* * *
—
As I head back to the bedroom, Topher’s words about ripping the book are still in my mind. I glance over at the bookcase and wince as I see the damaged Harriet’s House book. You can’t see the rip, but I know it’s there and I can still remember Elsa’s anguished cry.
How am I going to make up for my crap start with Matt’s parents? Whenever I’ve brought up the subject with Matt, he’s said vaguely, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, they’ll have forgotten it.” But I’m more inclined to believe Topher. Elsa doesn’t look like a woman who forgets anything. She’s probably sticking pins into an Ava dolly right now.
I decide to calm my nerves by watching a YouTube eye-shadow tutorial. By the time I’ve finished that, and three different attempts at contouring (disastrous), and done my hair, it’s almost time to leave for the picnic, and my spirits have risen. As I glance out of the window, I see that the sun is shining, and I feel even more cheered.
Never mind about baggage. Never mind about Genevieve or Sarah or whatever that other one was called. I’m going to focus on the now. On us.
“Where’s Matt, Harold?” I say, and Harold appears from under the bed, with what looks like a sausage roll in his mouth. Shit. Where did he get that?
Actually, I don’t want to know.
“Eat up!” I instruct him, sotto voce. “Get rid of the evidence! Matt, are you ready?” I call in a louder voice.
I grab my bag and head out to the main living space. There I find Matt staring intently at a screen on Topher’s workstation.
“Forty-two percent,” Matt’s saying. “Shit. Unbelievable.”
“I called it,” says Topher calmly, taking a swig of Coke. “Called it all along.”
“Nihal, forty-two percent!” Matt calls across the room.
“Wow,” says Nihal, looking up politely from where he’s tinkering with the snack robot. “What?”
“New poll on voting intentions,” says Matt, still gazing at the screen over Topher’s shoulder.
Matt adores talking to Topher about his work. In fact, this scenario is a pretty common one in Matt-land: Matt and Topher huddled together in front of the screens, talking about percentage points as avidly as though they’re discussing the Kardashians, while Nihal quietly works on his robot. I’ve learned that it’s Nihal who bought and customized the snack robots, but now he’s gone more ambitious and is making one from scratch.
“How’s it going?” I say politely as I catch Nihal’s eye.
“Oh, really well,” says Nihal, brightening at my interest. “It’s going to have a moving arm. Full rotation.”
“Great!” I say encouragingly. “What will it do?”
“What would you like it to do?” answers Nihal, perking up. “If you were buying a robot, Ava, what functionality would you look for?”
I can’t tell him the truth—that I wouldn’t buy a robot in a million years—so I say vaguely, “Not sure! But I’ll think about it.”
I find the robot thing a bit alien, to be honest. It’s a bit like having a pet. But if you want a pet, have a dog. A dog.
“They can’t maintain this lead,” Matt is saying, now peering intently at a pie chart. “What are the other polls saying?”
“Other polls?” Topher sounds highly offended. “Fuck off. Other polls? Only our poll counts.” He consults his phone. “See? The Times have already run it.”
Topher’s company is always being quoted in the papers. He’s actually quite a big shot, I’ve learned. He has a big team and lots of influence with important people. Although you wouldn’t know it from looking at him in his ratty T-shirt.
“Have you ever thought of going into politics, Topher?” I ask, because it’s something I wondered the other day. “You seem so interested in it.”
Immediately Matt bursts into laughter, and I can hear Nihal snuffle with mirth too.
“Topher stood for parliament in the last election,” Matt tells me. “As an independent candidate.” He summons up an image on his phone and snorts again. “Here he is.”
He passes me the phone and I find myself looking at an election poster. It consists of a photo of Topher (quite unflattering), glowering as though he’s exasperated with everyone. Underneath him is the slogan: For a better, sexier Britain.
I can’t help giggling.
“For a better, sexier Britain?” I turn to Topher. “That was your campaign slogan?”
