Love Your Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “ ‘Who buys into this capitalist, exploitative version of girlhood?’ ” Nell reads out with a thunderous frown. “ ‘What architects of bullshit think to create such a misleading fantasy world?’ You should read the piece, Matt,” she adds, offering him her phone. “It’s good.”

  “Right,” says Matt, without moving to take the phone. “Yes. Maybe later— Oof!”

  Bertie has landed a vicious blow on Matt’s chest, and finally Maud raises her voice.

  “Bertie! Stop attacking Matt! Just…You mustn’t…” She takes another gulp of cava, then heaves a massive sigh. “Oh God. It’s my birthday.”

  I exchange looks with Nell and Sarika, because this is what always happens on Maud’s birthday. She gets drunk and morose and starts saying she’s ancient and usually ends up weeping in a taxi.

  “I’m so old,” she says, right on cue. “So old. Where’s the other bottle?”

  As she gets to her feet, she sways dangerously on her wedges, and I see that she’s been quietly getting more drunk than I’ve realized.

  “Maud, you’re not old,” I say reassuringly, as I always do. But she ignores me, as she always does.

  “How did we get this old?” she says with a dramatic flourish, grabbing the last full bottle of cava and swigging from it. “How? You realize we’re going to disappear?” She narrows her eyes. “We’ll be invisible women, all of us. Ignored and belittled.” She takes another glug of cava and sweeps a hand around to include all of us. “That’s the wretched society we live in. But I won’t be invisible, OK?” she gives a sudden impassioned cry, gesticulating with the cava bottle. “I refuse to disappear! I will not be invisible!”

  I bite my lip to suppress a smile, because Maud could not be invisible if she tried, with her flowing vivid hair and maxi dress patterned with pink and violet flowers. Not to mention the cava bottle in her raised hand. In fact, the people at the next picnic rug have turned to stare at her.

  “I exist,” she proclaims, even more passionately. “I exist. OK? I exist.”

  I glance at Matt and he’s staring up at Maud, looking freaked out.

  “Sorry,” I murmur hastily. “Should have warned you. Maud always gets drunk on her birthday and makes a speech. It’s her thing. Don’t worry.”

  “I exist!” By now Maud’s voice is fortissimo. “I EXIST!”

  “Could you stop shouting, please?” comes a voice from the next picnic rug, and I swivel to see a woman in a stripy top regarding Maud with disapproval.

  “My friend’s allowed to shout if she wants to,” objects Nell at once. “It’s her birthday.”

  “You’re frightening our children,” persists the woman, gesturing at a pair of toddlers who look about two years old and are watching Maud avidly. “And is alcohol allowed in the park?”

  “Frightening your children?” counters Nell in outrage. “How is it frightening to hear a strong, wonderful woman saying she exists? I’ll tell you what’s frightening—our unequal society. That’s frightening. Our politicians. They’re frightening. If your children want to be afraid of something, be afraid of them.”

  She glares at the two-year-old girl, who gazes at Nell’s furious face for a moment, then bursts into tears.

  Meanwhile, Maud has staggered over to the other rug and leaned down so her face is close to the woman’s.

  “It’s my birthday,” she says in slow, precise tones. “And that’s fucking…terrifying.”

  “You’re drunk!” exclaims the woman, recoiling and putting her hands over the nearest toddler’s ears.

  “Oh, puh-lease,” says Maud, lurching back to our rug. “Did you never get drunk? Oh, that reminds me. Matt, I have a teeeeny little favor to ask you….”

  Matt instinctively backs away and gets to his feet. “Think I’ll take Harold for a walk,” he says, avoiding Maud’s eye. “Get a bit of air.”

  “Kung fu!” Bertie lands a kickbox on him and Matt winces, then grabs Harold’s lead.

  “You know what else is frightening?” Nell is still on a rant. “Global denial of the facts. That’s frightening.” She turns to Matt. “And you know something, Matt—”

  “I’m taking Harold for a walk,” he cuts across Nell hurriedly. “Back in a bit,” he adds to me. “Just need…a break. Come on, Harold.”

