Love Your Life(64)

“Mum,” says Matt, and Elsa tinkles with laughter again.

“Just my little joke! Matthias is showing you around, I see?”

Charm and bond flashes through my mind. Quick. Say something flattering.

“Matt’s been showing me your amazing displays,” I say gushingly. “They’re stunning. The dollhouses are out of this world!”

“I remember you said you didn’t have a Harriet’s House as a child?” Elsa looks at me with cool appraisal.

She’s going to hold this against me forever, isn’t she?

“I would have loved one,” I say earnestly. “Only we couldn’t afford it.”

Her face freezes slightly, and at once I realize my error. Now I sound like I’m saying her company is evil and elite, with its exploitative pricing.

    (Which, by the way, it is. Harriet’s House prices are a shocker. I went and had a look the other day. Fifteen quid for a Harriet’s Bag and Scarf Set. Fifteen quid.)

“Your china is so beautiful.” I hastily move on to a different subject. “The detail! The brushwork!”

“Are you interested in china, Ava?” says Elsa. “Do you collect?” She tilts her head, regarding me with a piercing stare.

Collect? I’m guessing she doesn’t mean click and collect from Ikea.

“I mean…you know. I have plates,” I flounder. “And some saucers…Wow, these photos.” I quickly step toward the sporting cabinet and gesture admiringly at the cups and medals. “All these champions in the family!”

“Yes, we’re proud of our achievements,” says Elsa, her gaze sweeping over the array.

“I can’t see a photo of Matt here, though,” I add lightly.

“Oh, I was never the sports champ,” says Matt after an infinitesimal pause. “Not like Rob.”

“Matthias never turned professional,” adds Elsa crisply. “He never had that competitive edge. Whereas Robert was a scratch golfer at the age of thirteen. We all knew he would be special, didn’t we, Matthias?”

“Sure,” says Matt, his eyes fixed on a far point.

“Matt does play golf, though, doesn’t he?” I say brightly. “Don’t you have any photos of him doing that? Or martial arts. You could fit one in there.” I point helpfully at a spare stretch of glass shelf, and Elsa’s nostrils flare.

“I don’t think you understand,” she says, her smile rigid. “This is a display of professional sportsmanship. These are tournament mementos. Matt never competed at this level.”

    Tournament mementos? I’ll give her a bloody memento….

I suddenly realize that I’m seething. Which isn’t ideal for charming, nor for bonding.

“I brought you a cake,” I say, turning away from all the cabinets. “It’s in the kitchen, in a box; it’s from this really nice patisserie….”

“So kind,” Elsa says with a distant smile.

How does she make everything sound like the opposite of what it means?

“Matthias, I’ve just been speaking to Genevieve,” she continues, “and she will be Skyping in for the meeting this afternoon. Very generous of her to give up her weekend. Don’t you think?” Elsa’s splintery eyes swivel to me as though expecting a response.

“Yes!” I say with a nervous jump. “Really generous.”

Matt shoots me a slightly astonished look, and I try to smile back. But now I feel like an idiot. Why did I say that? Why am I bigging up Matt’s ex-girlfriend, whom I’ve never even met? It’s Elsa. She’s put an evil spell on me.

Then I catch my own thoughts in horror. No. Stop it. Elsa’s my future mother-in-law and we’re going to love each other. We just have to find common ground. There must be loads of stuff we have in common. Like for example…

Look. She’s wearing earrings and so am I. That’s a start.

“Right,” says Matt. “Well. Shall we have a drink?”

“Yes,” I blurt out too desperately. “I mean…why not?”





Sixteen




Come on. I can find common ground with Elsa. And with all of Matt’s family. I can.

It’s an hour later and my cheekbones are aching from my fake smile. I’ve smiled at Elsa. I’ve smiled at John. I’ve smiled at Walter, who was introduced to me as the chief finance officer of Harriet’s House and is sitting to my left. I’ve smiled at Matt’s grandpa, Ronald. I’ve even smiled into thin air, so that no one can glance over at me and think I’m a moody cow.

We’re sitting around a very shiny dining table, with more swirly china and crystal glasses and an atmosphere of silence. They really don’t talk much, this lot.

I’ve done my best. I’ve complimented everything, from the spoons to the bread rolls. But all my conversational efforts have either dwindled into silence or else Elsa, who seems to be conversation czar, has cut off the topic. She does this in two ways. She has a weird tight-lipped shake of the head which instantly silences everyone. Or else she says, “I hardly think…” which I’ve realized basically translates as “Shut up.”

    I asked John how the business was going, but Elsa immediately cut in: “I hardly think…”