“Oh.” Matt swigs his beer. “Would that matter?”
I stare at him in shock. Would that matter? For the first time ever, I feel a tiny tension between us—because what kind of person doesn’t care about the plight of books?
But, then, we can have our little differences, I remind myself. It’s not a big deal.
“Sit down. Let’s have some music.” Smiling at Matt, I find my favorite playlist on my phone and hook it up to my Buddha speakers. I sit next to Matt on the sofa and sip my drink contentedly as the music fills the room. Then I blink. Did Matt just wince?
No. He couldn’t have winced. No one winces at music. Especially music as relaxing as this.
“What is this?” he says after a pause.
“It’s called Mexican spirit power music,” I explain eagerly. “They use special pipes and flutes. It’s guaranteed to calm you.”
“Huh,” says Matt after another pause.
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask conversationally.
“Oh, all sorts.”
“Me too!” I say quickly. He might prefer chimes, I’m thinking. Or the harp. I’m already summoning up my Spotify playlists when he adds, “I guess mostly Japanese punk.”
I stare at him, a bit dumbfounded. Japanese punk?
“Right,” I say, after a long silence. “Awesome. Er…” I glance down at my phone. “I’m not sure I’ve got that much Japanese punk…”
The closest I have probably is “Cardio Energizing Music,” and I’m not sure that’s very close at all.
“This is fine.” He smiles and swigs his beer, then surveys a nearby poster, which I bought from a gallery. Its frame is covered in silk petals and it’s gorgeous.
“ ‘You can cut all the flowers, but you can’t stop spring from coming,’ ” he reads aloud.
“I love that, don’t you?” I say. “Isn’t it inspiring?”
Matt looks at the poster again with a puzzled frown. “Well, actually, you would,” he says.
“What?”
“You would stop spring from coming. Surely. If you cut every single flower before it had a chance to set seed. And what about pollination? If you cut every flower literally at the moment it bloomed, bees would die out. Cut all the flowers, what do you have? Dead bees.”
Dead bees? He looks at a lovely inspirational quote about flowers and sees dead bees?
“Although I suppose it depends what you’re defining as ‘spring,’ ” he continues thoughtfully. “Cutting all the flowers wouldn’t affect the earth’s rotation; it’s more of a biodiversity issue.”
I’m feeling a weird emotion rising inside me. Is it…annoyance? No. It can’t be annoyance. Of course it’s not. This is Dutch. This is Matt. This is my love.
“I don’t think it’s supposed to be literally about flowers,” I say, making sure to smile.
“OK.” He gives an easy shrug, and my heart melts again, because he’s not trying to score points, is he? He’s just a logical person. Super-logical. (Possibly over-logical.)
“Come here,” I say, and pull him in for a kiss, and as soon as I do, I forget I ever felt even a smidgen of annoyance with him. Because, oh God, I love this man. I want to kiss him forever. I want to be with him forever.
At last, reluctantly, I pull away and say, “I’d better check on the food.”
“Cool.” He touches my cheek softly, then says, “Where’s the bathroom?”
As Matt disappears into the loo, I take the opportunity to whip out my phone, because I’ve promised to let the squad know how it’s going, and frankly, I’m looking forward to telling them it’s all going brilliantly.
They’ve all been so cynical. So negative. Especially Nell, who keeps saying, “But you don’t know him.” Even Maud, who is generally a very positive person, said, “Ava, you need to stop using the word ‘love.’ You don’t love this man. You don’t know enough about him to love him.” And Sarika predicted he would ghost me.
Ghost me? I was so insulted. Ghost me? This is Dutch. I mean, this is Matt. He would never ghost anyone!
Sure enough, as I open up our WhatsApp chat, it’s full of messages:
So? Ava?
Come on, spill!
Are you married yet???
Firmly I type:
All wonderful!! A-plus date!!! We’re 100% compatible!!
Which is true. We are. Apart from a couple of minute details like the Japanese punk. But that makes us 99.9 percent compatible, and I’m rounding up.
In the kitchen, my tagine is bubbling away nicely, and as I lift the lid, it fills the air with delicious, spicy fumes.
“Wow,” says Matt appreciatively as he enters. “Looks fantastic.”
“Thanks!” I beam at him.
“Your back doorframe has gone soft,” he adds, prodding it. “Dry rot, maybe. And the glass doesn’t look too secure. Did you know?”
