I feel a bit stunned by this realization. How has this not come up? I asked if he had any children and he answered “no.” But that’s a different question. Maybe he doesn’t have any because he’s taken a vow not to overpopulate the world. Or he’s infertile. (If so, would he adopt or foster? Because I would be so up for that.)
I need to find this out right now. He’s nearby, reading something on his phone, and I grab him by the arm.
“Matt!” I drag him out of the main living space into the scary atrium and lower my voice to a hiss. “Listen! I have something really urgent to ask you.”
“Oh.” He looks concerned. “What?”
“Do you want children?”
Matt gapes at me. “Do I what?”
“Children! D’you want to have them?”
“Children?” Matt seems staggered. He glances toward the living space as though afraid of being overheard and takes a few steps away. “Are we doing this now?” he whispers. “It’s hardly the time—”
“It is the time!” I contradict him a little wildly. “It’s exactly the time! Because I might be about to meet the grandparents of my future babies!” I gesticulate at the front door. “Grandparents! That’s a big deal, Matt!”
Matt looks utterly baffled. Doesn’t he follow my logic? I’ve been perfectly clear.
“And if you don’t want children—” I stop dead mid-sentence, because I’m drawn up short by the enormity of a dilemma which is presenting itself, right here, right now.
I love Matt. I love him. As I gaze at his perplexed face, I feel an overwhelming rush of affection for him. If he doesn’t want children, even adoptive or foster ones, then he’ll have his reasons. Which I will respect. And we’ll carve out a different sort of life. Perhaps we’ll travel…or we’ll open a donkey sanctuary and the donkeys will be our children….
“I do want children.” Matt’s voice punctures my thoughts. “In the future. You know.” He shrugs, looking awkward. “In theory.”
“Oh!” I sag in relief. “Oh, you do! Well, so do I. One day,” I hastily clarify. “Way in the future. Not now.” I laugh to show what a ridiculous notion this is, even as my brain is conjuring up an image of Matt holding twin babies, one in the crook of each manly arm.
Maybe I won’t share that thought with him just now.
“OK.” Matt is scanning my face warily. “So, is this conversation done?”
I smile happily up at him. “Yes! I just think it’s good to get things straight, don’t you?”
Matt doesn’t reply. I’ll take that as a yes. Then a distant ping sounds and I stiffen. It’s the lift arriving! It’s them!
“What are your parents like?” I blurt out to Matt. “You’ve hardly told me anything! Fill me in, quickly.”
“My parents?” He looks flummoxed. “They’re…You’ll see.”
You’ll see? That’s no help.
“Should we cook something?”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “They’re just dropping something off on the way to the theater.” He hesitates. “In fact, if you didn’t want to meet them, you could stay in the bedroom.”
“You mean hide?” I stare at him.
“Just if you want to.”
“Of course I don’t want to!” I say, bewildered. “I can’t wait to meet them!”
“Well, they’re only staying for a moment—oh, here they are,” he adds as a chiming bell sounds.
He heads to the front door of the apartment while my mind whirs. It’s the first five seconds that count. I need to make a good impression. I’ll compliment his mother’s bag. No, her shoes. No, her bag.
The door swings open to reveal a man and woman, both in smart coats, both very tall. (Matt wasn’t wrong.) As I watch them hug Matt, my brain furiously processes details. His dad is handsome. His mum is quite reserved; look at the way she hugs him lightly with gloved hands. Expensive shoes. Nice maroon leather bag. And blond highlighted hair. Should I compliment that instead? No, too personal.
At last Matt turns and beckons me over.
“Mum, Dad, I’d like you to meet Ava. Ava, these are my parents, John and Elsa.”
“Hello!” I say in an emotional rush. “I love your bag and your shoes!”
Wait. That came out wrong. You don’t say both. You pick one.
Elsa looks disconcerted and glances at her shoes.
“I mean…your bag,” I hastily amend. “That’s a great bag. Look at the clasp!”
Elsa glances blankly at the clasp of her bag, then turns to Matt and says, “Who is this?”
“Ava,” says Matt, with tension in his voice. “I just told you. Ava.”
“Ava.” Elsa holds out a hand and I shake it, and after a moment, John does the same.
I’m waiting for Elsa to say, “How did you two lovebirds meet?” or even, “Well, aren’t you adorable?” which is how Russell’s mother first greeted me. (Russell’s mum was a lot nicer than Russell, it turned out.)
