Love Your Life(52)

“Hand luggage only, then,” I clarify, and Topher gives a bark of scoffing laughter.

“Impossible. You can’t have a hand-luggage-only relationship in your thirties. You can only have a six-extra-heavy-cases-and-fines-on-all-of-them relationship.”

“Well, that’s your opinion,” I say, feeling ruffled.

    “It’s everyone’s opinion,” he asserts. “Nihal, have you finished the Shreddies, because if so, you are getting ten bastard strikes, you utter bastard.”

God, he’s exhausting. He’s relentless. How does Matt live with him?



* * *



—

As I head back to the bedroom, Topher’s words about ripping the book are still in my mind. I glance over at the bookcase and wince as I see the damaged Harriet’s House book. You can’t see the rip, but I know it’s there and I can still remember Elsa’s anguished cry.

How am I going to make up for my crap start with Matt’s parents? Whenever I’ve brought up the subject with Matt, he’s said vaguely, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, they’ll have forgotten it.” But I’m more inclined to believe Topher. Elsa doesn’t look like a woman who forgets anything. She’s probably sticking pins into an Ava dolly right now.

I decide to calm my nerves by watching a YouTube eye-shadow tutorial. By the time I’ve finished that, and three different attempts at contouring (disastrous), and done my hair, it’s almost time to leave for the picnic, and my spirits have risen. As I glance out of the window, I see that the sun is shining, and I feel even more cheered.

Never mind about baggage. Never mind about Genevieve or Sarah or whatever that other one was called. I’m going to focus on the now. On us.

“Where’s Matt, Harold?” I say, and Harold appears from under the bed, with what looks like a sausage roll in his mouth. Shit. Where did he get that?

    Actually, I don’t want to know.

“Eat up!” I instruct him, sotto voce. “Get rid of the evidence! Matt, are you ready?” I call in a louder voice.

I grab my bag and head out to the main living space. There I find Matt staring intently at a screen on Topher’s workstation.

“Forty-two percent,” Matt’s saying. “Shit. Unbelievable.”

“I called it,” says Topher calmly, taking a swig of Coke. “Called it all along.”

“Nihal, forty-two percent!” Matt calls across the room.

“Wow,” says Nihal, looking up politely from where he’s tinkering with the snack robot. “What?”

“New poll on voting intentions,” says Matt, still gazing at the screen over Topher’s shoulder.

Matt adores talking to Topher about his work. In fact, this scenario is a pretty common one in Matt-land: Matt and Topher huddled together in front of the screens, talking about percentage points as avidly as though they’re discussing the Kardashians, while Nihal quietly works on his robot. I’ve learned that it’s Nihal who bought and customized the snack robots, but now he’s gone more ambitious and is making one from scratch.

“How’s it going?” I say politely as I catch Nihal’s eye.

“Oh, really well,” says Nihal, brightening at my interest. “It’s going to have a moving arm. Full rotation.”

“Great!” I say encouragingly. “What will it do?”

“What would you like it to do?” answers Nihal, perking up. “If you were buying a robot, Ava, what functionality would you look for?”

I can’t tell him the truth—that I wouldn’t buy a robot in a million years—so I say vaguely, “Not sure! But I’ll think about it.”

    I find the robot thing a bit alien, to be honest. It’s a bit like having a pet. But if you want a pet, have a dog. A dog.

“They can’t maintain this lead,” Matt is saying, now peering intently at a pie chart. “What are the other polls saying?”

“Other polls?” Topher sounds highly offended. “Fuck off. Other polls? Only our poll counts.” He consults his phone. “See? The Times have already run it.”

Topher’s company is always being quoted in the papers. He’s actually quite a big shot, I’ve learned. He has a big team and lots of influence with important people. Although you wouldn’t know it from looking at him in his ratty T-shirt.

“Have you ever thought of going into politics, Topher?” I ask, because it’s something I wondered the other day. “You seem so interested in it.”

Immediately Matt bursts into laughter, and I can hear Nihal snuffle with mirth too.

“Topher stood for parliament in the last election,” Matt tells me. “As an independent candidate.” He summons up an image on his phone and snorts again. “Here he is.”

He passes me the phone and I find myself looking at an election poster. It consists of a photo of Topher (quite unflattering), glowering as though he’s exasperated with everyone. Underneath him is the slogan: For a better, sexier Britain.

I can’t help giggling.

“For a better, sexier Britain?” I turn to Topher. “That was your campaign slogan?”

    “Who doesn’t want things to be better and sexier?” retorts Topher defensively. “Name one person.”