“Sorry!” I gasp. “Sorry, that’s my dog, and you might want to move your— Quick!”
I make a desperate lunge for the bag, but at the same time Elsa moves defensively toward it, and I don’t know what happens, but there’s a ripping sound, and—
Oh God.
Somehow as I lunged, I caught the book, and now I’ve ripped the jacket. Right down the middle of Genevieve’s face.
“Genevieve!” cries Elsa hysterically, as though I’ve attacked her in person, and whips the book away. “What have you done?”
“I’m so sorry.” I gulp, cold with horror. “I didn’t mean to— Harold, no!”
I snatch up the handbag from the stool before Harold can sink his teeth into it. Elsa gasps in fresh horror, grabs it from me, and clutches both book and bag protectively to her.
For a moment no one speaks. One of Genevieve’s eyes is gazing straight at me, while the other flaps around on the torn bit of paper. And I know this is irrational—but I feel like Genevieve can see me through the book. She knows. She knows.
I glance at Matt, and his lips are compressed. I can’t tell if he’s livid or amused or what.
“Well,” says Elsa at last, gathering herself. “We need to go. I’ll leave this here.” She places the book on a high shelf.
“Lovely to meet you,” I say feebly. “Sorry about…Sorry.”
Elsa and John both give me stiff nods, and Matt ushers them out while I sag in utter dismay. That has to be one of the worst three minutes of my life.
“Nice work,” says Topher’s voice behind me, and I turn to see him regarding me in amusement. He nods at Genevieve’s ripped face. “Destroy the ex. Always a good first move.”
“It was an accident,” I say defensively, and he raises his eyebrows.
“There are no accidents,” he says in mysterious tones. “I like how you and Harold operate as a team, by the way,” he adds more matter-of-factly. “You secure the area; he goes in. Very slick. Good comms.”
I can’t help smiling at the idea of Harold and me having “comms.” But I’m not having Topher start some rumor that I attacked a book deliberately. I love books! I take in rescue books!
“I would never hurt a book,” I say stonily. I glance again at Genevieve’s glossy torn face and wince as though it were a real injury.
“They can do wonders with plastic surgery these days,” says Topher, following my gaze, and I give a half laugh in spite of myself.
“It’s not just the damage to the book. It’s…you know. My first meeting with Matt’s parents and it ends like that. You can have the best intentions, the very best intentions, but…” I heave a hopeless sigh.
“Listen, Ava,” says Topher, his voice more serious, and I look up, hoping for some wise word of advice or kindness. “Here’s the thing.” He pauses, his face creasing up in thought. “Do you count pasta as a vegetable?”
Eleven
Two hours later, I’m in a more positive frame of mind. We’ve had supper (I had pasta and peas, which was fine) and we’ve taken Harold out to a local park for his nighttime walk. Now I’m sitting on the bed, reading the questions which the others have been firing at me on WhatsApp:
How’s it going?????
What’s his place like????
Details please!!!
I consider for a moment, then type:
It’s amazing! He has a great flat. Really cool!
My eyes drift toward the hairless wolf and I shudder. I’ve been thinking about Matt’s weird art and have decided my strategy is this: I just won’t look at it. I can easily learn how to get about this flat with my eyes averted from the hairless wolf and the scary raven and all the rest. Of course I can.
There’s no point mentioning the freaky art on WhatsApp; it’ll only sound negative. So instead I type:
Very industrial. Great flatmates. And I met his parents!!!
At once the replies start buzzing into my phone.
His parents???!!!!
Wow, that’s quick!!!
I glance up to see Matt coming into the bedroom, put my phone away, and smile at him.
“OK?” he says.
“Yes! Great!”
I wait for him to continue the conversation, but he doesn’t, and we lapse into silence.
Something I’ve noticed about Matt is that he’s quite happy with great tranches of silence. I mean, I love silence, too, obviously. Silence is great. It’s peaceful. It’s something we all need in this hectic modern life, silence.
But it’s also quite silent.
To fill the gap, I open up WhatsApp again and read Nell’s latest comment:
What are his parents like?
I quickly reply:
Fab!!!
Then, before I get asked for any more details, I close down WhatsApp and survey Matt again. Words are bubbling in my brain. And one of my theories of life is: It’s unhealthy not to let words out of your brain. Otherwise they curdle. Plus, you know, someone has to speak.
