Love Your Life(46)

“Oh God, sorry. I should have told you: Harold has a real thing about men’s shirts. They have to be kept out of his reach or he worries them to death.”

“Men’s shirts?” Matt looks astounded.

“Yes. He’s very intelligent,” I add, unable to hide my pride. “He can tell the difference between my clothes and a man’s shirt. He thinks he’s protecting me. Don’t you, Harold?” I add lovingly to him. “Are you my chief protector? Are you such a clever boy?”

    “But…” Matt frowns, looking confused. “Sorry, I thought it was handbags Harold had a thing against. Now you’re saying it’s shirts?”

“It’s both,” I explain. “It’s different. He’s scared of handbags. He attacks them because of some trauma he experienced involving a handbag when he was a puppy. Whereas with shirts, he’s just asserting himself. He’s roughhousing. He’s like, ‘Take that, shirt! I’m the boss!’?”

I glance down at Harold, who gives a little approving whine as though to say, “You understand me completely!”

Matt gazes silently at his mangled shirt, then at Harold’s perky face, then finally at me.

“Ava,” he says. “Do you know for a fact Harold experienced a trauma with a handbag when he was a puppy? Or have you invented it to account for his behavior?”

Instantly I feel my hackles rise on Harold’s behalf. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?

“Well, obviously I don’t have detailed notes about the terrible abusive life Harold had before he was rescued,” I say, a little sarcastically. “Obviously I can’t go back in time. But I’m surmising. It’s obvious.”

Harold is looking from me to Matt with a bright, intelligent gaze, and I know he’s following the conversation. After a moment he trots over to Matt and looks up at him with hopeful, apologetic eyes, his tail gently thumping. Matt’s face softens, and after a moment he sighs.

“OK. Whatever. He didn’t mean any harm.”

    He reaches down to ruffle Harold’s head and my heart melts all over again. Just when I think things are getting the tiniest bit prickly between Matt and me…something happens to make me remember why we’re meant to be.

I walk over, wrap my arms around him, and draw him into a long, loving kiss. After a few moments he kicks the bedroom door shut. And soon our clothes are all over the floor and I’m remembering exactly why we’re meant to be.



* * *



—

But by 5 A.M. I’ve learned that Matt’s bed and I are not meant to be. It’s the worst bed in the world. How can Matt sleep in it? How?

I’ve been awake since the Harold drama at 4 A.M., which was when Harold jumped on the bed to snuggle up, as he always does. It was so not a big deal. But Matt woke up and exclaimed, “What the hell!” and tried to push Harold off, still half asleep. Then Harold jumped up again and Matt said quite sternly, “Go to your bed, Harold!”

Whereupon I blurted out, “But he always ends up sleeping in bed with me!” and Matt said, aghast, “What? You never told me that.”

I mean, in hindsight, it wasn’t ideal, arguing about Harold in the middle of the night, both bleary and bad-tempered.

We tried to get Harold to sleep in his bed, but he whined and howled and kept jumping back on the bed till at last Matt snapped, “Fine. One night in bed. Now can we go to sleep?”

But Harold was all jumpy and playful by then. Which wasn’t his fault. He was confused, being in a strange place.

    Anyway. He’s finally asleep now. And Matt’s asleep. But I am very much not asleep. I’m staring into the darkness, wondering how Matt can put up with this terrible, evil bed.

The mattress is super-hard—in fact, I’m loath to call it a mattress. It’s more like a wooden plank. The pillow is tough. And the bed cover is the flimsiest sheet of nothingness I’ve ever tried to sleep under. Every time I move, it rustles.

I try to wrap it around me, close my eyes, and drift off…but it won’t work. It’s not a lovely squashy duvet which warms you and cocoons you. It’s too thin and shiny and unfriendly.

Harold’s warming my feet, but the rest of me is freezing. It’s not just the bedcover, it’s the room. It’s too cold. I’m wearing the cotton pajamas I brought with me—but I’m still actually shivering. I try to edge toward Matt for body heat, but he murmurs in his sleep and rolls away, and I don’t want to risk waking him up again.

I can hear the distant ticking of a clock. I can hear the occasional siren from the London streets below. I can hear Matt breathing, in…out…in…out. I don’t dare look at my phone or switch on the light to read a book. I don’t even dare move. Lying awake next to a happily sleeping person is agony. It’s torture. I’d forgotten that about relationships.

It wasn’t like this in Italy, I think morosely. That super-king mattress at the monastery was the most comfortable one I’ve ever slept on. The quilt was gorgeous. When Matt and I slept together, it worked. We were both out like lights.

I close my eyes and try to start a relaxation meditation. My head feels heavy…my shoulders feel heavy….But just then, Matt mumbles something in his sleep and turns over, taking the rustly cover with him and leaving me cold and exposed—and I nearly scream in frustration. OK, that’s it, I’ve had it. I’m getting up.