Love Your Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Idea?” Matt seems startled.

  “You know!” I say, a little impatiently. “My business idea. Pitching for beauty work.”

  “Ava…” Matt pulls the car into a service station and looks at me. “I honestly can’t follow. Are we talking about your computer or the trees or your nail or a new business idea?”

  “All of them, of course,” I say in surprise.

  Honestly, what’s the problem? It’s not like I’m unclear or anything.

  “Right,” says Matt, looking beleaguered. “All of them. Got it.” He rubs his face, then says, “I need to get fuel.”

  “Wait.” I draw him in for a hug, closing my eyes, burying my face into his neck and feeling myself relax. There. There. Sometimes I just need the smell of him. The touch of him. His strong chest and his heartbeat and his hand stroking my back. Everything I fell in love with in Italy. We pull apart and Matt gazes at me silently for a few moments, while I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m hoping it’s something really romantic, but at last he draws breath and says, “You can still go to the pub, you know.”

  Matt’s running riff these last few days has been that I’m going to change my mind and duck out of the visit. He’s even identified a nearby pub that I can sit in all afternoon; it has Wi-Fi and a TV room. He pretends he’s joking, but I think he’s half serious. As if I’m going to come all this way and not meet his parents.

  “No chance!” I say firmly. “I’m doing this. And I can’t wait!”

  * * *

  —

  OK. Wow. The house is big. Like, big.

  And ugly. Not like Matt’s flat is ugly, a different kind of ugly. As I peer through the humongous wrought-iron gates, I make out turrets and gables and strange brickwork surrounding rows of forbidding windows. It all adds up to a house of giant impressiveness which could equally well be a Victorian school of punishment for delinquents.

  “Sorry,” says Matt, as the gates slowly edge open. “They take ages.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, shrinking back in my seat. I suddenly, ridiculously, want to run away. Nothing about this house looks friendly. But instead I jut out my jaw and say determinedly, “Amazing house!”

  “Well,” says Matt, as though he’s never given the house any thought. “It has offices too,” he adds after a pause. “So.”

  “Right.” I nod.

  Matt parks the car tidily at the back of the house, next to a Mercedes, and we crunch over the gravel to a kitchen door. I’m half expecting some ancient retainer to appear and exclaim, “Master Matt!” But instead, Matt leads me through a vast, tidy kitchen, where I leave the cake box on a counter, and into a massive hall. It has a tiled floor and a stained-glass dome above us and is filled with shiny glass display cases.

  “Wow!” I exclaim. “This looks like—” I stop, because I don’t want to sound rude.

  “A museum,” Matt finishes for me. “Yup. Go ahead, have a look if you like.” He gestures at the cases.

  I wander up to the biggest glass case, which holds a vintage-looking Harriet’s House and a load of Harriet doll characters and actual typed-out labels, saying things like 1970 Harriet the Air Hostess and 1971 Harriet the Gymnast.

  Most of the cases contain Harriet’s House displays, but one is filled with swirly pink-and-green china. I go to look at it and Matt follows me.

  “That’s my mum’s family business,” he tells me. “She’s half Austrian.”

  “Oh yes,” I say, remembering his golf-playing grandmother. “But she doesn’t have an accent.”

  “No, she grew up in the UK. But we have Austrian cousins. They run the china company. Mum’s on the board,” he adds. “She used to be in charge of the UK operation.”

  “I think I’ve seen that stuff.” I crinkle up my brow as I stare at the gilded patterned plates. “In Harrods or somewhere like that?”

  “Yeah.” Matt shrugs. “You would have. It’s…you know. A big deal. That’s how she met my dad, at an export conference. She was selling china; he was selling dollhouses.”

  “It’s…spectacular!” I say. Which is true. It’s spectacularly ornate and frilly. And it has a lot of gold twirls.

  Matt doesn’t respond. He doesn’t seem wild about the china. In fact, he doesn’t seem wild about anything. Ever since we arrived, his shoulders have been slumped and his face seems frozen.

