Love Your Life(45)

“They can do wonders with plastic surgery these days,” says Topher, following my gaze, and I give a half laugh in spite of myself.

    “It’s not just the damage to the book. It’s…you know. My first meeting with Matt’s parents and it ends like that. You can have the best intentions, the very best intentions, but…” I heave a hopeless sigh.

“Listen, Ava,” says Topher, his voice more serious, and I look up, hoping for some wise word of advice or kindness. “Here’s the thing.” He pauses, his face creasing up in thought. “Do you count pasta as a vegetable?”





Eleven




Two hours later, I’m in a more positive frame of mind. We’ve had supper (I had pasta and peas, which was fine) and we’ve taken Harold out to a local park for his nighttime walk. Now I’m sitting on the bed, reading the questions which the others have been firing at me on WhatsApp:

How’s it going?????

What’s his place like????

Details please!!!



I consider for a moment, then type:

It’s amazing! He has a great flat. Really cool!



My eyes drift toward the hairless wolf and I shudder. I’ve been thinking about Matt’s weird art and have decided my strategy is this: I just won’t look at it. I can easily learn how to get about this flat with my eyes averted from the hairless wolf and the scary raven and all the rest. Of course I can.

    There’s no point mentioning the freaky art on WhatsApp; it’ll only sound negative. So instead I type:

Very industrial. Great flatmates. And I met his parents!!!



At once the replies start buzzing into my phone.

His parents???!!!!

Wow, that’s quick!!!



I glance up to see Matt coming into the bedroom, put my phone away, and smile at him.

“OK?” he says.

“Yes! Great!”

I wait for him to continue the conversation, but he doesn’t, and we lapse into silence.

Something I’ve noticed about Matt is that he’s quite happy with great tranches of silence. I mean, I love silence, too, obviously. Silence is great. It’s peaceful. It’s something we all need in this hectic modern life, silence.

But it’s also quite silent.

To fill the gap, I open up WhatsApp again and read Nell’s latest comment:

What are his parents like?



I quickly reply:

Fab!!!



    Then, before I get asked for any more details, I close down WhatsApp and survey Matt again. Words are bubbling in my brain. And one of my theories of life is: It’s unhealthy not to let words out of your brain. Otherwise they curdle. Plus, you know, someone has to speak.

“So, Genevieve, huh?” I say lightly. “What’s the story there?”

“Story?” Matt looks instantly on guard. “There’s no story.”

“Matt, there must be a story,” I say, trying to hide my impatience. “Every couple has a story. You were together—then what happened?”

“Oh, right. Well…OK. Yes. We were together.” Matt pauses as though thinking how best to describe his relationship with Genevieve. Finally he draws breath and concludes, “Then we broke up.”

I feel a tiny flicker of frustration. That’s it?

“There must be more to it than that,” I persist. “Who ended it?”

“I don’t remember,” says Matt, looking hunted. “Really. I suppose it was mutual. It was over two years ago. I’ve had another girlfriend since her; she’s dated some other guy….She just happens to be a Harriet’s House superfan, so she’s still, you know. Around.”

“Right. Got it.” I digest this new information. He broke up with her two years ago. Good. But then he had another girlfriend?

“Just out of interest,” I say casually, “when did you break up with the other girlfriend? The one after Genevieve? In fact, what was her name?”

“Ava…” Matt exhales and comes over to face me. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. What happened to ‘hand luggage only’? What happened to ‘Let’s stay in the bubble’?”

    I want to retort, “Genevieve gate-crashed the bloody bubble, that’s what happened!” But instead I smile and say, “Of course. You’re right. Let’s not go there.”

“We’re here,” says Matt, taking my hands and squeezing them. “That’s all that matters.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “We’re with each other. End of story.”

“Don’t worry about Genevieve,” Matt adds for good measure, and instantly I feel a prickle of fresh irritation. Why did he have to say that? The minute you tell someone not to worry, they worry. It’s a law of nature.

“I’m not worried,” I say, rolling my eyes.

I turn away and do an elaborate yoga stretch to demonstrate my lack of concern, and Matt wanders out of the room again. Suddenly I hear a loud yell of shock. Then Matt reappears at the bedroom door, holding a torn mess of blue poplin.

“Ava,” he begins. “I hate to say it, but I think Harold got hold of one of my shirts, and…” He gestures at the shredded shirt and I wince.