Love Your Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “Oh.”

  “And then they just served biscuits at tea, and I kept thinking, ‘But what about the cake? Why don’t we have the cake?’ ”

  Matt shoots me a wary look. “They’re probably saving it up. I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Maybe,” I say morosely. “But it’s no wonder.” I suddenly feel weariness crashing over me and rub my face. “Matt, listen. You have to move into my place. I can’t sleep a wink at yours.”

  “Move into yours?” Matt sounds aghast. “What— No. Sorry, no.”

  “But my flat is more conducive. It’s more comfortable. It’s more welcoming.”

  “More welcoming?” Matt echoes incredulously. “Ava, your flat is a liability! Fucking…nails sticking out and stuff toppling down everywhere, and you never screw jars closed properly….”

  I stare at him, baffled. Jars? Where is this coming from? Jars? I open my mouth to defend myself, but Matt carries on as though the floodgates have opened.

  “There are bloody ‘rescue plants’ everywhere…your ‘rescue bed’ is impossible to sleep in….”

  “At least my flat has character!” I snap. “At least it’s not some monolithic concrete box.”

  “Character?” Matt gives a short, incredulous laugh. “It’s crummy! That’s its character! Rescue books? Rescue books are not a thing, Ava. You’re not making a noble gesture by housing crap.”

  “Crap?” I stare at him, incensed.

  “Yes, crap! If no one wants to buy An Illustrated Guide to the Cauliflower published in 1963, guess what? It’s not because it’s an unloved gem which needs to be rescued. It’s because it’s a shit book.”

  For a moment I can’t speak for shock. I don’t even know where to begin. And by the way, I do not own a book called An Illustrated Guide to the Cauliflower.

  “So, what, you hate my flat?” I try to sound calm.

  “I don’t hate it.” Matt signals left and changes lanes. “I think it’s unsafe.”

  “Not this again. You’re obsessed!”

  “I would just like to go about my life without being injured!” says Matt with heat. “That’s all I ask. Every time I set foot in your flat, I get some injury or a bloody rescue yucca falls on me or my shirt gets shredded by Harold. I’ve had to buy six new shirts since we started dating, you know that?”

  “Six?” I’m momentarily halted. I didn’t realize that. I would have said maybe…three.

  “I love you,” Matt sounds suddenly weary. “But sometimes I feel like your life hates me. I feel attacked. Your friends…Jeez…You know, every day Nell sends me some piece trashing Harriet’s House: ‘Why Harriet’s House is misogynist.’ ‘Why all feminists must boycott Harriet’s House.’ It’s a dollhouse company, for God’s sake. We may not be perfect, but we’re not evil.”

  I feel a slight qualm, because I hadn’t realized that, either—but that’s just what Nell’s like.

  “That shows she respects you,” I say defensively. “Nell only fights with people she likes and respects. It’s a compliment. And at least she engages! At least she doesn’t ignore you. Your dad said nothing to me, all lunch! Nothing!” I know my voice is getting shrill, but I can’t stop. “And my flat might not be perfect, but at least it’s tasteful! At least I don’t have robots everywhere!”

  “What’s wrong with robots?” shoots back Matt.

  “It’s ridiculous! It’s adolescent! Who has their snacks brought to them by a robot? And as for your art—”

  I break off, because I didn’t mean to mention the art. Raindrops have started to spatter onto the car, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

  “What about my art?” says Matt evenly, and for a few moments I’m silent. What do I say? Should I backtrack?

  No. Nell and Sarika are right. I have to be honest. No more denial.

  “I’m sorry, Matt,” I say, looking out of the window. “But I find your art disturbing and…and weird.”

  “ ‘Weird,’ ” Matt echoes, his voice hurt and scathing. “One of the greatest, most acclaimed artists of our time, ‘weird.’ ”

  “He may be great. But his art is still weird.”

  “Genevieve didn’t think so,” Matt says in cutting tones, and I gasp inwardly. Oh my God. We’re doing that, are we?

