There’s no point mentioning the freaky art on WhatsApp; it’ll only sound negative. So instead I type:
Very industrial. Great flatmates. And I met his parents!!!
At once the replies start buzzing into my phone.
His parents???!!!!
Wow, that’s quick!!!
I glance up to see Matt coming into the bedroom, put my phone away, and smile at him.
“OK?” he says.
“Yes! Great!”
I wait for him to continue the conversation, but he doesn’t, and we lapse into silence.
Something I’ve noticed about Matt is that he’s quite happy with great tranches of silence. I mean, I love silence, too, obviously. Silence is great. It’s peaceful. It’s something we all need in this hectic modern life, silence.
But it’s also quite silent.
To fill the gap, I open up WhatsApp again and read Nell’s latest comment:
What are his parents like?
I quickly reply:
Fab!!!
Then, before I get asked for any more details, I close down WhatsApp and survey Matt again. Words are bubbling in my brain. And one of my theories of life is: It’s unhealthy not to let words out of your brain. Otherwise they curdle. Plus, you know, someone has to speak.
“So, Genevieve, huh?” I say lightly. “What’s the story there?”
“Story?” Matt looks instantly on guard. “There’s no story.”
“Matt, there must be a story,” I say, trying to hide my impatience. “Every couple has a story. You were together—then what happened?”
“Oh, right. Well…OK. Yes. We were together.” Matt pauses as though thinking how best to describe his relationship with Genevieve. Finally he draws breath and concludes, “Then we broke up.”
I feel a tiny flicker of frustration. That’s it?
“There must be more to it than that,” I persist. “Who ended it?”
“I don’t remember,” says Matt, looking hunted. “Really. I suppose it was mutual. It was over two years ago. I’ve had another girlfriend since her; she’s dated some other guy….She just happens to be a Harriet’s House superfan, so she’s still, you know. Around.”
“Right. Got it.” I digest this new information. He broke up with her two years ago. Good. But then he had another girlfriend?
“Just out of interest,” I say casually, “when did you break up with the other girlfriend? The one after Genevieve? In fact, what was her name?”
“Ava…” Matt exhales and comes over to face me. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. What happened to ‘hand luggage only’? What happened to ‘Let’s stay in the bubble’?”
I want to retort, “Genevieve gate-crashed the bloody bubble, that’s what happened!” But instead I smile and say, “Of course. You’re right. Let’s not go there.”
“We’re here,” says Matt, taking my hands and squeezing them. “That’s all that matters.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “We’re with each other. End of story.”
“Don’t worry about Genevieve,” Matt adds for good measure, and instantly I feel a prickle of fresh irritation. Why did he have to say that? The minute you tell someone not to worry, they worry. It’s a law of nature.
“I’m not worried,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I turn away and do an elaborate yoga stretch to demonstrate my lack of concern, and Matt wanders out of the room again. Suddenly I hear a loud yell of shock. Then Matt reappears at the bedroom door, holding a torn mess of blue poplin.
“Ava,” he begins. “I hate to say it, but I think Harold got hold of one of my shirts, and…” He gestures at the shredded shirt and I wince.
“Oh God, sorry. I should have told you: Harold has a real thing about men’s shirts. They have to be kept out of his reach or he worries them to death.”
“Men’s shirts?” Matt looks astounded.
“Yes. He’s very intelligent,” I add, unable to hide my pride. “He can tell the difference between my clothes and a man’s shirt. He thinks he’s protecting me. Don’t you, Harold?” I add lovingly to him. “Are you my chief protector? Are you such a clever boy?”
“But…” Matt frowns, looking confused. “Sorry, I thought it was handbags Harold had a thing against. Now you’re saying it’s shirts?”
“It’s both,” I explain. “It’s different. He’s scared of handbags. He attacks them because of some trauma he experienced involving a handbag when he was a puppy. Whereas with shirts, he’s just asserting himself. He’s roughhousing. He’s like, ‘Take that, shirt! I’m the boss!’ ”
I glance down at Harold, who gives a little approving whine as though to say, “You understand me completely!”
