‘Will you really? I’ll be your best friend.’ Bella squidged Will’s cheeks and gave him a slurpy kiss.
‘You already are.’
After only minor arm-twisting and the promise of numerous sexual favours, Will had volunteered to speak to his brother-in-law-in-law about the DAMP. The phone call was made, unknown leverage put into action. Mr Bowman had moved her from his black book to his red book, the actual one where real jobs were written in with dates and everything. It would take four to five days; once the treatment had been done, the walls would need replastering then drying out before they could be repainted.
Life became even more impossible. Boxes were squished into the bedroom, pictures stacked like dominoes on the landing, pot plants gathered in a leafy convention in the bathroom.
‘You oughtn’t really to stay in the house while all that’s going on; the dust can’t be good for you,’ Will said.
‘I know. Viv said they’d put me up.’
‘Right. Or – you could, ah, stay with me.’
Although they usually ended up at Bella’s house, she had stayed the night at Will’s place several times before. He had bought her an extra toothbrush to keep at his place because he thought it ridiculous that she kept taking hers backwards and forwards. He had cleared a drawer for her, in which she kept one large T-shirt and one pair of pants. But staying the night casually was different, supper followed by sex followed by falling asleep. This was planned, official. Living together for five days solid – well, it was … domestic, wasn’t it? It would involve couply conversations, cohabiting-type rituals: who would pick up something for supper; you-cook-I’ll-wash-up routines; she’d become involved in the minutiae of his household: where he kept the spare loo rolls, how to master the exact jiggle-jiggle-chunk required to open the back door, which day the rubbish was to be put out.
‘That’s very kind of you. You don’t have to do that. You’ve earned your scout badge, talking to Mr B.’
‘I’m not being kind. You sound like a polite child who’s been coached to say thank you. I know I don’t “have to do that” – I want to do that. This. Whatever. What I mean is – I’d love you to come and stay. With me.’
Warning bells. What if she got to like it? Got used to seeing his face and his adorable, funny eyebrows on the pillow by hers when she closed her eyes each night? Each morning, there his face would be, her first glimpse of the world, already familiar. She’d know if he was in by the feel of the house when she entered the door, the smell of him in the air. How quickly might she adjust to his tread on the stair, his voice calling hello, the change in his eyes as they met hers? And then? Then the DAMP would be done, the walls painted and there would be no reason for her not to go home. That first evening she would go back to her own house. The chill tang of fresh paint, the clunk of her keys on the table, the fridge with its lone carton of blobby milk. It would be like the first time she had gone back to the flat after Patrick. After Patrick. That was how she saw her life sometimes: Before Patrick/With Patrick/After Patrick, divided into neat sections like a pie chart, with no space left over for anything else.
∼ ∼ ∼
She turns her key in the lock, half-expecting him to call out ‘Hiya. Good day?’ The silence is like water, filling the rooms right into the corners. She moves through it with slow limbs, feeling it part and reseal itself behind her. In the kitchen, there is an unfamiliar stillness, a cold tidiness; nothing has moved. There is no marmalade jar sitting on the worktop with its lid off. No half-read paperback spreadeagled on the table. Automatically, she looks down. Patrick has an infuriating habit of leaving his heavy brown lace-ups in the middle of the floor where she frequently trips over them. Had an infuriating habit, she corrects herself. She feels a sudden pang of anticipated loss, a guessing of future pain. She is tempted to go and fetch his shoes and place them on the floor, then dismisses the thought as silly, mad even.
The bathroom is worse. Four disposable razors, all apparently on the go at once. That absurd deodorant in the just-’cause-I-smell-nice-don’t-mean-I’m-not-macho black phallic spray can. Her fingers run over the head of Patrick’s green toothbrush, splaying the bristles to and fro. It had what Patrick claimed were ‘go-faster’ stripes – ‘See, I can do my teeth in 30 seconds with this.’ She lifts her purple brush from the tooth mug and holds one in each hand, face to face, bouncing them up and down the way Patrick used to, giving them voices. ‘Are you talking to me yet?’ he’d say as green toothbrush, putting on an extra-deep voice, pogo-ing it along the edge of the basin. He’d twist the purple one from side to side, shaking its head, until Bella laughed.