  “You must be really proud!” I say, trying to enthuse him. “All these dolls…and the famous china…what a heritage! What’s this…” I peer closer to read a typed label. “ ‘Salmon dish used by Princess Margaret in 1982’! Wow! That’s…”

  I have no idea what to say about a salmon dish used by Princess Margaret in 1982. I didn’t even know there were such things as salmon dishes.

  “Mmm,” says Matt, eyeing the china cabinet without enthusiasm.

  “And what’s this?” I say brightly, heading to the only cabinet which doesn’t seem to exude pink. “Trophies?” I peer at the shelves of silver cups and boxed medals and framed photos.

  “Yeah.” Matt seems even more leaden. “Like I told you, my grandmother was Austrian ladies’ champion, back in the day. And my brother turned pro. Guess we’re a sporty lot.”

  Silently, I run my eye over the photos. There are several of a lady in a 1960s hairdo, swinging a golf club. There are group shots of what seems to be a skiing team, plus a black-and-white shot of a guy in a sailing boat. Then there are some modern photos featuring a guy in his teens and twenties, either swinging a golf club or receiving a trophy. He’s good-looking and resembles Matt but is slighter in build and not as appealing. His smile is a bit too cheesy for me. He’s Matt-lite, I decide.

  “Is that your brother?” I gesture at one of the pictures.

  “Yeah, that’s Rob. He’s in the States now. Runs a chain of golf clubs. Robert Warwick Golf and Leisure. They’re successful,” he adds after a pause. “So.”

  “Great,” I say politely. I’m searching for a picture of Matt among all the silver frames, but I can’t see one. Where’s the photo of Matt? There must be one. Where is it?

  “Matthias!” A brittle voice sounds behind us, and I turn to see Elsa. She’s wearing a dress with leaves printed all over it and court shoes and frosted pink lipstick.

  Her hair’s good, I think as I watch her kiss Matt. I have to give her that. It’s gorgeous. And her figure is svelte and she has a pretty face. In fact, everything about her is really lovely. Except the way she’s looking at me, with little splinters of unfriendliness.

  “Hello again, Ava,” she says in a neutral voice. “We’re so glad you could join us. No dog today?”

  Her eyebrows rise sardonically, and I force myself to smile.

  “No, I left him behind.”

  “So our books are safe, I hope!” She gives a tinkle of laughter, and I try to join in, although my cheeks are flaming.

  “I hope so. And again, I’m so sorry about the book….”

  “Don’t worry.” She lifts an elegant hand. “It was only an irreplaceable first edition.”

  “Mum,” says Matt, and Elsa tinkles with laughter again.

  “Just my little joke! Matthias is showing you around, I see?”

  Charm and bond flashes through my mind. Quick. Say something flattering.

  “Matt’s been showing me your amazing displays,” I say gushingly. “They’re stunning. The dollhouses are out of this world!”

  “I remember you said you didn’t have a Harriet’s House as a child?” Elsa looks at me with cool appraisal.

  She’s going to hold this against me forever, isn’t she?

  “I would have loved one,” I say earnestly. “Only we couldn’t afford it.”

  Her face freezes slightly, and at once I realize my error. Now I sound like I’m saying her company is evil and elite, with its exploitative pricing.

 
(Which, by the way, it is. Harriet’s House prices are a shocker. I went and had a look the other day. Fifteen quid for a Harriet’s Bag and Scarf Set. Fifteen quid.)

  “Your china is so beautiful.” I hastily move on to a different subject. “The detail! The brushwork!”

  “Are you interested in china, Ava?” says Elsa. “Do you collect?” She tilts her head, regarding me with a piercing stare.

  Collect? I’m guessing she doesn’t mean click and collect from Ikea.

  “I mean…you know. I have plates,” I flounder. “And some saucers…Wow, these photos.” I quickly step toward the sporting cabinet and gesture admiringly at the cups and medals. “All these champions in the family!”

  “Yes, we’re proud of our achievements,” says Elsa, her gaze sweeping over the array.

  “I can’t see a photo of Matt here, though,” I add lightly.

  “Oh, I was never the sports champ,” says Matt after an infinitesimal pause. “Not like Rob.”

