“What is?” Matt doesn’t seem to be following.
“We’re like two different countries,” I explain. “Call them Ava-land and Matt-land. And we need to acclimatize to each other’s cultures. So, for example, in Matt-land it’s perfectly reasonable to keep phone chargers in a tub labeled ‘chocolate rolls.’ Whereas in Ava-land that’s a capital offense. We just have to learn about each other,” I emphasize. “Learn and become accustomed to each other. You see?”
“Hmm.” Matt is silent for a few moments, as though taking this in. “In Matt-land,” he volunteers, “dogs sleep on the floor.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Well…we’ll have to decide how and where we take on each other’s customs. We’ll have…er…negotiations.” I unwrap my towel, hoping to distract him from the subject of dogs. “But meanwhile, let me introduce you to one of my most important customs. In Ava-land, this is what a bath should be like.”
I get into the full bath and sigh with pleasure as my skin responds to the water. It’s hot. It’s restorative. It’s a proper bath.
Matt comes over, and as he feels the temperature of the water, his eyes widen. “Are you for real? That’s not a bath, that’s a cauldron.”
“You can get in if you like.” I grin at him, and after a moment he strips off his T-shirt and boxer shorts. As he gingerly steps into the water, he looks genuinely pained.
“I do not get this,” he says. “I do not get this at all. Ow!” he exclaims as he sits down. “It’s hot.”
“Love me, love my bathwater,” I say teasingly, and tickle his chest with my toes. “You’re in Ava-land now. Enjoy.”
Twelve
It’s nearly three weeks later, and as I shower in Matt’s bathroom, I’m pensive. Not in a bad way. God, no. Of course not. Just in a thoughtful way.
I keep picturing Matt—and it’s almost as if there are two men in my head. There’s Dutch, the man I fell in love with in Italy. Dutch, with his kurta pajamas and smoldering eyes and general air of being some sort of hunky artisan carpenter. Then there’s Matt, who gets up every day and puts on a suit and sells Harriet’s House dolls and comes home and putts golf balls.
And they’re the same exact guy. That’s what’s quite hard to reconcile.
I do still see glimpses of Dutch; he’s still there. We’ve started doing tai chi together most evenings before bed, which was my idea. I told Matt I’d love to learn more about the ancient tradition of martial arts, except I wasn’t going to fight anyone. So tai chi was the perfect solution—and we do it in our kurta pajamas from the monastery. (Also my idea.) We follow this great YouTube video and Harold joins in sometimes—at least, he tries—and it’s such a happy time. We both spend the whole ten-minute routine smiling at each other and laughing when we get it wrong. It’s fun. It relaxes Matt. It gets us in sync with each other. It’s exactly like we should be.
So that’s good. And sex is still great. And the other night, when Matt told me this long story about his friend learning to ski, he was so hilarious I thought I would die laughing. When he loosens up, he’s funny.
But we can’t do tai chi all the time. Nor have sex, nor tell funny stories, nor wander romantically through the streets, hand in hand, as though we don’t have a care in the world. (We’ve done that twice.) The trouble is, there’s life to deal with too. Actual life.
On the plus side, I’m getting more accustomed to Matt-land. I can now approach his ugly building without flinching, which I see as major progress.
However. Being a fair-minded and unbiased person—which I definitely am—I would say that whereas my life is quite straightforward and easy to learn, his is a tortuous maze. Every time you think you’re getting somewhere, you find yourself faced with a socking great hedge, usually in the form of his family business. God, it’s intrusive. How can one international toy company with a presence in more than 143 countries be so intrusive?
OK, maybe that’s not exactly what I mean. What I mean is, why does Matt need to work so hard?
The more I learn about Harriet’s House, the more I lurch between awe at its stature and frustration at the way Matt’s parents run it. They seem to have this pathological need to call Matt every night. They run tiny decisions past him. They make him read all their emails. They make him take people out to lunch. They make him wear stuffy suits, because it’s “tradition.”
They’re very old school, that’s no secret. I’ve explored the Harriet’s House website a bit, and the rule appears to be that every sentence will contain the word “tradition,” except the ones that contain the word “legacy.” There’s also quite a lot about how the Warwick family will never tire in its dedication to Harriet’s House fans all over the world.
I mean, I admire that dedication. I admire Matt’s strong work ethic. I admire his family loyalty. I even admire the new Eco-Warrior Harriet doll, which I saw a sample of the other day. I’m full of admiration!
