We travel up to the fourth floor in the kind of lift that belongs in a violent thriller, and Matt opens a black-painted front door into an atrium. It’s painted matte gray and contains a metal console table, a leather footstool, and a piece of wall-mounted sculpture straight ahead that makes me jump in fright.
It’s an eyeless face made from clay, straining out of a panel on a long neck as though it wants to scream or eat me. It’s the most grotesque, creepy thing I’ve ever seen. In revulsion, I swivel away—to see a similar piece of art on the adjacent wall, only this is ten hands all reaching out at me like something from a nightmare. Who makes this? I reach down to Harold for some reassurance and say, “Isn’t this…great, Harold?”
But Harold is whining unhappily at the face sculpture, and I don’t blame him.
“Don’t be scared!” I say. “It’s art.”
Harold gives me a desperate look as though to say, “Where have you brought me?” and I pat him, soothing myself as much as him.
“Take your coat?” says Matt, and I hand it over, trying desperately to think of something positive to say. In my peripheral vision I can see yet another sculpture, which seems to depict a raven. OK, I can cope with a raven. I walk up to it, intending to say something complimentary, then notice that in the raven’s mouth are human teeth.
I emit a scream before I can stop myself, then clap a hand over my mouth.
“What?” Matt looks up from putting our coats in a cupboard which is so discreet I hadn’t noticed it. “Are you OK?”
“Yes!” I try to gather myself. “I was just…reacting to the art. Wow! It’s really…Does it belong to you?” I’m seized by a sudden hope that it’s his flatmate’s, but Matt’s face brightens.
“Yeah. It’s all by Arlo Halsan?” he says as though I might recognize the name. “I was never really into art, but I saw his stuff at a gallery, and I was like, I get this artist. Blew me away. I have another piece in my bedroom,” he adds with enthusiasm. “It’s a hairless wolf.”
A hairless wolf? A hairless wolf is going to watch us have sex?
“Great!” I say in a strangled voice. “A hairless wolf! Awesome!”
Matt closes the cupboard and opens another door, which I hadn’t noticed either because everything is so uniform and sleek and monochrome. “Come and meet the guys,” he says, and ushers me through the door.
The first thing I notice is how huge the space is. The second is that everything is black or gray. Concrete floor, black walls, metal blinds. There’s a seating area with black leather sofas, three desks with an array of computers on them, and a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, which is being thumped by a thickset guy in shorts with his back to us.
On one of the leather sofas is a guy in jeans and massive sneakers. He has headphones on and is intently gaming. I swivel to see the screen—and bloody hell, it’s massive.
“Ava, Nihal. Nihal, Ava,” says Matt by way of introduction, and Nihal raises a brief hand.
“Hi,” he says, and flashes me a sweet smile, then turns his attention back to the gunfire on the screen.
“And that’s Topher,” says Matt, gesturing at the guy whacking the punching bag. “Topher!”
Topher stops punching and turns to face us, and I feel an inner jolt. Whereas Nihal is skinny and quite conventional-looking, Topher is arresting. He’s powerfully built, with a face which is…
Well. I don’t like to use the word “ugly.” But he’s ugly. So ugly he almost comes full circle. His eyes are sunk into his face. His dark eyebrows are massive. His skin is bad. Yet somehow he’s compelling. He radiates personality, even standing there, all sweaty in his sports shorts.
“Hi,” he says in a gravelly voice, and gestures at his ears with his gloved hands. “AirPods.”
“Nice to meet you!” I say feebly as he resumes bashing the punching bag. Then something at floor level catches my eye, and I stare in disbelief. There’s some sort of robot approaching us over the concrete floor. Like the kind people have to vacuum their houses. But this one is holding cans of beer.
Harold spots it at the same time as I do and starts barking frenziedly. I grab for his lead before he can attack it, and we both watch agog as the robot glides toward Nihal.
“I’m sure Harold will get used to that,” says Matt.
“But what is it?” I say, bewildered.