“Who doesn’t want things to be better and sexier?” retorts Topher defensively. “Name one person.”
“How many votes did you get?” I ask, at which Topher scowls without replying, turns away, and starts typing furiously.
“Shh! Don’t mention the votes,” says Matt in a fake whisper, drawing his finger across his neck and wincing comically at me.
“Sorry! Well, er…what were your policies?”
“They were many and complex,” says Topher without breaking off from typing. “I took inspiration from a number of political ideologies across the spectrum.”
“Some of them were quite challenging,” says Matt, winking at me.
“They required vision,” replies Topher stonily. “The electorate wasn’t ready for them.”
“Well, better luck next time,” I say diplomatically. “Stupid voters. Matt, we really need to go. Harold, come on!”
Matt grabs his jacket and says, “See you,” to Topher and Nihal—and we’re just walking out when Nihal suddenly calls out, “Hey, guys! The counter!”
As though responding to some sort of code-red military command, Matt instantly pivots back to Topher’s workstation.
“Loading,” says Topher urgently. “Come on, you bastard…there.”
There’s silence as he and Matt stare at the screen, while Nihal gazes at his phone, gripped. I’m not watching. I refuse to. This is the stupidest fixation I have ever known. All of them are obsessed by the number of Internet users in the world. There’s a live Internet counter that you can watch. Every so often it reaches some key number and they all stand breathlessly watching the numerals turning over.
I was there when the count reached 4.684 billion and had the whole thing explained to me. I stood there, absolutely baffled, while we watched the counter go from 4,683,999,999 to 4,684,000,000. All three guys high-fived. Nihal actually cheered.
And now they’re avidly watching again. The number of Internet users in the world. I mean, why? It’s so weird. It’s so random.
“Yes!” erupts Topher as the number rounds up to a row of zeroes. He high-fives Matt, then Nihal, who is already posting on Instagram a photo he took of the screen.
“Yay!” I say politely. “Super-fun. OK, can we go now?”
“Sure,” says Matt. Then he seems to notice me for the first time. “Wow, Ava, you look great!”
“Thanks,” I say, blossoming as he runs his eyes over me. “You do too.”
Unlike any other man I’ve dated, Matt has this way of looking at me that says he’s actually noticed me—he’s not just going through the motions. He focuses. He sends me little messages with his eyes, and I send my own back. It’s like a delicious, silent conversation.
And as I lose myself in his affectionate, steady gaze, I feel ridiculous. All my concerns about Genevieve seem to fall away. Those worries are in my head, I remind myself, whereas this man is here. With me. And that’s what counts.
Thirteen
We’re meeting for the picnic at Maud’s local park, and when we’re a few streets away, I take the opportunity to prime Matt on my friends.
“You’ll get used to Maud,” I say encouragingly. “The important thing to remember is, don’t say yes to her.”
“ ‘Don’t say yes’?” Matt frowns, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“She’ll ask you for favors,” I explain. “She’ll be really charming. And you’ll
want to say yes to everything, but you have to say no. Got it? Say no. Otherwise, you’ll turn into her slave.”
“Right.” Matt seems somewhat alarmed by the prospect of Maud, so I hastily move on.
“Nell can be a bit…She’s a character. She has views. And Sarika’s quite perfectionist. But I love them all, and you have to as well. They’re part of the deal.”
“Don’t worry, that’s pretty obvious,” says Matt with a wry expression, and I peer at him, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you WhatsApp your friends all day and all night, Ava.” He raises his eyebrows. “No one could miss the fact that they’re part of the deal.”
We walk on in silence as I digest his comment. It seems a little exaggerated to me. All day and all night? Really?
“Do you have a problem with me WhatsApping my friends?” I say at last.
I don’t want to have a disagreement. But on the other hand, this is something we need to be clear on, preferably before we arrive at the picnic. Because my friends are my friends, and if you love me, you love them.
