I keep picturing Matt—and it’s almost as if there are two men in my head. There’s Dutch, the man I fell in love with in Italy. Dutch, with his kurta pajamas and smoldering eyes and general air of being some sort of hunky artisan carpenter. Then there’s Matt, who gets up every day and puts on a suit and sells Harriet’s House dolls and comes home and putts golf balls.
And they’re the same exact guy. That’s what’s quite hard to reconcile.
I do still see glimpses of Dutch; he’s still there. We’ve started doing tai chi together most evenings before bed, which was my idea. I told Matt I’d love to learn more about the ancient tradition of martial arts, except I wasn’t going to fight anyone. So tai chi was the perfect solution—and we do it in our kurta pajamas from the monastery. (Also my idea.) We follow this great YouTube video and Harold joins in sometimes—at least, he tries—and it’s such a happy time. We both spend the whole ten-minute routine smiling at each other and laughing when we get it wrong. It’s fun. It relaxes Matt. It gets us in sync with each other. It’s exactly like we should be.
So that’s good. And sex is still great. And the other night, when Matt told me this long story about his friend learning to ski, he was so hilarious I thought I would die laughing. When he loosens up, he’s funny.
But we can’t do tai chi all the time. Nor have sex, nor tell funny stories, nor wander romantically through the streets, hand in hand, as though we don’t have a care in the world. (We’ve done that twice.) The trouble is, there’s life to deal with too. Actual life.
On the plus side, I’m getting more accustomed to Matt-land. I can now approach his ugly building without flinching, which I see as major progress.
However. Being a fair-minded and unbiased person—which I definitely am—I would say that whereas my life is quite straightforward and easy to learn, his is a tortuous maze. Every time you think you’re getting somewhere, you find yourself faced with a socking great hedge, usually in the form of his family business. God, it’s intrusive. How can one international toy company with a presence in more than 143 countries be so intrusive?
OK, maybe that’s not exactly what I mean. What I mean is, why does Matt need to work so hard?
The more I learn about Harriet’s House, the more I lurch between awe at its stature and frustration at the way Matt’s parents run it. They seem to have this pathological need to call Matt every night. They run tiny decisions past him. They make him read all their emails. They make him take people out to lunch. They make him wear stuffy suits, because it’s “tradition.”
They’re very old school, that’s no secret. I’ve explored the Harriet’s House website a bit, and the rule appears to be that every sentence will contain the word “tradition,” except the ones that contain the word “legacy.” There’s also quite a lot about how the Warwick family will never tire in its dedication to Harriet’s House fans all over the world.
I mean, I admire that dedication. I admire Matt’s strong work ethic. I admire his family loyalty. I even admire the new Eco-Warrior Harriet doll, which I saw a sample of the other day. I’m full of admiration!
I suppose what I’m missing is any enthusiasm from Matt. Whenever I try to engage him on the subject of Harriet’s House, he gives me quite short, functional answers. Which I can understand: He’s tired and he’s talked about it all day at work. But still. It’s his body language too. It’s the whole picture. Let’s say I have mixed vibes.
So that’s one challenge. Another is the amount of time Matt spends putting on his golf machine. (Quite a lot.) A third is the way that he’s showing no interest in turning vegetarian, despite all my education and encouragement. Quite often, when I ask, “What did you have for lunch?” hoping he might say, “Tofu—and it was delicious!” he answers, “A burger,” as though it’s obvious.
Also—and this is more recent—he’s been a bit moody. But when I’ve asked him what’s wrong, he won’t answer. He goes silent. He almost turns into a rock.
By contrast, I am never a rock. My work is not intrusive. Nor do I have weird art, nor a flat kept at an antisocial temperature. (I know he keeps turning the thermostat down when he thinks I won’t notice.)
I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect or anything. I’m sure he finds Ava-land difficult sometimes. Like…Matt’s quite tidy. This is really coming home to me. He’s quite tidy and I’m quite untidy. So there’s been the odd tiny tension between us when I’ve buried his phone under a pile of my batik work, for example.