But instead, Elsa eyes me in silence, then turns to Matt and says, “Genevieve sends her love.”
I feel a tiny jolt of shock, which I conceal with a wide smile. Genevieve sent her love?
I mean, Genevieve’s allowed to send her love. Of course she is. But, you know. How come?
“Right.” Matt sounds strangled.
“We met for lunch,” adds his mother, and I force my smile even wider. It’s good that they had lunch. I’m super-relaxed about it. Everyone should be friends.
“Great!” I exclaim, just to prove I’m not threatened, and Elsa shoots me a strange look.
“We had a lot to discuss,” she continues to Matt, “but first, let me show you this.”
She pulls a shiny new hardback book out of her bag. It has a photo of a dollhouse on the front and the title Harriet’s House and Me: A Personal Journey. At once I spot a chance to be supportive of the family business.
“Wow!” I exclaim. “I used to love Harriet’s House!”
Elsa eyes me with a flicker of interest. “Did you have a Harriet’s House?”
“Well…no,” I admit. “But some of my friends did.”
The interest in Elsa’s face instantly dies away and she turns back to Matt.
“This is straight from the printer’s.” She taps the shiny cover. “We wanted you to see it, Matthias.”
“We’re very pleased with it,” puts in John. “We’re already in talks with Harrods about an exclusive edition.”
“Right.” Matt takes the book. “It’s come out well.”
“I’d love to read that,” I say with enthusiasm. “I bet it’s really interesting. Who wrote it?”
“Genevieve,” says Elsa blankly, as though it’s obvious.
Genevieve?
Matt turns the book over, and a stunning woman of about thirty stares out of the back cover. She has long blond hair, a delightful sparkle in her blue eyes, and beautiful, elegant hands, which she’s resting her chin on.
I gulp inwardly. That’s Genevieve? Then I realize that I’ve seen her before, in a photo on the Harriet’s House website, though I didn’t clock her name. I remember thinking at the time, She’s pretty.
“Wow!” I try to sound light and careless. “That’s great. So Genevieve works for you?”
“Genevieve is an ambassador for Harriet’s House,” says John gravely.
“Ambassador?” I echo.
“She’s a superfan,” Matt mutters to me. “She still collects. That’s how we met, at a Harriet’s House convention. It’s pretty much, you know, her life.”
“The work she does for us is wonderful. Simply wonderful.” Elsa makes it sound as though Genevieve is a NATO peacekeeper.
“Matthias, I think you should call Genevieve and congratulate her,” says Matt’s father heavily. “She is such an asset to us.”
Matt doesn’t react for a moment. Then, without looking up, he says, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
His father’s face tightens, and he glances at me. “Could you give us a moment, Eva?”
“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Right. Of course.”
“Ava,” Matt corrects his dad, looking pissed off. “It’s Ava.”
I retreat into the main space of the flat and the door closes firmly. A muffled conversation begins, and I turn away, telling myself not to eavesdrop. Although I can’t help hearing Elsa saying, “Matthias, I hardly think…”
What does she hardly think?
Anyway. None of my business.
After a minute or two, the door opens again and the three of them enter. Elsa is holding the book so that Genevieve’s face shines out at us, even more luminous and beautiful than before. Matt looks stressed out and doesn’t meet my eye.
“Good evening!” comes Topher’s voice from the doorway to the kitchen, and he lifts a hand in greeting.
“Evening, Topher,” says John, hailing him back.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
“No, they’re not,” says Matt before his father can reply. “In fact, shouldn’t you go? Won’t you miss your show?”
“There’s plenty of time,” says Elsa. She deposits her bag on a nearby low stool and starts flipping through the book. “There was a particular photograph I wanted to show you,” she adds to Matt. “It’s a lovely one of Genevieve as a child.”
She continues flipping backward and forward and is just saying, “Ah, here we are,” when I hear a vigorous scrabbling sound. I turn to see Harold rushing across the floor in our direction and have an instant, horrifying realization. He’s going to grab her bag.
Harold has a thing about handbags. He hates them. It’s not his fault—I think he had some sort of traumatic handbag encounter as a puppy and sees them as the enemy. I have about three seconds to react before he grabs Elsa’s bag and mangles it.