Love Your Life(8)

It felt wrong from the first moment we met in the pub. He was different from how I expected—which, to be fair, they always are. All online dates. They walk differently from how you imagined, or their hair’s longer, or their accent isn’t what you conjured up in your head. Or they just smell wrong.

This guy smelled wrong and drank his beer wrong and sounded wrong. He also had a lot to say about cryptocurrency, which…you know. Is only interesting for so long. (Ten seconds.) And the more I realized that he was wrong, the more I felt like a fool—because what about my instincts? What about the look in his eyes?

    I kept peering at his eyes, trying—but failing—to find the life and intelligence and charm that I’d seen in his profile photo. He must have noticed, because he gave an awkward laugh and said, “Have I got foam on my eyebrow or something?”

I laughed, too, and shook my head. And I was going to change the subject—but I thought, Sod it, why not be honest? So I said, “It’s weird, but your eyes don’t look exactly like they did on the website. Probably the light or something.”

Which is when the truth came out. He looked a bit shifty and said, “Yeah, I’ve had some problems with my eyes recently? They went a bit septic. Gunky, you know? This one was kind of greeny-yellow.” He pointed to his left eye. “It was bad. I went through two lots of antibiotic cream.”

“Right,” I said, trying not to heave. “Poor you.”

“So hands up,” he continued. “I didn’t use my own eyes in my profile picture.”

“You…what?” I said, not quite following.

“I photoshopped in someone else’s eyes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Same color, so what’s the difference?”

In disbelief, I got out my phone and summoned up his profile picture—and at once it was obvious. The eyes opposite me were flat and dull and insipid. The eyes on the screen were crinkly and charming and inviting.

“So whose eyes are these?” I demanded, jabbing at them. He looked even more shifty, then said with a shrug, “Brad Pitt’s.”

Brad Pitt’s?

He lured me into a date with Brad Pitt’s eyes?

    I felt so angry and stupid, I could barely get out another word. But he didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong. In fact, he suggested that we go on to a restaurant. What a nerve! As I left, I nearly said sarcastically, “FYI, my boobs are Lady Gaga’s.” But that might have sent the wrong message.

I should complain to the website, only I can’t be bothered. I can’t be bothered with any of it. I’m having a pause from men. Yes. That’s what I’m doing. My instincts can just have a holiday—

“The most important thing, of course, will be for you to stay focused.” Farida’s voice penetrates my thoughts. “Distraction is the enemy of productivity, as I’m sure you know.”

I look up, to realize Farida’s gaze is resting appraisingly on me. Shit! She knows I’m not listening. I feel a tremor, as though I’m in fourth-form geography and have been caught passing notes. Everyone else is listening. Everyone else is concentrating. Come on, Ava. Be a grown-up.

I glance around the ancient, high-ceilinged stone room we’re sitting in. The retreat is taking place in an old monastery in Puglia. There are eight of us, sitting on well-worn wooden chairs, all dressed in the plain linen kurta pajamas we were given this morning. That’s one of the rules of this retreat: You can’t wear your own clothes. Nor can you use your own name. Nor can you have your phone. You have to hand it in at the start of the week and you only get it back for half an hour a night, or for an emergency. Plus there’s no Wi-Fi. At least, not for guests.

On arrival, we were given lunch in our own bedrooms so that we wouldn’t meet before this afternoon. The rooms are old monks’ cells with whitewashed walls and paintings of the Madonna all over the place. (They’ve also been knocked through, if you ask me. Don’t tell me monks had enough room for king-size beds, writing tables, and hand-embroidered ottomans, available for purchase in the gift shop.)

    After lunch I sat on my linen bedspread, trying to focus on my plot and only occasionally scrolling through photos of Harold on my laptop. Then we were individually ushered into this space and asked to remain silent. So I’m sitting with a group of utter strangers with whom I haven’t exchanged a single word, just a couple of shy smiles. Five other women and two men. They’re all older than me, apart from a thin bony guy who looks to be in his twenties and a girl who looks like she’s a college student.

It’s all quite intense. Quite strange. Although in fairness, I knew it would be. I read a stack of online reviews before I booked this course, and 90 percent of them described it as “intense.” Other words that cropped up were “eccentric,” “immersive,” “challenging,” and “lot of bloody nutters.” But also “sublime” and “life-changing.”

I’m choosing to believe “sublime” and “life-changing.”

“Let me now explain to you the philosophy of this writing retreat,” says Farida, and she pauses.

She pauses a lot as she speaks, as though to air her words and consider them. She’s in her fifties, half-Lebanese and half-Italian. I know this because I’ve read her book about dual heritage, called I and I. At least I half-read it. (It’s a bit long.) She has sleek dark hair and a calm demeanor and is wearing the same kurta linen pajamas as the rest of us, except they look far better on her. I bet she’s had hers tailored.