“God. Sorry. I didn’t. God—” My cheeks are burning, and I lift my wineglass for a quick swig. “Anyway, so you’ve been well? You look well—”
“Ava.” Matt cuts me off and waits till I raise my head. “Ava. Could we…I don’t know, have dinner?”
His face is grave but hopeful, and I stare back at him, my head a cascade of thoughts. He had hope too? All this time, he had hope?
“I’d like that,” I say at last. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Twenty-Six
We’re both wary. We’re so wary that at first I don’t know how we’re going to manage a proper conversation. I mean, we can barely make eye contact.
Matt has booked us a table at a vegetarian Italian restaurant, and we start off by talking stiltedly about the menu. Then Italian food more generally. Then we recall meals we ate at the monastery.
“That pasta with the herbs. That was good.”
“The broad beans in the broth.”
“And the bread every morning. So fresh.”
“Yes! The bread.”
But exchanging memories of food can only last for so long. At last the conversation peters out and we both sip our wine, exchanging the kind of polite smiles you do when no one has any idea what to say.
I draw breath, then stop dead, because I have a kind of brain freeze. I can only think of things not to talk about.
“I know who Ottolenghi is now,” Matt volunteers into the silence, and I give him ten marks for conversational guts, because that’s punchy. Right into the heart of things.
“Amazing.” I smile at him. “You’re a new man.”
“I even bought some harissa,” he adds, and I laugh.
“D’you like it?”
“Not really,” he admits, and I laugh again, properly this time. “But you’re right, I am a new man,” he says, more seriously. “I eat tofu sometimes.”
“You don’t.” I gape at him. “Tofu?”
“I do. I tried it and, you know, it’s OK. It’s protein. It’s fine. I think I could be…semitarian, maybe? Half vegetarian? It’s a thing,” he adds, a little defensively.
“Wow.” I rub my face, trying to absorb this new, unfamiliar Matt. Tofu? Semitarian? When did he even learn that word? “That’s…different.”
“Well, a lot’s changed since we saw each other.” He shrugs. “A lot.”
“New job,” I say, lifting my glass to him. “Congratulations again.”
“Yes. New job. Really great new job,” he adds with emphasis. “It’s working out better than we could have hoped.”
Matt’s work was one of the conversational areas I was definitely going to avoid. But now we’re in it, I can’t resist asking what I’ve been burning to know all these months.
“It must have been a difficult decision, though,” I venture. “How did your parents react when you told them?”
“My dad got it,” says Matt after a moment’s pause. “My mum, not so much. She says she’s OK with it now, but at the time…” He winces. “I mean, she had no idea there was even a problem. She was expecting me to go to Japan. Not tender my resignation. She lost it a bit. She sent me a long letter all about my ‘betrayal.’ It was toxic.”
“Wow.” I can only imagine a long, toxic handwritten letter from Elsa. “But your dad didn’t mind?”
“He did mind,” says Matt. “But at the same time, he understood. He’s lived in the Harriet’s House world his whole life. Worked for the company, man and boy. He never tried to escape it, but I think he could see why I wanted to. Whereas my mum…” Matt sighs. “She’s more passionate about Harriet’s House than my dad, weirdly. I think it’s because she came to it late. Like a religious convert. She’s more zealous than any of them. But I think she’s made peace with it now.”
“And who took over your job?”
“Oh, a really great woman called Cathy,” says Matt, his face lighting up. “She was promoted from within. Only been with us for three years. Before that she was at Mattel. She’s sharp. She’s hungry. She’s so much better suited to the job than I was. She’s out in Japan at the moment, in fact, with—” He stops dead, and I make an internal bet of a zillion pounds that he was about to say “Genevieve” but caught himself. “They’re all out there,” he amends, taking a sip of wine. “So. It’s all fine.”
“You still call Harriet’s House ‘us,’ I notice,” I say, raising my eyebrows, and Matt nods.
