Love Your Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Not obsession,” says Matt, giving a short laugh. “But I guess we take it pretty seriously. My grandmother was Austrian ladies’ champion back in the day, and my brother turned pro. So.”

  I splutter on my wine, then cough frantically, trying to hide it. Now I learn this?

  “You never mentioned that,” I say with a forced smile. “Isn’t that funny? All that time we spent together, and you never mentioned golf! Not once!”

  “Oh,” says Matt with an unconcerned shrug. “Huh. Guess it didn’t come up.”

  “Do you play?” Nihal asks me politely.

  “Um…” I swallow. “That would be a no—”

  “Madame.” Topher’s deep voice interrupts from behind me. “Feast your eyes on this.”

  I swivel around and scream before I can stop myself. He’s holding a white platter on which are four raw, red, quivering steaks. I can smell their odious fleshy smell. I can see blood oozing from them.

  “Steak night,” Topher elaborates. “Choose your cut. You’d like it rare, I assume?”

  “Could you…could you possibly move that away from me?” I manage, almost wanting to hurl.

  “Oh, Ava’s vegetarian,” says Matt, lining up his shot. “I should have mentioned.”

  “Vegetarian!” says Topher, halted. “OK.” He looks at the steaks again. “So…medium-well?”

  Is that supposed to be a joke? Because I still have revolting meat fumes in my nose, and those steaks were once an animal.

  “It’s fine, I’ll just eat some vegetables,” I say faintly.

  “Vegetables.” Topher looks taken aback. “Right. OK. Vegetables.” He thinks. “Do we have those?”

  “We have some peas,” says Nihal vaguely, staring at the screen. “Although they’re ancient.”

  “If you say so.” Topher moves toward Nihal. “OK, Nihal, which is it to be?” He lowers the platter so Nihal can see the steaks—and there’s a blur of brown and white, accompanied by the scrabbling sound of paws.

  Oh my God. No.

  “Harold!” I cry out in dismay, but he’s already on the other side of the room, a dripping raw steak in his mouth.

  “What the hell?” Topher gapes at the platter, which now has only three steaks on it. “Did that dog just steal one of my steaks? I didn’t even see him.”

  “What?” says Matt, putting down his putter and looking up incredulously.

  “He came out of nowhere,” says Topher, looking shell-shocked. “He’s a stealth missile.”

  We all look at Harold, who eyes us with mischievous defiance, then falls on the meat like the happiest dog in the world.

  “That’s a grass-fed, dry-aged filet steak,” says Topher, staring at Harold. “I took out a mortgage to pay for it.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say desperately. “Could I…reimburse you?”

  “Well, it was yours,” says Topher. “So, you know. Sort it out with Harold.”

  As Harold polishes off the remaining steak, Nihal starts laughing, which is the most endearing sight. His face screws right up like a baby’s and his glasses mist over.

  “Topher, you looked so freaked out,” he says gleefully. “Topher never gets freaked out,” he adds to me. “That was worth the price of a steak.”

  “I was not freaked out.” Topher has regained his composure.

  “You so were—” Nihal breaks off as a buzzer sounds. “Who’s that?”

  “I’ll get it,” says Matt, heading to the answerphone. “Probably a delivery. Hello?” There’s a crackly, inaudible response, and he peers at the little video screen. “Hi? Hello? I can’t…” Then his face changes. “Oh.” He swallows. “Mum. Dad. Hi.”

  Ten

  Oh my God, oh my God! I’m beyond excited. And nervous. In fact, I’m a bit hyper. Matt’s parents are on their way up, and I don’t want to overdramatize it, but meeting them is basically one of the biggest moments of my life.

  Because let’s suppose that Matt and I stay together forever. Just suppose we do. Then…this is my new family! They’ll be part of my life for good! We’ll have nicknames and in-jokes and I’ll probably do little errands for them and we’ll laugh happily at the antics of the children Matt and I will have—

  Shit. Wait a moment. I clutch at my glass of wine, halted in my thoughts. Does Matt want children? I haven’t even asked him.

