Love Is a Four Letter Word Read Online Free PDF Page A

he nibbled gerbil-like on a mint Matchmaker.
    Viv made little kissing noises at him. Bella joined in on the other side. Nick sighed.
    â€˜At your own risk then. Of course, it’s only my opinion and I realize I’m not a proper man or anything, but if you really just want a fling, then get your legs out, woman. Wear a short skirt and laugh at our jokes. That should do it.’
    â€˜Is that the best you can do?’ Viv flicked his magazine.
    â€˜What? What? I’ve read this bloody sentence twelve times now. Kindly bugger off.’ He rested his magazine over his face.
    â€˜Nick, we promise to bugger off in a minute.’ Bella slowly lifted one corner of his magazine-tent and peered underneath. ‘And we’ll make you a coffee and be sure to laugh at your jokes – when you make one – but do I, you know, look all right?’
    â€˜Jeez. What are you like? As I said, skirts are good. Aside from that –’ Nick started counting off on his fingers ‘– one, you wear too many dark things. It’s depressing. Two, do something about your hair – it’s great but half the time no-one can see your face, which seems a bit of a waste. Can’t you pin it back or up or something? Three, you want to burn that terrible jacket. Don’t you own anything else? It’s miles too big – you look like you’re hoping no-one will notice you.’
    â€˜Nick!’ Viv warned.
    â€˜What? What? What have I done now?’
    â€˜Nothing. It’s fine.’ Bella reached across him for a Matchmaker. ‘It’s Patrick’s.’
    â€˜Oh. Sorry.’
    â€˜â€™s no biggie. Carry on.’
    â€˜Plus you could try smiling from time to time. Men like that. It makes us feel wanted.’
    â€˜Like this?’ Bella adopted an enormous toothy grin and skipped energetically around the room. ‘Isn’t life fab! Pollyanna was a chronic depressive compared to me!’
    â€˜So, I suppose it wouldn’t be a waste to cover my face with hair then?’ said Viv.
    â€˜I knew this would happen. I hate both of you.’ Nick heaved himself up from the sofa. ‘If anyone wants me, I’ll be pretending to be a proper man, reading my car magazine in the bog.’
    There were two messages on her answerphone when she got home: one from the damp man, saying he couldn’t do the damp until the weather was better – perhaps he was hoping that every extra day of rain would make it worse and he’d be able to hack off another foot of plaster and whack up the bill; and one from her father, Gerald: ‘Just calling to say hello. See how it’s all going. Well, I dare say you’re managing fine. Give us a ring sometime. Lots of love, Dads.’ Healways finished like that on the answerphone, as if he were writing a letter.
    She wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone, there was nothing on TV, and – having lugged her folio with her notes and sketches in back home – she didn’t feel inspired by the prospect of trying to make yoghurt sexy, so she ran herself a deep bath with lavender oil instead. Her candles were reduced to sad stubs, having dripped down their twiddly fake verdigris holders into a Gothic encrustation, and there were spatters of wax on the tiles at one end of the bath. She sat on the edge of the bath while the water was running in, idly picking off bits of wax and flicking them into the loo, then spent fifteen minutes looking in boxes for more candles. She ran her fingers through her hair as if she were posing for a shampoo ad until her fingers got tangled, then she wafted slowly around the room hunting for a hair clip.
    â€˜I’m too sensitive to expose myself to the glare of artificial light,’ she said out loud. ‘Where are the rose petals for my bathwater? My trained eunuchs to paint my toenails and squeeze my spots?’
    The candlelit bathing had started with Patrick, but then it was the