“Touché. Look, it’s my family business. I’m still on the board, I still care about it…I just didn’t want to make it my life. I realized I was trapped in…I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “A comfort zone. A miserable, toxic comfort zone. The worst kind.”
“Well, I’m glad you stepped out of it,” I say softly. “I’m glad.”
“Me too.” He blows out as though it’s been a battle. But he looks stronger for the battle, I find myself thinking. He looks straighter, happier, prouder of himself. His face is glowing. He couldn’t look less like a rock. “And I have you to thank,” he adds.
“Oh.” I shake my head awkwardly. “No. Really. No.”
“Yes,” he contradicts me. “Before you, I always felt like I didn’t have a choice. Somehow you made me see things differently. So here I am. A whole new guy. ‘Living my best life,’ ” he adds, his mouth twitching, and at once I flush. I know he’s trying to be nice. But just hearing that phrase is painful. It takes me back to our endless arguments and the way we were then. Matt, moody and obdurate. Me, shrill and hectoring (I realize now).
I really don’t think we were at our finest.
“Matt, I said a lot of things,” I blurt out guiltily. “I said a lot of things while we were together. And some of them were…” I raise my eyes to him. “I’m sorry. But I need to thank you, too, because you made me see life differently. I never would have written my book if you hadn’t said I don’t finish things.”
“Oh God.” Matt winces at the memory. “Ava, that was unforgivable. I should never have said that—”
“You should!” I cut him off. “It was true! But it’s not true anymore. I achieved my goal and it was just…I don’t know.” I gesture vaguely with my hands. “It transformed me. I feel like I’m a new person too. We both are. You look different. Happier.”
“I’m happier in a lot of ways,” agrees Matt, then adds in a lower voice, “Although not in all ways. Not all ways.” His dark gaze brushes over mine, and my stomach gives a little flip.
“Right.” I swallow. “Well…me too.”
“I didn’t contact you in Italy,” he says, his face averted, his fingers folding his napkin over and over. “We’d all agreed to let you write in peace. It would have disrupted you if I’d got in touch. But…I wanted to. I thought about you.”
“I thought about you too,” I say, my voice suddenly wobbly. “All the time.”
His eyes meet mine again, with unmistakable intent, and my heart starts to thump. Is he…? Are we…? Might we…?
Then Matt looks away, breaking the tension of the moment.
“I have something for you,” he says, reaching for a plastic bag I noticed earlier.
“I have something for you,” I reply eagerly, and reach into my tote. I place a solitary pebble on the table, large and smooth—then feel instantly foolish, because who brings a stone to dinner? But Matt’s eyes soften.
“Is that from…?”
I nod.
“Wow.” He closes his hand around it. “All the way from Italy.”
“I went back to that beach. That same olive tree. I sat there and thought about…things. Then I saw this pebble, and I decided that if I ever saw you again—” I break off, flushing slightly. “Well. Here it is. A souvenir.”
“Thank you. I love it. Mine isn’t as special, but here goes….” Matt hesitates, then draws a battered hardback out of the plastic bag.
“Bookbinding for Amateurs, 1903,” I read aloud.
“It called out to me as I walked past a charity shop,” says Matt, looking sheepish. “I thought…I have to rescue that. For Ava.”
He rescued a book. For me. I’m so touched, I can’t quite speak. Wordlessly, I turn the old, tattered pages, my eyes hot.
“It’s not the only one,” he confesses, watching me turn the leaves. “I have a few. I see them and I think, ‘Well, if I don’t buy it…’ ”
“Then no one will,” I join in, finding my voice.
“Exactly.”
We meet eyes again, and I feel breathless. Every impulse in my body is drawing me toward him, almost sobbing with relief that we might have another chance. But at the same time I feel cautious. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want him to hurt me. Are we actually able to be together without hurting each other?
“Excuse me?” The tension between us is punctured as our waiter approaches the table, a strange little grin on his face, holding two large jiffy bags. “I was given something to deliver to you.”
“To us?” says Matt in surprise.