  “Well, Russell loved my rescue bed,” I say, equally curtly, “and he loved my rickety windows and he thought Harold was lovely as he is. So.”

  Matt pulls up at a red light, and there’s such a long silence I feel like we’re redrawing the lines.

  “I thought you said Russell never stayed over at your flat,” he says at last, without moving his head.

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “If he never slept in your rescue bed, how could he love it?”

  “He dozed in it,” I say with dignity. “And he found it very comfortable.”

  “Kind of strange he never stayed over,” Matt presses on.

  “He couldn’t because of his work—”

  “Bollocks. No one ‘can’t stay the night’ in a five-month relationship. Never met the guy, but I’m guessing the reason he didn’t have any opinions about anything in your life was, he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t care, so he said whatever you wanted to hear. He played you, Ava. The difference is, I’m not playing you. I do care. And I’m being honest.”

  I stare at him, stung. I should never have told Matt anything about Russell.

  “Oh, really?” At last I find some words of retaliation. “You think that, do you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Well, let me ask you a question. How do you know Genevieve liked your art?”

  “She said so—” Matt breaks off as he realizes the trap I’ve led him into. “She displayed interest in it,” he adds stonily. “We went to exhibitions together. She had a genuine appreciation for it.”

  “She was playing you, Matt!” I give a derisive laugh. “I’ve seen Genevieve’s Instagram page, I’ve seen her style, and take it from me, she did not genuinely like your art. No one likes it! My friends—”

  “Oh, we’re back to your friends,” says Matt in a hurt, angry roar. “Of course we are. The Greek chorus. Do you ever leave off consulting them for five minutes of your bloody life?”

  “Five minutes?” I shake my head. “You exaggerate about everything.”

  “You’re addicted to WhatsApp,” says Matt. “That’s not an exaggeration.”

  “Well, I’d rather be addicted to WhatsApp than some stupid…website counter!” I say shrilly. “The number of Internet users in the world, for God’s sake?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s weird!”

  “So, everything in my life is ‘weird,’ ” says Matt, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Again, Genevieve didn’t think it was weird.”

  “Well, Russell loved my friends!” I lash back furiously. “And you know something else? He was vegetarian. Whereas you haven’t even tried to be vegetarian—”

  “I never said I was vegetarian,” Matt interrupts.

  “I’m not saying you did, but you could make an effort—”

  “Why?” says Matt, and I nearly scream in frustration. How can he even ask that?

  “Because you should! Because you said you would! Because the scientific evidence shows—”

  “Ava, I’m telling you now,” says Matt flatly, “I will never be a vegetarian. Limit meat, yes, buy responsibly, yes, give up completely, never. Never,” he repeats, as I gasp. “I like meat.”

  I feel as though he’s slapped me. For a few moments I can’t even draw breath.

  “OK,” I say at last. “So…that’s it, is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Matt’s face tautens. “Is it, Ava? Is that some sort of deal-breaker for you?”

  “No!” I say, taken aback.
“I don’t believe in deal-breakers.”

  “Because you could have let me know in Italy,” Matt continues relentlessly. “That’s all I’ll say. You could have let me know if being vegetarian was some kind of requirement.”

  “Well, I could ask the same of you!” I retort. “Is my being vegetarian a deal-breaker for you? Because, equally, you could have let me know.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Matt irritably. “You know it’s not.”

  For a few minutes we’re both silent as rain starts to thunder down on the car roof. Hurt is crackling around the car like a lightning storm. I can’t bear it. How are we like this? Why are we like this?

  We were so happy, standing on the Pugliese hillside. If I close my eyes I’m back there, under the olive trees, the garland round my head, suffused with love and optimism.

  Then I open my eyes and I’m back here in the rain and misery.

  “So, are you regretting what you said in Italy?” I say with an offhand shrug.

  “What did I say in Italy?” Matt squints at an electronic sign about delays on the M4, and my face flames—because how can he not remember? Was it not important to him?

