“Impossible. You can’t have a hand-luggage-only relationship in your thirties. You can only have a six-extra-heavy-cases-and-fines-on-all-of-them relationship.”
“Well, that’s your opinion,” I say, feeling ruffled.
“It’s everyone’s opinion,” he asserts. “Nihal, have you finished the Shreddies, because if so, you are getting ten bastard strikes, you utter bastard.”
God, he’s exhausting. He’s relentless. How does Matt live with him?
* * *
—
As I head back to the bedroom, Topher’s words about ripping the book are still in my mind. I glance over at the bookcase and wince as I see the damaged Harriet’s House book. You can’t see the rip, but I know it’s there and I can still remember Elsa’s anguished cry.
How am I going to make up for my crap start with Matt’s parents? Whenever I’ve brought up the subject with Matt, he’s said vaguely, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, they’ll have forgotten it.” But I’m more inclined to believe Topher. Elsa doesn’t look like a woman who forgets anything. She’s probably sticking pins into an Ava dolly right now.
I decide to calm my nerves by watching a YouTube eye-shadow tutorial. By the time I’ve finished that, and three different attempts at contouring (disastrous), and done my hair, it’s almost time to leave for the picnic, and my spirits have risen. As I glance out of the window, I see that the sun is shining, and I feel even more cheered.
Never mind about baggage. Never mind about Genevieve or Sarah or whatever that other one was called. I’m going to focus on the now. On us.
“Where’s Matt, Harold?” I say, and Harold appears from under the bed, with what looks like a sausage roll in his mouth. Shit. Where did he get that?
Actually, I don’t want to know.
“Eat up!” I instruct him, sotto voce. “Get rid of the evidence! Matt, are you ready?” I call in a louder voice.
I grab my bag and head out to the main living space. There I find Matt staring intently at a screen on Topher’s workstation.
“Forty-two percent,” Matt’s saying. “Shit. Unbelievable.”
“I called it,” says Topher calmly, taking a swig of Coke. “Called it all along.”
“Nihal, forty-two percent!” Matt calls across the room.
“Wow,” says Nihal, looking up politely from where he’s tinkering with the snack robot. “What?”
“New poll on voting intentions,” says Matt, still gazing at the screen over Topher’s shoulder.
Matt adores talking to Topher about his work. In fact, this scenario is a pretty common one in Matt-land: Matt and Topher huddled together in front of the screens, talking about percentage points as avidly as though they’re discussing the Kardashians, while Nihal quietly works on his robot. I’ve learned that it’s Nihal who bought and customized the snack robots, but now he’s gone more ambitious and is making one from scratch.
“How’s it going?” I say politely as I catch Nihal’s eye.
“Oh, really well,” says Nihal, brightening at my interest. “It’s going to have a moving arm. Full rotation.”
“Great!” I say encouragingly. “What will it do?”
“What would you like it to do?” answers Nihal, perking up. “If you were buying a robot, Ava, what functionality would you look for?”
I can’t tell him the truth—that I wouldn’t buy a robot in a million years—so I say vaguely, “Not sure! But I’ll think about it.”
I find the robot thing a bit alien, to be honest. It’s a bit like having a pet. But if you want a pet, have a dog. A dog.
“They can’t maintain this lead,” Matt is saying, now peering intently at a pie chart. “What are the other polls saying?”
“Other polls?” Topher sounds highly offended. “Fuck off. Other polls? Only our poll counts.” He consults his phone. “See? The Times have already run it.”
Topher’s company is always being quoted in the papers. He’s actually quite a big shot, I’ve learned. He has a big team and lots of influence with important people. Although you wouldn’t know it from looking at him in his ratty T-shirt.
“Have you ever thought of going into politics, Topher?” I ask, because it’s something I wondered the other day. “You seem so interested in it.”
Immediately Matt bursts into laughter, and I can hear Nihal snuffle with mirth too.
“Topher stood for parliament in the last election,” Matt tells me. “As an independent candidate.” He summons up an image on his phone and snorts again. “Here he is.”
He passes me the phone and I find myself looking at an election poster. It consists of a photo of Topher (quite unflattering), glowering as though he’s exasperated with everyone. Underneath him is the slogan: For a better, sexier Britain.
I can’t help giggling.