Matt gazes silently at his mangled shirt, then at Harold’s perky face, then finally at me.
“Ava,” he says. “Do you know for a fact Harold experienced a trauma with a handbag when he was a puppy? Or have you invented it to account for his behavior?”
Instantly I feel my hackles rise on Harold’s behalf. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?
“Well, obviously I don’t have detailed notes about the terrible abusive life Harold had before he was rescued,” I say, a little sarcastically. “Obviously I can’t go back in time. But I’m surmising. It’s obvious.”
Harold is looking from me to Matt with a bright, intelligent gaze, and I know he’s following the conversation. After a moment he trots over to Matt and looks up at him with hopeful, apologetic eyes, his tail gently thumping. Matt’s face softens, and after a moment he sighs.
“OK. Whatever. He didn’t mean any harm.”
He reaches down to ruffle Harold’s head and my heart melts all over again. Just when I think things are getting the tiniest bit prickly between Matt and me…something happens to make me remember why we’re meant to be.
I walk over, wrap my arms around him, and draw him into a long, loving kiss. After a few moments he kicks the bedroom door shut. And soon our clothes are all over the floor and I’m remembering exactly why we’re meant to be.
* * *
—
But by 5 A.M. I’ve learned that Matt’s bed and I are not meant to be. It’s the worst bed in the world. How can Matt sleep in it? How?
I’ve been awake since the Harold drama at 4 A.M., which was when Harold jumped on the bed to snuggle up, as he always does. It was so not a big deal. But Matt woke up and exclaimed, “What the hell!” and tried to push Harold off, still half asleep. Then Harold jumped up again and Matt said quite sternly, “Go to your bed, Harold!”
Whereupon I blurted out, “But he always ends up sleeping in bed with me!” and Matt said, aghast, “What? You never told me that.”
I mean, in hindsight, it wasn’t ideal, arguing about Harold in the middle of the night, both bleary and bad-tempered.
We tried to get Harold to sleep in his bed, but he whined and howled and kept jumping back on the bed till at last Matt snapped, “Fine. One night in bed. Now can we go to sleep?”
But Harold was all jumpy and playful by then. Which wasn’t his fault. He was confused, being in a strange place.
Anyway. He’s finally asleep now. And Matt’s asleep. But I am very much not asleep. I’m staring into the darkness, wondering how Matt can put up with this terrible, evil bed.
The mattress is super-hard—in fact, I’m loath to call it a mattress. It’s more like a wooden plank. The pillow is tough. And the bed cover is the flimsiest sheet of nothingness I’ve ever tried to sleep under. Every time I move, it rustles.
I try to wrap it around me, close my eyes, and drift off…but it won’t work. It’s not a lovely squashy duvet which warms you and cocoons you. It’s too thin and shiny and unfriendly.
Harold’s warming my feet, but the rest of me is freezing. It’s not just the bedcover, it�
��s the room. It’s too cold. I’m wearing the cotton pajamas I brought with me—but I’m still actually shivering. I try to edge toward Matt for body heat, but he murmurs in his sleep and rolls away, and I don’t want to risk waking him up again.
I can hear the distant ticking of a clock. I can hear the occasional siren from the London streets below. I can hear Matt breathing, in…out…in…out. I don’t dare look at my phone or switch on the light to read a book. I don’t even dare move. Lying awake next to a happily sleeping person is agony. It’s torture. I’d forgotten that about relationships.
It wasn’t like this in Italy, I think morosely. That super-king mattress at the monastery was the most comfortable one I’ve ever slept on. The quilt was gorgeous. When Matt and I slept together, it worked. We were both out like lights.
I close my eyes and try to start a relaxation meditation. My head feels heavy…my shoulders feel heavy….But just then, Matt mumbles something in his sleep and turns over, taking the rustly cover with him and leaving me cold and exposed—and I nearly scream in frustration. OK, that’s it, I’ve had it. I’m getting up.