  “Matthias never turned professional,” adds Elsa crisply. “He never had that competitive edge. Whereas Robert was a scratch golfer at the age of thirteen. We all knew he would be special, didn’t we, Matthias?”

  “Sure,” says Matt, his eyes fixed on a far point.

  “Matt does play golf, though, doesn’t he?” I say brightly. “Don’t you have any photos of him doing that? Or martial arts. You could fit one in there.” I point helpfully at a spare stretch of glass shelf, and Elsa’s nostrils flare.

  “I don’t think you understand,” she says, her smile rigid. “This is a display of professional sportsmanship. These are tournament mementos. Matt never competed at this level.”

  Tournament mementos? I’ll give her a bloody memento….

  I suddenly realize that I’m seething. Which isn’t ideal for charming, nor for bonding.

  “I brought you a cake,” I say, turning away from all the cabinets. “It’s in the kitchen, in a box; it’s from this really nice patisserie….”

  “So kind,” Elsa says with a distant smile.

  How does she make everything sound like the opposite of what it means?

  “Matthias, I’ve just been speaking to Genevieve,” she continues, “and she will be Skyping in for the meeting this afternoon. Very generous of her to give up her weekend. Don’t you think?” Elsa’s splintery eyes swivel to me as though expecting a response.

  “Yes!” I say with a nervous jump. “Really generous.”

  Matt shoots me a slightly astonished look, and I try to smile back. But now I feel like an idiot. Why did I say that? Why am I bigging up Matt’s ex-girlfriend, whom I’ve never even met? It’s Elsa. She’s put an evil spell on me.

  Then I catch my own thoughts in horror. No. Stop it. Elsa’s my future mother-in-law and we’re going to love each other. We just have to find common ground. There must be loads of stuff we have in common. Like for example…

  Look. She’s wearing earrings and so am I. That’s a start.

  “Right,” says Matt. “Well. Shall we have a drink?”

  “Yes,” I blurt out too desperately. “I mean…why not?”

  Sixteen

  Come on. I can find common ground with Elsa. And with all of Matt’s family. I can.

  It’s an hour later and my cheekbones are aching from my fake smile. I’ve smiled at Elsa. I’ve smiled at John. I’ve smiled at Walter, who was introduced to me as the chief finance officer of Harriet’s House and is sitting to my left. I’ve smiled at Matt’s grandpa, Ronald. I’ve even smiled into thin air, so that no one can glance over at me and think I’m a moody cow.

  We’re sitting around a very shiny dining table, with more swirly china and crystal glasses and an atmosphere of silence. They really don’t talk much, this lot.

  I’ve done my best. I’ve complimented everything, from the spoons to the bread rolls. But all my conversational efforts have either dwindled into silence or else Elsa, who seems to be conversation czar, has cut off the topic. She does this in two ways. She has a weird tight-lipped shake of the head which instantly silences everyone. Or else she says, “I hardly think…” which I’ve realized basically translates as “Shut up.”

  I asked John how the business was going, but Elsa immediately cut in: “I hardly think…”

  Whereupon John shook out his napkin and said, “No business talk at lunch!” with an awkward laugh.

  Then Matt began to his father, “You know, Dad, those U.S. figures can’t be right….” whereupon Elsa glared at him and gave him a ferocious tight-lipped head shake.

  Fine. Don’t talk business in front of me. I get that. Although what does she think? That I’ll be emailing everything I hear straight to the dollhouses editor at the FT?

  The food’s good, at least. Which is to say, the vegetables are. Everyone else is eating chicken, but Elsa forgot I was vegetarian, so I’m just munching my way through a mound of carrots and peas.

  “Delicious!” I say for the ninety-fifth time, and Elsa gives me a frosty smile.

  “Are you going to the meeting?” I say politely to Ronald, who has just turned away from talking to John about the governor of the Bank of England. Ronald shakes his head.

  “I’m retired, my dear,” he says.

  “Oh, right,” I say, racking my brains for something to say about retirement. “That must be…fun?”

  “Not so much fun,” he says. “Not so much recently.”

  He sounds so downcast, my heart twangs. He’s the first member of Matt’s family who’s shown a human side.

