“It’s for Harold,” I explain. “He follows a special canine organic diet. I know some dogs are vegetarian, but I went to a consultant and Harold has quite specific dietary needs.”
I wait for Matt to ask about Harold’s specific dietary needs, but instead he’s peering with interest at the pan.
“What’s that, beef?”
“It’s a lamb bone,” I explain. “I’m going to use the broth to make up his week’s food.”
“Wow.” Matt seems fixated by the bubbling meaty liquid. “It looks good. Really good. Could I taste it?”
Out of nowhere, I feel a sudden flare of indignation, and before I can stop myself, I snap, “Are you saying the dog’s food looks better than what I’ve cooked for you?”
Belatedly, I add a little laugh—but Matt’s head has already risen.
“God! What? Of course not. No!” His eyes scan my face warily as he seems to realize his error. “This looks amazing,” he emphasizes, gesturing at the tagine. “I was just…No. Anyway. Can I help lay the table?” he adds, hastily moving the subject on.
I show Matt where the cutlery lives, and as he’s gathering knives and forks, I take a few deep breaths. Then I ask, in the most super-casual tones I can muster, “So, Matt…do you think you could ever be vegetarian?”
My stomach is clenched as I wait for him to answer. I mean, this isn’t a deal-breaker or anything like that. God, no. I don’t even believe in deal-breakers, so how could it be?
But on the other hand…I’m interested in his answer. Put it like that. I’m simply interested.
“Me?” His eyes have widened. “No. I don’t think— I know we should all eat less meat, but give it up completely?” He catches my expression. “But…whatever,” he backtracks. “Maybe. Never say never.”
Already my stomach has relaxed. There we are. It’s all fine! Never say never. That’s all I needed to know. I can see that I’ve overreacted; in fact, it’s all very clear to me. I’ll convert him! The vegetarian gods have sent him to me for this very purpose!
“What should I do with this?” Matt adds, nodding at a pile of papers, and I click my tongue. I intended to tidy that away earlier.
“Er…put it on the bench under the windowsill. It’s my stuff for my course.”
“Right.” He nods. “The aromatherapy.”
“Different course, actually,” I say, chopping fresh coriander. “Career coaching. I want to take that up part-time.”
“You have a lot of interests.” He raises his eyebrows. “When will you finish your aromatherapy qualification?”
“Not sure,” I say, slightly defensive, because don’t people realize how hard it is to fit everything in? “Anyway! The food’s nearly ready. Have a crisp.”
I pass him a bowl of posh crisps which I bought especially for tonight, and Matt takes a couple. But before they can get to his mouth, Harold appears from nowhere, adeptly leaps onto the bench, removes the crisps from Matt’s hand, and crunches them. He jumps down and scoots quickly away while I try not to laugh, and Matt gazes at him in astonishment.
“Did he just take that out of my hand? I didn’t even notice him.”
“He’s pretty deft.” I grin. “You have to hold food at chest level or else. Vamoose.”
I’m expecting Matt to laugh, but he still looks astonished. Even…disapproving?
“You allow him?”
“Well, no, obviously, I don’t allow him,” I say, feeling caught out. I turn to Harold and say, a bit self-consciously, “Harold, darling, Matt is our friend and we don’t steal food from friends. OK?” As Harold buries his nose in my hands, I rub his head. “No stealing food!”
I kiss him on the head, then look up to see Matt watching me with a flummoxed expression.
“What?” I say.
“No. Nothing. I…” He stops himself. “No.”
“You were going to say something.” I stare at him, my eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nothing!” He shakes his head. “Really. Let’s…have another drink.”
I don’t believe him, but nor do I want to force the issue. So in bright tones I say, “Glass of wine?” and fetch a bottle I bought in Italy.
Just the glug-glug-glug sound soothes away whatever tension was in the air. We clink our glasses and smile at each other, and as I taste my first sip, it’s Pavlovian. Or do I mean Proustian? Whatever it is, I could be back there, in Puglia, in the courtyard with the herbs and the agapanthus and the birds silhouetted in the sky.
