Love Your Life(77)

The buildup seems to go on forever. But at last, after an unbearable amount of banter, the actual stunt occurs—a blur of whirling, flaming torches to the sound of huge applause. And as soon as it’s over, it seems obvious: Of course the busker was never going to drop a flaming torch on Matt and set him alight. But even so, I feel weak with relief.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Matt!” thunders the busker, and, finally finding my voice, I cheer and whoop as loudly as I can.

    As Matt rejoins me in the audience, he’s flushed and his smile is wider than I’ve seen it for weeks.

“Awesome!” I say, hugging him, my heart still thudding with adrenaline. “That was amazing!”

“Couldn’t resist.” He flashes a grin at me. “Your turn next.”

“No!” I recoil in genuine horror. “Never!”

“He’s juggling a chainsaw next, if you’re interested?” Matt deadpans, then laughs at my expression.

He seems somehow transformed, just by that one experience. There’s a light in his eye and a lift in his voice. He sounds teasing, not rocklike. I’ve got my playful, carefree Dutch back, I suddenly realize. And I hadn’t appreciated how much I’d missed him.

“Hey, look, gelato!” I exclaim, seeing a stall at the side of the piazza. “Proper Italian ice cream. Let’s get you a nocciola as a reward.”

“And let’s get you a stracciatella,” rejoins Matt cheerfully—and arm in arm we head in that direction.

As we walk, my mind can’t help whirring. Does Matt realize how much his personality changes? Does he realize how much less carefree he is in London than he was in Italy? I want to raise the issue—but how do I put it? I can’t say, “Sometimes you turn into a rock.” I need to phrase it positively.

“It’s really great when you relax and stop thinking about work,” I venture as we join the ice-cream queue.

“Yup.” Matt nods easily.

    “Can I be honest, Matt?” I press on. “I think you should try to switch off more. Shed your worries.”

“I guess work gets everyone down,” says Matt, after a pause. “Sorry if I’m antisocial sometimes.”

There’s a tiny knot of frustration inside me. I want to retort, “It’s not just that you’re antisocial, it’s more than that,” but at the same time I don’t want to ruin the mood. It’s a gorgeous balmy evening and we had a lovely dinner and now we’re getting ice cream. Matt’s face is shining and animated; he looks supremely happy. I’m not going to rain on that parade.

As he hands me my stracciatella cone, I sigh contentedly. “Just so you know, ice cream is incredibly important in Ava-land.”

“Ditto Matt-land,” he counters with a grin. “In fact, we have National Ice Cream Day. Three times a year.”

“Amazing!” I say admiringly. “We need to introduce that custom into Ava-land. Wait, I’ll pay,” I add more seriously, as he reaches for his wallet. “You got dinner.”

I hand over the money—then we head to a nearby wall and perch there, licking our ice creams and watching people as they stroll by. Music is coming from a nearby bar, and there are gales of laughter from the busker’s audience. The sky above us is a deepening blue, and there are twinkling lights all around the piazza. It’s an enchanting sight.

“Speaking of money,” says Matt presently. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ava—did you ever get the money for that piece of freelance work?”

It takes me a moment to work out what he’s talking about, but then I recall. A few months ago I wrote a leaflet for a nearby independent pharmacy—then weeks later I realized I hadn’t invoiced them. Matt was with me when I sent the invoice out, and I guess he’s remembered, all this time.

    “No,” I say vaguely. “But it’s fine. It hasn’t been that long.”

“Well over a month,” he contradicts me. “And it was long overdue, anyway. You should chase them.”

“I will.” I shrug. “I’m sure they’re on it.”

“Threaten them, if necessary,” adds Matt.

“Threaten them?” I give a shocked laugh. “We’re not all karate warriors!”

“You don’t have to be a warrior, but you’ve done some good work for them and they should pay you; it’s only right. I think you’re sometimes too—” Matt cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No. Sorry. Wrong time, wrong place. Forget it.”

“Forget what?” I say, my curiosity piqued. “What do you think? Say it.”

“Doesn’t matter. We should just enjoy the evening.” He spreads his arms around. “It’s beautiful here. I really enjoyed our dinner.”

Does he think I can just sit here now and not hear the end of what he started?

“Matt, too late!” I retort. “I want to know! Whatever you were going to say, say it, or I’ll keep bugging you.”

There’s silence, punctuated by another roar of noise from the piazza. I turn my head to see that the busker is now having some kind of confrontation with a policeman, while the crowd jeers. Oops. Wonder what happened there.

    Then Matt exhales, drawing my attention back to him.