  “Why not?” I ask gently. “Don’t you have any nice hobbies? Golf?”

  “Oh…” He exhales a long, gusty breath, sounding like a deflating balloon. “Yes, golf…” His blue eyes go distant, as though golf is irrelevant to his life. “The truth is, my dear, I ran into some trouble recently.”

  “Trouble?” I stare at him.

  “Very bad. Very embarrassing…To think that a man of my education…a former finance director…” He trails away, his eyes misty. “It’s the feeling stupid, you see. The feeling like an old fool. A stupid old fool.”

  “I’m sure you’re not an old fool!” I say in dismay. “What was the—” I break off awkwardly, because I don’t want to pry. “Is the trouble over?”

  “Yes, but it stays with me, you see?” he says, his voice shaking. “It stays with me. I wake up in the morning and I think, ‘Ronald, you old fool.’ ” As he meets my gaze, his eyes are brimming over. I’ve never seen such a sad face. I can’t bear it.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say, my own eyes hot with empathy. “But I can tell, you’re not a fool.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” says Ronald. “I’ll tell you.” To my horror, a tear falls down from his eye onto the tablecloth. “It was a scam, you see—”

  “Really, Ronald!” Elsa’s voice interrupts, bright and brittle, making us both start. “I hardly think…”

  “Oh.” Ronald shoots her a guilty look. “I was just telling…Emma here…about…”

  “I hardly think,” repeats Elsa with an air of finality, “that Ava is interested. Ava,” she repeats distinctly.

  “Ava.” Ronald looks stricken. “Ava, not Emma. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry!” I say. “And I am interested. I don’t know what happened, but…”

  “It was an unfortunate incident.” Elsa’s mouth tightens even further, as though she’s zipping it up.

  “Dad, it happened, it’s over, you need to move on,” says John, sounding slightly robotic, as though he’s said these words before, many times.

  “But it shouldn’t be allowed,” says Ronald in distress. “They shouldn’t be able to do it!”

  Elsa exchanges looks with John.

  “Now, Ronald,” she says. “It doesn’t do to dwell. As John says, it’s best forgotten.” She get
s to her feet to clear the plates and I quickly rise to join her. As I carry a pair of vegetable dishes into the kitchen, I spy the patisserie box, still on the counter, and say helpfully, “Shall I unwrap that?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” says Elsa, looking at the cake blankly. “Now, I’ll make some coffee. Are you a sportswoman, Ava?” she adds as she fills the kettle, and I cough, playing for time. I am so not a sportswoman. But this place is sports central.

  “I like yoga,” I offer at last. “And I’ve started tai chi with Matt.”

  “I know little about yoga,” says Elsa thoughtfully. “But I believe it’s a challenging sport.”

  “Yes,” I say uncertainly. “Although I wouldn’t really say it’s a sport so much as a—”

  “Do you compete?” she cuts me off, and I gaze at her, perplexed. Compete at yoga?

  “Yoga isn’t really…” I begin. “Does that even exist?”

  “Here we are.” Elsa looks up from where she’s been tapping busily at her phone. “There are yoga championships being held in London. You should train and compete. I’ll send the link to Matthias.” She eyes me with a steely gaze. “I’m sure you want to practice at the highest possible level.”

  “Um…” I swallow. “That’s not really why I do yoga, but…maybe!” I add, as I see her frown. “Yes! Good idea!”

  As I watch Elsa making the coffee, I add timidly, “Excuse me for asking, but what was the thing that happened to Ronald?”

  There’s a pause, then Elsa says, “An unfortunate incident.” She shoots me an off-putting smile. “We don’t talk about it. If you wouldn’t mind taking the tray of cups?”

  Obediently, I follow her, and as I’m sitting back down at the table, a beautiful sleek Doberman pinscher appears at the doorway. Oh my God. What a gorgeous dog.

  “Mouser!” Matt greets him, smiling. “One of my dad’s dogs,” he explains to me, and I beam back in relief. Finally! Something I can relate to! I’m longing to meet Mouser and pet him—only he seems strangely pinned to the spot.