“Robot.” Matt shrugs. “We have a few. One for beer, one for pizza, one for crisps…”
“But why?” I say, even more bewildered, and Matt peers at me as though he doesn’t understand the question.
“Makes life easier?” He shrugs. “Come and see my room, then I’ll get you a drink.”
Matt’s room has black walls, a gray concrete floor, and the hairless wolf sculpture over the bed, which I try very hard not to look at as I unpack Harold’s things. (Why hairless?)
I set out Harold’s bed and blanket and spritz everything with his essential oils. As Matt enters, holding a glass of wine and a beer, I exclaim, “All ready for the sleepover!”
“In my family, dogs aren’t allowed in the bedroom,” responds Matt, and I laugh, because he has a really dry sense of humor. Then, as I stand up and see his frown, my heart plunges. That wasn’t humor. He means it. He means it?
“Harold always sleeps in the same room as me,” I explain, trying to hide my rising anxiety. “He’ll get lonely if he doesn’t.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine in the kitchen,” says Matt, as though I haven’t spoken. “We can put his bed there; he’ll be very comfortable. Won’t you, Harold?”
The kitchen? Who makes their beloved family member sleep in the kitchen?
“I don’t think he will, actually,” I say. I’m trying to smile in a relaxed way, but I feel super-unrelaxed. My dog is not an appliance, and he’s not sleeping in the kitchen. “He’ll miss me. He’ll whine. It won’t work. That’s just…you know. How it is. Sorry.”
Not sorry, my eyes add silently.
Matt’s eyes run over Harold, over the dog bed, and up to me again. I’m still smiling, but my chin has tensed and my hands have curled into fists. I mean, basically this is nonnegotiable. And I think Matt’s realizing it.
“Right,” he says at last. “So…”
“It’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “It’ll be fine. You won’t even notice him.”
I won’t mention that Harold always starts off sleeping on his own bed but joins me under the duvet at some point during the night. We can cross that bridge when we come to it.
“I put some stuff in one of the drawers in the bathroom,” I say brightly, changing the subject. “The left-hand one.”
“Cool.” Matt nods. “That’s where Genevieve always used to—” He stops himself and there’s a prickly silence, during which my mind whirs.
There was a Genevieve?
Of course there was a Genevieve. Of course he has a past. We’re grown-ups; we both have pasts. The real question is: What do we want to know about those pasts?
Matt has been darting wary looks at me, and now he draws breath. “Genevieve was my—”
“Yes!” I cut him off. “I get it. Girlfriend. You have history. We both do.”
Matt and Genevieve. No, it sounds crap. Matt and Ava is far better.
“But this is what I think,” I continue before Matt can blurt out something unhelpful like how great she was in bed. “We were lucky. We met in a magical, wonderful bubble. We didn’t know anything about each other. We had no baggage. No baggage,” I repeat for emphasis. “And in this day and age, that’s a precious gift. Don’t you think?”
“I guess,” says Matt.
“I don’t need to know anything about Genevieve,” I say, trying to emphasize the point. “I’m not interested in Genevieve! Couldn’t care less! And you don’t need to know about Russell.”
“Russell?” Matt s
tiffens. “Who the hell is Russell?”
Oh, OK. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Russell by name.
“Doesn’t matter!” I make a brushing-aside gesture with my hand. “Ancient history! Baggage! We’re not doing baggage. OK? This is a hand-luggage-only relationship.” I walk over so I’m standing directly in front of Matt and survey his strong, handsome, honest face. “This is us,” I murmur. “Right here, right now. And that’s all that matters.” I brush my lips gently against his. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Matt’s eyes crinkle fondly as he gazes at me. “And, yes, we were lucky.” As Harold pads over to us, Matt reaches down and caresses his head. “As for you,” he addresses Harold in mock-stern tones, “you’d better not snore.”
“He doesn’t snore,” I assure Matt earnestly. Which is true. Sleep-whining isn’t snoring; it’s a completely different sound.
I’m just pulling Matt close for another kiss when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. He clicks his tongue with annoyance and says, “Sorry. Work. Do you mind? Make yourself at home….”
“No problem!” I say. “Take your time!”
As he answers the phone, I head out to the main living space and look around expectantly.
I’m already getting used to the black. But maybe I could suggest a few brighter accessories to cheer it up. Yes! Like a throw. He needs some throws and cushions.
Topher is now wearing a hoodie over his shorts and sitting at one of the desks, squinting at the screen.
“Hi, Topher,” I say, approaching him with a smile. “We didn’t meet properly. I’m Ava, and this is Harold. We look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Oh, OK.” Topher glances up briefly. “Good to meet you. But you won’t like me. Just FYI.”
“I won’t like you?” I can’t help laughing. “Why not?”
“People don’t.”
“Really?” I decide to play him at his game. “Why not?”
“I have unfashionable emotions. Melancholy. Envy. Wrath. Schadenfreude.” He types something in a sudden energetic flurry. “Plus, you know. I’m a bastard.”
“I’m sure you’re not.”
“I am. I’m mean-spirited. I don’t give money to beggars in the street.”
“You started a charity,” observes Nihal, walking past on the way to his desk. “Topher talks bullshit,” he adds to me. “Don’t ever listen to him.”
“I started a charity to meet girls,” says Topher without missing a beat. “Girls love charity. I bet you love charity, Ava.” He glances up at me with his deep-set eyes. “Of course you do. ‘Oh, charity. I just love charity. Let’s have sex, because you gave a fuckload of cash to charity.’ ”
“Who did you have sex with?” asks Nihal with interest.
“You know who I had sex with,” replies Topher after a slight pause. “And you know she broke my heart. So thank you for dragging it up.”
“Oh, her.” Nihal makes a face. “Sorry. That was a while ago, though,” he adds, practically whispering. “I thought maybe you meant someone else.”
Topher raises his head and glowers at him. “The snack robot needs reloading.”
“It’s your turn,” says Nihal timidly.
“Fuck.” Topher smacks his hand on his desk with a Shakespearean level of despair. “That is the worst household job. The worst.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or psychotic. Or maybe both.
“The worst household job?” I challenge him. “Loading up a robot with snacks?”
“Yes, of course,” says Topher, picking up his phone and tapping at it with a frown. “The more convenient and helpful a machine is, the more enraged I feel when I actually have to do anything about it. Like, unloading a clean dishwasher. I wash dishes by hand just to avoid unloading, don’t you?” His expression suddenly clears. “Nihal, you lying shit, it’s your turn.” He brandishes his phone at Nihal. “I have it logged. Your. Turn.”
“I don’t have a dishwasher,” I inform him.
“OK.” Topher nods. “Well, if you ever get one, you’ll love it for a week. From then on, you’ll take it for granted and complain when you have to give it the barest care and attention. Humans are ungrateful shits. My job is in human nature,” he adds. “So I know.”
“Human nature?” I stare at him curiously. “What do you do?”
“I run polls.” Topher gestures at the three computers on his desk. “Opinion polls. I gather viewpoints, crunch numbers, and tell politicians and companies what people think. And it’s not pretty. Humans are terrible. But you probably knew that.”
“Humans aren’t terrible!” I reply indignantly. I know he’s joking. (I think he’s joking.) But I still feel the need to put in a more positive viewpoint. “You shouldn’t go around saying humans are terrible. It’s too depressing! You have to think positive!”
Topher looks highly amused. “How many humans have you questioned in your time, Ava?”
“I…I mean…” I flounder. “Obviously I talk to people….”
“I have the data.” He pats one of his computers. “Humans are weak, hypocritical, sanctimonious, inconsistent….I’m ashamed of humans. I include myself, naturally. Nihal, are you going to load up the fucking robot or what?”
“I have to send an email,” says Nihal, with mild-mannered determination. “I’ll do it in a minute.”
“What do you do?” I ask Nihal.
“Nihal runs Apple, only he’s too modest to say so,” says Topher.
“Stop saying that, Topher,” says Nihal, looking flustered. “I’m not that senior. I’m like…It’s not…”
“But you work for Apple.”
