Love Your Life(111)

“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.

“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.