My body has actually been pining for him. I don’t want to sound overdramatic, but he’s crystal meth. In a good way. My physiology has changed. I can never not be with him again.
As I see him emerging from the tube station, I feel such relief and exhilaration I could almost burst into tears…mixed up with a sudden shyness. Because here’s the weird thing: This guy in his black jeans and gray T-shirt isn’t Dutch. He’s Matt. Matt with his driver and his job and his life. And I don’t really know Matt, not yet.
He looks a little trepidatious, too, and we both laugh awkwardly as he nears me.
“Hi! You made it.”
“Good to see you.”
He wraps his arms round me, and as we kiss I close my eyes, remembering the taste and feel of Dutch. For a moment I’m back in Italy, back in the glorious bubble…but as we draw apart, my eyes open and we’re in London again, and I don’t even know if he has a middle name.
“So! Come and meet my…my life, I guess!” I say, trying to sound relaxed as I lead him along the street. “I’m not too far from the tube.”
As I say the words, I have a sudden mad flashback to Sarika’s deal-breaker and imagine Matt replying severely, “Well, as long as it’s not more than ten minutes.”
The very thought makes me want to laugh. It just shows how messed up modern love has become! Deal-breakers are wrong. Deal-breakers are anti-love. If you ask me, deal-breakers are the work of the devil.
Matt has taken my hand and we’re walking in step together, and right now I can only pity all those tragic people who place such weight on artificial factors that have nothing to do with genuine love. I mean, I love Sarika to bits, but no dancers? What kind of rule is that? What if, like, the main guy at the Royal Ballet asked her out? What then?
“Do you believe in deal-breakers?” I can’t help saying aloud as we walk along. “I mean, do you have any?”
“Deal-breakers?” Matt looks startled. “What, you mean—”
“Do I need to worry?” I clarify teasingly. “You know, like, some guys won’t date a girl who’s a smoker, or…” I think a moment. “Drinks instant coffee.”
This is a real one. A few months ago Sarika saw an article saying 53 percent of people would never drink instant coffee or date anyone who did. Whereupon she sent round a WhatsApp to the squad: Urgent!!! Throw out your instant coffee!!! I didn’t have any, but I had some instant carob substitute drink, which I moved to the back of my cupboard, just in case.
But Matt seems perplexed by the idea.
“Jeez,” he says after a moment. “No. That’s not how I think. You can’t define…I’m not wild about smoking, but…You know.” He shrugs. “Everything depends.”
“That’s how I think too,” I say eagerly. “It’s not about deal-breakers. I don’t have any either. I can’t even imagine having any.” We walk on for a few minutes, then I add, “I read up about your family company. It sounds amazing!”
It didn’t take much sleuthing. Googling Matt Warwick brought him up straightaway. Chief operating officer, Warwick Toys Inc. Brands: Harriet’s House, Harriet’s World, Harriet’s Friends.
And of course, once I read the words “Harriet’s House,” I realized. It’s those dollhouses with the thatched roofs. Harriet is the doll with the red hair and the tartan skirt. Loads of my friends had one when I was a kid. I never had the house or the doll, but I had a secondhand pony and a couple of Harriet’s rabbits.
According to the website, there are seventy-six different houses, plus more than two thousand figures and accessories to collect. Which I can believe because one girl at my school had a whole roomful of the stuff. What I didn’t realize was that Harriet’s House is a global phenomenon, according to the website. There are even Harriet’s House theme parks in Dubai and Singapore. Who knew? (Not me, obviously.)
The company is still “proud to be family run,” so I got a good look at Matt’s dad, who is CEO and has his own page on the website. He’s very good-looking—a lot like Matt, just with gray hair and a warm, craggy face. I have an instinct that we’ll really get on.
“Yup,” says Matt. “Well…it’s a thing.”
He doesn’t sound like he wants to talk about his family company much, and it is Sunday, so I decide to drop it for now. It’s not like we’ll be short of topics.
As we approach my house, I feel prickles of excitement. I’m so proud of where I live. I’ve decorated and furnished it with love. I’ve been creative with my ideas and really pushed myself. Nothing’s bland.
“Well, this is me!” I say as I usher Matt through the main front door. “At least, I’m on the top floor. It’s up the stairs.”
I fell in love with my attic flat the minute I saw it. It’s so original. It’s so quirky. It has cornices and original fireplaces and even an old wrought-iron fire escape leading down from the kitchen, which I love. I’ve filled every step with scented herbs in pots, and sometimes I take a glass of wine out and perch on the top step. It gives Harold a route out into our little garden too.
