I don’t know what on earth she’s talking about. The flower arrangements? The chairs?
“Matt’s family,” she clarifies, gesturing at Elsa and John, who are standing a few meters away, and I blink in shock. Matt’s family? Wonderful?
“Sure,” I say, and take a gulp of wine.
“Matt’s a sweetheart, obviously, but his family are even lovelier. Elsa and John are like second parents to me,” she adds in sincere tones. “They’re so wise. And such fun!”
I know she’s probably exaggerating to wind me up. But even so, I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness. Because that’s exactly how I hoped I’d feel about Matt’s parents. I wanted to love them. I wanted to bond and have little in-jokes. I was so optimistic. But, truthfully, I can’t even imagine Elsa having an in-joke.
“I don’t know them as well as you do,” I parry. “Not yet.”
“Well, they couldn’t be sweeter. Elsa just gave me this—look!”
She shows me a brand-new watch on her wrist. It’s baby-pink leather, covered in a flower print. Maud’s four-year-old, Romy, would adore it. As I peer at it, a sudden thought crosses my mind and I look up.
“Matt told me you love his art collection, Genevieve?” I say lightly. “The Arlo Halsan pieces,” I add, just to be totally clear. “The ones at his flat.”
“Oh, I do.” She nods vigorously. “I love his work!”
Ha. Ha! Caught her out. She does not. She cannot possibly like both a pink watch covered in daisies and a grotesque sculpture of a hairless wolf. It’s not feasible.
“What exactly do you love about his work?” I press her, not bothering to hide my skepticism, but Genevieve doesn’t seem to notice. She sips her drink, thinking.
“I love that it startles me but then makes me think,” she says at last. “I love that it’s grotesque but beautiful. I love the concepts behind each piece. Although I think you have to read Arlo Halsan’s autobiography to really understand what he’s trying to do,” she adds. “Monster Dreams. Have you read it?”
I’m having a horrible, terrible dawning as she talks. She genuinely does like the art. She likes it! As I gaze at her immaculate, pretty face, I feel a deep sinking inside. I don’t want to compare myself to Genevieve. But, oh God. There she is, oozing compatibility with Matt-land. She adores Matt’s art and his parents and his family business. She probably loves a well-trained dog, too, and a rare steak every night. And I don’t like any of them.
“What about the naked saunas?” I say, sounding more confrontational than I meant to. “Did you ever get used to those?”
“Oh, I love being naked in the sauna!” says Genevieve earnestly. “So freeing. I think it’s a wonderful tradition. I’m so grateful to Elsa and John for introducing me to it!”
What did I expect? Of course she loves the naked saunas. I expect she has gravity-defying boobs and is super-proud of her pubis. It probably has its own Instagram account.
“So, are you coming out to Japan with Matt?” Genevieve’s chirpy voice interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve been looking at apartments to rent, but I don’t know where to start.”
“You’re moving to Japan?” I stare at her stupidly.
“Didn’t Matt say?” She blinks at me. “I’m writing a book about the Harriet’s House phenomenon in Japan. I’ll be in Tokyo to do my research. I’m going to use an office in the Harriet’s House building. Oh!” She brightens as though with a new thought. “We can all hang out! If you come with Matt. Though maybe you can’t get away from your work, Ava. Or your dog.”
She tilts her head pityingly, a sly look in her eyes, and everything falls into place. I gaze back furiously, trying to transmit the words that are forming in my head. I see you. You’re planning the big Matt and Genevieve reunion in Japan, aren’t you?
“Yup,” says Genevieve sweetly, as if she heard every word.
My hand is clenching my wineglass more tightly. How could Matt not have told me this?
“Matt!” Genevieve exclaims, and I whip round to see him approaching.
“Matt!” I say, a notch louder, and grab him by the arm. “Brilliant show…well done…Can I have a quick word?”
Without even looking at Genevieve, I hustle him away to a quiet place at the side of the room.