(I’ve just taken up batik. It’s amazing! I’m going to make batik cushions and sell them on Etsy.)
But honestly, after scrupulously racking my brain, this is all I can think of. There’s nothing else negative to say about my life. I have a wonderful life! I live in a gorgeous, welcoming, warm flat. I make food with imaginative ingredients like harissa and okra. And when Matt comes round, I’m never making work calls or hitting golf balls. I’m chatty. I’m engaged. The other evening, I decided to make him a bespoke aromatherapy oil. I got him to smell lots of different essences and wrote down his responses, and I told him what each oil was for, which he had no idea about. We had music playing and scented candles, and Harold sang along with the music, and it was just…mellow. It was lovely.
By contrast, last night Matt was on the phone till late. I still haven’t got used to his stupid hard rustly bed, so I hardly slept a wink. And then he had an early kickboxing session, so he rushed off at 6:30 A.M. It’s uncivilized. Nothing in life should involve rushing off somewhere at 6:30 A.M.
As I finish my shower and get dressed, something else is bugging me, which is Genevieve. I can’t stop googling her, which I know is a mistake, but she’s so googlable. She’s always doing something adorable on Instagram or announcing some new piece of Harriet’s House merchandise on her YouTube channel. Plus I’ve heard Matt mentioning her on the phone to his parents. He was saying, quite forcefully, “Dad, you need to listen to Genevieve. She gets it.” Which kind of made me blink.
I was going to ask him about it afterward. I was going to say, “What’s Genevieve so wise about?” with a careless little laugh. But then I decided that I would sound paranoid. (Even with the careless little laugh.) So I left it.
But then yesterday I came across an old video of Genevieve and Matt presenting together at a toy conference, three years ago. And it made me feel just a bit prickly, because they had such amazing chemistry. They were relaxed and confident with each other and they finished each other’s sentences and Genevieve kept patting Matt’s knee. They looked like some sort of incredible über-couple with a sexy spark between them.
I watched it twice, then I turned it off and gave myself a talking to. I reminded myself that their relationship is over. What does some old spark matter when the flame is extinguished?
But then I remembered those hideous raging forest fires that start because someone thought the campfire was extinguished and walked away without paying attention…but it wasn’t! The spark was still alive!
And that niggling worry hasn’t really left me. Only I can’t say any of this to Matt, obviously. If I’m going to bring up the subject at all, I need to be subtle.
Maybe I’ll be subtle right now.
“Matt,” I say as he wanders into the bedroom, still in his exercise clothes. “I’d like to talk.”
“Right. OK.” He starts the calf-stretching exercise he does every morning. “What’s up?”
“OK,” I begin. “So, we’ve decided not to discuss romantic baggage, and I think that was the right decision. I mean, God, Matt, I have no desire to know about your ex-girlfriends. None.” I fling out a hand, just to demonstrate how little I want to know about them. “It’s the last thing I want to think about, believe me!”
“Right,” says Matt again, looking confused. “Well, let’s not talk about them, then. Sorted.”
“But it’s not as simple as that, is it?”
I continue quickly. “If we’re really going to know each other as rounded people, then we need context.”
“Do we?”
“I think so,” I say firmly. “A bit of romantic context. Just for information. For a fuller picture.”
“Uh-huh,” says Matt, looking less than enthusiastic.
“So I have a new idea,” I continue.
“Thought you might,” mutters Matt, so quietly that I can barely hear him.
“What?” I narrow my eyes.
“Nothing,” he says hastily. “Nothing. What’s your idea?”
“We do what we did at the monastery. We can ask one question each about ex-partners. I mean, five questions,” I amend quickly. “Five.”
“Five?” He looks appalled.
I want to retort, “Five is nothing, I have fifty!” But instead I say, “I think that’s reasonable. I’ll start!” I add before he can protest. “First question: How serious was it with Genevieve?”
