *
They walked as far as the cathedral together before their routes took them separate ways. How stunning it was lit up at night – and not a tourist in sight to appreciate it. By day, it was a magnet for Japanese groups following their tour guide bearing a rolled umbrella aloft like a drum majorette, and troupes of French schoolchildren sporting identical blue caps and matching plastic pouches round their necks advertising: ‘My passport and all my money. Steal me.’
Bella walked across the bridge. The river glinted darkly below. A few boats bobbed gently, clunking woodenly against each other. It looked mysterious and exciting, the kind of night when your partner might turn to you and say, ‘Let’s go to Rome for the weekend – now!’ Did anyone really have a relationship like that? Viv frequently complained that she and Nick never managed to get away. And even when Bella had been with someone, they had never done spontaneous things like jetting off to the Continent on the spur of the moment or having sex on the kitchen floor or in the bath. Once, in a fit of horniness, she and Sean, her boyfriend before Patrick, had tugged down each other’s jeans and attempted to do it on the stairs. But the jeans were in the way and there seemed to be far too many knees involved in the proceedings, and after two minutes the step digging into her lower back was all she could think about. They’d had to stop and trip upstairs to his bedroom, their legs pinioned by their half-mast jeans, by which time much of their fiery passion had fizzled into a damp squib.
It was just one of those pointless ideas they use to fill up the pages of women’s magazines: ‘Love-life lost its magic? Spice it up: initiate sex at unexpected moments and in surprising places.’ But they were always special magazine-world clichés about romance and sex, stuff like ‘Tuck little love notes into your partner’s pockets for him to discover during the day’ and ‘Surprise your man by whispering to him that you’re not wearing any panties when you’re out together.’ He’d just think you were going prematurely senile. What if you told him while you were tootling around Tesco’s hunting for decent olives? That would certainly be a surprise. Would he really be so overcome with excitement that he’d lean you back over the long-life milk? Or take you over a freezer filled with coffee Viennettas and Arctic Rolls? Wouldn’t that be awfully cold on your bottom? Would other shoppers ignore you – how English – and perhaps try to reach past your thigh, saying, ‘Excuse me, dear, could I just get to the mandarin cheesecake? See, I’ve my sister-in-law coming at the weekend.’
A young couple wove towards her, stopping every few feet to kiss, veering erratically in their path like drunken crabs; an older pair, in their fifties she guessed, passed by holding hands. When she was first with Patrick, she had usually felt glad at the sight of other couples laughing and kissing and canoodling. There seemed to be a secret bond between them all. Sometimes, four pairs of eyes would meet and smile: ‘We know how good life is, don’t we?’
Now, it just made Bella depressed. God, how smug couples were. If she were ever stupid enough to be in a couple again – that sounded dreadful: in a couple, like in prison, in detention, in a mess – she would shun smugness. How can you be so ungenerous about other people’s happiness? she reproached herself. She lengthened her stride and resolved to be more positive. Things were fine. Time for herself so she could concentrate on her house. She could slump about all weekend in slobby clothes. Go out with lots of different men. No need to keep tidying the towels because he couldn’t grasp the concept of folding. No need to buy that ridiculous, expensive, three-fruit marmalade just because he liked it.
But I grew to like that marmalade too, she reminded herself. And I don’t seem to be going out with lots of men, do I? That was true, she admitted. But she could if she wanted to; it was the principle that mattered.
Lying in bed that night, Bella thought about Viv and Nick. Strange how seamlessly Viv had gone from being Viv to being Viv and Nick, as if he had always been there. He was unmistakably a fixture, built in to Viv’s life, and Viv to his. Wouldn’t be Bella’s choice, of course. Hair had evidently been on strict rations when Nick reached the head of the queue. He had soft, malleable features that looked as if you could squish them out of position and they might stay that way, like plasticine. And his devotion to his car, a pale blue Karmann Ghia, was a bit sad, especially since it was overfond of the hard shoulder, tending to break down on any journey over twenty miles. Still, he and Viv obviously loved each other to pieces. She could certainly think of worse matches. Her own parents for a start, her father so mild, so eager to please, her mother … well, at least she wasn’t like her.
Perhaps Viv was at that same moment thinking about Bella. Was she lying there in bed, snuggled up to Nick, saying to him: ‘Poor Bella seems to have thrown in the towel. No sex for more than a year. Probably never find anyone half as nice as Patrick again. Still, should be over him by now.’
Bella could hear it cycling round and round in her head. Should be over him by now, should be over him by now …
3
Beneath the two words ‘YOGHURT – IDEAS??’ on her notepad, a sketch of Bella’s new boss was taking shape nicely. The gap between her neck and her shirt collar, the glasses propped on top of her head apparently watching the ceiling. As if it were a thing apart, Bella watched the line of her pencil recreate the angle where Seline’s chin jutted forward in eagerness, a chicken heading for corn.
‘Bella?’ Seline raised her eyebrows at her.
Bella c
lunked her coffee mug down on top of the sketch and tried to look thoughtful, as if weighing up all the various options before giving her opinion. Could they possibly still be talking about the yoghurt campaign or had they moved on to the corporate design deal for the country-house hotel? She felt like a schoolkid, about to be told off for not paying attention. Bella Kreuzer! Are you daydreaming again?
‘Erm …’ she volunteered, trying to peer sideways at Anthony’s pad to read the note he was scribbling for her.
‘Lifestyle Yoghurt?’ Seline prompted. ‘Any more thoughts on the redesign? The focus groups research suggests it looks too healthy. The client wants a new look.’
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking.’ Bella nodded wisely, every inch the creative director, keen to consider yoghurt-carton design very seriously indeed. ‘I certainly think we could strengthen the idea that these yoghurts are fun and sensual, too. The customer – consumer – wants to feel that she can be healthy yet self-indulgent and just a bit sinful at the same time. I’ll do some roughs tomorrow, with a sexier typeface.’
‘Great!’ Seline clicked her pen against her teeth, pleased. ‘Anyone else?’
The inside of Bella’s lower lip was sore where she had been biting it. She had only been in the job for a fortnight and already she was finding it hard to keep a straight face; it was as bad as when she’d been in advertising or women’s magazines. How was she supposed to maintain a sensible, grown-up expression when people started talking about yoghurt or detergent or a new paint range as if it were a cure for cancer or a way to bring about world peace?
Seline, who ran Scotton Design (or Scrotum Design as Anthony liked to call it), was in many respects a perfectly sane human being and, as she frequently claimed, ‘as fond of a joke as the next person’ – which would be true if the next person were also a stranger to the concept of irony. But she often acted as if the sky would fall in if the lettering on a packet of panty-liners didn’t convey dryness, freshness, a carefree attitude, a healthy sex life, and a busy, affluent lifestyle. And that was just the lettering. Who needed panty-liners anyway? That’s what knickers were for. Soon they’d be marketing liners to keep your panty-liners fresh and dry.
Love Is a Four Letter Word Page 2
