I’m holding the pebble tower. The one we made on the beach in Italy. It’s somehow been stuck together in place and mounted on a plain wooden plinth, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. As my eyes run over the stones, I’m back there for an instant, under the dappled shade of the olive tree, intoxicated by sunshine and romance.
“I appreciate that we don’t have quite the same taste in art,” says Matt wryly. “So I’m not sure if you’ll like it. I like it—”
“I love it.” I swallow, my eyes hot. “I love it so much, Matt. It’s perfect. And it’s us, it’s a souvenir of us….How did you do it?” I swivel my head incredulously. “How is this here?”
“I sneaked back,” says Matt, looking pleased with himself. “The next morning when we were writing those scenes. Hired a car, drove to the beach.”
“You said you were writing in your room!”
“Yup.” He grins. “That was a white lie. When I got there, the stack was still there. I numbered them in pencil, brought them back, found a sculptor online….No big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” I say, stroking the smooth surface of the pebbles. “It’s a huge deal. Thank you so much…” My voice wobbles. “Matt, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry I shouted. I don’t know what got into me.”
It’s surreal. A moment ago we were yelling at each other—and now I’m almost in tears, because no one has ever done something as lovely for me as this.
“I’m sorry too,” ’ says Matt gruffly. “And I also wanted to thank you for something. The other night, when you were making me smell all those aromatherapy oils? I’ll confess, I was skeptical. I thought it was bullshit. But that oil you made me for the office…”
“You like it?” I look up eagerly.
“I put it on my temples at work, like you said. I rub it in. And it’s good. It makes a difference.” He shrugs. “Makes me feel more chill.”
“I’m so pleased!”
I stroke the pebble tower again, and Matt reaches out to touch it too. Our fingers graze and we smile a little warily at each other.
“I never thought I was the kind of guy who would use aromatherapy oil,” says Matt suddenly, as though speaking with some effort. “Nor bring a load of pebbles home from Italy. It never would have even crossed my mind till you said you wished you could take them. But I’m pleased I did both. So…” He hesitates, searching for words. “Thanks for expanding my horizons, I guess.”
“Well, thanks for making my wish come true,” I say, my fingers curled tightly around the pebbles. “That’s a pretty impressive superpower.”
“I don’t have superpowers,” says Matt, after a pause. “I won’t pretend I do. But…I would like to take you on a date.”
His face is square-on to mine, his eyes dark and earnest. This kind, complicated guy, who might not be vegetarian or perfect or get on with everything in my life but is thoughtful to a degree I could have never predicted. And still super-hot. And it’s not his fault if he likes weird art.
“I’d love to go on a date with you,” I say, and touch his hand gently. “I’d love to.”
* * *
—
As I let myself quietly into Nell’s room, she’s lying in a hunched, curled-up position I recognize, and I bite my lip.
Nell once said to me, “Pain is the least romantic partner you can have in your bed. Fucker.” A few minutes later, she said in a strained voice, “It’s like some total bastard’s hammering my joints with a mallet,” and ever since then, that’s how I’ve envisioned it. I’ve seen pain leach the color from her face. I’ve watched it diminish her, drawing her into a private space, just her and her tormentor, till the drugs kick in. If they do.
“Hey,” I say softly, and she turns her head briefly. “How’s the fucker? Taken anything?”
“Yup. Getting there,” says Nell, her voice shortened by the effort of talking.
I can tell she’s bad, because she’s not trying to read. Her hands are swollen, I notice. They often are. Her skin goes blotchy; her fingers go numb. Often she can’t use an iPad, and even a remote control is a struggle.
But I don’t refer to any of this. We have a shorthand, all of us, based on Nell’s basic aversion to talking about her illness, even when she’s unable to move. This doesn’t go down too well with medical professionals, but the four of us are used to it. And I know that “Getting there” means she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Great.” I sit down by her bed and open up my phone. “So, I’ve got a new one for you.” I put on a super-dramatic voice. “A Zombie Kiss.”