  He strides away across the grass so fast that Harold has to scamper after him. When he’s about a hundred meters away he swivels to look at us, then turns again and strides even more quickly.

  “Matt OK?” says Sarika, who’s watching him along with me.

  “I think so,” I say thoughtfully. “I mean, we can be a bit full-on, I suppose. When we’re all together.”

  “I’m a woman, OK?” Maud is once more addressing the general populace of the park, her arms sweeping around dramatically. “With a soul. And a heart. And a libido. A libido to die for.”

  “What’s a leebdo?” asks Bertie with interest, and I exchange looks with Sarika.

  “Ooookay,” she says. “Speeches are over. Who’s got some coffee?”

  * * *

  —

  It takes a bit of persuading to get Maud to drink two espressos followed by a flask of water. But we manage it with a mixture of cajoling and threats—we’ve done this before—and soon Maud is looking much more perky. She opens her presents and weeps effusively at each one of them and hugs us all. We collect up the paper for recycling, then Sarika produces the birthday cake, which is from this lovely, very expensive patisserie near her house.

  “We should wait for Matt, though,” Sarika says, looking around. “D’you think he’s gone far?”

  “He’s been a while,” I say, suddenly realizing how much time has elapsed. I scan the horizon and feel a clench of anxiety. Because Matt took Harold with him. And what if his delay is because something happened to Harold?

  Something bad. Oh God. Please. No.

  Already I’m standing up, scanning the busy park, trying to stop frightening images from piling into my head. I should have texted Matt. I should have gone with them. I should have—

  “Matt!” Sarika’s voice interrupts my frenzied thoughts, and I swivel round with a gasp—then gasp again at the sight in front of me. Matt is approaching, his face and shirt splattered in mud. Harold is at his side, still on the lead but also covered in mud.

  “What happened?” I hurry toward them. “Is Harold OK?”

  “Harold’s fine,” says Matt, in a slightly odd voice.

  “Thank God.” I sink down and cover my beloved Harold with kisses. Then, as a slight afterthought, I look up at Matt and say, “Wait. Are you OK?” I rise to my feet and take in his appearance properly. He’s got a new graze on his cheek and a twig sticking out of his collar and looks generally disheveled. “What happened?” I demand again.

  “There was an incident,” says Matt shortly. “With a Great Dane.”

  “Oh my God!” I say, horrified. I’m already feeling a surge of fury toward this Great Dane. I can picture it, with its monstrous slavering jaws and killer instinct. “Did it attack Harold? You need to tell me exactly what happened—”

  “The Great Dane was blameless,” says Matt, cutting me off. “Harold was…Harold.”

  Oh, right.

  For a moment I’m halted. Maybe I don’t want to know exactly what happened, after all. I glance down at Harold, who gazes up with his usual bouncy, mischievous expression.

  “Harold.” I try to sound chiding. “Did you get Matt muddy? Were you naughty?”

  “Naughty is an understatement,” says Matt, and he’s drawing breath as though to say more when his phone buzzes.

  “Sorry,” he says, glancing at it. “I’ll just get this. I’ll be quick.”

  “Just look at that dog,” says Nell as Matt walks away. “Completely unrepentant.” She adopts a sprightly Cockney accent. “ ‘Weren’t me, g
uvnor. Weren’t me. It were the other feller what started it.’ ”

  “Shut up!” I say, a little indignant. “That’s not Harold!”

  “It’s so Harold,” says Sarika, giggling.

  “ ‘Law-abiding citizen like me, guvnor?’ ” Nell continues, on a roll. “ ‘Start a fracas in a public vicinity? Me, what only wants a quiet life? I tell you, it were the other feller.’ ”

  She raises her eyebrows comically high, and I have to admit, she does look a bit like Harold at his most bright-eyed and innocent. “Oh, hi, Matt,” she adds, and I look up to see him returning. As he sits down, he lands with a bit of a thud, and for a few moments he’s motionless, staring ahead.

  “Sorry about your shirt,” I say guiltily, and he comes to.