“Ava, I’m sorry,” he says at once. “Genevieve shouldn’t have mentioned you; they should never have beamed that spotlight on you—”
“It’s fine.” I brush his apology away. “But listen, Matt. Everyone thinks you’re going to Japan. You need to put them straight.”
“I know,” he says after a tiny pause. “I will.”
“But shouldn’t you do it sooner rather than later?”
“It’s fine,” he says, and I feel a flare of frustration.
“Who says it’s fine? Did you know Genevieve’s planning to hang out with you in Tokyo? Even your grandpa thinks you’re going!”
“Well, they’re wrong,” says Matt.
“Then tell them!”
“Canapé?” A waitress interrupts us, proffering a tray. “We have mini Yorkshire puddings with beef or spicy fish rolls.”
“No thanks,” I say, as Matt takes a fish roll. “I’m vegetarian.”
“Vegetarian?” The waitress surveys me in alarm. “We weren’t told there was a vegetarian guest. I’m not sure…”
Matt sighs. “Sorry, Ava. I’ll talk to my mother.”
“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “It’s fine. I’ll just have some vegetables.”
“Right.” The waitress still looks anxious. “Only, the vegetables are poached in chicken stock and finished with a veal glaze.”
Of course they are. I expect the profiteroles are garnished with pork pies.
“Please don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll have…Is there a parsley garnish? I’ll have that.”
The waitress moves off, still looking troubled, and Matt says, “Sorry. This is my fault. I should have reminded my parents you were vegetarian.”
“It’s OK,” I say automatically. But deep down, I feel as though nothing’s OK. I feel…what exactly?
Hurt, I suddenly realize. I’m hurt by Genevieve’s goading and Matt’s parents’ indifference to me and Matt’s refusal to deal with this Japan situation. I’m even hurt on Ronald’s behalf.
As I’m examining these feelings, one by one, Matt’s parents come up, both flushed in the face.
“Wonderful show!” exclaims Elsa to Matt, ignoring me completely. “They loved you, Matthias! And Genevieve was a rock star! This new project of hers will be tremendous. The Japanese fan base is so passionate….” She shakes her head wonderingly. “Well, you’ll find out yourself, Matthias, when you’re out there—”
“Matt’s not going to Japan.” My voice utters the words before I can stop it.
For a second no one moves. Elsa looks thunderstruck, and I feel a small flurry of nerves mixed with glee.
“Yes!” I continue, trying to sound like I’m just being chatty rather than landing a bombshell. “We were talking about it and Matt said he didn’t want to go. Didn’t you, Matt?”
Matt’s silent, and my stomach plunges.
“At least, that’s the impression I got….” I glance desperately at Matt, but he doesn’t even meet my eye.
“Yes, well,” says Elsa, her face closing up tightly. “We’ll discuss all these matters another time. Enjoy your lunch.” She shoots me a flinty smile and stalks away, followed by John, and I turn to Matt in despair.
“Why didn’t you back me up?”
“Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” he retorts in a furious undertone. “Jesus, Ava, we’re about to have lunch! I have to be diplomatic! This is my family firm!”
“More like your family prison!” I spit back. And I know I was going to wait till later, but I can’t stop my words tumbling out. “Matt, you�
��re so careful of your parents’ feelings, but they’re not careful of your feelings! They take you for granted! I know you took on this job for all kinds of good reasons: your heritage, your brother—”
“My brother?” Matt’s face jolts, and I see a wounded look in his eyes. Oh God. I was right. He is raw. “What’s my brother got to do with anything?”
“Don’t know.” I backtrack quickly. “No. Nothing. I didn’t…” I clear my throat, trying to regroup. “Look, Matt,” I say more calmly. “I’m sorry I blabbed about Japan. But someone had to say it, didn’t they?”
I gaze at him desperately, willing him to respond, to soften. For us to be us. But Matt’s not even looking at me. He appears…agonized. And as I gaze at him, a terrible feeling comes over me. The most hollowing realization. Oh God, I’ve been a fool….
“Matt…” I swallow, barely able to say the words. “Are you going to Japan?”