My way of distracting Nell is to read books aloud to her, and the latest genre we’ve found is horror romance novels. Some of them are pretty gruesome—The Blood-Soaked Bride was frankly traumatic—but Nell says that’s what she likes.
“Excellent.” Nell’s voice is muffled by the duvet. “Wait, hang on. How were Matt’s parents?”
“Oh.” I cast my mind back to Matt’s parents’ house. “Fine. Bit weird. You know.”
“But was it OK?”
“It was OK apart from the naked sauna. Right, Chapter One.” I draw breath—but then out of the corner of my eye I suddenly notice the duvet shaking.
“Nell. Oh God…”
My stomach is hollow as I put down my phone and get to my feet. Please don’t say she’s crying. I can’t bear to see wonderful, strong Nell felled. Plus if she cries, I’ll cry…and then she’ll yell at me….
But as I peer fearfully over the folds of the duvet, I realize she’s not crying, she’s laughing.
“Pause on A Zombie Kiss,” she manages between painful chortles and swivels her face to look at me. “Ava, you can’t leave it there. What bloody naked sauna?”
Eighteen
Four nights later, Matt and I have our date. We’ve chosen a vegetarian restaurant in Covent Garden and have decided to come separately, just as though it really is a first date. I get there on the prompt side, but even so, Matt is already at the table, and I feel a massive pang of love as I see him. That’s so him, to arrive early.
He gets up to greet me and kisses me lightly on the cheek. The waiter pulls out my chair for me, and Matt and I smile at each other with almost nervous anticipation.
“You look lovely,” says Matt, gesturing at my dress.
“So do you.” I nod at his crisp blue shirt.
“Oh, thanks. It’s new.” He seems about to add something, then stops himself.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head quickly. “What do you want to drink?”
Why’s he changing the subject?
“Oh God,” I say in sudden realization. “You had to buy a new shirt because Harold wrecked your old one. Sorry.” I bite my lip and Matt shakes his head quickly again.
“No! That’s not what I was going to— I needed some new shirts, anyway. How’s Nell?”
“Better.” I smile at him. “I mean, not better, but, you know. Improved.”
“Excellent. Menu looks good,” he adds, with determined enthusiasm, and I feel another wave of love. He’s not complaining about Harold ruining his shirt and he’s being positive about vegetarian food. He’s making a real effort here. I need to do the same.
“Why don’t you teach me golf?” I say in an impulsive rush, and Matt looks slightly stunned.
“You want to learn golf?”
“Er…” I push back my hair, playing for time. Maybe “want” is overstating it. But I do want to bond with Matt, and also I should try to get over my prejudice. Plus, I might be naturally brilliant at it. Who knows?
“Yes!” I say firmly. “It could be a new joint hobby! I’ll buy some tartan socks.”
“Tartan socks aren’t necessary.” He grins. “But, yes, if you want, I can teach you.” As he speaks, his phone buzzes with a call and he flinches
slightly as he sees the number. “Sorry. My dad. I told him I was out for dinner, but…” He breathes out. “I’ll just send him a quick text, remind him I’m busy.”
As Matt sends the text, our waiter approaches the table and we order our drinks. Then, as we’re left alone again, I draw breath, because I have some important stuff I want to say.
“Matt,” I begin. “I think we need to talk. Can I be frank?”
“Frank?” Matt looks alarmed.
“Honest,” I elaborate. “Truthful. Candid. Maybe blunt.” I think for a moment, then backtrack. “No, not blunt. But the others.”
Matt is looking more and more wary.
“I guess,” he says at last.
“OK. So, here’s the thing. It’s been six weeks, give or take.”
“What has?” Matt looks blank and I feel a tiny spurt of impatience, which I try to suppress. But honestly. What does he think I’m talking about?
“Us,” I say patiently. “Us.”
“Right.” Matt thinks about this for a moment, then ventures, “I would have said longer.”
