Love Your Life

by Sophie Kinsella

  “I’ll replace that,” I say hastily. “I’ve been away.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.” Matt lifts his hands.

  I feel a bit dismayed as I push the front door open, because we’re still prickly. We’re still not quite natural with each other. But maybe it’ll come. We just need to keep talking.

  “So, guess what? Maud finally refurbished all my rescue furniture!” I tell Matt as we mount the staircase to my front door. “Wait till you see the kitchen dresser. It’s blue. It looks amazing. And no nails sticking out.”

  “Good to hear. Can’t wait to see it. Can’t wait to see Harold,” he adds, and I feel a swell of fondness for him.

  “Why isn’t he yelping?” I say in puzzlement as we approach my flat. I open the door and wait for Harold to greet us with his usual paroxysm of joy—but there’s no dog. No excited barking. It’s eerie to come home without a greeting from Harold.

  “Where is he?” I say in surprise. “Something’s wrong. Harold?” I raise my voice. “Where are you?”

  I hear a sudden distant growl and stare at Matt.

  “What the— Harold?” he calls loudly.

  A moment later there’s the sound of breaking glass and Harold barking more frenziedly than I’ve ever heard him. Matt draws in breath sharply. “Fucking…fuck!”

  “What?” I say in terror.

  “Intruder,” says Matt over his shoulder, and my whole body spasms in fright.

  Matt’s already thundering through the flat into the kitchen, and I skitter behind him. The back door is ajar, there’s glass all over the floor, and Harold is at the top of the fire escape, barking his lungs out.

  “Harold!” I make a grab for him, but he hurls himself out of my grasp, past Matt and down the fire escape, with the wildest barks I’ve ever heard. “Harold!” I yell in horror. “Stop! Come back!” I make for the fire escape, but Matt grabs my arm, hard.

  “Stay,” he says. “I’ll go.”

  He clatters down the fire escape and I stand there, my heart pumping, unable to hear either Matt or Harold, thinking, What do I do? Do I call the police? Will they even come? I get as far as pulling out my phone—but then Matt’s back again, coming in through the back door, panting hard.

  “Couldn’t catch the intruder,” he manages, between breaths. “Fuck knows where they went. Harold went haring after them. I called him back, but…you can guess how much notice he took of me. Ava, are you OK?”

  He gazes at me, his eyes dark and anxious, and I feel as though some sort of unbearable swell is rising up inside me.

  “Matt, I’m sorry!” My words burst out in a hot, desperate torrent. “I’m so, so sorry. You were right all along! I should have fixed the door. I should have bought padlocks. I should have listened to you about the crime stats. I should have listened about everything—”

  “No!” Matt holds me by the shoulders, his own eyes glistening. “You were right all along. Harold’s a star. He’s a champion. There’s nothing wrong with that dog, nothing. He protected you tonight. Protected you better than I did. I love your dog. I love your dog,” he says again, almost fiercely.

  “Really?” I falter.

  “Are you kidding?” He stares at me, his face working with emotion. “Ava, I love your life. I love your flat. I love your rescue books. And your stupid hot baths. And your vegetarian food. And your…I don’t know, your shit everywhere. And your friends. And—”

  “Well, I love your friends,” I cut in, my voice shaking. “And your ugly building. And your Internet countdown. And I love your art,” I say with passion. “I love the hairless wolf and the freaky hands and all of it…because it’s you. It’s you, Matt. And I love you.”

  “Even when you smashed up my art, I still loved you,” says Matt, his gaze resolute. “I loved you even more.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Tears have started streaming down my face, and I wrap my arms around Matt, suddenly feeling as though I could hold on to him forever.

  “Let’s never split up again,” I say against his chest, my voice a little shuddery.

  “Never.”

  “Ever.”

  “Do you…really love Harold?” I can’t help adding as we finally draw apart a little, and Matt gives me a wry smile.

  “I really love Harold. Don’t ask me why, but I do. I love when he steals my food, I love when he shreds my shirts….”

  “No you don’t,” I say with a gurgle of laughter.

