Love Is a Four Letter Word by Claire Calman

there. Soon the triffids would be nosing up to the French windows, their tendrils skittering across the glass; the ivy would wind itself around the house like a boa constrictor, tightening its grip, sealing her in. She’d be like Sleeping Beauty, circled by a barrier of briars, waiting for her true prince, the only man brave enough to battle through.
    Where on earth should she start? She’d need a machete, a compass and a Boys’ Own Survival Guide out there. Have to tie a length of string to the doorhandle so she could find her way back to the house. Perhaps Viv would give her a hand. But she and Nick already had their hands full trying to repaint their bedroom. The lawn looked as sad as uncombed hair scraped across a bald patch. It desperately needed mowing – all she needed was a mower. And thatenormous monster bush needed hacking back – if only she had a pair of secateurs. She retrieved her list from the kitchen drawer. ‘Garden centre’, she added ‘– get tools’.
    The garden centre was busy; there were people buying sheds and hefting sacks of compost into car boots and tying trellis panels to their roof-racks, a hive of industry. Even watching them made Bella feel tired. Retired couples bent lovingly over shrubs and rose bushes, as curious and nurturing about a prospective purchase as over a new grandchild. Bella passed a woman of about sixty wearing jeans and a multicoloured waistcoat. ‘Now, you’re a nice little fellow,’ the woman was saying to a variegated holly as Bella went by. ‘That’s what I’ll be like,’ thought Bella, ‘Wearing clothes thirty years too young for me and chatting to plants. I bet she’s got cats.’
    Perhaps she should simplify the whole garden – just have lawn and a small tree and a couple of tubs. Then the small tree would become a large tree and overshadow the whole garden so she couldn’t even see out, like buying a sweet little mongrel puppy only to watch it grow and grow until you realized it had been born of a great Dane and sired by a buffalo.
    She would definitely have to sort out the garden properly before it was worth spending much on plants, she realized, because there was nowhere to plant them in its current state. In the meantime, she chose a few small pots of herbs to cheer herself up. While paying, she noticed a sign by the till advertising the services of a garden designer: ‘Time to turn over a new leaf? If your garden’s more of a jinx than a joy, don’t stay indoors and cry. Whether your taste tends towards the traditional or the avant-garde, simple or stupendous, I’ll help you create your ideal garden and turn your dreams into reality – at a reasonable cost.’ It offered afree initial consultation, without obligation. She noted down the name and phone number.
    Planting out her herbs to avoid the greater evil of doing her laundry, Bella resolved to phone the garden man immediately. It was Sunday, so he probably wouldn’t be there, was probably yet another person out having a wonderful day in the bosom of his family, carrying his youngest on his shoulders, taking the older one to kick a ball around at the park. Exchanging smug smiles with his slender wife as she stirred the gravy, the children grinning impishly as they tucked in heartily to a mound of Brussels sprouts. The Sunday lunches of her own childhood had been rather different. Her mother’s frown as she subdued a rogue lump in the gravy, concentrating as she added a dose of red wine to the pan. The heavy cutlery, awkward in Bella’s childish hands, the fine china, immaculate tablecloth. Her own quiet face, pale moon in a cloud of dark hair. Her father’s rich voice, talking, soothing, bridging the silences, playing a game of make-believe, Happy Families.
    She shook the thought away and rummaged in her handbag for the phone number she had noted down. At least she could leave a message, and