“The last time we had this wine we were at the monastery,” I say, and Matt’s brow relaxes.
“Seems an age away already.”
“I know.”
He’s leaning against the counter and I come to join him. I lean into his broad chest, inhaling him, remembering him as he was then. Dutch. My Dutch.
“It’s good to see you,” I say softly. “Missed you.”
“You too.”
There’s a moment of silence, then Matt puts down his wineglass and I put down mine. And the moment we’re kissing, I can’t think why we’ve waited this long. I’m devouring him, remembering him, wanting him more desperately than ever.
“I haven’t thought about anything except you,” I whisper into his ear.
“Yesterday, all I could think about was you,” returns Matt, his stubble pressed against my neck.
“I never even asked you how your meeting was,” I say, with sudden self-reproach.
“I don’t want to think about my meeting,” he growls back. “Fuck that.”
He’s already undone my bra; I’ve unbuttoned his shirt….Whatever tiny tensions were between us have vanished. We’re in synch with each other. Moving with each other. In the zone together. This man is all I want or need….
Then a timer suddenly pings, and we both jerk in shock.
“Oh. I set that earlier. Sorry.” I wince. “It’s…doesn’t matter.”
“We could eat,” suggests Matt. “And then…” He raises his eyebrows, and as I remember what we got up to in Italy, I feel a cascade of responses all over my body.
“OK. Let’s do that.”
I ladle out my tagine into two shallow pottery bowls and usher Matt to the table.
“Interesting chairs,” he says, eyeing my vintage school chairs. I found them at a car-boot sale and they’re quite rickety, but Maud is going to upcycle them as soon as she’s done the shelving unit. “Don’t tell me. Rescue chairs?”
“Of course,” I say, laughing at his expression. “All my furniture is rescue furniture, pretty much. ‘Adopt, don’t shop.’ ”
“Not your bed, surely,” he says, looking slightly repulsed.
“Especially my bed! I found it in a skip,” I say proudly. “Maud painted it and it’s as good as new. I just hate new furniture. It’s so blah. It’s so…functional. It has no character.”
“If you say so.” Matt sits down and picks up his fork. “Bon appétit.”
As we both take our first mouthfuls, I hear a sound a bit like a twig cracking. I can’t quite tell where it came from, though.
“What was that?” I say in puzzlement. “Was that—”
But I don’t get to finish my sentence, because the next moment there’s the sound of splintering wood and Matt yells with shock—and before my eyes, his chair collapses with him on it, as if he’s in “The Three Bears.”
“Oh my God!” I shriek in horror.
“Shit!” Matt sounds like he’s in actual pain. “What the fuck?”
“I’m so sorry!” I say desperately.
I’m already on my feet and I try to help Matt up from the mess of wood, although Harold is barking frenziedly and capering around and generally getting in the way.
“Right now…” says Matt heavily, as he finally gets to his feet, “right now, I would probably take function o
ver character.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, feeling waves of mortification. “I’m so sorry…Wait, your arm.” I feel a stab of dread as I see his sleeve. It’s drenched with red. What has my rescue furniture done to the man I love?
Wordlessly, Matt pulls up his sleeve to reveal a horrible gash which has gone right through his shirt.
“Shit.” My stomach is hollow. “Shit! But how—what—”
“Nail.” He nods at a huge rusty nail sticking out of my salvaged kitchen dresser, which is also on Maud’s upcycling list. “Must have caught me when I went down.”
“Matt, I don’t know what to say,” I begin, my voice trembling. “I’m so incredibly sorry….”
“Ava, it’s fine. Not your fault.” He puts his uninjured hand on my arm. “But maybe I should go to A&E, get a tetanus jab.”
“Yes. Right. I’ll get a cab.” Flustered, I whip out my phone to call an Uber. I can’t quite believe it. This is not how things were supposed to go.
