“What?” I begin—then stop. Already Elsa and John are in earshot and Elsa is addressing me: “Hello, Ava. Did you have a good swim?”
“Wonderful, thanks,” I respond with a polite smile. “Such a lovely pool!”
But as she starts telling me about the garden, my head is churning. Indignation is sparking around my body. Is it such a big deal? Is he for real?
Seventeen
By the time we get into the car, an hour later, I’m bursting. I’m actually bursting. Arguments have been mounting up in my mind like planes waiting to land. First, Matt doesn’t warn me about the naked sauna. Then he makes out like I’m overreacting. Then, over tea, he tells his parents that Harold needs training, even though he knows I don’t like him saying that.
Then, as I’m still reeling from that, his parents launch into a half-hour lecture on the eighth wonder of the world that is Genevieve. I know that Genevieve has appeared on the cover of three magazines. And she’s going to film a TV documentary. And she has to have two assistants to deal with all the fan mail she receives.
And OK, yes, Matt tried to steer the conversation away, but maybe he didn’t try hard enough.
And, oh my God, what was that with the cake?
I’m breathing hard as I get into the car and wave at Matt’s parents. “Thank you so much!” I call through the window. “I had a lovely time. It was wonderful!”
“So,” says Matt as he puts the car into reverse to turn. “How was that for you?”
Even his question flicks me on the raw. How does he think it was?
“Oh, I’m just super-thrilled I’ll get an A-plus in my test on ‘Genevieve the wonder woman,’ ” I say, still smiling sweetly at his parents through the window, and Matt sighs.
“I know. I’m sorry. My parents are…They can’t let go.”
He puts the car into first gear, and we shoot forward with a little spurt of gravel under the wheels. As we exit the gates, we both breathe out.
“But it was OK otherwise?” says Matt after a few moments. I know he wants me to say it was lovely. And I know I should. But I can’t. I’m feeling tetchy and stroppy.
“Apart from Genevieve and the naked sauna and you insulting Harold, it was fab,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“Insulting Harold?” Matt sounds perplexed. “How did I insult Harold?”
“You said he needs training.”
“He does need training,” replies Matt, and I feel a spurt of rage.
“He does not! And why didn’t they open my cake?”
“What?” Matt looks baffled. “What cake?”
What cake?
“I spent an absolute fortune on a cake from a patisserie, and they just left it in the kitchen!”
“Oh.”
“And then they just served biscuits at tea, and I kept thinking, ‘But what about the cake? Why don’t we have the cake?’ ”
Matt shoots me a wary look. “They’re probably saving it up. I think you’re overreacting.”
“Maybe,” I say morosely. “But it’s no wonder.” I suddenly feel weariness crashing over me and rub my face. “Matt, listen. You have to move into my place. I can’t sleep a wink at yours.”
“Move into yours?” Matt sounds aghast. “What— No. Sorry, no.”
“But my flat is more conducive. It’s more comfortable. It’s more welcoming.”
“More welcoming?” Matt echoes incredulously. “Ava, your flat is a liability! Fucking…nails sticking out and stuff toppling down everywhere, and you never screw jars closed properly….”
I stare at him, baffled. Jars? Where is this coming from? Jars? I open my mouth to defend myself, but Matt carries on as though the floodgates have opened.
“There are bloody ‘rescue plants’ everywhere…your ‘rescue bed’ is impossible to sleep in….”
“At least my flat has character!” I snap. “At least it’s not some monolithic concrete box.”
“Character?” Matt gives a short, incredulous laugh. “It’s crummy! That’s its character! Rescue books? Rescue books are not a thing, Ava. You’re not making a noble gesture by housing crap.”
“Crap?” I stare at him, incensed.
“Yes, crap! If no one wants to buy An Illustrated Guide to the Cauliflower published in 1963, guess what? It’s not because it’s an unloved gem which needs to be rescued. It’s because it’s a shit book.”
For a moment I can’t speak for shock. I don’t even know where to begin. And by the way, I do not own a book called An Illustrated Guide to the Cauliflower.
“So, what, you hate my flat?” I try to sound calm.
“I don’t hate it.” Matt signals left and changes lanes. “I think it’s unsafe.”
