Love Your Life(44)

I gulp inwardly. That’s Genevieve? Then I realize that I’ve seen her before, in a photo on the Harriet’s House website, though I didn’t clock her name. I remember thinking at the time, She’s pretty.

“Wow!” I try to sound light and careless. “That’s great. So Genevieve works for you?”

“Genevieve is an ambassador for Harriet’s House,” says John gravely.

“Ambassador?” I echo.

“She’s a superfan,” Matt mutters to me. “She still collects. That’s how we met, at a Harriet’s House convention. It’s pretty much, you know, her life.”

“The work she does for us is wonderful. Simply wonderful.” Elsa makes it sound as though Genevieve is a NATO peacekeeper.

“Matthias, I think you should call Genevieve and congratulate her,” says Matt’s father heavily. “She is such an asset to us.”

    Matt doesn’t react for a moment. Then, without looking up, he says, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

His father’s face tightens, and he glances at me. “Could you give us a moment, Eva?”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Right. Of course.”

“Ava,” Matt corrects his dad, looking pissed off. “It’s Ava.”

I retreat into the main space of the flat and the door closes firmly. A muffled conversation begins, and I turn away, telling myself not to eavesdrop. Although I can’t help hearing Elsa saying, “Matthias, I hardly think…”

What does she hardly think?

Anyway. None of my business.

After a minute or two, the door opens again and the three of them enter. Elsa is holding the book so that Genevieve’s face shines out at us, even more luminous and beautiful than before. Matt looks stressed out and doesn’t meet my eye.

“Good evening!” comes Topher’s voice from the doorway to the kitchen, and he lifts a hand in greeting.

“Evening, Topher,” says John, hailing him back.

“Are you staying for dinner?”

“No, they’re not,” says Matt before his father can reply. “In fact, shouldn’t you go? Won’t you miss your show?”

“There’s plenty of time,” says Elsa. She deposits her bag on a nearby low stool and starts flipping through the book. “There was a particular photograph I wanted to show you,” she adds to Matt. “It’s a lovely one of Genevieve as a child.”

    She continues flipping backward and forward and is just saying, “Ah, here we are,” when I hear a vigorous scrabbling sound. I turn to see Harold rushing across the floor in our direction and have an instant, horrifying realization. He’s going to grab her bag.

Harold has a thing about handbags. He hates them. It’s not his fault—I think he had some sort of traumatic handbag encounter as a puppy and sees them as the enemy. I have about three seconds to react before he grabs Elsa’s bag and mangles it.

“Sorry!” I gasp. “Sorry, that’s my dog, and you might want to move your— Quick!”

I make a desperate lunge for the bag, but at the same time Elsa moves defensively toward it, and I don’t know what happens, but there’s a ripping sound, and—

Oh God.

Somehow as I lunged, I caught the book, and now I’ve ripped the jacket. Right down the middle of Genevieve’s face.

“Genevieve!” cries Elsa hysterically, as though I’ve attacked her in person, and whips the book away. “What have you done?”

“I’m so sorry.” I gulp, cold with horror. “I didn’t mean to— Harold, no!”

I snatch up the handbag from the stool before Harold can sink his teeth into it. Elsa gasps in fresh horror, grabs it from me, and clutches both book and bag protectively to her.

For a moment no one speaks. One of Genevieve’s eyes is gazing straight at me, while the other flaps around on the torn bit of paper. And I know this is irrational—but I feel like Genevieve can see me through the book. She knows. She knows.

    I glance at Matt, and his lips are compressed. I can’t tell if he’s livid or amused or what.

“Well,” says Elsa at last, gathering herself. “We need to go. I’ll leave this here.” She places the book on a high shelf.

“Lovely to meet you,” I say feebly. “Sorry about…Sorry.”

Elsa and John both give me stiff nods, and Matt ushers them out while I sag in utter dismay. That has to be one of the worst three minutes of my life.

“Nice work,” says Topher’s voice behind me, and I turn to see him regarding me in amusement. He nods at Genevieve’s ripped face. “Destroy the ex. Always a good first move.”

“It was an accident,” I say defensively, and he raises his eyebrows.

“There are no accidents,” he says in mysterious tones. “I like how you and Harold operate as a team, by the way,” he adds more matter-of-factly. “You secure the area; he goes in. Very slick. Good comms.”

I can’t help smiling at the idea of Harold and me having “comms.” But I’m not having Topher start some rumor that I attacked a book deliberately. I love books! I take in rescue books!

“I would never hurt a book,” I say stonily. I glance again at Genevieve’s glossy torn face and wince as though it were a real injury.