“Oh, it’s been like that forever.” I smile at him. “It’s fine.”
“Isn’t that a security risk?” he says, undeterred. “You should get someone to look at that. Or replace it with double glazing.”
Double glazing? Replace my quirky original door with double glazing?
“Don’t worry.” I laugh. “We’re really safe here.” I stir my tagine a few times, then add, “Could you pass the harissa?”
“Harissa?” Matt’s brow crinkles as though he doesn’t understand the question.
“Harissa paste,” I elaborate.
Maybe he uses some different word for it. An authentic Lebanese word. Although, wait, isn’t “harissa” Lebanese?
“Harissa paste?” repeats Matt blankly, and I swivel round, feeling equally baffled.
“Harissa,” I say, reaching for the little jar. “Spice paste. Ottolenghi.”
“What’s Ottolenghi?” replies Matt with interest, and I nearly drop my spoon on the floor. What’s Ottolenghi? I peer at him to see if he’s joking, but I don’t think he is.
“He’s a cook,” I say faintly. “He’s quite famous. Really famous. Like, incredibly, incredibly famous.”
I’m waiting for the light to dawn in Matt’s eyes. For him to exclaim, “Oh, Ottolenghi.” But he doesn’t.
“Huh.” He nods, watching as I stir in the harissa. “So…what’s in the stew?”
“Um…um…” I try to get past the fact he’s never heard of Ottolenghi and focus on my dish. “Adzuki beans, onions, sweet potatoes…”
“Cool.” Matt nods again, then adds, “What meat?”
“Meat?” I swivel on my heel and stare at him, baffled. He’s not joking. Oh my God. My stomach has plunged to my heels, because how can he…Meat?
“Is it chicken?” says Matt, peering at the tagine.
“I’m vegetarian!” I say, more shrilly than I intended. “I thought you realized! I thought…” I swallow. “I thought you were vegetarian.”
“Me?” He seems astounded. “Vegetarian?”
“The monastery was vegetarian,” I point out, trying to contain my agitation. “I’ve only ever seen you eat vegetarian food.”
“I know, right?” He grimaces. “I was, like, it’s only a week. I’ll survive. But I tell you, last night I fell on a burger.”
For a moment I can’t quite answer.
“Right,” I say at last. “Right. Well. I’m a vegetarian. So. That’s…So.”
I’m stirring my tagine in agitation, my face hot. How can he not be vegetarian? I almost feel like he fooled me. He deceived me.
It’s not the end of the world, I tell myself desperately. It’s just…Oh God. It was all so perfect.
“But you have a bone simmering on your hob,” says Matt, gesturing at the stove with a baffled look. “How is that vegetarian?”
I focus on the stove anew. Oh, right. That’s why he got confused. Actually, that’s quite funny. I’m so used to Harold’s food by now, I almost blank it out.
“It’s for Harold,” I explain. “He follows a special canine organic diet. I know some dogs are vegetarian, but I went to a consultant and Harold has quite specific dietary needs.”
I wait for Matt to ask about Harold’s specific dietary needs, but instead he’s peering with interest at the pan.
“What’s that, beef?”
“It’s a lamb bone,” I explain. “I’m going to use the broth to make up his week’s food.”
“Wow.” Matt seems fixated by the bubbling meaty liquid. “It looks good. Really good. Could I taste it?”
Out of nowhere, I feel a sudden flare of indignation, and before I can stop myself, I snap, “Are you saying the dog’s food looks better than what I’ve cooked for you?”
Belatedly, I add a little laugh—but Matt’s head has already risen.
“God! What? Of course not. No!” His eyes scan my face warily as he seems to realize his error. “This looks amazing,” he emphasizes, gesturing at the tagine. “I was just…No. Anyway. Can I help lay the table?” he adds, hastily moving the subject on.
I show Matt where the cutlery lives, and as he’s gathering knives and forks, I take a few deep breaths. Then I ask, in the most super-casual tones I can muster, “So, Matt…do you think you could ever be vegetarian?”
My stomach is clenched as I wait for him to answer. I mean, this isn’t a deal-breaker or anything like that. God, no. I don’t even believe in deal-breakers, so how could it be?
But on the other hand…I’m interested in his answer. Put it like that. I’m simply interested.
“Me?” His eyes have widened. “No. I don’t think— I know we should all eat less meat, but give it up completely?” He catches my expression. “But…whatever,” he backtracks. “Maybe. Never say never.”