Home > Love Your Life(16)

Love Your Life(16)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“I’m pretty certain I know what you do for a living”—I nod—“and I have an idea about your name…” I break off as I hear my own name being called from a distance.

“Ava! Ava! Over here!”

Huh? What—

Oh my God! No way!

My heart lifts in disbelieving joy as I take in the familiar faces of Nell, Sarika, Maud, and the children. It’s the squad! And Harold! They came to meet me! We had a brief WhatsApp chat this morning—but they never told me they were planning this!

The only thing is, they seem to be involved in some sort of scuffle. Harold is snarling at a uniformed chauffeur and biting at his legs, while Bertie tries to haul him off. Oh God. Harold hates uniforms, and this one is particularly ridiculous. Who needs all that braid?

“Get that dog off me!” the chauffeur is exclaiming furiously.

“Take off your hat, then,” Bertie retorts insolently. “Harold doesn’t like your hat. It’s not his fault.”

“Children should be seen and not heard,” snaps the chauffeur, in livid tones. “Will you stop that dog?”

“Seen and not heard?” Nell instantly squares up to him. “You want to silence children? Maybe you want to silence women too. What’s your fucking problem? Ava! Is that your carpenter?” she adds more cheerily. “Bring him over!”

“Jean-Luc!” exclaims Maud, clapping her hands together in excitement. “He’s dreamy! Is he really called Jean-Luc?”

I glance at Dutch to see if he responds to the name Jean-Luc, but he’s gazing at the scene with a weird expression.

“Are they…with you?” he says disbelievingly.

“Yes,” I say joyfully. “They’re my friends. Come and meet them.”

As I utter the words, Harold starts to run round and round the chauffeur’s legs, binding them with his lead, barking uproariously. Bertie’s given him too much slack, I realize. But, then, he’s only a child.

“I’m calling the police,” yells the chauffeur. “You’re a disgrace!”

“Is that…your dog?” says Dutch, sounding a bit shell-shocked.

OK. So this isn’t the most ideal way for Harold to introduce himself. But Dutch is a dog person. He’ll understand.

“He hates uniforms,” I explain. “Harold!” I call out. “Darling! I’m back!”

At the sound of my voice, Harold turns, and an expression of utter joy comes over his face. He tries to gallop toward me, nearly pulling over the chauffeur before Nell grabs the lead.

“Mr. Warwick!” The chauffeur gazes desperately in Dutch’s direction, and I feel an almighty jolt of shock.

“Wait. Is he…with you?”

“That’s Geoff,” says Dutch shortly. “And yes.”

Dutch has a driver?

My brain seems to be short-circuiting. This is all wrong. Carpenters don’t have drivers. What’s going on?

I hurry forward, take Harold’s lead from Nell, and extricate it from the chauffeur’s legs.

“I’m so sorry,” I say breathlessly. “Are your legs all right? My dog’s just quite highly strung. He needs soothing.”

“Soothing!” expostulates the chauffeur. “I’ll soothe him all right!”

I bend down to hug my precious Harold and whisper in his ear how I’ve missed him so much but I have a new friend for him to meet. Then I rise again, turn to Dutch, and say in tremulous tones, “So, meet Harold!”

It takes me a moment to realize that Dutch isn’t even looking at Harold. He’s addressing the chauffeur in irritable tones. I’ve never even heard him sound irritable before.

“Geoff, what are you doing here?”

“They want you at the conference,” says the chauffeur. “And the dinner. Mr. Warwick, Sr., says you know about it. He told me to come and drive you straight to Ascot.”

Dutch closes his eyes as though trying to control himself. “I said I wasn’t doing the conference. I made it quite clear.”

“That’s what he said,” replies Geoff implacably. “They’re expecting you.”

“I need to make a call,” says Dutch to me, jabbing tensely at his phone. “Sorry. This is…This really wasn’t the plan….Dad.” He strides away out of earshot, and I stare after him, nonplussed.

“I thought he was a carpenter,” says Maud, who has been watching, agog, with all the others.

“I thought he was too,” I say confusedly. “I…don’t know. I must have picked up the wrong vibes.”

“So, what does he do?” says Nell.

“What’s his name?” chimes in Sarika.

“Don’t know,” I admit.