  I feel a bit stunned by this realization. How has this not come up? I asked if he had any children and he answered “no.” But that’s a different question. Maybe he doesn’t have any because he’s taken a vow not to overpopulate the world. Or he’s infertile. (If so, would he adopt or foster? Because I would be so up for that.)

  I need to find this out right now. He’s nearby, reading something on his phone, and I grab him by the arm.

  “Matt!” I drag him out of the main living space into the scary atrium and lower my voice to a hiss. “Listen! I have something really urgent to ask you.”

  “Oh.” He looks concerned. “What?”

  “Do you want children?”

  Matt gapes at me. “Do I what?”

  “Children! D’you want to have them?”

  “Children?” Matt seems staggered. He glances toward the living space as though afraid of being overheard and takes a few steps away. “Are we doing this now?” he whispers. “It’s hardly the time—”

  “It is the time!” I contradict him a little wildly. “It’s exactly the time! Because I might be about to meet the grandparents of my future babies!” I gesticulate at the front door. “Grandparents! That’s a big deal, Matt!”

  Matt looks utterly baffled. Doesn’t he follow my logic? I’ve been perfectly clear.

  “And if you don’t want children—” I stop dead mid-sentence, because I’m drawn up short by the enormity of a dilemma which is presenting itself, right here, right now.

  I love Matt. I love him. As I gaze at his perplexed face, I feel an overwhelming rush of affection for him. If he doesn’t want children, even adoptive or foster ones, then he’ll have his reasons. Which I will respect. And we’ll carve out a different sort of life. Perhaps we’ll travel…or we’ll open a donkey sanctuary and the donkeys will be our children….

  “I do want children.” Matt’s voice punctures my thoughts. “In the future. You know.” He shrugs, looking awkward. “In theory.”

  “Oh!” I sag in relief. “Oh, you do! Well, so do I. One day,” I hastily clarify. “Way in the future. Not now.” I laugh to show what a ridiculous notion this is, even as my brain is conjuring up an image of Matt holding twin babies, one in the crook of each manly arm.

  Maybe I won’t share that thought with him just now.

  “OK.” Matt is scanning my face warily. “So, is this conversation done?”

  I smile happily up at him. “Yes! I just think it’s good to get things straight, don’t you?”

  Matt doesn’t reply. I’ll take that as a yes. Then a distant ping sounds and I stiffen. It’s the lift arriving! It’s them!

  “What are your parents like?” I blurt out to Matt. “You’ve hardly told me anything! Fill me in, quickly.”

  “My parents?” He looks flummoxed. “They’re…You’ll see.”

  You’ll see? That’s no help.

  “Should we cook something?”

  “No, no.” He shakes his head. “They’re just dropping something off on the way to the theater.” He hesitates. “In fact, if you didn’t want to meet them, you could stay in the bedroom.”

  “You mean hide?” I stare at him.

  “Just if you want to.”

  “Of course I don’t want to!” I say, bewildered. “I can’t wait to meet them!”

  “Well, they’re only staying for a moment—oh, here they are,” he adds as a chiming bell sounds.

  He heads to the front door of the apartment while my mind
whirs. It’s the first five seconds that count. I need to make a good impression. I’ll compliment his mother’s bag. No, her shoes. No, her bag.

  The door swings open to reveal a man and woman, both in smart coats, both very tall. (Matt wasn’t wrong.) As I watch them hug Matt, my brain furiously processes details. His dad is handsome. His mum is quite reserved; look at the way she hugs him lightly with gloved hands. Expensive shoes. Nice maroon leather bag. And blond highlighted hair. Should I compliment that instead? No, too personal.

  At last Matt turns and beckons me over.

  “Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet Ava. Ava, these are my parents, John and Elsa.”

  “Hello!” I say in an emotional rush. “I love your bag and your shoes!”

  Wait. That came out wrong. You don’t say both. You pick one.

  Elsa looks disconcerted and glances at her shoes.

  “I mean…your bag,” I hastily amend. “That’s a great bag. Look at the clasp!”

