Love Your Life(49)

OK, maybe that’s not exactly what I mean. What I mean is, why does Matt need to work so hard?

The more I learn about Harriet’s House, the more I lurch between awe at its stature and frustration at the way Matt’s parents run it. They seem to have this pathological need to call Matt every night. They run tiny decisions past him. They make him read all their emails. They make him take people out to lunch. They make him wear stuffy suits, because it’s “tradition.”

    They’re very old school, that’s no secret. I’ve explored the Harriet’s House website a bit, and the rule appears to be that every sentence will contain the word “tradition,” except the ones that contain the word “legacy.” There’s also quite a lot about how the Warwick family will never tire in its dedication to Harriet’s House fans all over the world.

I mean, I admire that dedication. I admire Matt’s strong work ethic. I admire his family loyalty. I even admire the new Eco-Warrior Harriet doll, which I saw a sample of the other day. I’m full of admiration!

I suppose what I’m missing is any enthusiasm from Matt. Whenever I try to engage him on the subject of Harriet’s House, he gives me quite short, functional answers. Which I can understand: He’s tired and he’s talked about it all day at work. But still. It’s his body language too. It’s the whole picture. Let’s say I have mixed vibes.

So that’s one challenge. Another is the amount of time Matt spends putting on his golf machine. (Quite a lot.) A third is the way that he’s showing no interest in turning vegetarian, despite all my education and encouragement. Quite often, when I ask, “What did you have for lunch?” hoping he might say, “Tofu—and it was delicious!” he answers, “A burger,” as though it’s obvious.

    Also—and this is more recent—he’s been a bit moody. But when I’ve asked him what’s wrong, he won’t answer. He goes silent. He almost turns into a rock.

By contrast, I am never a rock. My work is not intrusive. Nor do I have weird art, nor a flat kept at an antisocial temperature. (I know he keeps turning the thermostat down when he thinks I won’t notice.)

I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect or anything. I’m sure he finds Ava-land difficult sometimes. Like…Matt’s quite tidy. This is really coming home to me. He’s quite tidy and I’m quite untidy. So there’s been the odd tiny tension between us when I’ve buried his phone under a pile of my batik work, for example.

(I’ve just taken up batik. It’s amazing! I’m going to make batik cushions and sell them on Etsy.)

But honestly, after scrupulously racking my brain, this is all I can think of. There’s nothing else negative to say about my life. I have a wonderful life! I live in a gorgeous, welcoming, warm flat. I make food with imaginative ingredients like harissa and okra. And when Matt comes round, I’m never making work calls or hitting golf balls. I’m chatty. I’m engaged. The other evening, I decided to make him a bespoke aromatherapy oil. I got him to smell lots of different essences and wrote down his responses, and I told him what each oil was for, which he had no idea about. We had music playing and scented candles, and Harold sang along with the music, and it was just…mellow. It was lovely.

By contrast, last night Matt was on the phone till late. I still haven’t got used to his stupid hard rustly bed, so I hardly slept a wink. And then he had an early kickboxing session, so he rushed off at 6:30 A.M. It’s uncivilized. Nothing in life should involve rushing off somewhere at 6:30 A.M.

    As I finish my shower and get dressed, something else is bugging me, which is Genevieve. I can’t stop googling her, which I know is a mistake, but she’s so googlable. She’s always doing something adorable on Instagram or announcing some new piece of Harriet’s House merchandise on her YouTube channel. Plus I’ve heard Matt mentioning her on the phone to his parents. He was saying, quite forcefully, “Dad, you need to listen to Genevieve. She gets it.” Which kind of made me blink.

I was going to ask him about it afterward. I was going to say, “What’s Genevieve so wise about?” with a careless little laugh. But then I decided that I would sound paranoid. (Even with the careless little laugh.) So I left it.

But then yesterday I came across an old video of Genevieve and Matt presenting together at a toy conference, three years ago. And it made me feel just a bit prickly, because they had such amazing chemistry. They were relaxed and confident with each other and they finished each other’s sentences and Genevieve kept patting Matt’s knee. They looked like some sort of incredible über-couple with a sexy spark between them.

I watched it twice, then I turned it off and gave myself a talking to. I reminded myself that their relationship is over. What does some old spark matter when the flame is extinguished?

But then I remembered those hideous raging forest fires that start because someone thought the campfire was extinguished and walked away without paying attention…but it wasn’t! The spark was still alive!

    And that niggling worry hasn’t really left me. Only I can’t say any of this to Matt, obviously. If I’m going to bring up the subject at all, I need to be subtle.

Maybe I’ll be subtle right now.

“Matt,” I say as he wanders into the bedroom, still in his exercise clothes. “I’d like to talk.”