She head-butts green toothbrush with purple toothbrush.
‘Why’d you have to go and die on me then? That was pretty dumb.’
‘Yeah.’ She switches to goofy, green toothbrush voice. ‘Guess I just didn’t see it coming, a-her-her.’ She leaves them intermeshed – ‘Kiss and make up?’ Patrick used to say, pushing their bristles together. Wipes her stupid tears away with her hand. Her lungs feel tight and full, as if they are packed with explosive. ‘Breathe deeply,’ she says out loud. She can feel ugly sobs stirring down there, churning around in her, threatening to lurch out of her uncontrollably, tearing the fragile silence. She rubs her ribcage; it is so tight, it is painful, aching for release. Her teeth clamp tight shut and she bites the inside of her lip hard, desperate for some tangible, lesser pain to cling to.
In the bedroom, the curtains are half drawn and the dim light is welcome. She undresses slowly, by rote. As she pulls back the quilt to get into bed, she stops, then crosses to the chest of drawers. Rummages in a drawer, tuts quietly to herself. She dips into the linen basket and digs down, dropping socks, towels on the floor. Patrick’s blue shirt – crumpled, soft with wear. She sinks her face into it, and breathes in.
She slides beneath the quilt and folds the shirt into a bundle by her face. Fingers one of its pearlized buttons, tracing round and round the rim, until she slips into sleep. It is twelve hours before she wakes again.
∼ ∼ ∼
Will took her in his arms, scooped her close.
‘What’s up, sweet pea? Have you disappeared again, dreamy?’
She rallied a smile and kissed him. Shook her head. I must try. I must.
‘I don’t want to put you out.’
‘You’re right. Let’s forget it. It would be a huge hassle, having to lie next to a gorgeous naked woman every night, having to wake up each morning to see the face of the woman I love on the other pillow. What a drag.’
‘Oh, is someone else coming too?’
‘Shut up. You’re staying with me. Don’t argue. I promise not to make you enjoy yourself. You can hate every minute if you like, then you can say “I told you so”. I know how you love to be right.’
‘I do not. Are you sure you can tolerate my repulsive habits?’
‘I’m sure you’re merely an amateur in the disgusting-habits stakes. I once competed for the South-East. What feeble attempts can you offer – Nose-pickings on the pillow? Toenail clippings in the teapot? Peculiar sexual practices involving courgettes? What?’
‘Eugh. You’re disgusting.’
‘Confess your dark secrets.’
‘I rest half-used blobs of cotton wool by the basin …’
‘Repulsive! Foul!’
‘Leave the washing-up till the next day …’
‘I shall be sick!’
‘Bleach my moustache while I’m listening to Woman’s Hour.’
‘Woman’s Hour! Grotesque!’ His voice shifted. ‘What moustache?’
‘Men always do this. Like that shampoo ad with the pouty woman – “But you don’t have dandruff.” See. Here.’ She jabbed at her upper lip.
He stroked the dip below her nose with his little finger.
‘A few downy hairs. Nice.’
‘Not a few. Lots. And dark. Haven’t you heard the saying: Jolen is a girl’s best friend?’
‘What?’
‘Creme bleach. Don’t worry, I won’t wander around the house with it on. Anyway, I have to—’ She held her upper lip rigid. ‘’tay ’ike ’is. Or it all ’alls off.’
‘This I have to see.’
‘Nope. Absolutely not. My mother always said “Never let a man see you shave your legs or bleach your moustache until he’s signed on the dotted line.”’
‘You really think I’d be put off by stuff like that? You won’t get rid of me that easily.’
She shrugged. ‘If it’s not that, it’ll be something else.’
‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ He held her by her upper arms, making her face him straight on. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I am NOT going anywhere. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’
‘Why Mr Henderson, this is so sudden.’ She fanned her face with her hand.
He let go of her and held her hands.
‘No, it isn’t actually. I thought that before I’d even kissed you.’
He caught her expression.
‘You look like you’re about to see the dentist. Don’t panic. I’m not rushing you, just telling you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.’
The rest of my life. But how long would that be? Could be forty, fifty years, sure. Or ten years, five. Or one. Three weeks. If only there could be some sort of guarantee.