“Not this again. You’re obsessed!”
“I would just like to go about my life without being injured!” says Matt with heat. “That’s all I ask. Every time I set foot in your flat, I get some injury or a bloody rescue yucca falls on me or my shirt gets shredded by Harold. I’ve had to buy six new shirts since we started dating, you know that?”
“Six?” I’m momentarily halted. I didn’t realize that. I would have said maybe…three.
“I love you,” Matt sounds suddenly weary. “But sometimes I feel like your life hates me. I feel attacked. Your friends…Jeez…You know, every day Nell sends me some piece trashing Harriet’s House: ‘Why Harriet’s House is misogynist.’ ‘Why all feminists must boycott Harriet’s House.’ It’s a dollhouse company, for God’s sake. We may not be perfect, but we’re not evil.”
I feel a slight qualm, because I hadn’t realized that, either—but that’s just what Nell’s like.
“That shows she respects you,” I say defensively. “Nell only fights with people she likes and respects. It’s a compliment. And at least she engages! At least she doesn’t ignore you. Your dad said nothing to me, all lunch! Nothing!” I know my voice is getting shrill, but I can’t stop. “And my flat might not be perfect, but at least it’s tasteful! At least I don’t have robots everywhere!”
“What’s wrong with robots?” shoots back Matt.
“It’s ridiculous! It’s adolescent! Who has their snacks brought to them by a robot? And as for your art—”
I break off, because I didn’t mean to mention the art. Raindrops have started to spatter onto the car, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
“What about my art?” says Matt evenly, and for a few moments I’m silent. What do I say? Should I backtrack?
No. Nell and Sarika are right. I have to be honest. No more denial.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” I say, looking out of the window. “But I find your art disturbing and…and weird.”
“ ‘Weird,’ ” Matt echoes, his voice hurt and scathing. “One of the greatest, most acclaimed artists of our time, ‘weird.’ ”
“He may be great. But his art is still weird.”
“Genevieve didn’t think so,” Matt says in cutting tones, and I gasp inwardly. Oh my God. We’re doing that, are we?
“Well, Russell loved my rescue bed,” I say, equally curtly, “and he loved my rickety windows and he thought Harold was lovely as he is. So.”
Matt pulls up at a red light, and there’s such a long silence I feel like we’re redrawing the lines.
“I thought you said Russell never stayed over at your flat,” he says at last, without moving his head.
“No. He didn’t.”
“If he never slept in your rescue bed, how could he love it?”
“He dozed in it,” I say with dignity. “And he found it very comfortable.”
“Kind of strange he never stayed over,” Matt presses on.
“He couldn’t because of his work—”
“Bollocks. No one ‘can’t stay the night’ in a five-month relationship. Never met the guy, but I’m guessing the reason he didn’t have any opinions about anything in your life was, he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t care, so he said whatever you wanted to hear. He played you, Ava. The difference is, I’m not playing you. I do care. And I’m being honest.”
I stare at him, stung. I should never have told Matt anything about Russell.
“Oh, really?” At last I find some words of retaliation. “You think that, do you?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well, let me ask you a question. How do you know Genevieve liked your art?”
“She said so—” Matt breaks off as he realizes the trap I’ve led him into. “She displayed interest in it,” he adds stonily. “We went to exhibitions together. She had a genuine appreciation for it.”
“She was playing you, Matt!” I give a derisive laugh. “I’ve seen Genevieve’s Instagram page, I’ve seen her style, and take it from me, she did not genuinely like your art. No one likes it! My friends—”
“Oh, we’re back to your friends,” says Matt in a hurt, angry roar. “Of course we are. The Greek chorus. Do you ever leave off consulting them for five minutes of your bloody life?”
“Five minutes?” I shake my head. “You exaggerate about everything.”
“You’re addicted to WhatsApp,” says Matt. “That’s not an exaggeration.”
“Well, I’d rather be addicted to WhatsApp than some stupid…website counter!” I say shrilly. “The number of Internet users in the world, for God’s sake?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s weird!”
“So, everything in my life is ‘weird,’ ” says Matt, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Again, Genevieve didn’t think it was weird.”