Carefully, in tiny gradual movements, I edge off the bed and into a standing position. I glance down at Matt to ensure he’s still sleeping, then creep out of the room. Luckily the floor doesn’t squeak, which is the only plus point of this place.
I tiptoe into the kitchen, turn on the light, and switch on the kettle to make myself a comforting cup of tea. You can’t have a cup of tea in the middle of the night without a biscuit, but as I poke around the cupboards, I can’t find any snacks, except roasted nuts and crisps. Where are the biscuits? Everyone has biscuits in their kitchen. No one doesn’t have biscuits.
As I exhaust one cupboard, then another, my search becomes more urgent. I’m not giving up. They have to have some biscuits. “All I want is a digestive,” I mutter to myself furiously, as I search behind bottles of ketchup and cans of baked beans. Or a Hobnob. Or a shortbread, a custard cream, anything…
And then, as I’m investigating an unlikely cupboard full of tonic water, I gasp in glee. Yes! A tub of chocolate rolls! I don’t care who they belong to, I don’t care what the flatmates’ rules are, I am sitting down with a cup of tea and two chocolate rolls right here, right now, and no one can stop me.
My mouth is already salivating as I grab the tub. I need these. I will love Matt far better if I can just have a couple of chocolate rolls, and maybe he should know that. As I prize off the lid, my fingers are quivering in excitement—but then I freeze in horror. What the…What?
As I gape down, I can’t believe it. The tub is full of phone chargers, all twisted around one another. There’s no chocolate. No chocolate.
“Noooo!” I wail, before I can stop myself. “Noooo!”
I desperately empty out the phone chargers onto the counter, in case they’re somehow only the top layer—but there’s not a scrap of a chocolate roll. Not a crumb.
And now rage is starting to brew in me. What kind of twisted, warped person puts phone chargers in a tub labeled chocolate rolls? It’s playing mind games, is what it is. It’s gaslighting.
“Ava.” Matt’s voice makes me jolt and I look up to see him at the kitchen door, peering at me with sleepy eyes. His hair is on end, his face is sleep-crumpled, and he looks alarmed. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, my voice a little tense. “Sorry if I woke you. It’s just…I thought there were chocolate rolls in here.”
“What?” he says in puzzlement—then his eyes focus on the tub. “Oh. We keep chargers in that.”
“Oh, really?” I say, but Matt’s not quite awake yet and he doesn’t seem to notice my tone.
“Why are you up at five A.M.?” He comes into the room, looking anxious.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Well.” He rubs his face. “They do say that if you allow a dog in your bed—”
“It’s not Harold!” I exclaim indignantly. “Harold’s not the problem! It’s the room! It’s freezing!”
“Freezing?” He seems astounded. “My room?”
“Yes, your room! It’s like an igloo! And your bed is…” I catch sight of his worried face and rein myself in. “It’s just…you know. Different from mine.”
“Right,” says Matt, digesting this. “I guess it would be.” He comes up to me and puts an arm round me. “Ava, let me run you a warm bath. Does that sound good?”
“Yes,” I admit. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
I take my cup of tea back to bed and sit stroking Harold, letting his presence soothe me, listening to the bathwater run into the tub.
“It’s ready,” says Matt at last, and I peel off my pajamas, already cheering up at the prospect. Matt’s bath is generously sized, and I can smell some kind of nice musky bath essence. “Thank you so much,” I say gratefully to Matt as I step into the scented water and sit down. Then I gasp forcefully as the lukewarm water meets my skin. What the hell is this?
“Sorry!” I exclaim in dismay. “This is…It’s not…” I’m already standing up, water streaming off me. “It’s tepid! I’ll freeze in here! Sorry.”
“Tepid?” Matt gapes at me. “It’s warm!” He dips his arm into the water. “Warm!”
Is he telling me I’m wrong? About my own body temperature?