“It was given to the manager earlier in the day.”
“By whom?” I say in astonishment, and the waiter turns the jiffy bags round so we can see the front of them. One reads, To Ava, from your friends, and the other reads, To Matt, from your friends.
“Wow,” I say, taking mine from the waiter. “Well…thanks.”
We wait until he’s disappeared, then look at each other.
“Did you know anything about this?” asks Matt.
“No! Not a clue. Shall we see what they are?”
We both rip open our packages and I pull out a red binder. On the front, in neat block capitals, someone has written in Sharpie:
MATT-LAND
A GUIDEBOOK
I glance up at Matt’s—and it’s the same but blue and the title reads:
AVA-LAND
A GUIDEBOOK
“Oh my God,” says Matt, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. He opens his binder and peers at the first page. “No way.”
“What?”
“This is priceless.” He reads out loud: “ ‘Ava-land can be contradictory, unpredictable, and erratic. Yet it is always joyful, hopeful, and colorful. See page seven for Ava’s Sense of Color.’ ”
“Who wrote that?” I demand, half outraged and half wanting to laugh.
“Don’t know. Maud? Nell?” He turns the binder so I can see the page, but it’s typed out in some anonymous font.
“Well, you listen to this.” I read out from the first page of mine, which is headed Introduction to Matt-land. “ ‘When first approaching Matt, you may believe he cannot hear a word you say. He appears motionless. But as you become attuned to his manner, you will realize he can hear and will react according to his own timescale. See page four: How Matt Communicates.’ ” I slap the page gleefully. “Whoever wrote that knows you.”
“This is incredible.” Matt is leafing through incredulously. “Look, a contents page. ‘Food…Traditions…Wildlife…National Dress…’ ”
“You’ve got one too,” I say, laughing. “ ‘Culture…Technology…Habitat…History…’ ”
“Ha!” Matt barks with laughter. “ ‘The national dress of Ava-land may appear disconcerting at first. Do not be alarmed. Your eye will adjust in time to the myriad of colors and styles.’ ”
“What?” I say, in mock outrage. “OK, I’m finding yours.” I flick to the right page and read aloud. “ ‘National dress of Matt-land. This consists of trousers worn with a blue shirt. No other color is acceptable. Attempts to extend the range of national dress have, thus far, failed.’ ” I start laughing. “That is so true. That is so, so true!”
“It is not!” Matt looks down at his blue shirt. “Blue’s a good color,” he says defensively.
“ ‘Matt-land hovers around subzero temperatures,’ ” I read out. “ ‘Travelers are advised to dress accordingly.’ ”
“ ‘Venturers to Ava-land must prepare for the strange musical customs of this nation,’ ” he rejoins. “ ‘Consider earplugs.’ ”
“What a nerve!” I say indignantly. “Oh, here’s languages. ‘Commonly spoken languages in Matt-land include English, football, and logic.’ ”
“ ‘The languages of Ava-land include English, aromatherapy, and Harold,’ ” Matt replies. “Hey, I speak Harold too.”
“ ‘You cannot visit Matt-land without sampling ice cream.’ ”
“Snap!” says Matt, nodding at his binder. “ ‘You cannot visit Ava-land without sampling ice cream.’ ”
We smile at each other, then I flip randomly to another section.
“ ‘Wisdom naturally permeates Matt-land, as well as a strong, valuable seam: the ability to listen.’ Yes.” I nod, feeling a fresh swell of affection for Matt. “Yes, that’s true. You do listen.”
“ ‘Ava-land is transformative for the weary of soul,’ ” reads out Matt. “ ‘The fresh, optimistic air is a known tonic, although it can cause dizziness for those unaccustomed to its potency.’ ” Matt shoots me a little grin. “You made me dizzy. Still do.”
“ ‘Rare volcanic eruptions of spontaneity and playfulness give Matt-land an exciting prospect that belies its calm appearance,’ ” I read. “So true!”