“For a better, sexier Britain?” I turn to Topher. “That was your campaign slogan?”
“Who doesn’t want things to be better and sexier?” retorts Topher defensively. “Name one person.”
“How many votes did you get?” I ask, at which Topher scowls without replying, turns away, and starts typing furiously.
“Shh! Don’t mention the votes,” says Matt in a fake whisper, drawing his finger across his neck and wincing comically at me.
“Sorry! Well, er…what were your policies?”
“They were many and complex,” says Topher without breaking off from typing. “I took inspiration from a number of political ideologies across the spectrum.”
“Some of them were quite challenging,” says Matt, winking at me.
“They required vision,” replies Topher stonily. “The electorate wasn’t ready for them.”
“Well, better luck next time,” I say diplomatically. “Stupid voters. Matt, we really need to go. Harold, come on!”
Matt grabs his jacket and says, “See you,” to Topher and Nihal—and we’re just walking out when Nihal suddenly calls out, “Hey, guys! The counter!”
As though responding to some sort of code-red military command, Matt instantly pivots back to Topher’s workstation.
“Loading,” says Topher urgently. “Come on, you bastard…there.”
There’s silence as he and Matt stare at the screen, while Nihal gazes at his phone, gripped. I’m not watching. I refuse to. This is the stupidest fixation I have ever known. All of them are obsessed by the number of Internet users in the world. There’s a live Internet counter that you can watch. Every so often it reaches some key number and they all stand breathlessly watching the numerals turning over.
I was there when the count reached 4.684 billion and had the whole thing explained to me. I stood there, absolutely baffled, while we watched the counter go from 4,683,999,999 to 4,684,000,000. All three guys high-fived. Nihal actually cheered.
And now they’re avidly watching again. The number of Internet users in the world. I mean, why? It’s so weird. It’s so random.
“Yes!” erupts Topher as the number rounds up to a row of zeroes. He high-fives Matt, then Nihal, who is already posting on Instagram a photo he took of the screen.
“Yay!” I say politely. “Super-fun. OK, can we go now?”
“Sure,” says Matt. Then he seems to notice me for the first time. “Wow, Ava, you look great!”
“Thanks,” I say, blossoming as he runs his eyes over me. “You do too.”
Unlike any other man I’ve dated, Matt has this way of looking at me that says he’s actually noticed me—he’s not just going through the motions. He focuses. He sends me little messages with his eyes, and I send my own back. It’s like a delicious, silent conversation.
And as I lose myself in his affectionate, steady gaze, I feel ridiculous. All my concerns about Genevieve seem to fall away. Those worries are in my head, I remind myself, whereas this man is here. With me. And that’s what counts.
Thirteen
We’re meeting for the picnic at Maud’s local park, and when we’re a few streets away, I take the opportunity to prime Matt on my friends.
“You’ll get used to Maud,” I say encouragingly. “The important thing to remember is, don’t say yes to her.”
“ ‘Don’t say yes’?” Matt frowns, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“She’ll ask you for favors,” I explain. “She’ll be really charming. And you’ll want to say yes to everything, but you have to say no. Got it? Say no. Otherwise, you’ll turn into her slave.”
“Right.” Matt seems somewhat alarmed by the prospect of Maud, so I hastily move on.
“Nell can be a bit…She’s a character. She has views. And Sarika’s quite perfectionist. But I love them all, and you have to as well. They’re part of the deal.”
“Don’t worry, that’s pretty obvious,” says Matt with a wry expression, and I peer at him, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you WhatsApp your friends all day and all night, Ava.” He raises his eyebrows. “No one could miss the fact that they’re part of the deal.”
We walk on in silence as I digest his comment. It seems a little exaggerated to me. All day and all night? Really?
“Do you have a problem with me WhatsApping my friends?” I say at last.
I don’t want to have a disagreement. But on the other hand, this is something we need to be clear on, preferably before we arrive at the picnic. Because my friends are my friends, and if you love me, you love them.
“Of course not,” says Matt, and there’s a slightly prickly silence. “But…” he adds, and I inhale sharply. I knew there was a “but,” I knew it.
“Yes?” I say shortly, ready to launch into a six-page speech about my friends and our bond and our support and how I thought he valued friendship. My friends are my tiger cubs and I’m ready to lash out with a gigantic roar if he so much as—