Matt looks speechless, as though I’ve asked him to explain string theory in three words.
“Depends what you mean by serious,” he answers at last.
“Well…did she stay over here?”
“Sometimes.”
I suddenly remember that I already knew that and curse myself for wasting a question.
“How often?”
“Couple of times a week, maybe.”
“And did you…” I hesitate. “Did you tell her you loved her?”
“Can’t remember,” says Matt after a pause.
“You can’t remember?” I say in disbelief. “You can’t remember if you told her you loved her?”
“No.”
“Well, OK. Did she—”
“You’re out of questions,” Matt interrupts, and I stare at him, bewildered.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve asked five questions. Conversation over.”
Furiously I count back in my head. One…two…oh, for God’s sake, that’s not fair. That was not five proper questions. But I know Matt. He’s literal. I have to play the game accurately; otherwise he’ll never do it again.
“OK.” I lift my hands. “Your turn. Ask me anything.”
“Fine.” Matt thinks. “How serious was it with Russell?”
“Oh God.” I breathe out as I consider the question. “Where do I start? Did I love him? I told him I did, but did I even know what love was? It was a weird relationship. He started off so wonderful, so kind, so…I don’t know, attentive. He loved Harold…he loved my flat…he sent me all these lovely long emails….For five months it was just amazing. But then at the end—”
I break off, because I don’t particularly want to get into how he ghosted me, not to mention how long it took me even to realize what he was doing. I made every excuse for him under the sun. And I still don’t understand how he went from someone who said, “You’re my soulmate, Ava, everything about you is so perfect it makes me want to weep,” to someone who blanked me. (Nor do I want to remember calling his mum in desperation and her getting all flustered when she realized it was me and pretended to be the Polish cleaner.)
“Huh.” Matt is silent a minute, digesting this. “Did he stay over?”
“No,” I say after a pause. “He never did. He wanted to, but his job was quite demanding, so…I mean, it would have been the next step.”
“Huh,” says Matt again. Silently, he pulls off the rest of his exercise wear, and as I watch him, I feel a growing intrigue. His face is brooding and intent. What’s he thinking about? What’s he going to ask me? Then he reaches for a towel.
“OK, I’m having a shower. What time are we leaving for this picnic?”
“What?” I peer at him. “What about your other three questions?”
“Oh, right,” says Matt, as though he’d forgotten. “I’ll get to those another time.”
He disappears into the bathroom and I gaze after him, flabbergasted and just a little offended. He had three more questions! How could he not be burning to know more? I still have a zillion questions about Genevieve.
Feeling disconcerted, I head out to the living space. There weren’t supposed to be any glitches today. I’m taking Matt to meet my friends at Maud’s birthday picnic, and it was all supposed to be wonderful and happy and perfect.
I mean, it is wonderful and happy and perfect, I remind myself quickly. I just wish Genevieve hadn’t got under my skin.
Then I notice Nihal and Topher getting breakfast in the kitchen, and an idea hits me. I head toward them swiftly, glancing over my shoulder, just in case.
“Morning, Ava,” says Nihal politely, as he pours cereal into a bowl.
“Morning.” I give him a super-friendly smile. “Morning, Topher. Listen…” I lower my voice. “Could I pick your brains really quickly, without you telling Matt?”
“No,” says Topher uncompromisingly. “Next question?”
“Oh, please,” I wheedle. “It’s nothing bad. I just want to know a bit more about…” I lower my voice. “Genevieve. But we’ve agreed not to talk about our exes. Like, at all.”
“Well, that’s a stupid idea,” says Topher, rolling his eyes, and I sigh.
“Maybe it is, but that’s what we’re doing. So I can’t ask Matt. But I have to know—” I break off and rub my face.
“What?” says Topher, looking mildly intrigued, and Nihal pauses, his hand on the milk carton.
I feel an inner squirming, because I already feel paranoid and ridiculous, but on the other hand, I need to talk about it with someone.
“How much did Matt love Genevieve?” I whisper.