“No!” he says at once, but his face isn’t saying what his voice is.
“Are you?”
“I’m…That’s not the plan.”
“Are you?” My voice is suddenly shaky. “Matt?”
My thoughts are skittering around in a kind of panic, because how can I be so out of the loop? How can he be making momentous decisions without any reference to me? Aren’t we a team? Aren’t we a couple?
I open my mouth to say something—but discover I’m out of words. I can’t do this anymore. All I really want to do is go home and hug my dog.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “Please apologize to your mother. I think I might leave now.”
“Ava—” He looks desperate. “Please don’t leave—”
At that moment, a fork tinkles on a glass and Matt automatically looks around to see who it is, and I dart away, almost running out of the room. Within thirty seconds I’m on the staircase down to the main conference area, and I’m not expecting him to come after me. I’m not even hoping.
Twenty-Three
OK, I was hoping. Because I always hope. It’s my inner optimistic Alice.
But at the same time the Red Queen has been muttering meanly, He won’t come after you, don’t be so stupid. And of course she’s right. I get downstairs without any hand touching my shoulder. I get through the crowded conference center without any urgent voice calling me from behind. I make it down the road without hearing frantic footsteps and Matt’s voice yelling, “Wait! Ava!”
It’s only when I’m on a bus back to north London, slumped in my seat and staring out of the window in utter misery, that the text messages start arriving.
I’m sorry.
I’m leaving as soon as I can.
We need to talk.
Are you there? Where are you?
As I read his missives, one after another, I can feel his distress through the phone. I don’t think he’s ever sent me this many text messages at once. And I can’t help it, I feel myself softening. After a moment’s thought, I type a reply:
OK, I’ll go to your place. Let’s talk there.
I head to his building, let myself in with my key, and make a piece of toast to make up for the missing lunch. I can hear music coming from Topher’s bedroom, but the door is shut, for which I’m thankful. So I just walk around, my hands clenched, my head swirling with dark, upsetting thoughts.
I’ve said, “Let’s talk,” but what do I even mean by that? Where do we start? If Matt won’t share something so important as moving to Japan, what chance do we have? Doesn’t he want a joint future? What does he think is going on?
I could get over him eating meat, I find myself thinking in a frenzied whirl. I could try to be tidier. I could find another joint hobby for us, bond with his parents, master golf….We could overcome those obstacles. But moving to Japan? Without discussing it?
His texts are still coming in, but I can’t deal with them, so I turn off my phone. The more my thoughts swirl around, the more stressed out I’m becoming. Right now it feels as if Matt-land and Ava-land are on totally different sides of the world. They’re completely alien to each other. And Matt’s just fired a missile over my airspace.
Yes. I feel a sudden whoosh of comprehension. That’s what’s happened. He’s launched a socking great cruise missile at me. But now he’s behaving like, “What’s the problem?” So my dilemma is, do I get out my nuclear missiles? Are we at war?
Wait. Do I have nuclear missiles?
I feel a little unclear on this, because I am naturally a pacifist, but on the other hand, I need to do something. I need to retaliate somehow—
The doorbell rings and my chin jerks up defensively. Why’s he ringing the doorbell? Is he making a point? I stride to the door and swing it open, ready to make some barbed, pithy comment—but my words wither on my lips and I blink in astonishment.
There’s a girl standing in front of me. (No, not girl. Woman. I shouldn’t say “girl,” even in my thoughts. A female, let’s say.) There’s a female standing silently in the hall, surveying me with raised quizzical eyebrows. And I know her. Don’t I? She has tawny, feathery hair and very white teeth and she looks so familiar, but I can’t quite place her….
“A guy let me in downstairs,” she says, and the sound of her voice triggers a rush of instant, comprehensive recall. It’s Lyric. From the writing retreat.
Lyric? Here?
“Hi, Aria,” she says, with the slightly aggressive manner I remember her using in Italy. “I heard you two got together. Didn’t expect you to last, though.”
My jaw has fallen open. My mind is scrabbling about. What is this conversation? Lyric seems to understand it perfectly, whereas I’m flailing in bafflement.