“Of course not,” says Matt, and there’s a slightly prickly silence. “But…” he adds, and I inhale sharply. I knew there was a “but,” I knew it.
“Yes?” I say shortly, ready to launch into a six-page speech about my friends and our bond and our support and how I thought he valued friendship. My friends are my tiger cubs and I’m ready to lash out with a gigantic roar if he so much as—
“Maybe not during sex?” says Matt, and I stare at him, brought up short. Sex? What’s he talking about? I don’t WhatsApp during sex!
“I don’t,” I retort.
“You do.”
“I wouldn’t ever WhatsApp during sex! I’m not that kind of person!”
“Last time we had sex,” Matt says calmly, “you broke off and sent a WhatsApp.”
What? I rack my brain, trying to recall—then suddenly a flush comes to my cheeks. Shit. I did. But it was only really quick. I had to wish Sarika good luck in her assessment. I thought he would barely notice.
“Right,” I say after a long pause. “I forgot about that. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Matt shrugs. “Just…I believe in boundaries.”
Is he joking?
“Oh, right,” I can’t help shooting back. “That’s why you make work calls at eleven P.M. Because you have such great boundaries.”
Matt looks jolted, and his brow creases. We carry on walking silently while I try to take deep breaths and clear my head.
“Right,” says Matt at last. “Touché. I’ll try to rein the work in.”
“Well, I’ll switch off my phone when we have sex,” I say, as though it’s a major concession.
Then, as I hear myself, I realize how appalling that sounds. I have an image of myself scrolling through Twitter while in the midst of sex, which is pretty heinous. (Especially as I actually possess a book called Mindful Sex, which I must read.)
“I’ll turn off my phone,” I repeat, “unless there’s a major celebrity story breaking. Obviously.” I shoot Matt a tiny grin to show I’m joking. “Then, sorry, I’ll have to multitask. I’ll still have one spare hand….” Matt peers at me uncertainly, as though to make sure that I’m teasing—then his expression clears and he laughs.
“Fair enough,” he says. “You won’t mind me checking the cricket score, then?”
“Of course not.”
“Or watching The Godfather, Part Two?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. I squeeze Matt’s hand and he squeezes back, and I feel a lift of relief, because look! We’re sorting out our differences with empathy and humor. It’s all OK after all.
“Ava, I don’t want to fight,” says Matt, as though reading my mind. “And I want to hit it off with your friends. I know they’re important to you.”
“They are.” I nod. “We’ve been through a lot over the years. Sarika has issues with her mum, and as for Nell—” I break off. “There’s been…stuff.”
I don’t dare reveal any more details right now. I love Nell to bits, but she can be scary when she lashes out, even after all these years of friendship. And she’s at her scariest when she thinks someone’s breached her privacy. Or when she feels vulnerable. Nor is she always consistent. (For which I do not blame her, but it’s the truth.)
Anyway, it’s best to play safe. Nell will tell Matt what she wants to tell him, in her own time.
We’re nearly at the park now, and I suddenly want to make sure everything is totally secure between Matt and me before we see the others. I feel I have something to prove here. I want—no, I need—us to arrive as a happy couple. A blissful couple. A happy, blissful, fully compatible couple.
“Matt,” I say quickly. “There aren’t any other things bothering you, are there? About us? Like, little glitches we need to iron out or whatever?”
There’s silence—then Matt says, “No, of course not.” I can’t see his face, because we’re crossing the road and he’s looking out for cars, but he sounds sincere. I think. “What about you?” he says, his face still averted. “Any issues you want to…er…discuss?”
He doesn’t sound overwhelmingly thrilled at the prospect. And although Your freezing-cold bedroom has already flashed through my mind, I’m not going to get into that now.
“No!” I say brightly. “I mean…You know. Tiny, silly things. Nothing worth…No. Nothing.” I put my arm around him. “Really, nothing.”
* * *
—
The park is busy with picnickers and families playing with Frisbees. It takes a while to spot the others, but then I glimpse Nell’s pink hair and exclaim, “There’s Sarika and Nell!”