  Elsa glances blankly at the clasp of her bag, then turns to Matt and says, “Who is this?”

  “Ava,” says Matt, with tension in his voice. “I just told you. Ava.”

  “Ava.” Elsa holds out a hand and I shake it, and after a moment, John does the same.

  I’m waiting for Elsa to say, “How did you two lovebirds meet?” or even, “Well, aren’t you adorable?” which is how Russell’s mother first greeted me. (Russell’s mum was a lot nicer than Russell, it turned out.)

  But instead, Elsa eyes me in silence, then turns to Matt and says, “Genevieve sends her love.”

  I feel a tiny jolt of shock, which I conceal with a wide smile. Genevieve sent her love?

  I mean, Genevieve’s allowed to send her love. Of course she is. But, you know. How come?

  “Right.” Matt sounds strangled.

  “We met for lunch,” adds his mother, and I force my smile even wider. It’s good that they had lunch. I’m super-relaxed about it. Everyone should be friends.

  “Great!” I exclaim, just to prove I’m not threatened, and Elsa shoots me a strange look.

  “We had a lot to discuss,” she continues to Matt, “but first, let me show you this.”

  She pulls a shiny new hardback book out of her bag. It has a photo of a dollhouse on the front and the title Harriet’s House and Me: A Personal Journey. At once I spot a chance to be supportive of the family business.

  “Wow!” I exclaim. “I used to love Harriet’s House!”

  Elsa eyes me with a flicker of interest. “Did you have a Harriet’s House?”

  “Well…no,” I admit. “But some of my friends did.”

  The interest in Elsa’s face instantly dies away and she turns back to Matt.

  “This is straight from the printer’s.” She taps the shiny cover. “We wanted you to see it, Matthias.”

  “We’re very pleased with it,” puts in John. “We’re already in talks with Harrods about an exclusive edition.”

  “Right.” Matt takes the book. “It’s come out well.”

  “I’d love to read that,” I say with enthusiasm. “I bet it’s really interesting. Who wrote it?”

  “Genevieve,” says Elsa blankly, as though it’s obvious.

  Genevieve?

  Matt turns the book over, and a stunning woman of about thirty stares out of the back cover. She has long blond hair, a delightful sparkle in her blue eyes, and beautiful, elegant hands, which she’s resting her chin on.

  I gulp inwardly. That’s Genevieve? Then I realize that I’ve seen her before, in a photo on the Harriet’s House website, though I didn’t clock her name. I remember thinking at the time, She’s pretty.

  “Wow!” I try to sound light and careless. “That’s great. So Genevieve works for you?”

  “Genevieve is an ambassador for Harriet’s House,” says John gravely.

  “Ambassador?” I echo.

  “She’s a superfan,” Matt mutters to me. “She still collects. That’s how we met, at a Harriet’s House convention. It’s pretty much, you know, her life.”

  “The work she does for us is wonderful. Simply wonderful.” Elsa makes it sound as though Genevieve is a NATO peacekeeper.

  “Matthias, I think you should call Genevieve and congratulate her,” says Matt’s father heavily. “She is such an asset to us.”

  Matt doesn’t react for a moment. Then, without looking up, he says, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  His father’s face tightens, and he glances at me. “Could you give us a moment, Eva?”

  “Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Right. Of course.”

  “Ava,” Matt corrects his dad, looking pissed off. “It’s Ava.”

  I retreat into the main space of the flat and the door closes firmly. A muffled conversation begins, and I turn away, telling myself not to eavesdrop. Although I can’t help hearing Elsa saying, “Matthias, I hardly think…”

  What does she hardly think?

  Anyway. None of my business.

  After a minute or two, the door opens again and the three of them enter. Elsa is holding the book so that Genevieve’s face shines out at us, even more luminous and beautiful than before. Matt looks stressed out and doesn’t meet my eye.

  “Good evening!” comes Topher’s voice from the doorway to the kitchen, and he lifts a hand in greeting.

  “Evening, Topher,” says John, hailing him back.

  “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “No, they’re not,” says Matt before his father can reply. “In fact, shouldn’t you go? Won’t you miss your show?”