“You still don’t know his bloody name?” Nell sounds incredulous. “Ava, what are you like? What’s his name?” she demands of Geoff. “Your boss there. What’s he called?”

“He’s called Mr. Warwick,” says Geoff stiffly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“My friend’s planning to spend the rest of her days with him and have his babies,” retorts Nell. “So it is my business.”

Geoff eyes me with a supremely dubious look but doesn’t reply. I’m not sure what to say, either, so we all stand there waiting for Dutch to return—and when he does, it’s with a thunderous frown on his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says directly to me. “I’m so sorry. I have to go and do a work thing.”

“On a Saturday?” I can’t hide my dismay.

“It’s a weekend conference. It’s…” He exhales. “Sorry. But I’ll be back. As soon as I can. Tomorrow. And we’ll…take it from there.”

He looks so miserable and apologetic, my heart melts. I don’t know what went on during that phone call, but his brow has darkened and I know he doesn’t want to leave.

“Don’t worry!” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Go and do…whatever you have to do. And I’m sorry about Harold,” I add to Geoff, who just sniffs in reply.

“Nice to meet you.” Dutch lifts a hand in greeting to my friends. “And you, Harold. I hope to make better acquaintance with you another time. But I have to go.” Then he turns to me and for a moment we’re both silent, gazing into each other’s faces. “I guess the bubble had to burst sometime,” Dutch says at last.

“I guess so.”

“But this doesn’t change anything. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I swallow hard. “So much.”

“And we’re going to make this work.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, look at them!” I can hear Maud exclaiming to Nell. “They’re adorable!”

Dutch has taken hold of my hands and I’m not sure I can bear to let go—but Geoff is making impatient noises, so at last, feeling noble, I release him and say, “Go. Do your thing.”

I watch as Dutch follows Geoff to a nearby big black corporate-looking car and slides into the back. That is so not the car I was expecting him to have. Nor a driver who opens the door for him. Nor the Financial Times waiting for him on the backseat.

“Wait!” I say, as Geoff is preparing to shut the car door. “What is your thing? What do you do?”

“It’s a family company,” says Dutch, looking even more tense than before. “So…Anyway. That’s it.”

“But you talked about a workshop,” I say in confusion.

“Yes. There’s a workshop in the design studio.”

“But what do you do?” I say in slight frustration. “What does the company do?”

“We make dollhouses.”

“What?” I stare at him, thinking I must have misheard.

“Dollhouses,” he repeats. “And dolls. We’ve been making them forever. People collect them all over the world….It’s a thing.”

He’s in dollhouses? I didn’t see that coming either.

“Right,” I say, trying to think of something to say about dollhouses. “Well…that’s super-cool! I’ll see you soon.”

“Can’t wait. It’s been amazing.” He meets my eyes again. “Truly.”

“I’ll miss you!” I say impulsively.

“Me too.” He nods, then turns away. “OK, Geoff.”

Geoff closes the door and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine fires up and the car is moving away when I realize the most dreadful, horrendous thing. I pelt after the car, Harold barking madly, and bang on the glass till the car comes to a halt and the window winds down again.

“You haven’t got my number!” I blurt out.

“Shit.”

“I know!” We stare at each other, both wide-eyed at the enormity of what nearly just happened—then I whip my phone out. “Type it in here,” I say breathlessly. “Oh, and one last thing. What’s your name? I’m Ava. Who are you?”

“Oh, right.” Light dawns on his face. “I never told you.” He finishes typing in his number, then looks up. “I’m Matt. Short for Matthias.”

“Matt!” I smile, because Matt is a good name, even if it isn’t Jean-Luc. I save his contact under Dutch/Matt, ping him a text, and breath out in relief. “Hi, Matt. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi, Ava.” His eyes crinkle. “Nice to meet you. Good save.”

He closes the window again and I watch the car move off, my mind turning over this new information. Matt. Matthias. Dollhouses. (Dollhouses?) Matt Warwick. Matt. Meet my boyfriend, Matt. Hi, this is Matt. Have you met Matt?

It feels right. It feels familiar. I think I knew he was called Matt all along.

Eight

By the time I’m standing on a street corner the next afternoon, I feel almost limp with the exertion of waiting to see Matt again. My head has ached. I’ve paced around. I’ve checked my phone every five seconds for a text from him. It’s only been twenty-four hours, but I’ve barely survived.

   
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