‘Once you’ve had me stay for five days, that’ll cure you.’
* * *
‘Any room at the inn?’ Bella stood on Will’s doorstep with her holdall.
‘Stable block’s all full, young missy. Have to bunk in with the landlord.’
‘Glad to see you’ve perfected your leer. So important to have a skill.’
‘Oh, you can come again.’ Will relieved her of the bottle of wine she had brought, the beribboned box of truffles. The big kitchen table had been freshly covered with a bright madras check cloth. On it stood a stoneware jug of scented white roses and sprays of foliage from Will’s garden. Bella bent to sniff one of the blooms and sighed with appreciation. Will opened a kitchen cupboard and gestured. Blackcurrant tea, her favourite.
‘And, and —’ He towed her around the house: recycling crates finally shifted from the hallway where they always snagged her stockings to miraculously tidied cupboard under the stairs; more flowers by the bed in a blue glass tumbler; hangers vacated; folded towel laid out, topped with a boxed hotel guest soap; a foil-wrapped chocolate on the pillow.
‘Wouldn’t spoil me too much. Might get used to it.’
‘That was the general idea.’
He watched as she unpacked her things, offering her hangers, clearing out another of his drawers to give her space, squashing his own clothes to make room for hers.
‘I’m not moving in, you know. It’s only five days, don’t go mad.’
‘Yes, dear. Have you got your little nightie to tuck under the pillow?’
‘Don’t own one. I nearly brought my irresistible baggy T-shirt which says “I think therefore I drink” on it with a picture of a bottle of lager.’
‘I knew you were too sophisticated for me.’
‘Yup, let no-one say I was just an also-ran in the Nifty Nightwear Stakes. It was a promotional freebie from when I worked at that ad agency – looks particularly stylish with my purple Peruvian slipper socks.’
‘And you left those behind too? Don’t you know I just go wild for Peruvian slipper socks? Stockings do nothing for me.’
‘Oh, that is a shame,’ Bella said, lowering a pair of filmy nothings back into her holdall.
Will leapt to his feet and plunged his head into her bag, like a hound in a foxhole.
‘This is weird,’ Bella said as they were stretched out on the sofa after supper.
‘What is?’
‘This. Being with you and it feeling so normal. Almost as if we’re a real couple. Can’t we have a row?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘So I can relax. I feel so nice when I’m with you, just as if I were a normal person. Really quite lovable. It’s most disconcerting.’
‘You are lovable, you noodle.’ He blew a raspberry into the side of her neck. ‘Anyway, we are a real couple.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘There you go. You’ve been in a couple before. You remember how it’s done, don’t you?’
She nodded. But, she thought, but. This is different.
‘So, why aren’t you married then, Mr Perfect?’
‘Nearly was. You’re lucky to get me.’
‘Yeah? Bet you were just shoved back on the shelf as damaged goods.’ Bella stroked the scar on his eyebrow. ‘How nearly is nearly? Were you jilted at the altar?’
‘No. It was Carolyn – remember, I told you a bit about her before?’
‘Hmm, yes. The thin blonde one.’
‘I love your curves. Don’t be daft.’ He rested his hand on her tummy.
‘Anyway. We were together for years: Will and Carolyn, Carolyn and Will like fish and chips or—’
‘Burke and Hare.’
‘Hush up, you. But you know when things are the same year in, year out so you never question it? Like my mum’s jam that’s never set properly. It’s not that it’s good but I’m used to it that way – it is Mum’s Jam. Well, Caro and I—’
‘Caro. Oh, yuk.’
‘Ssh, d’you want to hear this or not?’ Will told her that they were getting on OK, not arguing or anything, but not really talking either, their conversations were just the exchange of information about work or gossip about their social circle. They went out frequently, together and separately, apparently having a vibrant social life, rarely staying in on their own, surrounding themselves with people, with events, with busyness. Still, they were trundling towards marriage, as if they were on rails and only something dramatic or violent could have shifted them off course. Arrangements were being discussed. Then Carolyn was offered a three-month contract in New York.
‘Did she take it?’
‘Yes, she did. And I encouraged her. I was the ultimate unselfish fiance – “You must take it, Caro. It’s such an opportunity. It’s only three months.” I didn’t realize for ages that I was kidding myself. I think I was relieved when she decided to go.’