“Well, it’s six weeks. We’ve had six weeks so far for me to get used to Matt-land and you to get used to Ava-land. And I think you’d agree that our progress has been…” I pause, to pick the right word. “Patchy.”
Matt breathes out, as though he was expecting something quite a lot worse than “patchy.”
“That’s fair.” He nods.
“Sometimes everything is wonderful between us. Whereas other times…” I pause again, not wanting to dig up old, painful stuff. “But you know what? That’s no surprise, because six weeks is nothing! I understand everything now! I’ve been reading this brilliant book.”
From my bag I pull the paperback I’ve been studying for the last few days. I ordered it after doing a quick google, and honestly, it makes everything clear! It’s littered with highlighter and Post-its where I found useful tips, and I can’t wait for Matt to read it.
“ ‘In a Strange Land,’ ” Matt reads off the front cover. “ ‘How to Acclimatize to a New Country.’ ”
“Look!” I say, flicking through it with enthusiasm and showing Matt chapter headings. “ ‘Chapter One: So You’re in Love with a New Country! Chapter Two: The Shock of the First Few Days. Chapter Three: Getting Used to Strange New Customs.’ See? It could be about us!”
“Right.” Matt seems confused. “But it’s not a book about relationships.”
“It’s about being expats in a foreign country,” I explain. “Well, we are expats in foreign countries. Matt-land and Ava-land! It’s the same!”
As I flick farther on, I come to “Chapter 7: When the Charm Wears Off.” But hastily I turn the page, because that’s not relevant to us.
“Anyway,” I continue firmly, “everything in this book spoke to me. And what we’re in right now is called ‘culture shock.’ We need to adjust. And maybe we’re underestimating how hard a job that is. Listen to this….” I riffle through the pages till I find the right Post-it, then read aloud: “ ‘Even small differences between cultures can be disconcerting, from body language to food choices. You may often find yourself thinking, “Why?” ’ ”
“One beer…” A waiter interrupts us. “And one kombucha-fermented cocktail with extra wheatgrass shot?”
“Fab!” I smile up at him. “Thank you!”
As the waiter departs, Matt looks silently from his bottle of Budweiser to my green, foamy drink garnished with a bean sprout.
“Yes,” he says at last. “I think I can relate to this.”
“Well, what the book says is, don’t expect instant results. It takes six months to acclimatize, minimum. Cheers.” I lift my drink to his.
“Cheers. Six months?” he adds, after sipping.
“Minimum.” I nod. “It also says you have to be open-minded, curious, embrace the quirks of your new adopted nation….What else…” I open the book again and flip through. “ ‘Research your new country carefully beforehand…’ No, that wasn’t it….”
“Bit late for that!” says Matt with a short laugh.
“Here we are.” I read aloud again: “ ‘The more you explore and immerse in your new culture, the more quickly you will adapt.’ You see?” I lean forward with animation. “Explore and immerse.”
“Right.” Again, Matt looks wary. “What exactly does that mean?”
“You know! Explore aspects of each other’s lives. I’ll explore your area of London; you explore mine. I’ll explore golf; you explore…er…astrology, maybe.”
Matt’s face ripples with something unreadable.
“OK,” he says, and swigs his Bud again.
“But the point is, we need to be nonjudgmental,” I add earnestly. “Listen: ‘You may find elements of your new culture unfamiliar. Perhaps even unpalatable. But try not to cling to your biases and prejudices. Widen your compassion and empathy.’ ” I look up, glowing. “Isn’t that inspiring? Compassion and empathy.”
“Mr. Warwick?” Our waiter approaches the table hesitantly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you have a phone call on our landline.”
“A phone call?” Matt looks startled.
“A Mr. Warwick Sr.”
“My dad?” Matt seems baffled. “He must have asked my assistant where I was eating and got the number.”
“Maybe it’s an emergency,” I say in sudden fear. “Maybe something’s happened to your grandpa.”