  “I do,” says Matt adamantly. “I love that dog more than I thought I could ever love a dog. Speaking of which, where is he?” Matt’s head swivels around. “We need to go and find him. I assumed he would run back.”

  “What if the burglar’s kidnapped him?” I say in fright, and Matt gives me one of his looks.

  “Unlikely,” he says. “Can you imagine kidnapping Harold? But we should track him down.”

  We head down to the garden and check that first, but there’s no sign. Then we go out to the street and walk along, hand in hand, calling out at intervals through the dark night air.

  “Harold? Harold!”

  “Where are you, stupid dog? HAROLD!”

  “What if he’s lost?” I say anxiously as we reach the corner of a cross street.

  “He won’t be lost. He’s probably showing off to the street dogs. He’s probably got a gang by now. Harold!” Matt raises his voice. “Harold, you idiot! Come HOME!” Then he freezes. “Wait. Hear that?”

  We stand motionless, and I suddenly hear it, too: the sound of distant, familiar barking.

  “Harold!” I say in relief. “There he is! Except…where?” I turn around on the spot bewilderedly, trying to work out which direction the noise is coming from. We’re in a warren of residential streets, with paths and gates and gardens. He could be anywhere.

  “There.” Matt points. “No, wait. There. Harold. HAROLD!”

  The barking is getting louder, and now it’s clearer where it’s coming from. I start running along the road toward the sound, calling out at top volume till my lungs are burning.

  “Harold? HAROLD!”

  I reach another corner and skitter to a halt, breathing hard, still confused. The barking seems to be in a different place now. Where the hell is he? Is he in someone’s garden?

  “He’s coming toward us,” says Matt, arriving at my side. “Listen.”

  Sure enough, the barking is really loud now. He must be nearby, he must be…

  “Is he behind us?” I say in confusion, and I turn around to look. And that’s when I hear it. A screech of tires. An unearthly howl.

  Harold.

  No. Harold.

  “Fuck,” Matt mutters, breaking into a sprint. I match him, pace for pace, my brain hollow with dread, and as we round the next corner, we see him lying on the road. He’s only just visible in the glow from a streetlamp, but I can already see the pool of blood.

  I can’t— I can’t even—

  I move faster than I ever have in my life, but still Matt gets there first and cradles Harold on his lap, his own face white.

  Harold’s breathing is hoarse. There’s blood everywhere. There’s mangled fur…I can see bone…Oh, Harold, Harold, my world…I crash down onto the road beside Matt, who tenderly transfers Harold’s head onto my lap and gets out his phone.

  “Fucking hit-and-run,” he says, his voice taut as he dials. “Monsters.”

  Harold gives a little whine, and blood seeps from his mouth. I look at Matt and he looks at me. And it’s all there. We don’t have to say anything. It’s all there.

  Twenty-Seven

  Six months later

  Nihal wants to build Harold a new robotic leg. I keep telling him Harold doesn’t need a new robotic leg. He already has a state-of-the-art prosthetic leg, which works really well. But
every time Nihal sees Harold, he surveys the prosthetic leg and then his eyes go all pensive, and I know he wants to turn Harold into the bionic dog.

  Me, I’m just grateful. I still wake up every morning and remember in a sickening rush and tremble with the dread of what could have been.

  After we realized Harold was going to live (I nearly fainted with relief—not my finest hour), my biggest worry was that his spirit wouldn’t survive. That the weeks of treatment and surgery and rehab he needed would somehow crush him. But I should have realized. This is Harold.

  He practically swaggers along. He’s all “Get me, with my cool metal leg.” The veterinary physio said she’d never met a dog with such confidence. Then she got a puzzled look in her eye and added that he almost seemed to lead the sessions. At which Matt and I glanced at each other and Matt said, “Yup, that figures.” Then he added, “Wait till he becomes famous. He’s going to be unbearable.”

  It was a month after the accident that Felicity called to tell me that a publisher called Sasha wanted to turn my story of Harold into a book. A real book!

  Sasha came to lunch and met Harold and I told her the story of the accident. (It was a bit of a therapy session in the end.) And then I said, surely I should put the whole incident into the book? Because this was part of who Harold was now?

