Well, OK, maybe just a couple of tiny things. Teeny glitches. Sleep is the thing, really. I need sleep. I neeeed sleeeep. I’m actually rethinking the whole children thing. How do people have babies and get no sleep and not actually die?
I’m becoming almost phobic about Matt’s bed. I swear it gets harder and more plank-like every time we sleep there. I lie, staring at the ceiling, listening as he falls asleep, and then I doze a bit, but then I wake up in 3 A.M. misery. Even Harold can’t make me feel cozy in that bed.
Partly because he’s started sleeping on Matt’s feet whenever we stay there.
Which is…You know. It’s lovely. Obviously.
I’ll admit I was a bit surprised that first time I woke up and Harold was on the other side of the bed, snuggled up to Matt instead of me. But I absolutely don’t feel rejected or anything. My darling Harold can sleep where he likes.
However, it doesn’t help my sleep deprivation. At the moment we’re alternating nights at each other’s flats, and every so often we spend the night apart. Yesterday I tried to suggest to Matt that we sleep over at my place all the time. I didn’t mean he should move in, not exactly, I just meant…Anyway. Didn’t work. Matt looked a bit appalled and said he thought the arrangement worked well at the moment.
So the sleep is a problem. And I suppose there are a couple of other issues which have popped up. Tiny little annoyances which I never predicted. Like, Matt can’t relax in my flat. He keeps going around finding fault with it. Looking at things I never notice. The wiring is dodgy. (He says.) One of the radiators needs sorting by a plumber. (He says.)
And his obsession with security is driving me nuts. He still keeps going on about my lovely picturesque back door onto the fire escape, just because the wooden frame has gone a bit soft. He says it’s an invitation for thieves. Last time he came round, he actually started quoting crime statistics for the area. He wants me to either replace the door or buy six billion chains and padlocks, which would totally ruin the look.
I actually got a bit impatient with him. I said, “Look, Matt, you don’t get it. The whole point of that door is, you can go out whenever. You can sit on the fire escape and watch the sun set and play the saxophone and not have to unlock twelve padlocks first.”
Whereupon he asked if I play the saxophone, which is not the point. Obviously, I don’t play the saxophone; it was just an example.
Anyway. Then we went shopping together, and that didn’t go brilliantly. I thought it would be no big deal. Pop to the supermarket together! Stock up! Easy-peasy! I’ve seen other couples shopping in the supermarket. They calmly put things in the trolley. They chat unconcernedly. They say things like, “Shall I get the eggs?”
They don’t peer at each other’s items in disbelief as though they’re watching a Channel 5 show called Britain’s Weirdest Trolley Choices.
If there was a Venn diagram of my shopping tastes and Matt’s shopping tastes, I think we would overlap at recycled loo paper and ice cream. That’s it.
I mean, he buys crap. He just does. Terrible processed breakfast cereal. Nonorganic apples. Juice boxes. (Juice boxes.) I had to take everything out and replace it. And I was thinking, It’s so tragic that he just doesn’t care what he puts in his body…when suddenly he woke up in the wine section. I had put my usual bottle of white wine in the trolley. The one with the lady on the front (I can’t remember what it’s called). At which Matt blanched.
“No,” he said, taking it out. “No. Just no.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I said, affronted.
“Don’t skimp on wine. It’s better to have no wine than shit.”
“I’m not skimping!” I retorted. “That’s a nice wine!”
“Nice wine?” He looked scandalized. “Nice wine?”
Anyway. We had a bit of a discussion-slash-heated argument. It turned out that we disagreed on what was a “nice wine.” And on what count as “essentials.” And on the principles of nutrition. At which point it turned out that Matt had never even heard of kefir. Who hasn’t heard of kefir?
Then we passed the meat counter, and I’ll draw a mental veil over what happened there. It was too distressing. And that butcher did not have to fall about laughing; it wasn’t funny.
I mean, it was fine. We got the shopping home. We cooked supper. But it wasn’t…I guess it wasn’t what I imagined when I sat eyeing up Dutch in Italy. I was in a blissful rosy glow. I saw us kissing romantically in the sunset. I didn’t see us standing in a supermarket, bickering about organic yogurt.
But, then, I guess all couples bicker about something, don’t they, I tell myself firmly, trying to stop my torrent of thoughts. It’s only teething troubles. We’re still finding our way.