“ ‘The altitudes and extremes of Ava-land can be challenging, but travelers will find vistas and delights well worth their efforts.’ ” Matt meets my eyes. “Vistas,” he repeats slowly. “And delights. That’s very well put.”
I have a feeling I know what he means by vistas. And delights. In fact, his gaze is so intent, I feel a tad flustered and look down again.
“Oh, look, there’s a conclusion,” I say as I turn to the last page. “ ‘In Matt-land you find a solid landscape of truth, integrity, and honor. Matt-land is a rare find’ ”—I break off, my throat lumpy, because this is so true. “ ‘Matt-land is a rare find for the discerning traveler disappointed by other, shallower terrains and will reward perseverance beyond measure.’ ”
“Wow,” says Matt, looking a bit shaken. “Well, this is what yours says…” He flips to the end of his binder and starts reading. “ ‘Ava-land is a Shangri-La. A realm of magic, hope, imagination, and, above all, love. It is a place…’ ” He hesitates, his voice scratchy. “ ‘It is a place few want to leave.’ ”
My eyes are suddenly hot, because who wrote that? Matt looks up at me, his face burning with love.
“I couldn’t have put that better myself,” he says quietly.
“Same,” I say, feeling flustered. “I mean…what yours said about you. Same.”
“No author name, I notice.” Matt jerks his head at his binder.
“It’s all of them.”
“Bastards.” He grins. “They’re all going on the chart.”
“Are they trying to send us a message, do you think?” I say, and I’m trying to sound jokey, but my eyes are hot again. Because…is this real? Really real?
“Yes,” says Matt, as though reading my mind, and he reaches his hand across the table to grasp mine.
I let him hold it for a few moments, feeling some of the tension in my body starting to sag away. But then I twist my fingers free. Because if this is going to have any chance, I have to be honest. We both have to be.
“Matt…I’m nervous,” I say, staring at the table. “I don’t want to be. But I am.”
“Of course,” says Matt gravely. “Me too. But we’ll go slowly.”
“Carefully.” I nod. “No rushing.”
“Nothing impulsive,” Matt agrees.
“We’ll realize we have differences. And we’ll work around that.” I look at him earnestly. “We’ll respect each other.
I can’t love everything about your life, and you can’t love everything about my life. And…you know. That’s fine.”
“Agreed.” Matt nods. “That’s fine.”
* * *
—
On the way back to my flat, we keep our talk light and inconsequential. I don’t know what Matt’s feeling like, but my heart is hammering with nerves. It feels like a first date but the second time around. Which makes it so much harder.
The first time around, I didn’t have any reservations. All I could see was glorious, inviting terrain that I couldn’t wait to explore. Now I’m traversing the same terrain—but this time aware of its hidden rifts and potholes and dangerous cliff edges. I’m not skipping ahead confidently; I’m tiptoeing. Ready to retreat at any moment.
“I read Arlo Halsan’s autobiography,” I say, suddenly remembering.
“You did?” Matt sounds staggered.
“It was recommended to me by…someone,” I say, not wanting to mention the G-word. “And it’s extraordinary. Oh my God, his childhood. So sad.”
I hate to admit Genevieve could be right about anything, but you do look at his pieces differently when you know what’s behind them. Especially the hairless wolf. It never even occurred to me that it might represent a childhood fantasy dog that Arlo Halsan conjured up because he was so traumatized.
“But I thought you didn’t—” Matt begins. Then he stops dead, and I can tell he’s wary of the terrain ahead of us too.
We walk on silently for a while, then as we reach my flat Matt says, “I haven’t mentioned my grandfather. He’s told me how you’ve been chatting to him. You’re a good person, Ava.”
“It’s been a pleasure.” I smile at him. “I like your grandpa. Out of all your family—” I stop dead, too, because I think I’m getting near a pothole. “Anyway. He’s cool.”
“Well, he likes you too.” Matt’s gaze runs silently up to the porch light, which is still missing a bulb, and I know what he’s thinking.
Love Your Life Page 32