Love Your Life(43)

    “I do want children.” Matt’s voice punctures my thoughts. “In the future. You know.” He shrugs, looking awkward. “In theory.”

“Oh!” I sag in relief. “Oh, you do! Well, so do I. One day,” I hastily clarify. “Way in the future. Not now.” I laugh to show what a ridiculous notion this is, even as my brain is conjuring up an image of Matt holding twin babies, one in the crook of each manly arm.

Maybe I won’t share that thought with him just now.

“OK.” Matt is scanning my face warily. “So, is this conversation done?”

I smile happily up at him. “Yes! I just think it’s good to get things straight, don’t you?”

Matt doesn’t reply. I’ll take that as a yes. Then a distant ping sounds and I stiffen. It’s the lift arriving! It’s them!

“What are your parents like?” I blurt out to Matt. “You’ve hardly told me anything! Fill me in, quickly.”

“My parents?” He looks flummoxed. “They’re…You’ll see.”

You’ll see? That’s no help.

“Should we cook something?”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “They’re just dropping something off on the way to the theater.” He hesitates. “In fact, if you didn’t want to meet them, you could stay in the bedroom.”

“You mean hide?” I stare at him.

“Just if you want to.”

    “Of course I don’t want to!” I say, bewildered. “I can’t wait to meet them!”

“Well, they’re only staying for a moment—oh, here they are,” he adds as a chiming bell sounds.

He heads to the front door of the apartment while my mind whirs. It’s the first five seconds that count. I need to make a good impression. I’ll compliment his mother’s bag. No, her shoes. No, her bag.

The door swings open to reveal a man and woman, both in smart coats, both very tall. (Matt wasn’t wrong.) As I watch them hug Matt, my brain furiously processes details. His dad is handsome. His mum is quite reserved; look at the way she hugs him lightly with gloved hands. Expensive shoes. Nice maroon leather bag. And blond highlighted hair. Should I compliment that instead? No, too personal.

At last Matt turns and beckons me over.

“Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet Ava. Ava, these are my parents, John and Elsa.”

“Hello!” I say in an emotional rush. “I love your bag and your shoes!”

Wait. That came out wrong. You don’t say both. You pick one.

Elsa looks disconcerted and glances at her shoes.

“I mean…your bag,” I hastily amend. “That’s a great bag. Look at the clasp!”

Elsa glances blankly at the clasp of her bag, then turns to Matt and says, “Who is this?”

“Ava,” says Matt, with tension in his voice. “I just told you. Ava.”

    “Ava.” Elsa holds out a hand and I shake it, and after a moment, John does the same.

I’m waiting for Elsa to say, “How did you two lovebirds meet?” or even, “Well, aren’t you adorable?” which is how Russell’s mother first greeted me. (Russell’s mum was a lot nicer than Russell, it turned out.)

But instead, Elsa eyes me in silence, then turns to Matt and says, “Genevieve sends her love.”

I feel a tiny jolt of shock, which I conceal with a wide smile. Genevieve sent her love?

I mean, Genevieve’s allowed to send her love. Of course she is. But, you know. How come?

“Right.” Matt sounds strangled.

“We met for lunch,” adds his mother, and I force my smile even wider. It’s good that they had lunch. I’m super-relaxed about it. Everyone should be friends.

“Great!” I exclaim, just to prove I’m not threatened, and Elsa shoots me a strange look.

“We had a lot to discuss,” she continues to Matt, “but first, let me show you this.”

She pulls a shiny new hardback book out of her bag. It has a photo of a dollhouse on the front and the title Harriet’s House and Me: A Personal Journey. At once I spot a chance to be supportive of the family business.

“Wow!” I exclaim. “I used to love Harriet’s House!”

Elsa eyes me with a flicker of interest. “Did you have a Harriet’s House?”

“Well…no,” I admit. “But some of my friends did.”

The interest in Elsa’s face instantly dies away and she turns back to Matt.

    “This is straight from the printer’s.” She taps the shiny cover. “We wanted you to see it, Matthias.”

“We’re very pleased with it,” puts in John. “We’re already in talks with Harrods about an exclusive edition.”

“Right.” Matt takes the book. “It’s come out well.”

“I’d love to read that,” I say with enthusiasm. “I bet it’s really interesting. Who wrote it?”

“Genevieve,” says Elsa blankly, as though it’s obvious.

Genevieve?

Matt turns the book over, and a stunning woman of about thirty stares out of the back cover. She has long blond hair, a delightful sparkle in her blue eyes, and beautiful, elegant hands, which she’s resting her chin on.