Thank God she had her painting to focus on. The date of the exhibition private view gleamed in red pen in her diary; she forced herself to keep it in her sights, a brilliant buoy in a dark ocean. When she got home from work, she dumped her bag on the floor, clunking her keys on the table, sloughing off her jacket like a snake eager to slither from its old skin. She ate standing at the cluttered kitchen worktop, shoving aside coffee-cups and old newspapers, hunched over a dish of pasta – forking it rhythmically into her mouth as if fuelling a boiler, not bothering to chop onions, crush garlic for a sauce, bored with cooking, bored with eating, bored with herself. Then she climbed the stairs to her studio and sank into her paintings, losing herself in colour and shadow, letting the smell of paint and turpentine fill her head, her brush jabbing into the paint, swirling onto canvas, blotting him out.
She stood under the shower, an automaton washing herself by rote. Felt like a gerbil in an exercise wheel, running nowhere, endlessly watching the same scenery. Wash, dress, teeth, work. Eat, undress, wash, teeth. Again and again. Year in, year out. And a relationship was no different. Meet, date, talk, kiss, fuck, row. Again and again. What a waste of time. At least with painting, once the brush touched the canvas, the board, the paper, the mark was there. It existed without her having to redo it over and over again. Even if she were to paint over it, she knew the original brushstroke remained beneath, hidden yet real.
Bella started getting into work crisply at nine instead of breezing in towards ten with the rest of them, paring down the hours to be endured alone at home. Work was dull but safe and she was grateful for the routine and the office banter. She shunned socializing, pleading the need to prepare for her exhibition when the others sloped off to the pub, even avoiding Viv. She stayed late one Friday evening to excavate the office fridge, a task that had been left so long that Anthony said she should wear protective clothing and evacuate the building. Seline had agreed that it would be worth attempting to train Anthony as Bella’s deputy if she could get him to act a little more responsibly and not refer to his pierced nipple in front of clients. Bella concentrated on ‘grooming him for stardom’ as he put it.
‘Other boys wanted to be astronauts, footballers,’ he said, ‘but I dreamed of becoming a megalomaniac.’
‘All in good time,’ she said. ‘Don’t let them see the power-crazed glint in your eye until it’s too late.’
She closed the door from Seline’s office with a too-loud clunk, after yet another meeting that had once again been sidetracked from the insignificant issue of future projects and which ones Bella might be involved with on a freelance basis to the far more important one of the redecoration of Seline’s house, involving the serious consideration of two thousand shade cards with tiny squares of infinitesimally differing tones of what used to be known as beige but now seemed to be called ‘Cappuccino’, ‘Sahara’ and ‘Antique Gold’.
Two yellow stickies on her phone: ‘Your dad called. Have you remembered your mum’s birthday? Please call back.’ Another Duty Visit, that would be fun; she flicked through her desk diary – it was a Friday, she’d have to book a day off. And a message from Viv, saying hello and goodbye before she went off to work at head office in Birmingham for three weeks. It was too late to ring her back anyway – she’d have gone by now. Viv had been strangely unsympathetic when Bella told her about Will – ‘You’re a bloody idiot if you’ve shoved him away, Bel. That man is a gem.’
A series of sketches were spread out on her studio floor and she was about to start painting when the phone rang. It was Fran’s voice on the answerphone; Bella stood at the top of the stairs, wanting to run down and pick up the phone. Fran went on at length – she was ringing to see how Bella was, to tell her she was still very welcome, she didn’t have to come with Will. Bella crept downstairs as if Fran could detect her presence, and rested her hand on the phone.
‘I know I can be a bit of a nosy old bag, but I promise not to interfere. I’d just love to see you. I’m so fond of you and I hate it when people lose touch – life’s too short. Besides, I have an ulterior motive …’
She’d just said she wouldn’t interfere; surely Fran wasn’t going to lecture her about Will?
‘… I’d love some more of that flan you made. The upside-downy one …’
The tarte Tatin?
‘I even dreamt about it the other night. That’s what being past the menopause does for you. No more fantasizing about muscular chappies whisking you off into the sunset.’
Bella thought about standing in Fran’s kitchen, rolling out pastry while Will peeled the apples, dipping a piece into the bag of sugar before slipping it into her mouth; his look of childlike wonder when she had turned the tin upside down and there was the tart, warm and brown and smelling of caramel; his face as he smiled at her across the kitchen table.
‘I daresay you must be up to your eyes preparing for your exhibition. Will told me – he sounded so proud of you …’
Should she pick up?
‘Anyway, sorry to blether on, hope I haven’t used up your tape. Do ring me any time you want to come. Don’t wait to be asked. It’s always open house here for you.’
And then she was gone.
Donald MacIntyre phoned from the gallery. How were things progressing, he wanted to know, and could she supply a brief biography of herself. She sat slumped on the stairs, lulled by the rich maleness of his voice.
‘… you’ll need to have them here by then at the latest so they can go to the framers … or would you like us to pick them up? We can do that.’
‘I think – there – might – I think there could be a bit of a problem.’
‘Oh?’ His tone was cool.
‘Um, yes. I’m not sure if they’re – well, I might not be ready for the exhibition. I think perhaps you should just count me out.’
‘No.’ He spoke with authority. ‘Sounds like classic pre-exhibition jitters to me. Let me come and see what you’ve done.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘I’m afraid I think I’ll have to. Say this evening? Around eight?’
Donald MacIntyre was taller than she had remembered, filling the sitting-room with his presence. His smart suit made her suddenly self-conscious about her appearance – her hair hauled back roughly into a clip, her faded leggings and slipped-down socks. She saw his gaze sweep the room, noticing the half-drunk mugs of coffee dotted around on every flat surface, long-dry washing draped over the radiators.
‘They’re upstairs.’ Bella led the way.
She was sure he would hate them, anticipated his embarrassed look of disappointment, the shrug of his shoulders as he searched for the most tactful phrases. Best get it over with.
‘There are just a few water-colours.’ She gestured. ‘Some line drawings as well. The rest are oils, as before.’
He squatted, incongruous in his beautiful tailoring among the oily rags and half-squished tubes of paint.
‘Careful! Those ones aren’t quite dry yet.’
He paused by a large painting, the one based on her very first sketch of Will.
‘This.’ He nodded. ‘For the window.’
‘No!’ She coughed apologetically. ‘It’s not for sale.’
He laughed drily to himself and shook his head.
‘We can fight about that later. Anyway, what was all this nonsense about your not being ready?’
Bella shrugged.
‘With the others you brought, there’s more than we have space for anyway. However …’
Here it comes, she thought, he hates them.
‘These are better than a couple of the other ones, so we might have a bit of a swap round before they go to the framers, OK?’ He straightened up with a creak. ‘Getting old.’ He tutted at himself, then looked at her. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. Yes. Are they – all right then?’
And then he laughed. A great big, generous, booming laugh. Bella giggled nervously, unsure why he was laughing, surprised that such
a sound could emanate from this quiet, elegant man.
‘I do apologize,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. Do you think for one second that I would exhibit them if I didn’t think they were “all right”? Why would I? I’m not running a charity for unemployed artists. All right? No, they’re not all right. They’re bloody good. Really. Consider yourself told.’ He shook his head, laughing again. ‘I love this business,’ he said. ‘If only I didn’t have to deal with artists.’
27
‘You’ll bring Will of course, won’t you?’ Gerald said on the phone when Bella finally returned his call about Alessandra’s birthday.
‘Hmm. Possibly not.’
‘Oh? How’s it going with him?’
‘Going, going, gone, since you ask.’
And, no, she didn’t want to talk about it and please would he not tell Alessandra, because she wasn’t feeling up to that stoic, ‘my-daughter-is-the-cross-I-bear’ look.
She had already bought Alessandra’s present – an antique serving platter, its edge patterned with clusters of deep pink rosebuds and touches of gold, but she spent almost as long hunting for the perfect wrapping paper to go with it. Although she usually gave her own hand-made cards to friends, she had long since switched to shop-bought ones for her mother. It was easier, none of that ‘how charming, so lovely to have a home-made one’ insincere bollocks, and she was very busy anyway what with trying to fit in some painting most evenings and sorting out her contacts book for freelance work. Friday, the birthday itself, was booked off, so she loaded the car late on Thursday evening – her clothes, the present plus a graceful weeping-fig plant as an extra, a new thriller (unbirthday present for Dad), a bottle of decent claret – and set off.
* * *
She slept in her old room once more, but stole quietly into the proper guest room where she had stayed with Will on her last visit. Here was where they had had that stupid row, with Will trying to give her a lesson in Happy Families, what a smug git he could be. She curled her lip, determined to be angry with him. That night, she had turned away from him, pretended to be asleep when he had touched her shoulder, curled his arm over her waist, whispered her name. If only she didn’t miss him so much, didn’t have this horrible ache in the pit of her stomach most of the time. Picking up her holdall once more, she strode through to her own room and closed the door firmly behind her. It was better this way.
Still wearing the baggy T-shirt she had worn in bed, Bella quickly pulled on her jeans and thick socks to come downstairs. She let out Hund from his preferred sleeping-place in the utility room, squatted to loop her arms around his neck, remembering Will’s playful whimpering when he had watched her lavish her affection on the dog. Aside from the clicking patter of Hund’s paws on the floor, the house was hushed and still, with the particular quietness of the hour before anyone else is up. It seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the shuffle of slippers on the stairs, the clatter of cups, the muffled whoomph of the boiler, the clinking of milk bottles as the fridge door was opened.
The kitchen, as always, was pristine, with the slight chill of a very tidy room. She was glad of the socks – even through them she could feel the cold hardness of the quarry-tiled floor. She pulled out the prettiest cups and saucers from the glass-fronted cupboard, filled a milk jug, foraged in the cutlery drawer for the best tea strainer. Now, tray? And a cloth. She found a fresh linen napkin and laid that on the tray and set out the cups on it, pilfered a single bloom and a frond of foliage from the arrangement in the hall to add to a tiny vase.
She heard soft footsteps on the stairs, then Gerald came in.
‘Morning, Dads. Back to bed with you. Go on. I’m bringing you both up some tea.’
He spotted the tray.
‘What a treat, to have it made. Did you find everything you needed?’ He paused at the door. ‘Oh, did you know, your mother will only drink Earl Grey in the morning now? I prefer the ordinary, but don’t worry.’
‘No, no. That’s fine. I’ll just find a second pot.’
Balancing the tray on her raised knee and steadying it with one hand, she knocked on their bedroom door.
‘Birthday tea in bed, madam?’ Bella bent down to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘Happy birthday. Your present’s in the car; I’ll go and fetch it in a minute. Your hair’s looking nice.’ Even first thing in the morning, it was already pinned up neatly.
‘Thank you, Bella-darling. How lovely. Pretty anemone – I have some just like it in the hall. Is this Earl Grey?’ Alessandra peered at the tray.
‘Yes, Dad warned me. Shall I pour?’
‘Best leave it for a minute. Oh, could you not find the tray-cloths? They’re in the drawer.’
‘No.’ Bella turned her back to busy herself with pouring the tea, placing the strainer on each cup with infinite care, remembering to put the milk in last as was correct, carrying the cups over to the bed like a child, her brow furrowed in her eagerness to please.
‘Marvellous,’ said Alessandra. ‘Perhaps I could have just a drop more milk?’ Bella followed instructions with the milk jug then turned to go.
‘No Will this time?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean— Give him our best won’t you?’
‘Hmm-mm.’
They spent the morning in town, where Alessandra wanted to find a scarf to offset the beautiful amber brooch Gerald had given her.
‘He says it reminded him of the flecks in my eyes. Really, your father’s a hopeless old romantic.’ She smiled indulgently.
They met up with Gerald for lunch, and he duly admired the new scarf.
‘And Bella-darling, do let me treat you to something nice to wear,’ Alessandra said. ‘You must have had those trousers for ages.’
‘They’re comfortable. I do have smart clothes for work, you know.’
Her mother nodded.
‘Well, of course, I can’t keep up with what’s in fashion now.’ She tweaked at the edge of the deep cuff of her silver-grey crêpe-de-Chine blouse. ‘I just stick to the classics.’
Bella had insisted on cooking the birthday banquet. They started with hard-boiled quails’ eggs, sitting on a salad of mixed leaves, fresh rocket, shreds of purplered radicchio, blanched sugar snap peas, strips of grilled red and yellow peppers, with a warm sesame oil dressing.
Alessandra had ‘just popped in for something’ while Bella was cooking.
‘Mmm. Wonderful colours. Your father won’t eat peppers, you know.’
* * *
‘Is this from that cookery book I gave you at Christmas?’ asked Alessandra at supper, cocking her head to one side, assessing.
‘No, actually, I just made it up. What do you think?’
‘Delicious!’ said Bella’s father. ‘The peppers are lovely cooked like this.’
‘It’s very good. But the rucola must have been expensive,’ said Alessandra.
The main course was poached salmon, served warm with a watercress sauce, pommes Anna, layered with translucent slivers of onion and moistened with milk, and fine French beans with glazed carrots. Nothing innovative, nothing risky, nothing with too much how-interesting-I-never-cook-it-that-way potential.
‘And there should be some left over for having cold tomorrow,’ said Bella.
‘Oh, but I’ve plenty of food in for tomorrow already.’
‘You still haven’t opened your present from me yet. It’s in the hall. I’ll go and get it.’ Bella rose from her chair.
‘Please don’t bother, Bella-darling. I’ll open it later.’
‘Please open it now.’
Bella cleared the plates and placed the present in front of Alessandra.
‘Well, isn’t this wonderfully wrapped? What pretty paper.’
‘I hope you like it.’ Bella straightened the salt and pepper in front of her, brushed crumbs from the cloth into her palm. ‘I’m afraid I can’t take it back.’
‘Of course you won’t need to take it back.’ Alessandra delicately picked off the sticky tape. ‘Well now.’ The platter lay exposed in its nest of pale pink tissue and rose-covered wrapping paper. ‘That’s really very charming, Bella. Thank you.’
‘We must give it pride of place,’ said Gerald. ‘Why don’t we move that boring green one and put it in the middle of the big dresser?’
‘But Gerald-darling, that was Mamma’s. Perhaps we could fit this one on the dresser in the hall.’
Bella went into the kitchen to get the dessert.
‘I hope you’ll use it sometimes,’ she called through as she looked for the silver cake slice.
‘Well, of course we don’t entertain as much as we used to, Bella, not like I did when I was your age. It’s a bit big just for the two of us.’
Bella appeared bearing her chilled lemon mousse cake, circled by a red moat of raspberry coulis. The perfect, smooth surface was piped with a large A in curlicued chocolate script.
‘Dah-dah,’ said Bella, flatly, a token fanfare.
‘That looks simply delicious, but you know I don’t think I could manage another mouthful just now. You and Dad have some.’
‘It’s very light,’ said Bella. ‘It’s mostly air.’
Alessandra smiled, gestured gracefully with her hand in refusal, and wiped her lips conclusively with her napkin.
‘Now, I’ll make the coffee,’ she said, getting up from the table.
Bella looked down at the mousse cake. There seemed to be a large drop of water on one twirl of the A. Another. Her tears fell as she stood, poised with the cake slice.
‘Oh, Bella, sweetheart, don’t,’ said her father. ‘It’s all right. She can’t help it.’
She was gulping now, her breaths coming in great waves, pulling at her ribcage.
‘She – never –’ Bella slapped at the top of the cake with the flat of the cake slice, hitting it as she gulped in air. ‘Says – anything – nice.’
Love Is a Four Letter Word Page 22