This has been my deep-down fear since I saw that video: that they were hopelessly in love in a way that I can’t understand or compete with. And that she’ll come back and wield some sort of magic over him.
“Love?” echoes Topher blankly.
“Love?” Nihal crinkles up his face. After a moment he resumes pouring his milk, and I feel a spike of frustration. Both of them have dodged the question, I notice.
“Well?” I say, a little impatiently.
“I mean, love…” Topher looks confounded—then his face clears. “I’d say it’s irrelevant. If you’re going to start looking at Matt’s exes, the one you want to worry about is Sarah.”
“What?” I blink at him. “Who’s Sarah?”
“The girlfriend Matt had after Genevieve. Irrational. Used to turn up at his office with no warning. She’s your problem.”
“Problem?” I echo, feeling stung. “I don’t have a problem!”
“You do, or you wouldn’t be in the kitchen questioning us,” says Topher with implacable logic.
“Didn’t Sarah move to Antwerp, though?” ventures Nihal. “And start dating another guy?”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” retorts Topher. “You know she once called me up and asked me to check Matt’s phone to see if he was getting her texts? Psycho.”
“What about Liz?” suggests Nihal. “Remember her?”
“Only lasted a week or two.” Topher shrugs. “A very intense week or two…” He gives a sudden reminiscent chuckle.
Liz? How many bloody girlfriends has Matt had?
“I don’t need to hear about every single one of Matt’s exes!” I say, trying to sound more lighthearted than I feel. “I just wondered if Genevieve was…”
“A threat to you?” supplies Nihal.
“Yes.”
“Anything’s possible.” Nihal makes an apologetic face. “I wouldn’t feel right saying ‘a hundred percent no.’ ”
“Nihal, you’re a moron,” says Topher dismissively. “Genevieve isn’t a threat to Ava.”
“She’s more of a threat to Ava than Sarah is,” says Nihal, in his mild, obstinate way.
OK, I could really do without hearing the phra
se “threat to Ava.”
“Genevieve’s on the spot,” Nihal persists, counting off on his fingers. “And everyone loves her. The Harriet’s House fan base is huge,” he adds to me. “It’s a bit nuts.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” concedes Topher, turning to me. “There’s a bunch of crazed Harriet’s House fans who would pretty much lynch you for tearing Genevieve’s face on that book.”
“Really?” I say anxiously.
I suddenly envision a furious mob of Harriet’s House fans running toward me with pitchforks.
“Also, Matt’s parents worship Genevieve,” Topher adds. “But you knew that.”
“Oh yes,” Nihal agrees earnestly. “You should really try to impress Matt’s parents, Ava. Matt values their opinion.”
“Ripping that book was…you know.” Topher gives a sudden snort of laughter. “Unfortunate.”
I’m utterly frazzled by this conversation.
“You know, you’re really not making me feel better!” I say, a little shrilly, and both men look baffled.
“Oh. Sorry,” says Topher, shooting Nihal an “uh-oh” look. “We misunderstood. Did you come in here wanting to feel better?”
“We didn’t realize that was the brief,” says Nihal politely. “We thought you wanted information.”
I give up. Why can’t Matt have female flatmates?
“Well, thanks anyway. And please don’t tell Matt I was asking about his exes,” I add, glancing warily at the door. “We’re trying to have a baggage-free relationship.”
“No such thing,” says Topher at once. “Doesn’t exist.”
“Hand luggage only, then,” I clarify, and Topher gives a bark of scoffing laughter.
“Impossible. You can’t have a hand-luggage-only relationship in your thirties. You can only have a six-extra-heavy-cases-and-fines-on-all-of-them relationship.”
“Well, that’s your opinion,” I say, feeling ruffled.
“It’s everyone’s opinion,” he asserts. “Nihal, have you finished the Shreddies, because if so, you are getting ten bastard strikes, you utter bastard.”
God, he’s exhausting. He’s relentless. How does Matt live with him?
Love Your Life Page 15