They’re too far away to hear me, but as though they’re psychic, they both turn and wave, then stare at Matt with undisguised curiosity.
“Why do I feel like I’m on trial?” says Matt with a nervous laugh.
“You’re not on trial!” I say reassuringly. (Truthfully, he kind of is.)
“You’ll look after me, won’t you, Harold?” says Matt, and I laugh.
“Don’t worry! Anyway, you’ve already met my friends, and everyone loves you.”
Matt’s phone buzzes, and as he sees the caller ID, his face looks momentarily rocklike, which means it’s work. I want to say, “Don’t answer,” but I won’t, because we’ve had that argument before.
“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry. It’s my dad. I have to take this. It’s about— Sorry. I’ll be quick.”
“Don’t worry,” I say generously, because, actually, I don’t mind having a quick moment with Sarika and Nell. As Matt wanders off, talking on the phone, I hurry over the grass toward them, feeling a wash of euphoria. My wonderful new guy and my best girls, all together in the sunshine. What could be better?
“Hi!” I clasp Sarika in a tight hug, then Nell.
“Where’s he gone?” demands Nell at once. “Run away?”
“Phone call. How’re you doing?” I automatically scan her face for signs of pain or fatigue, but she smiles back easily.
“I’m great! A hundred percent.” She hesitates, then adds, “I was just saying to Sarika, it’s been three months since— Well, since any symptoms at all. Three months, Ava. So…who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to give up my blue-badge space to bastard Sweetman after all.”
There’s hope in her face—and it makes her look so vulnerable, my stomach squeezes. Nell doesn’t normally do hope. Not since she got ill. She describes her life philosophy as “managed pessimism.” If she’s looking like this, she must be really hoping she’s turned a corner for good.
“Nell, that’s awesome!” I lift a hand and high-five her.
“I know. Pretty cool. Anyway, enough about me and my boring health,” she quickly adds. “Ask this one about her love life.” She prods Sarika, who shakes he
r hair back, looking pleased with herself.
“I’m down to a shortlist of three guys,” she tells me. “All really eligible. Two in IT, one accountant, all in the right salary bracket.”
“Three eligible guys!” I exclaim encouragingly. “That’s great! Do they all live within ten minutes of a tube station?” I add, meeting Nell’s eye.
“Of course,” says Sarika, looking surprised, and I bite my lip.
“That’s great! So, are you going to meet them all?”
“I’m going to apply some more filters first,” says Sarika thoughtfully. “Take the process to the max. See who lasts the course. Maybe one will really stand out.”
“Like The Hunger Games,” I suggest, and she narrows her eyes, not sure if I’m joking or not. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m joking or not either. I suddenly visualize these three poor guys standing on pedestals, waiting for whatever firebomb Sarika throws at them next, and have an awful urge to laugh.
But I mustn’t. This is just Sarika’s way. It suits her.
“Good for you,” I say encouragingly. “I’m sure you’ll end up with the perfect guy.”
“Speaking of which…” Sarika raises her eyebrows sardonically. “How’s your perfect guy?”
“Perfect,” I reply with a blissful smile. “I mean…more or less.”
“Here he is,” observes Nell, as Matt strides over the grass toward us. He’s put his phone away and his face is open and eager, and I feel a flash of pride because, well, just look at him. He could live ten hours from a tube station and he’d still be the right guy for me.
“Hi,” he addresses Nell and Sarika. “Good to meet you again.”
He shakes Sarika’s hand, then Nell pulls him in for a hug, and then, not to be outdone, Sarika kisses him.
“You realize you’re an inspiration to us all?” she says, addressing both of us. “You meet on holiday, you know absolutely nothing about each other, you’re practically strangers…and here you are! The perfect couple!”
“I know!” I say, glancing fondly at Matt. “Isn’t it amazing?”
Love Your Life Page 16