  Whereupon Sasha became thoughtful and said maybe leave that story for the sequel. And the next thing was, Felicity phoned me up and said the publishers had changed their mind: They now wanted two books! Two books about Harold! It’s unbelievable. The whole thing’s unbelievable. They offered me this incredible sum of money and I replied, “Wow, thank you!” before Felicity hastily stepped in and said my reply did not imply acceptance of the offer. And then she somehow got them to give me even more. I still don’t know how. So I’ve been able to quit my job writing leaflets. I’m totally focused on writing another Harold book. (Except I do still want to get into aromatherapy; that’s definitely going to be my sideline.)

  Since then, Matt and I have worked out an arrangement where I sleep at his place—in fact, I live at his place, really—but work at my flat. That way, I still have my own office. We might buy a place together down the line. But in the meantime…drumroll…we’ve been bed shopping! It took a while, but we have the best ever bed now. Two different mattresses, zipped together. It’s genius!

  We’ve moved the hairless wolf, though. Since I know the unbearably poignant story behind it, I can’t even look at it without my eyes filling up with tears. So we’ve decided the bedroom should be an Arlo-free zone.

  Now I peer around Nell’s sitting room to see where Harold’s got to, and sure enough, Nell’s nabbed him for a cuddle. She always had a soft spot for Harold—but even more so since his accident. Walking’s been tricky for her this last month, and she told me that whenever she’s struggling, she thinks of Harold.

  “Ava!” she exclaims now, as she sees me looking at her. “You haven’t told us! How was the naked sauna?”

  “Oh my God.” Maud perks up from her seat on the floor. “Yes! You haven’t told us yet.”

  “We’re not here to talk about me,” I object. “We’re here for the launch.”

  The exciting news is, Nell and Topher are launching a new political party! Its working name is the Real Life Party. It has ten members so far, because we all instantly joined, plus Topher’s assistant and Nell’s mum. But it’ll grow soon, once they make a website and everything.

  Nell and Topher both want to stand as MPs at the next election, but they’ve been quite cagey about any further details…until today! They’ve made a campaign poster and they want feedback, so this is why we’ve all gathered at Nell’s place. The poster is standing on an easel by the window, draped in a sheet, and they’re going to unveil it in a minute. Yesterday we started calling this the “unveiling,” and then Topher said, “Fuck it, let’s call it the official launch,” and bought champagne, which is why everyone’s in such a tremendous mood.

  (Also: They’re totally a couple. Even if Nell still claims they aren’t.)

  “We’ll have the launch in a minute.” Nell bats my objection away. “First, naked-sauna story!”

  “Naked-sauna story!” agrees Sarika firmly, and nudges Sam, who obligingly echoes, “Naked-sauna story!”

  “Fine.” I glance at Matt, who chuckles into his drink. “Well, as you know, we went round to Matt’s parents’ place yesterday—”

  “How is it with them?” interjects Nell.

  “It’s fine,” I say, after a moment’s thought. “It’s a lot friendlier than it was. They remember to give me vegetarian food now. And they’ve forgiven Matt, pretty much. And they never mention Genevieve, obviously.”

  I glance at Matt again, who nods in assent, a wry smile on his face.

  I don’t add, “They never mention Genevieve, because she was caught dealing drugs in a sting.” I don’t need to. It was all over the Daily Mail two months ago: Popular children’s influencer offers cocaine to journalist posing as Hollywood agent.

  Elsa nearly collapsed. It was crisis central. Every single member of the board, including Matt, had to go and denounce drugs publicly in this grim press conference. But then Harriet’s House sales surged on the back of all the publicity. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.

  “Well, that’s good,” says Maud encouragingly, and I nod.

  “Yes. It is.”

  The other thing I don’t say is, “I’ve felt warmer toward Elsa, ever since she put the framed photos of Matt in the glass cabinet.” Because that’s a secret between Elsa and me. The first time Matt saw them, he actually stopped dead. Then he said, “Wow. Mum. Those are new.”