Nihal nods, then says politely, “What do you do, Ava?”
“I write pharmaceutical copy for a company called Brakesons,” I explain. “They make drugs and medical supplies.”
“I know Brakesons.” Nihal nods again.
“But I also want to go into aromatherapy, and I’ve got a novel on the go,” I add, “so…you know. A few things. I like challenging myself.”
“Cool,” says Nihal shyly, then puts his headphones on and resumes typing. Both guys are so absorbed in their work, I’m not sure what to do next. But then, in a sudden gesture, Topher pushes back his chair.
“Fine,” he says. “I’m going to load up the robot. Nihal, you owe me a kidney.”
As Topher strides into the kitchen, Matt reappears from the bedroom, his gaze downcast.
“Hi!” I say, feeling more relieved than I want to admit that he’s back. “Everything OK?”
“Oh.” Matt focuses on me with what seems like an effort. “Yes. Have you got a drink? Are you all right? Have the guys been looking after you?”
“Yes!” I say. “I’m having a lovely time!”
I wait for Matt to respond—then realize he didn’t even hear me. He looks stressed out. Oh God, has something bad happened at work?
“I want to hear all about what you do,” I say encouragingly. “Shall we go and sit down? Or…shall I give you a massage?”
“Sorry.” Matt rubs his forehead. “No, it’s fine. Just…I have a couple of things to think about. Give me ten minutes?”
“Take your time,” I say, trying to sound reassuring and soothing. “I’m happy here. I can amuse myself.”
As I look around vaguely for something to do, I notice a whiteboard covered in writing. I head over to see what it is—then stare, nonplussed. It has BASTARD CHART scrawled in capitals at the top. Underneath is a list: Topher, Nihal, Matt, and each of them has a tally. Nihal is on 12, Matt is on 14, and Topher is on 31.
Nihal sees me staring and politely lowers his headphones.
“What’s a bastard chart?” I ask, puzzled.
“If someone’s, like, a total bastard or really annoying, they get a strike on the chart. The lo
ser buys drinks every month. It’s always Topher,” he adds. “But if we didn’t have the chart, he’d be way worse.”
“Wait, Nihal,” I say quickly, before he replaces his headphones. “I can’t imagine you ever being a bastard.”
“Oh, I am,” he says earnestly.
“Like what?” I demand. “Give me an example.”
“I told Topher his new sweater looked like shit.” Nihal’s eyes gleam through his glasses. “He was really upset. It cost him a lot of money. He gave me six strikes. But it does look like shit.”
He replaces his headphones and starts typing again. I’ve pretty much explored the whole room by now, so I head to a nearby black leather barstool and check my phone. Sarika is out shopping for dresses and has sent over about sixteen photos from shop changing rooms for opinions, so I start scrolling through them and chiming in with my thoughts.
Short black is gorgeous!!! Blue beaded OK but weird sleeves? Which shoes?
All this time, I keep glancing at Matt. He’s been standing stock still, scrolling through something on his phone and scowling. When at last he moves, I’m expecting him to go to his desk. But he heads to another concealed cupboard, opens it, and takes out…
What? My stomach clenches. Surely that’s not—
“Hey, Matt!” I say casually. “What’s that?”
“Putter.” Matt lifts it up, so I can see. “Golf club. Helps me think.”
Golf?
As I watch, aghast, he gets out a couple of golf balls and places them on a strip of green carpet I hadn’t noticed before, because it was masked by the leather sofas. He hits one of the balls toward an artificial golf hole, then waits as some sort of machinery rolls it back to him, his forehead creased in thought. Then he hits it again. And again.
“I thought you were into martial arts, Matt!” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “Not golf.”
“Both,” says Matt, glancing round.
“Both!” I clench my glass tighter. “That’s…great! So great. I mean, all hobbies are great.”
“Matt’s whole family is into golf,” says Nihal, who has come noiselessly over to one of the leather sofas and is loading up another computer game. “It’s like your family obsession, isn’t it, Matt?”
Love Your Life Page 12