‘Here.’ Bella nudged him to move so she could nestle against him. ‘My go. So then what happened?’
‘So, she went to New York and she met someone else within a month.’
‘You’re kidding? How awful.’
‘No, not really. I just think neither of us could see a sensible way out. We needed –’ he laughed. ‘Outside help.’
He tucked Bella’s head closer and stroked her hair.
‘After she’d been gone about a fortnight, I was pottering about at home in a lethargic kind of way one weekend. I was moving in that slow-dreamy-Sunday-morning manner, as if I had no energy. I remember thinking, it’s still so clear in my mind, thinking: “I’m feeling sluggish because I must be missing Caro.” And then it hit me. It was as if someone had gone plink, plink and plucked the scales from my eyes and the world sprang into sharp focus. I thought “No. You’re acting the part of a man missing his girlfriend because you don’t want to face the truth.”’
Bella rubbed at her arms, suddenly chilled.
‘Which was?’
‘Which was that I wasn’t missing her, which was much, much harder to deal with. Because then – then I started looking back at our relationship and I couldn’t remember the last time either of us had shown any real interest in each other. Or how long it was since I’d stopped loving her.’ His fingers rested still on her hair. ‘I felt horrible. Scared. Ashamed. And when her letter came saying she’d met this other bloke, God, the relief! I had been let off the hook and I hadn’t even had to do anything. Then I felt bad, as if I’d cheated because I hadn’t actually resolved it in a proper, grown-up, we-have-something-to-talk-about way. I felt like a fraud.’
Bella nodded slowly. Her mouth felt dry, as if lined with cloth, her tongue suddenly alien, sliding over her teeth, feeling each one in turn as if checking she was real. She kneaded at her stiff neck, then twisted to look up at him.
‘Wasn’t your fault though.’ Bella cleared her throat. ‘It’s just life.’
‘Confucius, he say “It’s just life.” Thank you for your words of wisdom.’ She punched him softly.
‘Oof.’ He held her hand. ‘And, now, I cannot believe that I could ever have thought of marrying her for even a minute. I can’t explain – this is so different. It’s like all your life you’ve been given strawberry-flavoured, I don’t know, bubblegum or something and told “This is strawberry, this is strawberry.” Then, one day, when you weren’t expecting it, a beautiful, brilliant red fruit is popped right into your mouth and it’s like nothing you ever saw or smelt or tasted. Or – or knew. And then you suddenly get it: “Oh my God, this is a strawberry.”’
The print of his lips on her brow, his hand on her hair. She cupped the back of his head in her hand, pulling him close. His fingers on her neck. His mouth strong on hers. The evening-roughness of his cheeks, his chin, real and alive against her skin.
‘Ouch, prickly.’ She rubbed her fingertips across his cheek, pretending to file her nails on him.
‘Shall I go and shave?’ He started to get up.
‘Nope.’ She kissed him, shielding her chin with her hand. ‘Why don’t they make chin guards?’
Bella bounced the flat of her hand lightly on Will’s head.
‘I love this. First thing I noticed about you. I even thought of you as Springy Hair in my mind after that poetry reading.’
He tilted to look at her.
‘You never said you’d thought about me after that first time.’
‘What is that ridiculous face meant to mean?’
‘Just pleased you’d noticed me.’ He slunk down to rest his head on her chest and closed his eyes. ‘You make a perfect pillow. Tell me something nice. What else did you think?’
‘Well, I thought you were funny and what bright eyes you had. And, what? Your eyebrows. Definitely your eyebrows. Very sexy. And you had this sort of amused look.’
‘Someone once said I looked smug.’
‘No.’ She thought back. ‘Not smug. A funny half-smile, assessing, as if you found the world an amusing and fascinating place.’
‘I do.’
‘I know. That’s what I love about you.’
‘You just used the “L” word.’
‘It slipped out. I’m not responsible.’
As they kissed, her hand rested on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat.
‘Bmm-boom.’ She patted out the beat on his body. ‘Bmm-boom.’
Now he placed his hand close below her left breast. His drumbeat followed.
‘Bmm-boom,’ they said together, beating as one. ‘Bmm-boom.’