As we climb the last flight of stairs, I can hear Harold yelping excitedly—he knows I’m coming—and I beam at Matt.
“Harold’s waiting. I can’t wait for you to meet properly.”
I open my front door, and Harold leaps on me with joy, barking and snuffling and lifting up his front paws in expectation.
“Sorry,” I say, smiling apologetically over his head at Matt. “We have this routine when I come home….I missed you.” I address Harold lovingly and kiss his head. “I missed you. I missed you.” I’m holding Harold’s paws and waltzing round with him, and I suddenly wish Matt was in this with us.
“Join in!” I say invitingly, and extend a hand to him, but Matt gives us a slightly frozen smile.
“It’s OK,” he says. “I’m good. Were you out all day or something?”
“No,” I say over my shoulder. “I just popped to the tube to meet you.”
“Right.” Matt seems baffled. “So…you do this dance every time you come home?”
“It’s our thing. Isn’t it, Harold, my love?” I kiss his head one last time, then release his paws, and he trots off to the kitchen. “He’s a rescue dog,” I tell Matt. “He was found abandoned by the A414 when he was a puppy.” Just the thought gives me a stabbing pain in my heart. Who could abandon a dog as adorable as Harold? Who?
“That’s rough.” Matt winces.
“But I gave him a home, and—” I break off before I get too emotional. “Anyway. He’s happy now.”
“Good for you.” Matt takes a step down the hall, looking around with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s not the widest hall, but I’ve brightened it up with turquoise paint and lots of Portuguese beaded hangings, which I got on holiday. Plus gold paint on the cornices, which is an idea I saw in a design magazine.
There’s also a huge, ugly shelving unit blocking the way, which I hasten to explain.
“Remember I said I was into furniture? Well, that’s going to be upcycled.”
“Right.” Matt stares at it for a silent moment. “When you said you were into collecting furniture, I thought…” He seems to stop himself. “Anyway. No. Great!”
“My friend Maud upcycles furniture with chalk paint. She’s amazing, only she’s got a backlog at the moment….Careful, don’t get a splinter,” I add as he takes another step. “It needs to be sanded.”
“Got you.” He nods, edging carefully past it. “Nice plant,” he adds, looking at my yucca in the corner.
He’s saying all the right things. I love him even more.
“That’s my rescue yucca.” I beam at him.
“Rescue yucca?”
“I found it in a skip. These people had just thrown it out!” I can’t help sounding indignant. “A living plant! They shouldn’t be allowed to have plants. So I thought, I’ll give you a home, lovely.” I touch its leaves affectionately. “And now it’s thriving. So. Anyway. Come and have a drink.”
I lead him into the main room, which is a living-room-cum-kitchen. It’s a drop-dead gorgeous room, even if it needs a bit of a tidy, and I survey it with bursting pride. It’s decorated in the same turquoise as the hall, with purple-painted bookshelves everywhere I could fit them. It has multicolored floral House of Hackney feature wallpaper in the chimney breast. And—pièce de résistance—two amazing sixties chandeliers in orange glass, which complement the dark-green sofa perfectly.
For a moment Matt stands in the doorway, seemingly speechless at the sight.
“Colorful,” he says at last.
“I love color,” I say modestly. “It’s my thing.”
“I see that.” Matt nods a few times. “Yes. I see that.”
“Glass of wine? Or a beer?”
“Beer, thanks.”
As I head to the fridge, Matt surveys the nearest bookshelf—and when I join him, he glances up with a furrowed brow.
“Drystone Walling in the Vales. Theory of Modular Electronics. You have eclectic tastes.”
“Oh, those.” I hand him his beer. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” He swigs his beer, then adds, “The Chevrolet: A Guide, published 1942. Seriously? And this one’s in…” He pulls out a hardback. “What language is this? Czech? Do you read Czech?”
“A lot of these books I didn’t exactly buy to read,” I clarify. “I suppose they’re like…rescue books.”
“Rescue books?” Matt looks dumbfounded.
“Sometimes I go into a junk shop and I see an old book…and it speaks to me. I think, if I don’t buy this book, no one will. And then it’ll be destroyed. It’ll be pulped! I feel as though it’s, like, my responsibility to buy them.” I run a sweeping hand along my bookshelf. “These would all be pulp if I hadn’t rescued them!”