“What’s your real name?” she adds. “Someone told me, but I forgot.”
What’s happening? Am I dying and everyone from my life is appearing before me, starting with complete randoms? Because I can’t think of any other reason that Lyric should be here on the doorstep. She only stayed on the course for an afternoon. I’d forgotten all about her.
“I was in London,” she says, as though realizing I need an explanation. “Thought I’d swing by.”
“Do you…” I swallow. “Do you know Matt?”
“Do I know Matt?” She gazes at me incredulously. “Do I know Matt? Oh my God.” A smile of relish curves across her face. “He didn’t tell you? That’s hilarious. We were to-ge-ther. We were a cou-ple.”
She enunciates the words in slow, deliberate tones, as though I have a low IQ, and I flinch, even as my brain is groping for answers.
“Is your name Sarah?” I ask, in sudden realization.
“Is my name Sarah?” She gives a throaty laugh. “Yes, genius. I’m Sarah. Matt and I were together. Lo-vers,” she adds, savoring the word.
I have an unwanted vision of her slithering round, naked, with Matt, and I close my eyes, trying to get rid of it. Because things were shitty enough without this.
“We were going to give it another chance on that retreat,” Sarah continues, clearly enjoying her story. “But then we couldn’t stop arguing, so I was like, ‘Fuck off, then.’ ”
I’m feeling a bit faint. They were a couple? All that time, while we sat in the monastery in our pajama suits, thinking we were all strangers…they were a couple? And Matt said nothing?
“I mean, I knew that,” I say, trying my hardest to regain some ascendance. “I knew that.”
“No you didn’t.” Her eyes mock me pityingly. “Anyway, I’m in London and I just wanted to swing by. Tell Matt I’m engaged.”
She waves a ring at me, her eyes flashing in triumph. I dimly register that it’s a band of yellow stones and that I really don’t like it. (Which isn’t the point, but you can’t help what your brain thinks.)
“Congratulations,” I say numbly.
“Yeah, thanks. Met him in Antwerp. He’s Dutch. Actually Dutch. Not
like, ‘Call me Dutch.’ ” She gives a little laugh with an edge to it. “Speaking of which…when will Matt be back?”
“Don’t know. Not for a while. Not for hours, in fact.” I take a step forward, trying to force Lyric backward into the hall. Because it’s come to me that I really, really want her to leave. “I think you should go now,” I add for good measure. “I have things to do. So. Goodbye.”
She takes a step back but then pauses, her eyes running over me as though for enjoyment.
“Fine. I’m off.” She shrugs. “You’ll tell Matt I was here?”
“Oh yes,” I say, with a slightly savage smile. “I’ll tell him.”
As the door closes, there’s a kind of buzzing getting louder in my ears. I think I’m going a bit mad. I knew Lyric was attracted to Matt at the retreat. I could tell by how she looked at him in that fixated way. But how could I ever have imagined she was attracted to him because she was his lover?
Everywhere I turn, I feel wrong-footed. I think I’ve got a handle on who Matt is, I think I understand him and his life…but then something else weird pops up. Secret discussions. Private decisions. Girlfriends he never thought to mention. Why didn’t he tell me? I feel like screaming. Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
Hardly knowing what I’m doing, I pick up his putter, which is resting against the wall. His stupid bloody putter, symbol of his misery. I lift it high in the air and thwack the leather footstool. And it’s such an excellent feeling that I do it again and again, venting my frustration, my bewilderment, my anger, until my muscles are aching, until I’m panting hard, until—
CRASH!!!
I don’t know what hits me first: the smashing sound or the realization that the putter has slipped out of my hands on the backswing. For a moment I’m so shocked that I can’t even imagine what destruction has happened behind me. Broken vase? But there aren’t any vases in the hall. There’s only—
There’s only—
Oh God.
No.
Hyperventilating, hardly daring to move, I slowly turn round to see what I’ve done—and it’s so terrible I think my legs might give way.
Love Your Life Page 28