Love Is a Four Letter Word by Claire Calman Page A

it meant she could cross off something from The List. His answerphone said to leave a message for ‘Will Henderson or Henderson Garden Design’.
    â€˜I need a man with a machete and a vat of weedkiller,’ she said, ‘oh, yes, and a new garden.’
    She went and extracted her list from the drawer again. Damn. Added ‘Call garden designer’ to the bottom, then crossed it off firmly and went upstairs, feeling positive enough to face her studio.
    The crack in her studio wall was longer than she had remembered. It was the kind of crack to be tutted at, the kind to make you say, ‘Something should be done about that’ as if you were an authority on such matters.Bella did both of these things, then stood back to squint at it through half-closed eyelids. It seemed a shame to fill it in with boring old Polyfilla; plus there was the minor fact that she didn’t have any. She nodded to herself, as if she had come to a decision, then began to delve into the boxes, foraging for her paints.

8
    â€˜No, no, no, no, and no.’
    â€˜I’ll take that as a no then?’ Bella said.
    Something gave her the feeling that Viv wasn’t mad keen on the idea of going to a poetry reading.
    Viv claimed to be allergic to poetry ever since an unfortunate experience at school when she had fallen asleep – her chin suddenly hitting the desk with a loud thunk – while the unfortunately named Mrs Doring was reading them ‘The Lady of Shalott’, raising up on her toes to emphasize the poetic meter as if she were mounted on a bouncy spring.
    â€˜But it’s not poetry poetry, Viv, not wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud wafty stuff. She’s really funny. Some of it’s rude. You’d love it.’
    â€˜Can’t be done, babe. Friday’s our takeaway and video night.’
    â€˜But this is Culture,’ Bella said. ‘You remember Culture. You had some once, about four years ago.’
    Viv remained immovable. All couples have a regular evening together when they sit glued to a movie, chomping their way through chicken chow mein and beef in black bean sauce or Special Set Meal No. 2; it was a Universal Law, like gravity or e=mc2, not to be questioned. Patrick, poking through a drawer, ‘Where’s the wonky list gone again, Bel?’ The menu of the WongKei. ‘Why do you need it? We always have the same thing: 5, 8, 27, 41, 63, 66. Free prawn crackers.’ Jeez, she could still remember the numbers, a code inscribed in her memory like the combination of a safe. How long before she could forget them?
    â€˜You’re very sad. Anyone would think you were joined at the hip. No, no, don’t try to protest. I’m going to get you two matching anoraks next Christmas. Orange, with cheeky foldaway hoods.’
    â€˜You should go anyway,’ Viv said. ‘There might be some nice men there.’
    â€˜Right. What kind of man goes to a poetry reading?’
    â€˜You’re beyond help. Well, don’t blame me if you never find –’ she made a melodramatic bad-horror-movie noise ‘– The One.’
    The One. The magical, perfect fantasy Mr Right that every woman knows is Out There, somewhere, struggling on through his lonely existence, because he hasn’t yet found Her, his fantasy woman, his The One. Rationally, Bella reminded herself that life didn’t work like that; of course there would be many hundreds, maybe even thousands, of men in the world that would be a good match for any one woman. Most you would never meet but that should still leave you with many, many opportunities to have a perfectly nice life with a perfectly nice somebody. But what if there really were only The One, the ideal person who was supposed to be with you? You might miss your bus one morning and he could be on it, single and ready to meet you and you would never even know how close you had been. Or you might glimpse him across a room, your eyes would meet