  He looked so touched, it was kind of unbearable. Elsa glanced at me and I stared rigidly up at the ceiling, and at last she said, “Oh, yes. Yes. I thought…” She cleared her throat. “I thought, time for a change. We should all be represented. All the family.”

  That’s the only time it’s ever been referred to. But whenever we’ve been back to the house, Matt’s lingered in the hall, and I’ve seen him looking at the cabinet and I’ve felt…content. That’s the word. Content.

  “Never mind all that!” says Sarika impatiently. “Naked-sauna story!”

  “OK!” I take a swig of champagne. “Fine! Here goes. So, as you all know, I was pretty determined about this naked sauna. I was going to own it. I was going to be body confident.”

  “Had you waxed?” puts in Sarika.

  “Of course I’d waxed! I had a whole plan. I was going to stride in there, stark naked and proud of it. You know? Proud of my body. Proud of being a woman. Proud of my weird veins.”

  “You don’t have weird veins,” protests Maud at once.

  “Oh, I do.” I turn to her. “Haven’t you seen them? They’re on my—”

  “Stop it!” explodes Nell. “Tell us what happened!”

  “Did you see Matt’s dad’s whatsit?” says Maud with a giggle.

  “Were you there, Matt?” Sarika swivels to him.

  “No,” says Matt. “I got caught up on a call, so I missed it.” His mouth twitches. “Unfortunately.”

  “OK.” I resume my story. “So, I was waiting for Matt to finish his call, but at last he told me to go without him. I got down there, and everyone was already in the sauna.”

  “Who was, exactly?” demands Nell.

  “Elsa, John, and two of their friends. So I got undressed in the changing room.”

  “Down to nothing?” says Sarika to clarify.

  “Down to nothing.” I nod. “I was pretty hyped up by this time.”

  “I bet you were!” says Maud, wide-eyed.

  “I even gave myself a pep talk in the mirror. I was like, ‘Ava, you can do this. You can be naked with your boyfriend’s parents. Be proud of your body.’ I had a towel, but I didn’t wrap it round myself, I just trailed it beh
ind me. Then I went to the sauna and I swung the door open with this big flourish, you know, trying to look sassy even though I was totally naked….”

  I shut my eyes, because the memory is just too embarrassing.

  “And then what?” demands Maud.

  “They were all wearing swimsuits.”

  “Nooo!” Sarika explodes, and I see Sam choking on his drink. Maud looks speechless, and Nell is laughing so hard, she’s gone pink.

  “It was hideous!” I say. “They just looked at me and Elsa said, ‘You know, Ava, we have spare swimsuits for guests.’ ”

  “But why were they in swimsuits?” Nell looks almost accusingly at Matt.

  “That’s what I said! Why? And Matt told me they’d worn them on purpose, to make me feel more comfortable.”

  “I think my mum had told me she was planning to wear a swimsuit,” Matt says, with a guilty grin. “But I forgot to pass it on. Didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

  “So what did you do, Ava?” asks Sarika, agog. “Did you sit down? Naked?”

  “Yes, actually I did,” I say, lifting my chin.

  “Bravo!” Nell applauds.

  “I styled it out,” I say. “For eighteen seconds. And then I got up and ran.” I drain my champagne glass. “And now that I’ve totally embarrassed myself, I think I need another one of these. Let me get another bottle.”

  My cheeks still flushed with embarrassment and laughter, I head to the kitchen and get a bottle of champagne out of the fridge, while simultaneously replying to Sarika’s WhatsApp of a bikini emoji. Ha ha. She’s so hilarious.

  I’m still quite addicted to WhatsApp, if I’m honest. But Matt can talk! He’s in the big WhatsApp group with all of us, and he chats as much as anyone else.

  Although I suppose, to be fair, he’s able to compartmentalize a bit better than I am. He can switch off his phone and attend to other things. The other night, Matt was trying to unbutton my shirt while I quickly argued a point with Nell (we disagreed about whether Maud should buy this dreadful car she was looking at). I was just trying to find a car-engine emoji when he flipped out. Before I could stop him, he had grabbed my phone and typed: