Love Is a Four Letter Word by Claire Calman Page B

for a moment and you’d wonder ‘What if?’ Someone else might have got to him first, be stifling your person in a dead-end, loveless marriage. Even now, this very minute, your very own Mr Right could be cavorting with another woman, the unfaithfulbastard, ignoring the niggling thought fluttering in his mind like a moth, struggling to be noticed, that something vital was missing from his life. If you did ever chance to find each other, The One would, of course, recognize your true loveliness and be blind to your sticking-out stomach and chubby arms.
    She would go on her own. Why not? She was an independent woman, an elective spinster as she had once heard someone say. How much better it was to have a diversity of interests, to be going to a poetry reading rather than sitting slumped on the sofa watching telly, your biggest concern whether to stick with the familiar, No. 63 Chicken with Chinese Mushrooms, or live dangerously and go for No. 67 Chicken and Cashew Nuts.
    Most of the seats were already taken by the time Bella arrived at the poetry reading, having extricated herself with difficulty from a conversation with Seline about the prospect of going into partnership as things were going so well. Bella hoped to defer the moment of actually Making a Decision for as long as possible. Or longer. She didn’t know what she wanted, other than not to have to decide. She helped herself to a glass of wine and covertly peered over the rim in quest of any lone, attractive men. It would be considerate if they could carry a small sign or wear a lapel badge: ‘Available’ or ‘Married but looking for a leg-over’ or ‘In relationship but keeping my options open’.
    There was quite a crowd. The last time she’d gone to a poetry reading, there had been only two other people aside from herself and what she concluded must be the poet’s family and immediate hangers-on. She’d felt obliged to exaggerate her appreciation to compensate for the lack of audience and spent the whole time nodding and brow-furrowing in an elaborate mime ofgosh-how-profound-how-sensitively-attuned-I-feel-so-deeply-privileged-to-hear-these-soul-enriching-words. The poet’s entourage had openly stared at her at the end of each poem to check that her reaction was sufficiently intense. Why was she trying to meet their expectations? she’d wondered. Wasn’t it the poet who was supposed to be doing the performing?
    She settled by a table piled with Nell Calder’s books, and looked around for somewhere to rest her glass. There was an empty corner on a table nearby – she reached for it at exactly the same moment as someone else. Their glasses clashed.
    â€˜Oh, sorry,’ they said in unison.
    â€˜Er, cheers then.’ The man smiled, looking directly into her eyes. Nice face, but how rude, she thought. Unnerved, she looked away quickly. She didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. His hair could do with a bit of a brush. It was strangely springy, sticking up at odd angles here and there. She peered at him sideways. He caught her at it and smiled.
    There was an amplified whoompf and whine as the microphone was wrestled from its stand at the front.
    â€˜Oh, hello, signs of action, I think,’ said the springy-haired man at her side, stretching to see over a woman wearing a peculiar patchwork hat with a ludicrously high crown.
    â€˜Do you think she’s got planning permission for that hat?’ he whispered to Bella, indicating the woman with a nod. ‘This is a conservation area.’ Mid-swallow, Bella laughed, spraying her wine with a snort. Oh, terrific. Well, it was one way to attract attention.
    Embarrassed, she looked away. Nell Calder was being introduced. Applause.
    â€˜This one was inspired by my ex-husband,’ said the poet. ‘It’s called “Can I have custody of the egg-timer?”’
    Conscious of Springy Hair’s presence by her side, Bella made