“Don’t stress. Shit happens.” He squeezes my arm. “And apart from that, it’s been a great evening,” he adds. “Really, it has. Thank you. I loved the…um…” He stops as though he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I loved the…the…” He pauses again, and I can see him scrabbling for the next word. “I loved…you,” he finishes at last. “I loved seeing you again.”
“Well, me too. Cab’s on its way.”
I soak a tea towel and wash his arm, wincing at the blood, then grab a packet of biscuits from the cupboard.
“We might have a wait at the hospital,” I say, nodding at them.
“Ava, you’re not coming with me,” says Matt, looking taken aback. “It’s not necessary.”
“Of course I am!” I stare at him. “I’m not going to leave you. And…d’you want to come back here afterward?” I ask tentatively. “The rescue bed won’t collapse,” I add in earnest tones. “I promise. It’s sturdy.”
At the phrase “rescue bed,” a weird, fixed look comes over Matt’s face, which I can’t quite read.
“Let’s see how we go, shall we?” he says after a long silence. “We could come back here, yes, we could do that.” He pauses again, his eyes running over the heap of broken rescue chair. “Or we could always go to my place.”
Nine
I’m feeling upbeat and undeterred as I stand in an unfamiliar corner of west London the next evening, waiting for Matt. OK, so we didn’t have the best outcome last night—but it doesn’t matter. Tonight will be different.
We were at A&E until 1 A.M. By the time Matt had got patched up and signed all the forms, it felt too late to embark on anything more romantic than going home and collapsing in our separate beds. We agreed to start again tonight after work, and Matt said he’d come and meet me at the tube station.
So I’ve drawn a mental line under everything. We’re starting afresh tonight. Harold and I are going to stay at Matt’s place, and finally I’m going to see his life!
“Are you excited?” I say fondly to Harold, at my side. “We’re seeing Matt! Our new friend! Oh, look, there he is!”
God, he’s an impressive sight. I mean, anyone would say he’s gorgeous. He’s walking down the street with that easy gait, his dark hair glowing in the sun, his eyes crinkling into a smile, his muscles rippling as he moves. (OK, so he’s wearing a suit, but I can fill in the muscles for myself.)
He greets me with a kiss and takes my enormous case.
“Hi!” I say, then add anxiously, “How’s your arm?”
“Fine,” says Matt cheerfully. “Wow,” he adds, hefting the case. “This is massive. What have you got in here?”
“Harold’s stuff,” I explain. “I brought his bed and his blanket…a few toys….We’re both so excited to see your place!” I add excitedly. “And meet your flatmates!”
We start walking and I look around with bright eyes, because this is Matt’s neighborhood. This is part of him. And it’s a glorious area of London: one pretty street after another. And, look, a garden square! My fingers are crossed that he lives in a square just like this and has a key to the garden. I can see us, lying on the grass in the sunshine, lazily scratching Harold’s head and drinking wine and just enjoying life. Forever.
“So, tell me about the people in your life,” I say eagerly. “Start with your parents.”
I’m always interested to hear about the parents of guys I date. It’s not that I’m looking for new parents, it’s just…Well. I like hearing about happy families.
I told Matt about my parents last night while we were sitting on plastic chairs in A&E. I told him about my dad, who’s still alive but divorced my mum and moved to Hong Kong when I was small. And how we do see each other sometimes…but it’s not like other people’s dads. It’s not easy and familiar. It’s more like seeing an uncle or a family friend or something.
Then I told him about my mum dying when I was sixteen. I tried to paint a picture of her for him. Her blue eyes and her artist’s smock (she was an art teacher) and her cigarette habit. Her endearing way of getting the joke just slightly too late and exclaiming, “I see, oh, I see, oh, that’s funny!”
Then I described Martin, who was my stepdad for twelve years. His friendly face; his love of jive clubs; his famous six-bean curry. I explained how he was devastated when Mum died but he’s since found a lovely woman called Fran and two more stepchildren and how I’m thrilled for him, of course I am, but it’s weird for me. They ask me for Christmas every year and I tried going once, but it didn’t really work. So the next year I went to Maud’s, which was noisy and chaotic and distracting in the best possible way.