  “There’s plenty of time,” says Elsa. She deposits her bag on a nearby low stool and starts flipping through the book. “There was a particular photograph I wanted to show you,” she adds to Matt. “It’s a lovely one of Genevieve as a child.”

  She continues flipping backward and forward and is just saying, “Ah, here we are,” when I hear a vigorous scrabbling sound. I turn to see Harold rushing across the floor in our direction and have an instant, horrifying realization. He’s going to grab her bag.

  Harold has a thing about handbags. He hates them. It’s not his fault—I think he had some sort of traumatic handbag encounter as a puppy and sees them as the enemy. I have about three seconds to react before he grabs Elsa’s bag and mangles it.

  “Sorry!” I gasp. “Sorry, that’s my dog, and you might want to move your— Quick!”

  I make a desperate lunge for the bag, but at the same time Elsa moves defensively toward it, and I don’t know what happens, but there’s a ripping sound, and—

  Oh God.

  Somehow as I lunged, I caught the book, and now I’ve ripped the jacket. Right down the middle of Genevieve’s face.

  “Genevieve!” cries Elsa hysterically, as though I’ve attacked her in person, and whips the book away. “What have you done?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I gulp, cold with horror. “I didn’t mean to— Harold, no!”

  I snatch up the handbag from the stool before Harold can sink his teeth into it. Elsa gasps in fresh horror, grabs it from me, and clutches both book and bag protectively to her.

  For a moment no one speaks. One of Genevieve’s eyes is gazing straight at me, while the other flaps around on the torn bit of paper. And I know this is irrational—but I feel like Genevieve can see me through the book. She knows. She knows.

  I glance at Matt, and his lips are compressed. I can’t tell if he’s livid or amused or what.

  “Well,” says Elsa at last, gathering herself. “We need to go. I’ll leave this here.” She places the book on a high shelf.

  “Lovely to meet you,” I say feebly. “Sorry about…Sorry.”

  Elsa and John both give me stiff nods, and Matt ushers them out while I sag in utter dismay. That has to be one of the worst three minutes of my life.
>
  “Nice work,” says Topher’s voice behind me, and I turn to see him regarding me in amusement. He nods at Genevieve’s ripped face. “Destroy the ex. Always a good first move.”

  “It was an accident,” I say defensively, and he raises his eyebrows.

  “There are no accidents,” he says in mysterious tones. “I like how you and Harold operate as a team, by the way,” he adds more matter-of-factly. “You secure the area; he goes in. Very slick. Good comms.”

  I can’t help smiling at the idea of Harold and me having “comms.” But I’m not having Topher start some rumor that I attacked a book deliberately. I love books! I take in rescue books!

  “I would never hurt a book,” I say stonily. I glance again at Genevieve’s glossy torn face and wince as though it were a real injury.

  “They can do wonders with plastic surgery these days,” says Topher, following my gaze, and I give a half laugh in spite of myself.

  “It’s not just the damage to the book. It’s…you know. My first meeting with Matt’s parents and it ends like that. You can have the best intentions, the very best intentions, but…” I heave a hopeless sigh.

  “Listen, Ava,” says Topher, his voice more serious, and I look up, hoping for some wise word of advice or kindness. “Here’s the thing.” He pauses, his face creasing up in thought. “Do you count pasta as a vegetable?”

  Eleven

  Two hours later, I’m in a more positive frame of mind. We’ve had supper (I had pasta and peas, which was fine) and we’ve taken Harold out to a local park for his nighttime walk. Now I’m sitting on the bed, reading the questions which the others have been firing at me on WhatsApp:

  How’s it going?????

  What’s his place like????

  Details please!!!

  I consider for a moment, then type:

  It’s amazing! He has a great flat. Really cool!

  My eyes drift toward the hairless wolf and I shudder. I’ve been thinking about Matt’s weird art and have decided my strategy is this: I just won’t look at it. I can easily learn how to get about this flat with my eyes averted from the hairless wolf and the scary raven and all the rest. Of course I can.