“It’s not warm enough for me.” I can hear tension in my voice again. “I like it really warm.”
“But…” Matt’s arm is still in the water, and he’s gazing at me in disbelief.
For a moment we stare at each other, both breathing hard. Things feel almost…confrontational. Then, as though realizing this, Matt removes his arm from the bath and steps back, drying it on a hand towel.
“Let’s not sweat it,” he says carefully. “You let some water out, Ava, run it the way you want it.”
“OK,” I say, equally carefully. “Thanks.”
I step out, wrap a large towel round me, let out half the bath and start running hot into it. Apart from the sound of the streaming water, there’s silence. We seem to be good at silences.
As I swoosh my hand back and forth, I’m letting a few unwelcome thoughts stray into my head. I know Matt’s the perfect man for me, I know he is, but there are just a few aspects of his life which are…what? Not negative, definitely not, but…challenging. The weird art. The golf. The meat. The parents.
I glance at Matt, and he seems to be brooding too. I bet he’s thinking along similar lines. He’s probably thinking, She’s turned out to be a vegetarian whose dog mangled my shirt. And she doesn’t like Japanese punk. Can we make this work?
The thought gives me an unwelcome jolt. We’ve only been back in the UK for a few days and already we’re having doubts?
As I turn off the bathwater, I say impulsively, “Matt?”
“Yes?” He looks round warily, and I can tell, he is having the same thoughts as me.
“Listen. We have to be honest with each other. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” He nods.
“Things are…We’ve had a couple of hiccups. But we can do this. We can make it work. After all, we built a pebble tower together, remember? We leaped off rocks together. We both like ice cream. We’re a great team!”
I shoot him a hopeful, encouraging smile, and his own face flickers, as though with fond memories.
“I want to make it work,” he says firmly. “Believe me, Ava. I do.”
He wants to make it work. I want to make it work. What’s the problem, then? My brain is whirring in frustration.
“Though I guess my life is like a foreign country to you,” Matt adds—and something twangs in my brain.
A foreign country. That’s it. I remember thinking that Matt was a wonderful new land waiting to be discovered. Well, now I’m doing the discovering. And so is he.
“That’s exactly it!” I say with new animati
on. “That’s how we need to look at things!”
“What is?” Matt doesn’t seem to be following.
“We’re like two different countries,” I explain. “Call them Ava-land and Matt-land. And we need to acclimatize to each other’s cultures. So, for example, in Matt-land it’s perfectly reasonable to keep phone chargers in a tub labeled ‘chocolate rolls.’ Whereas in Ava-land that’s a capital offense. We just have to learn about each other,” I emphasize. “Learn and become accustomed to each other. You see?”
“Hmm.” Matt is silent for a few moments, as though taking this in. “In Matt-land,” he volunteers, “dogs sleep on the floor.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Well…we’ll have to decide how and where we take on each other’s customs. We’ll have…er…negotiations.” I unwrap my towel, hoping to distract him from the subject of dogs. “But meanwhile, let me introduce you to one of my most important customs. In Ava-land, this is what a bath should be like.”
I get into the full bath and sigh with pleasure as my skin responds to the water. It’s hot. It’s restorative. It’s a proper bath.
Matt comes over, and as he feels the temperature of the water, his eyes widen. “Are you for real? That’s not a bath, that’s a cauldron.”
“You can get in if you like.” I grin at him, and after a moment he strips off his T-shirt and boxer shorts. As he gingerly steps into the water, he looks genuinely pained.
“I do not get this,” he says. “I do not get this at all. Ow!” he exclaims as he sits down. “It’s hot.”
“Love me, love my bathwater,” I say teasingly, and tickle his chest with my toes. “You’re in Ava-land now. Enjoy.”
Twelve
It’s nearly three weeks later, and as I shower in Matt’s bathroom, I’m pensive. Not in a bad way. God, no. Of course not. Just in a thoughtful way.
Love Your Life Page 14