And there have been lots of precious, tender times too. Matt bringing home peach juice the other evening, so we could make Bellinis, like we had in Italy. That was magical. Or the way he did tai chi with Harold on his shoulders yesterday morning, just to make me laugh. Or the way that, when Nihal was gloomy about work the other day, Matt said, “Ava’ll cheer you up, she’s better than champagne,” so affectionately it made me blink.
At the memory, I glance fondly at him, and Matt winks back, then turns his attention to the road again. I love how he’s a responsible driver, not like Russell, who sometimes actually scared me, he was so erratic.
And that’s why we’re compatible, I tell myself firmly again. Because we have shared values. We care about each other’s safety. He drives carefully, and I give him turmeric supplements every day. (He was skeptical, but I won him round.)
So it’s all good. We’re here in the beautiful Berkshire countryside. I love Matt and he loves me and that’s all we need. Love.
At a mini roundabout I see a poster for a new Apple Mac and peer at it with interest.
“Should I upgrade my computer?” I muse thoughtfully. “God, these trees are beautiful,” I add, as we approach a forested area. “What trees are these?” As Matt draws breath to answer, I notice one of my nails is broken. “Shit!” I exclaim. “My nail. Oh, that reminds me, what did you think of my idea earlier?”
“Idea?” Matt seems startled.
“You know!” I say, a little impatiently. “My business idea. Pitching for beauty work.”
“Ava…” Matt pulls the car into a service station and looks at me. “I honestly can’t follow. Are we talking about your computer or the trees or your nail or a new business idea?”
“All of them, of course,” I say in surprise.
Honestly, what’s the problem? It’s not like I’m unclear or anything.
“Right,” says Matt, looking beleaguered. “All of them. Got it.” He rubs his face, then says, “I need to get fuel.”
“Wait.” I draw him in for a hug, closing my eyes, burying my face into his neck and feeling myself relax. There. There. Sometimes I just need the smell of him. The touch of him. His strong chest and his heartbeat and his hand stroking my back. Everything I fell in love with in Italy. We pull apart and Matt gazes at me silently for a few moments, while I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m hoping it’s something really romantic, but at last he draws breath and says, “You can still go to the pub, you know.”
Matt’s running riff these last few days has been that I’m going to change my mind and duck out of the visit. He’s even identified a nearby pub that I can sit in all afternoon; it has Wi-Fi and a TV room. He pretends he’s joking, but I think he’s half serious. As if I’m going to come all this way and not meet his parents.
“No chance!” I say firmly. “I’m doing this. And I can’t wait!”
* * *
—
OK. Wow. The house is big. Like, big.
And ugly. Not like Matt’s flat is ugly, a different kind of ugly. As I peer through the humongous wrought-iron gates, I make out turrets and gables and strange brickwork surrounding rows of forbidding windows. It all adds up to a house of giant impressiveness which could equally well be a Victorian school of punishment for delinquents.
“Sorry,” says Matt, as the gates slowly edge open. “They take ages.”
“It’s fine,” I say, shrinking back in my seat. I suddenly, ridiculously, want to run away. Nothing about this house looks friendly. But instead I jut out my jaw and say determinedly, “Amazing house!”
“Well,” says Matt, as though he’s never given the house any thought. “It has offices too,” he adds after a pause. “So.”
“Right.” I nod.
Matt parks the car tidily at the back of the house, next to a Mercedes, and we crunch over the gravel to a kitchen door. I’m half expecting some ancient retainer to appear and exclaim, “Master Matt!” But instead, Matt leads me through a vast, tidy kitchen, where I leave the cake box on a counter, and into a massive hall. It has a tiled floor and a stained-glass dome above us and is filled with shiny glass display cases.
“Wow!” I exclaim. “This looks like—” I stop, because I don’t want to sound rude.
“A museum,” Matt finishes for me. “Yup. Go ahead, have a look if you like.” He gestures at the cases.
I wander up to the biggest glass case, which holds a vintage-looking Harriet’s House and a load of Harriet doll characters and actual typed-out labels, saying things like 1970 Harriet the Air Hostess and 1971 Harriet the Gymnast.
Most of the cases contain Harriet’s House displays, but one is filled with swirly pink-and-green china. I go to look at it and Matt follows me.
“That’s my mum’s family business,” he tells me. “She’s half Austrian.”
“Oh yes,” I say, remembering his golf-playing grandmother. “But she doesn’t have an accent.”
“No, she grew up in the UK. But we have Austrian cousins. They run the china company. Mum’s on the board,” he adds. “She used to be in charge of the UK operation.”