  “Oh, sorry, you’ve forgotten.” My voice ripples with hurt sarcasm. “Obviously it wasn’t very important to you. I thought you said, ‘I love this woman for keeps,’ but maybe it was ‘Could you pass the olive oil.’ ”

  “Of course I’m not regretting that,” says Matt irately. “And of course it was important to me. I didn’t know what you were referring to. I said a lot of things in Italy. You always expect me to read your mind—”

  “I do not!”

  There’s another silence, then Matt breathes out.

  “Look, Ava, we need to talk. Properly. This is just…Shall we go for a drink or something?”

  Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a new WhatsApp and automatically I check it, whereupon an incredulous, bitter smile grows on Matt’s face.

  “There we go. Chat to your friends. Greater priorities. Don’t worry, Ava, I know my place.”

  My face flushes again, because that was an instant reflex. And if I’d been thinking harder, I wouldn’t have opened it. But it’s on my screen now, and—

  Oh God.

  My heart falls to the floor as I take in Sarika’s words. For a moment I can’t react. But at last I raise my head and say, “I have to go to Nell’s. Could you take me there, please?”

  “What?” Matt emits a disbelieving laugh. “That’s your answer? I ask you out for a drink, I’m trying to build bridges, I’m trying to do something about this…and you say you want to go to Nell’s? Ava, you accuse me of not caring, but…”

  As he continues, I’m hardly listening to him. My mind is torn in two. I can’t tell him, I never tell people about Nell without her permission, but this is different, he should know, he has to know…

  “Nell’s ill.” I cut him off, mid-stride.

  “Ill?” His combative tone falls away and he shoots me an uncertain look. “What do you— Has something happened?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you till…I mean, she likes to tell people herself, but…Anyway.” I take a deep breath. “Nell has lupus. So. That’s…what this is. That’s why I need to go there.”

  “Lupus?” Matt turns his head briefly toward me and away again. “That’s…Shit. I had no idea. I mean, she doesn’t look…I would never have guessed.”

  “I know. That’s why it’s so hard. It comes and goes. She was going through a really good patch, so…”

  “Lupus.” Matt still sounds a bit shell-shocked. “I’ve never—I mean, isn’t that serious?”

  “Yes. I mean, it can be. I mean, it depends.” I blow out in frustration.

  I know I sound short. Angry, even. But I’m not angry with Matt, I’m angry with sodding lupus. With illness. With all the shit.

  “OK,” says Matt after a long pause. “Got it.”

  He reaches out and puts a hand on mine and squeezes hard. I squeeze back, harder than I meant to, and realize I don’t want to let go. So we stay like that, clinging tightly to each other’s hands, till he has to change gear and releases me.

  “What can I do?”

  “Sarika says she’s having one of her bad flare-ups. We try to stay over, and it’s my turn. So just drop me there. Thanks.”

  For the next few minutes, we’re both silent, then Matt says, “Tell me about it. Wait, no, don’t waste your breath,” he hastily amends. “I’ll google. Whatever.”

  “It’s OK,” I say wryly. “It has a million symptoms, so if you google it you’ll just get confused. It’s an autoimmune disease. It can go a lot of ways. Nell has had a bunch of different problems. Her joints…heart issues. A couple of years ago she had to have surgery on her intestine. It’s not fun.”

  “Shouldn’t she be in hospital?” Matt sounds alarmed.

  “It might get to that. She hates it, though. She likes to try to stay home. When she has these episodes, we try to be there for her. You know, distract her, just be company, get her stuff when she needs it, that kind of thing.”

  There’s silence, and I can sense Matt taking it all in. At last he ventures, “It sounds grueling.”

  “Yes.” I turn my head gratefully, because he found the right word. “It is grueling. And she seemed to be so much better.” I can’t help my frustration bursting through. “You know? She hadn’t had a flare-up for months. We all thought— We hoped— It’s so unfair—” As I recall Nell in the park, looking so uncharacteristically optimistic, my voice suddenly breaks. “Shit.”

