Love Your Life(70)

“Not this again. You’re obsessed!”

“I would just like to go about my life without being injured!” says Matt with heat. “That’s all I ask. Every time I set foot in your flat, I get some injury or a bloody rescue yucca falls on me or my shirt gets shredded by Harold. I’ve had to buy six new shirts since we started dating, you know that?”

“Six?” I’m momentarily halted. I didn’t realize that. I would have said maybe…three.

“I love you,” Matt sounds suddenly weary. “But sometimes I feel like your life hates me. I feel attacked. Your friends…Jeez…You know, every day Nell sends me some piece trashing Harriet’s House: ‘Why Harriet’s House is misogynist.’ ‘Why all feminists must boycott Harriet’s House.’ It’s a dollhouse company, for God’s sake. We may not be perfect, but we’re not evil.”

I feel a slight qualm, because I hadn’t realized that, either—but that’s just what Nell’s like.

“That shows she respects you,” I say defensively. “Nell only fights with people she likes and respects. It’s a compliment. And at least she engages! At least she doesn’t ignore you. Your dad said nothing to me, all lunch! Nothing!” I know my voice is getting shrill, but I can’t stop. “And my flat might not be perfect, but at least it’s tasteful! At least I don’t have robots everywhere!”

    “What’s wrong with robots?” shoots back Matt.

“It’s ridiculous! It’s adolescent! Who has their snacks brought to them by a robot? And as for your art—”

I break off, because I didn’t mean to mention the art. Raindrops have started to spatter onto the car, and for a moment neither of us speaks.

“What about my art?” says Matt evenly, and for a few moments I’m silent. What do I say? Should I backtrack?

No. Nell and Sarika are right. I have to be honest. No more denial.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” I say, looking out of the window. “But I find your art disturbing and…and weird.”

“?‘Weird,’?” Matt echoes, his voice hurt and scathing. “One of the greatest, most acclaimed artists of our time, ‘weird.’?”

“He may be great. But his art is still weird.”

“Genevieve didn’t think so,” Matt says in cutting tones, and I gasp inwardly. Oh my God. We’re doing that, are we?

“Well, Russell loved my rescue bed,” I say, equally curtly, “and he loved my rickety windows and he thought Harold was lovely as he is. So.”

Matt pulls up at a red light, and there’s such a long silence I feel like we’re redrawing the lines.

“I thought you said Russell never stayed over at your flat,” he says at last, without moving his head.

“No. He didn’t.”

    “If he never slept in your rescue bed, how could he love it?”

“He dozed in it,” I say with dignity. “And he found it very comfortable.”

“Kind of strange he never stayed over,” Matt presses on.

“He couldn’t because of his work—”

“Bollocks. No one ‘can’t stay the night’ in a five-month relationship. Never met the guy, but I’m guessing the reason he didn’t have any opinions about anything in your life was, he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t care, so he said whatever you wanted to hear. He played you, Ava. The difference is, I’m not playing you. I do care. And I’m being honest.”

I stare at him, stung. I should never have told Matt anything about Russell.

“Oh, really?” At last I find some words of retaliation. “You think that, do you?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Well, let me ask you a question. How do you know Genevieve liked your art?”

“She said so—” Matt breaks off as he realizes the trap I’ve led him into. “She displayed interest in it,” he adds stonily. “We went to exhibitions together. She had a genuine appreciation for it.”

“She was playing you, Matt!” I give a derisive laugh. “I’ve seen Genevieve’s Instagram page, I’ve seen her style, and take it from me, she did not genuinely like your art. No one likes it! My friends—”

“Oh, we’re back to your friends,” says Matt in a hurt, angry roar. “Of course we are. The Greek chorus. Do you ever leave off consulting them for five minutes of your bloody life?”

    “Five minutes?” I shake my head. “You exaggerate about everything.”

“You’re addicted to WhatsApp,” says Matt. “That’s not an exaggeration.”

“Well, I’d rather be addicted to WhatsApp than some stupid…website counter!” I say shrilly. “The number of Internet users in the world, for God’s sake?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s weird!”

“So, everything in my life is ‘weird,’?” says Matt, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Again, Genevieve didn’t think it was weird.”

“Well, Russell loved my friends!” I lash back furiously. “And you know something else? He was vegetarian. Whereas you haven’t even tried to be vegetarian—”