Then I really opened up. I told Matt how I sometimes realize how very much on my own I am in the world, with just a distant dad and no siblings. And how it feels scary. But then I remember I have my friends and I have Harold and I have my rescue projects and all my work….
I suppose I talked quite a lot. But there wasn’t a lot else to do in the A&E waiting room. And I was going to ask Matt about his family, but before I could, we were called by the nurse.
So now it’s time for me to hear about his background. I want to learn all about his parents. Their lovable quirks…their heartwarming traditions…the important lessons they’ve given him as he’s grown up…Basically I want to learn why I’m going to love them.
Nell once said to me, “Ava, you don’t have to be ready to love anything and everything you come across,” but she was exaggerating. I don’t. And anyway, this isn’t “anything,” this is Matt! I love him! And I’m ready to love his family too.
“Tell me everything about your parents,” I reiterate, squeezing his hand. “Everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
“OK.” Matt nods. “Well, there’s my dad.”
We walk along a bit in silence while I wait for Matt to continue. Till I realize that’s it.
“What’s your dad like?” I prompt, and Matt furrows his brow as though I’ve hurled some impossible problem at him.
“He’s…tall,” he says at last.
“Tall,” I say encouragingly. “Wow!”
“Not extreme,” Matt clarifies. “He’s about six foot two. Maybe six foot three. I can find out if you like.” He gets out his phone. “I’ll text him.”
He summons up his contacts page and I hurriedly say, “No! No, it doesn’t matter what his exact height is. So, he’s pretty tall. Amazing!”
I’m hoping Matt might carry on with more details, but he just nods as he puts his phone away again and we walk on, while I feel tiny prickles of frustration.
“Anything else?” I say at last.
“He’s…” Matt thinks for a bit. “You know.”
I quell an urge to retort “No, I don’t know, that’s the point.” But that would ruin the mood, so instead I say brightly, “What about your mother? What’s she like?”
&n
bsp; “Oh.” Matt thinks for a while again. “She’s…You know. It’s hard to say.”
“Just anything!” I say, trying not to sound desperate. “Anything about her. Any detail. Big or small. Paint a picture.”
Matt is silent for a while, then says, “I guess she’s pretty tall as well.”
She’s tall too? That’s all he has to say? I’m starting to picture a family of giants here. I’m about to ask if he has any siblings when Matt says, “Here we are!” and my head jerks up in surprise. Followed by stupefied horror.
I’ve been so preoccupied, I haven’t noticed our surroundings changing as we’ve been walking. We’re not in a pretty garden square anymore. Or a pretty street. We’re standing in front of the ugliest building I’ve ever seen in my life and Matt is gesturing proudly at it. “Home!” he adds, just in case there was any doubt. “What do you think?”
What I honestly think is, I can’t believe anyone ever designed this. Or built it. It’s made of concrete with sinister-looking circular windows and odd rectangular structures extending in all directions. There are three blocks in total, linked by concrete walkways and stairways and weird angular bits. As I look up, I can see a distant, high-up face peering out of a glass stairwell as though in prison.
But then I feel guilty for having critical thoughts. London’s a nightmare to find a home in. It’s not Matt’s fault that this is all he could find.
“Wow,” I say. “This is…I mean, London property’s expensive, I know it’s hard, so…” I smile sympathetically at him and he beams back.
“Tell me. I was lucky to see this place on the market. I had to fight off three other bidders.”
I nearly fall over in the street. Three other bidders?
“It’s a great example of 1960s brutalism,” he adds with enthusiasm, opening the main front door and ushering me into a concrete-clad hallway.
“Right,” I respond faintly. “Absolutely! Brutalism.”
I’m sorry, but if you ask me, no word that contains “brutal” is a good word.
Love Your Life Page 11