  “Oh. It’s fine.” He reaches for the twig in his collar and looks at it absently for a moment before dropping it on the ground. “Listen, Ava. I know we booked a table for brunch on the tenth, but that was my parents on the phone again. They’re convening a big meeting that day at the house. I’ve tried to get them to shift it, but…”

  “At the weekend?” says Nell, in carefully neutral tones.

  “We hold a lot of family meetings at the weekend,” says Matt. “Away from the office. It’s more private, I guess.”

  “Well, don’t worry,” I say supportively. “Brunch was just an idea. You go to your parents’, that’s fine—” I break off as I see both Sarika and Nell making weird faces at me behind Matt’s back.

  They’re surely not trying to say—

  I can’t just ask myself along to his house. Can I? Should I?

  Now Sarika is whirling her arms wildly and pointing vigorously at Matt. Any minute she’ll clonk him on the head by mistake.

  “And…er…maybe I could come along!” I add in a self-conscious rush. “Meet your parents properly!”

  “Do what?”

  Matt peers at me, apparently astounded. He doesn’t exactly sound enthusiastic. But now I’ve suggested it I’m not backing down.

  “I could come along!” I repeat, trying to sound confident. “Not for the meeting, obviously, but for coffee or whatever. Get to know your family better. You know, bond with them.”

  “Bond with them!” Matt echoes with a bark of laughter, which is a bit weird, but I’m not going to unpick it now.

  My attention is suddenly drawn by Nell making jabbing gestures at Harold, followed by a finger across the throat. Oh, right.

  “And I won’t bring Harold,” I add hastily. “He can stay at home.”

  “Really?” Matt seems newly astonished. “It’s a long drive to my parents’ place, Ava. You’ll leave him at home all day?”

  “He can stay with Nell. You don’t mind having Harold, do you, Nell?”

  “Of course not,” says Nell. “Good idea, Ava.”

  Matt doesn’t say anything. He sips his coffee while all three of us watch him curiously, his eyes distant with thoughts. Then, as though coming to, he exhales.

  “Well, if you want to,” he says at last.

  He still seems a bit blindsided by my suggestion. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s only his parents and family home and business and whatnot. It’ll be fun! I mean, it might be fun.

  I mean, it could be.

  Fifteen

  Positive, positive, positive!

  As we drive down the M4 two weeks later, I’m determined to be upbeat. The sun’s shining, I look good, and I’ve bought the most amazing cake from Sarika’s patisserie, all covered with almonds. It’s sitting in the boot in a beautiful cardboard box, and every time I even think about it my mouth waters. Matt’s parents are sure to love it.

  Charm and bond is my mantra for today. Charm and bond. It’s all good.

  And as for negatives…What negatives? There aren’t any!

  Well, OK, maybe just a couple of tiny things. Teeny glitches. Sleep is the thing, really. I need sleep. I neeeed sleeeep. I’m actually rethinking the whole children thing. How do people have babies and get no sleep and not actually die?

  I’m becoming almost phobic about Matt’s bed. I swear it gets harder and more plank-like every time we sleep there. I lie, staring at the ceiling, listening as he falls asleep, and then I doze a bit, but then I wake up in 3 A.M. misery. Even Harold can’t make me feel cozy in that bed.

  Partly because he’s started sleeping on Matt’s feet whenever we stay there.

  Which is…You know. It’s lovely. Obviously.

  I’ll admit I was a bit surprised that first time I woke up and Harold was on the other side of the bed, snuggled up to Matt instead of me. But I absolutely don’t feel rejected or anything. My darling Harold can sleep where he likes.

  However, it doesn’t help my sleep deprivation. At the moment we’re alternating nights at each other’s flats, and every so often we spend the night apart. Yesterday I tried to suggest to Matt that we sleep over at my place all the time. I didn’t mean he should move in, not exactly, I just meant…Anyway. Didn’t work. Matt looked a bit appalled and said he thought the arrangement worked well at the moment.

  So the sleep is a problem. And I suppose there are a couple of other issues which have popped up. Tiny little annoyances which I never predicted. Like, Matt can’t relax in my flat. He keeps going around finding fault with it. Looking at things I never notice. The wiring is dodgy. (He says.) One of the radiators needs sorting by a plumber. (He says.)

