Love Is a Four Letter Word by Claire Calman

off her plaster, she was unsure, but he was adamant on the matter.
    There was, however, another one from that Henderson person, the garden designer; they had been playing answerphone tag for days. Perhaps he would like to join Mr Bowman on the list of people who were supposed to be helping her Sort Out Her Life but inexplicably never turned up. He might like to come and overturn half of her garden and leave her with a nice big heap of soil and rubble. Then it would complement the sitting-room with its attractive collection of boxes. Maybe she should just offer to sleep with Mr Bowman – might that move her up his list of priorities? She suspected otherwise; no doubt he would say, ‘Well, I’m sure that would be most acceptable Mrs (he couldn’t quite bring himself to say Ms, but she was evidently much too old to be a Miss, so she must be Mrs) Krer … er (he typically ahem-ed his way politely through her surname rather than risk embarrassing himself by actually trying to say it), but I’ve got to service two other ladies first and they been waitin’ longer ’n you.’
    Will Henderson’s message said his man with a machete was still chomping at the bit, but that they didn’t seem to be having much luck getting each other, her life was obviously one non-stop glamorous social whirl. Perhaps he would pop round on Saturday morning, around 10ish, but if not OK, could she phone and leave another message. Actually, could she phone anyway because she hadn’t given him her address.
    Streuth, she might as well programme his number into the phone’s memory. Certainly she would, if she ever found the manual and managed to suss out how to programme the memory, she would do that.
    She phoned in the morning, from work.
    â€˜Hello again. Bella Kreuzer here again. Just calling—’
    â€˜Hello?’ The phone was picked up.
    â€˜Mr Henderson? In the flesh? You do exist, then. You’ve completely thrown me now. I was getting on so well with your answerphone. Best relationship I’ve ever had.’
    â€˜Shall I hang up and leave you two alone together?’
    She gave him her address, agreed that Saturday morning would be fine.
    â€˜And please can I beg you not to cut anything back before then,’ he said. ‘It’s so easy to lose something wonderful because it doesn’t look like much and you might not recognize it.’
    â€˜I promise. Scout’s honour.’
    Friday. Best day of the week. In the afternoon someone would slip out for cakes and, if Seline was out of the office, a couple of bottles of wine. They’d dabble at bits of work while reading out highlights from Hello! and playing ‘Choices’ – ‘Would you rather live in an MFI showroom for three months with people coming round and watching you all day OR sleep with the man in the sandwich shop?’ ‘Which – not the one with the teeth?’ ‘Yup, and you have to snog him.’
    Bella sketched in her layout pad, toying with grandiose schemes for her garden – a Victorian summer house on wheels, topiary pyramids, Moorish channels of water criss-crossing like a Mondrian grid, enormous craggy rocks with a full-scale waterfall, a swing hanging from a massive cedar tree, suspended on ropes entwined with roses and ivy. Could youtransplant two-hundred-year-old trees, she wondered? Perhaps not.
    Seline suddenly swept into the office unexpectedly. There was a muffled clinking as bottles were hustled under desks, computer games swiftly replaced by Quark layouts.
    â€˜Has anyone seen my copy of Hello?’ she said.
    Saturday morning. The doorbell rang. Was it really that late or was this Henderson character early? She ran down the stairs, buttoning up her jeans. Shoes? Never mind.
    â€˜Springy Hair!’ She tried to turn it into a cough. The funny man from the poetry reading.
    â€˜It’s you,’ said Springy Hair. ‘What did you