I suppose what I’m missing is any enthusiasm from Matt. Whenever I try to engage him on the subject of Harriet’s House, he gives me quite short, functional answers. Which I can understand: He’s tired and he’s talked about it all day at work. But still. It’s his body language too. It’s the whole picture. Let’s say I have mixed vibes.
So that’s one challenge. Another is the amount of time Matt spends putting on his golf machine. (Quite a lot.) A third is the way that he’s showing no interest in turning vegetarian, despite all my education and encouragement. Quite often, when I ask, “What did you have for lunch?” hoping he might say, “Tofu—and it was delicious!” he answers, “A burger,” as though it’s obvious.
Also—and this is more recent—he’s been a bit moody. But when I’ve asked him what’s wrong, he won’t answer. He goes silent. He almost turns into a rock.
By contrast, I am never a rock. My work is not intrusive. Nor do I have weird art, nor a flat kept at an antisocial temperature. (I know he keeps turning the thermostat down when he thinks I won’t notice.)
I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect or anything. I’m sure he finds Ava-land difficult sometimes. Like…Matt’s quite tidy. This is really coming home to me. He’s quite tidy and I’m quite untidy. So there’s been the odd tiny tension between us when I’ve buried his phone under a pile of my batik work, for example.
(I’ve just taken up batik. It’s amazing! I’m going to make batik cushions and sell them on Etsy.)
But honestly, after scrupulously racking my brain, this is all I can think of. There’s nothing else negative to say about my life. I have a wonderful life! I live in a gorgeous, welcoming, warm flat. I make food with imaginative ingredients like harissa and okra. And when Matt comes round, I’m never making work calls or hitting golf balls. I’m chatty. I’m engaged. The other evening, I decided to make him a bespoke aromatherapy oil. I got him to smell lots of different essences and wrote down his responses, and I told him what each oil was for, which he had no idea about. We had music playing and scented candles, and Harold sang along with the music, and it was just…mellow. It was lovely.
By contrast, last night Matt was on the phone till late. I still haven’t got used to his stupid hard rustly bed, so I hardly slept a wink. And then he had an early kickboxing session, so he rushed off at 6:30 A.M. It’s uncivilized. Nothing in life should involve rushing off somewhere at 6:30 A.M.
As I finish my shower and get dressed, something else is bugging me, which is Genevieve. I can’t stop googling her, which I know is a mistake, but she’s so googlable. She’s always doing something adorable on Instagram or announcing some new piece of Harriet’s House merchandise on her YouTube channel. Plus I’ve heard Matt mentioning her on the phone to his parents. He was saying, quite forcefully, “Dad, you need to listen to Genevieve. She gets it.” Which kind of made me blink.
I was going to ask him about it afterward. I was going to say, “What’s Genevieve so wise about?” with a careless little laugh. But then I decided that I would sound paranoid. (Even with the careless little laugh.) So I left it.
But then yesterday I came across an old video of Genevieve and Matt presenting together at a toy conference, three years ago. And it made me feel just a bit prickly, because they had such amazing chemistry. They were relaxed and confident with each other and they finished each other’s sentences and Genevieve kept patting Matt’s knee. They looked like some sort of incredible über-couple with a sexy spark between them.
I watched it twice, then I turned it off and gave myself a talking to. I reminded myself that their relationship is over. What does some old spark matter when the flame is extinguished?
But then I remembered those hideous raging forest fires that start because someone thought the campfire was extinguished and walked away without paying attention…but it wasn’t! The spark was still alive!
And that niggling worry hasn’t really left me. Only I can’t say any of this to Matt, obviously. If I’m going to bring up the subject at all, I need to be subtle.
Maybe I’ll be subtle right now.
“Matt,” I say as he wanders into the bedroom, still in his exercise clothes. “I’d like to talk.”
“Right. OK.” He starts the calf-stretching exercise he does every morning. “What’s up?”
“OK,” I begin. “So, we’ve decided not to discuss romantic baggage, and I think that was the right decision. I mean, God, Matt, I have no desire to know about your ex-girlfriends. None.” I fling out a hand, just to demonstrate how little I want to know about them. “It’s the last thing I want to think about, believe me!”
“Right,” says Matt again, looking confused. “Well, let’s not talk about them, then. Sorted.”