“So, Genevieve, huh?” I say lightly. “What’s the story there?”
“Story?” Matt looks instantly on guard. “There’s no story.”
“Matt, there must be a story,” I say, trying to hide my impatience. “Every couple has a story. You were together—then what happened?”
“Oh, right. Well…OK. Yes. We were together.” Matt pauses as though thinking how best to describe his relationship with Genevieve. Finally he draws breath and concludes, “Then we broke up.”
I feel a tiny flicker of frustration. That’s it?
“There must be more to it than that,” I persist. “Who ended it?”
“I don’t remember,” says Matt, looking hunted. “Really. I suppose it was mutual. It was over two years ago. I’ve had another girlfriend since her; she’s dated some other guy….She just happens to be a Harriet’s House superfan, so she’s still, you know. Around.”
“Right. Got it.” I digest this new information. He broke up with her two years ago. Good. But then he had another girlfriend?
“Just out of interest,” I say casually, “when did you break up with the other girlfriend? The one after Genevieve? In fact, what was her name?”
“Ava…” Matt exhales and comes over to face me. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. What happened to ‘hand luggage only’? What happened to ‘Let’s stay in the bubble’?”
I want to retort, “Genevieve gate-crashed the bloody bubble, that’s what happened!” But instead I smile and say, “Of course. You’re right. Let’s not go there.”
“We’re here,” says Matt, taking my hands and squeezing them. “That’s all that matters.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “We’re with each other. End of story.”
“Don’t worry about Genevieve,” Matt adds for good measure, and instantly I feel a prickle of fresh irritation. Why did he have to say that? The minute you tell someone not to worry, they worry. It’s a law of nature.
“I’m not worried,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I turn away and do an elaborate yoga stretch to demonstrate my lack of concern, and Matt wanders out of the room again. Suddenly I hear a loud yell of shock. Then Matt reappears at the bedroom door, holding a torn mess of blue poplin.
“Ava,” he begins. “I hate to say it, but I think Harold got hold of one of my shirts, and…” He gestures at the shredded shirt and I wince.
“Oh God, sorry. I should have told you: Harold has a real thing about men’s shirts. They have to be kept out of his reach or he worries them to death.”
“Men’s shirts?” Matt looks astounded.
“Yes. He’s very intelligent,” I add, unable to hide my pride. “He can tell the difference between my clothes and a man’s shirt. He thinks he’s protecting me. Don’t you, Harold?” I add lovingly to him. “Are you my chief protector? Are you such a clever boy?”
“But…” Matt frowns, looking confused. “Sorry, I thought it was handbags Harold had a thing against. Now you’re saying it’s shirts?”
“It’s both,” I explain. “It’s different. He’s scared of handbags. He attacks them because of some trauma he experienced involving a handbag when he was a puppy. Whereas with shirts, he’s just asserting himself. He’s roughhousing. He’s like, ‘Take that, shirt! I’m the boss!’ ”
I glance down at Harold, who gives a little approving whine as though to say, “You understand me completely!”
Matt gazes silently at his mangled shirt, then at Harold’s perky face, then finally at me.
“Ava,” he says. “Do you know for a fact Harold experienced a trauma with a handbag when he was a puppy? Or have you invented it to account for his behavior?”
Instantly I feel my hackles rise on Harold’s behalf. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?
“Well, obviously I don’t have detailed notes about the terrible abusive life Harold had before he was rescued,” I say, a little sarcastically. “Obviously I can’t go back in time. But I’m surmising. It’s obvious.”
Harold is looking from me to Matt with a bright, intelligent gaze, and I know he’s following the conversation. After a moment he trots over to Matt and looks up at him with hopeful, apologetic eyes, his tail gently thumping. Matt’s face softens, and after a moment he sighs.
“OK. Whatever. He didn’t mean any harm.”
He reaches down to ruffle Harold’s head and my heart melts all over again. Just when I think things are getting the tiniest bit prickly between Matt and me…something happens to make me remember why we’re meant to be.
I walk over, wrap my arms around him, and draw him into a long, loving kiss. After a few moments he kicks the bedroom door shut. And soon our clothes are all over the floor and I’m remembering exactly why we’re meant to be.