“OK, I’d better find out. Sorry.” Matt pushes back his chair and throws down his napkin. As he strides away, I take the opportunity to answer a WhatsApp thread on whether Maud should dye her hair, but I shove my phone away as Matt returns, looking a bit thunderous.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. My dad wanted my opinion on something.” He sits down and slugs his beer.
“But he knew you were busy.”
“Yup,” says Matt shortly. And he opens his menu as though closing the discussion.
He sounds both pissed off and as though he doesn’t want to talk about it, which is the worst possible combination. As I open my own menu, I can’t help seething. I know it’s a big family business, massive global brand, blah blah, whatever, but his parents treat Matt like they own him. Twice this week they’ve sent Geoff to pick him up from home when he wasn’t expecting it, just like they did that time at the airport. Geoff isn’t Matt’s personal driver, as I assumed at first. He works for Matt’s parents and does their bidding.
When Matt questioned Geoff’s unexpected appearances, his mother got all defensive and said they were trying to “make his life easier.” (I could hear her through his cellphone.) But it seems pretty controlling to me. Like all these phone calls and dropping in unexpectedly. Where are the boundaries?
“That’s a bit weird,” I try again. “Calling you at a restaurant just to get your opinion.”
“Yup,” Matt repeats, without looking up. “Well, that’s how they are.”
For a while we’re silent, while my brain whirs. Here we are, then. This is culture shock. This is me, faced with an unpalatable aspect of Matt-land, thinking, Why? But Matt seems to accept it. Is this just how they behave in his world? Am I biased? Should I try to understand rather than criticize?
Yes! I decide. I should immerse and learn, with compassion and empathy.
“Matt,” I announce firmly, “I want to visit your office.”
“My office?” Matt seems staggered.
“Of course! I love you, but I hardly know what you do! I want to see your work, watch you in action, get to know that side of you. Understand you.”
“You could come to the Harriet’s World Expo,” says Matt reluctantly. “That would be more interesting than coming to the office. It’s in three weeks’ time. We hire a conference venue, Harriet’s House fans come from all over, there’s entertainmen
t….It’s fun.”
He says “It’s fun” in such flat tones, I almost want to laugh. But that wouldn’t be compassion, nor empathy.
“Great!” I say. “I’ll start by coming to the expo. And in return, you can ask me anything you like about my work.” I sweep a generous hand around the table. “Anything. You must have a million questions!”
“Er…sure,” says Matt. “My mind’s a bit blank right now,” he adds quickly, as he sees me waiting. “But I’ll let you know.”
“OK, well, I’ve had another idea,” I press on with energy. “Let’s bring our friends together. Let’s have a party for them and they can all immerse with one another!”
“Maybe.” Matt looks dubious. Honestly. He really should try to engage with this process.
“What about you?” I say encouragingly. “Do you have any ideas to help us acclimatize with each other?”
“Ava…” Matt takes a long sip of beer, looking beleaguered. (Which is his dad’s fault, not mine.) “I dunno. This all seems like overthinking to me. Couldn’t we just…you know. Go with the flow?”
“No! We have to be proactive!” I open the book and find a pull-out quote. “ ‘Don’t shrink from culture shock, but launch yourself bravely toward it. Only then will you have a chance of success.’ ”
I jab at the words significantly with my finger, then clap the book shut and take a deep sip of my cocktail. Just saying those words has emboldened me. I’m going to launch myself bravely at Matt’s work. And his parents. And golf. I just hope they’re ready.
* * *
—
Neither of us wants dessert, so when we leave the restaurant it’s still a light, balmy evening. The air is almost Italian-warm, and there are crowds of people outside every pub and clustered in the piazza, watching a busker. As we wander over, drawn by the shrieks and gasps of the crowd, I hear Matt’s phone buzzing in his pocket and see the rocklike look start to come over his face.
“Don’t think about your phone,” I say as gently as I can. “We’re in Covent Garden and it’s a beautiful night. Let’s have fun. Fun. Remember that?”