  And his obsession with security is driving me nuts. He still keeps going on about my lovely picturesque back door onto the fire escape, just because the wooden frame has gone a bit soft. He says it’s an invitation for thieves. Last time he came round, he actually started quoting crime statistics for the area. He wants me to either replace the door or buy six billion chains and padlocks, which would totally ruin the look.

  I actually got a bit impatient with him. I said, “Look, Matt, you don’t get it. The whole point of that door is, you can go out whenever. You can sit on the fire escape and watch the sun set and play the saxophone and not have to unlock twelve padlocks first.”

  Whereupon he asked if I play the saxophone, which is not the point. Obviously, I don’t play the saxophone; it was just an example.

  Anyway. Then we went shopping together, and that didn’t go brilliantly. I thought it would be no big deal. Pop to the supermarket together! Stock up! Easy-peasy! I’ve seen other couples shopping in the supermarket. They calmly put things in the trolley. They chat unconcernedly. They say things like, “Shall I get the eggs?”

  They don’t peer at each other’s items in disbelief as though they’re watching a Channel 5 show called Britain’s Weirdest Trolley Choices.

  If there was a Venn diagram of my shopping tastes and Matt’s shopping tastes, I think we would overlap at recycled loo paper and ice cream. That’s it.

  I mean, he buys crap. He just does. Terrible processed breakfast cereal. Nonorganic apples. Juice boxes. (Juice boxes.) I had to take everything out and replace it. And I was thinking, It’s so tragic that he just doesn’t care what he puts in his body…when suddenly he woke up in the wine section. I had put my usual bottle of white wine in the trolley. The one with the lady on the front (I can’t remember what it’s called). At which Matt blanched.

  “No,” he said, taking it out. “No. Just no.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” I said, affronted.

  “Don’t skimp on wine. It’s better to have no wine than shit.”

  “I’m not skimping!” I retorted. “That’s a nice wine!”

  “Nice wine?” He looked scandalized. “Nice wine?”

  Anyway. We had a bit of a discussion-slash-heated argument. It turned out that we disagreed on what was a “nice wine.” And on what count as “essentials.” And on the principles of nutrition. At which point it turned out that Matt had never even heard of kefir. Who hasn’t hear
d of kefir?

  Then we passed the meat counter, and I’ll draw a mental veil over what happened there. It was too distressing. And that butcher did not have to fall about laughing; it wasn’t funny.

  I mean, it was fine. We got the shopping home. We cooked supper. But it wasn’t…I guess it wasn’t what I imagined when I sat eyeing up Dutch in Italy. I was in a blissful rosy glow. I saw us kissing romantically in the sunset. I didn’t see us standing in a supermarket, bickering about organic yogurt.

  But, then, I guess all couples bicker about something, don’t they, I tell myself firmly, trying to stop my torrent of thoughts. It’s only teething troubles. We’re still finding our way.

  And there have been lots of precious, tender times too. Matt bringing home peach juice the other evening, so we could make Bellinis, like we had in Italy. That was magical. Or the way he did tai chi with Harold on his shoulders yesterday morning, just to make me laugh. Or the way that, when Nihal was gloomy about work the other day, Matt said, “Ava’ll cheer you up, she’s better than champagne,” so affectionately it made me blink.

  At the memory, I glance fondly at him, and Matt winks back, then turns his attention to the road again. I love how he’s a responsible driver, not like Russell, who sometimes actually scared me, he was so erratic.

  And that’s why we’re compatible, I tell myself firmly again. Because we have shared values. We care about each other’s safety. He drives carefully, and I give him turmeric supplements every day. (He was skeptical, but I won him round.)

  So it’s all good. We’re here in the beautiful Berkshire countryside. I love Matt and he loves me and that’s all we need. Love.

  At a mini roundabout I see a poster for a new Apple Mac and peer at it with interest.

  “Should I upgrade my computer?” I muse thoughtfully. “God, these trees are beautiful,” I add, as we approach a forested area. “What trees are these?” As Matt draws breath to answer, I notice one of my nails is broken. “Shit!” I exclaim. “My nail. Oh, that reminds me, what did you think of my idea earlier?”