Love Your Life(62)

I mean, he buys crap. He just does. Terrible processed breakfast cereal. Nonorganic apples. Juice boxes. (Juice boxes.) I had to take everything out and replace it. And I was thinking, It’s so tragic that he just doesn’t care what he puts in his body…when suddenly he woke up in the wine section. I had put my usual bottle of white wine in the trolley. The one with the lady on the front (I can’t remember what it’s called). At which Matt blanched.

    “No,” he said, taking it out. “No. Just no.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I said, affronted.

“Don’t skimp on wine. It’s better to have no wine than shit.”

“I’m not skimping!” I retorted. “That’s a nice wine!”

“Nice wine?” He looked scandalized. “Nice wine?”

Anyway. We had a bit of a discussion-slash-heated argument. It turned out that we disagreed on what was a “nice wine.” And on what count as “essentials.” And on the principles of nutrition. At which point it turned out that Matt had never even heard of kefir. Who hasn’t heard of kefir?

Then we passed the meat counter, and I’ll draw a mental veil over what happened there. It was too distressing. And that butcher did not have to fall about laughing; it wasn’t funny.

I mean, it was fine. We got the shopping home. We cooked supper. But it wasn’t…I guess it wasn’t what I imagined when I sat eyeing up Dutch in Italy. I was in a blissful rosy glow. I saw us kissing romantically in the sunset. I didn’t see us standing in a supermarket, bickering about organic yogurt.

But, then, I guess all couples bicker about something, don’t they, I tell myself firmly, trying to stop my torrent of thoughts. It’s only teething troubles. We’re still finding our way.

And there have been lots of precious, tender times too. Matt bringing home peach juice the other evening, so we could make Bellinis, like we had in Italy. That was magical. Or the way he did tai chi with Harold on his shoulders yesterday morning, just to make me laugh. Or the way that, when Nihal was gloomy about work the other day, Matt said, “Ava’ll cheer you up, she’s better than champagne,” so affectionately it made me blink.

    At the memory, I glance fondly at him, and Matt winks back, then turns his attention to the road again. I love how he’s a responsible driver, not like Russell, who sometimes actually scared me, he was so erratic.

And that’s why we’re compatible, I tell myself firmly again. Because we have shared values. We care about each other’s safety. He drives carefully, and I give him turmeric supplements every day. (He was skeptical, but I won him round.)

So it’s all good. We’re here in the beautiful Berkshire countryside. I love Matt and he loves me and that’s all we need. Love.

At a mini roundabout I see a poster for a new Apple Mac and peer at it with interest.

“Should I upgrade my computer?” I muse thoughtfully. “God, these trees are beautiful,” I add, as we approach a forested area. “What trees are these?” As Matt draws breath to answer, I notice one of my nails is broken. “Shit!” I exclaim. “My nail. Oh, that reminds me, what did you think of my idea earlier?”

“Idea?” Matt seems startled.

“You know!” I say, a little impatiently. “My business idea. Pitching for beauty work.”

“Ava…” Matt pulls the car into a service station and looks at me. “I honestly can’t follow. Are we talking about your computer or the trees or your nail or a new business idea?”

“All of them, of course,” I say in surprise.

    Honestly, what’s the problem? It’s not like I’m unclear or anything.

“Right,” says Matt, looking beleaguered. “All of them. Got it.” He rubs his face, then says, “I need to get fuel.”

“Wait.” I draw him in for a hug, closing my eyes, burying my face into his neck and feeling myself relax. There. There. Sometimes I just need the smell of him. The touch of him. His strong chest and his heartbeat and his hand stroking my back. Everything I fell in love with in Italy. We pull apart and Matt gazes at me silently for a few moments, while I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m hoping it’s something really romantic, but at last he draws breath and says, “You can still go to the pub, you know.”

Matt’s running riff these last few days has been that I’m going to change my mind and duck out of the visit. He’s even identified a nearby pub that I can sit in all afternoon; it has Wi-Fi and a TV room. He pretends he’s joking, but I think he’s half serious. As if I’m going to come all this way and not meet his parents.

“No chance!” I say firmly. “I’m doing this. And I can’t wait!”



* * *



—

OK. Wow. The house is big. Like, big.

And ugly. Not like Matt’s flat is ugly, a different kind of ugly. As I peer through the humongous wrought-iron gates, I make out turrets and gables and strange brickwork surrounding rows of forbidding windows. It all adds up to a house of giant impressiveness which could equally well be a Victorian school of punishment for delinquents.

    “Sorry,” says Matt, as the gates slowly edge open. “They take ages.”