  “Ava, you’re allowed to be upset,” says Matt gently.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m not allowed to lose it. That’s Nell’s rule.”

  My voice has softened. As I glance over at him, all I can feel is affection. All our jumpy, irritable problems seem to have melted away. Everything felt so hugely important while we were yelling at each other two minutes ago—but now I can’t even remember why I got so stressed out. In fact, I feel ashamed. Matt and I aren’t in pain, we’re not ill, we’re not struggling. We’re the lucky ones. We can work it out.

  As I input Nell’s postcode into Matt’s satnav, he asks quietly, “How long has she been ill?”

  “Diagnosed five years ago. She was ill before then, but no one knew what it was.”

  I’m silent for a moment, remembering those hateful, complicated years when Nell kept falling ill and no one could work out what it was. It was so unlike bolshy, energetic Nell to be tired. But she would lie in bed for days, unable to move and in pain, while her doctor talked about anxiety and viruses and chronic fatigue syndrome. She swung between rage and despair. We all did.

  Then she was diagnosed, and it was almost a relief to know what was wrong but scary too. Because now it was a real thing. Is a real thing.

  “And you all look after her?” I can sense that Matt is trying to work out the parameters.

  “Not look after her. Just, you know, be there. And not just us,” I add quickly. “Her mum stays over a lot, although they have quite a volatile relationship. And there’s her brother and his wife, although they’re down in Hastings, so…”

  “Right. And is there a guy on the scene? Or girlfriend?” he adds quickly.

  “There’ve been a couple of guys since she was diagnosed. But neither of them stuck around. They got bored when she had to cancel things, over and over.” I shrug. “I mean, it’s tough.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t tell you before because she’s…” I hesitate. “She hates people knowing before they have to. But now you have to. I mean, you would have found out sometime.” I pause, staring at the windscreen wipers, then add, “This is part of my life, as well as Nell’s.”

  “I get that.” He nods, and we sit quietly for the rest of the journey. Not in a bad, toxic sile
nce but in a peaceful silence. I’m not sure we’ve fixed things exactly, but at least we’ve put down our weapons for a breather.

  As we pull up outside Nell’s block of flats, Matt says, “Shall I come in?” but I shake my head.

  “Better not. Nell’s quite private.”

  “But I’d like to do something.” He looks troubled. “Ava, I want to help—”

  “You did. You brought me here. Really.” I nod reassuringly. “I can take it from here.”

  “OK.” He turns off the engine, rubs his face for a few seconds, then turns to me. “Well, look. Before you go: Can I take you out for a drink? Or dinner? Let’s go out for dinner. A date,” he adds, as though finally arriving at the correct word. “We haven’t had a proper date. It’s ridiculous.”

  “We haven’t, have we?” I smile. “Unless you count jumping into the sea.”

  As I say the words, a vision of that long-ago day dances across my mind, and I feel a visceral pang of longing. Everything seemed so simple on that beach. Sun blazing down, sea salt in my hair, and a super-hot, perfect guy. Nothing to do but sunbathe and kiss. No rest of life. No wretched messy, stupid, bloody life to get in the way.

  And I know it wasn’t real, I know that.

  But real is hard sometimes. Real is really hard.

  “Speaking of jumping into the sea…” Matt breaks my thoughts—and I look up, wondering where he’s going with this. Then, to my surprise, he opens the car door and gets out. “Wait there,” he adds.

  I hear him open the boot and rummage around. Then the boot closes again and he’s back in the driver’s seat, holding a bulky parcel.

  “This is for you,” he says, placing it on my lap. “It’s a present. I wasn’t sure when to give it to you, so…Anyway. Careful, it’s heavy.”

  He’s not joking: Whatever this is, it weighs a ton.

  “What is it?” I say in astonishment.

  “Open it. You’ll see.”

  Shooting him bewildered looks, I peel off layers of brown paper, then bubble wrap, and finally tissue paper, to reveal—

  “Oh my God,” I breathe. My throat is suddenly tight. I can’t believe it.