My words seem to prick Matt, because he says, “I’m fun!” defensively.
“Of course you are,” I backtrack hastily. “I just meant…you know…let’s chill out. Enjoy ourselves.”
“Volunteer!” The busker’s amplified voice rises above the crowd. “I need a brave, even foolhardy volunteer….No takers?” he adds, as there’s a nervous giggle in the crowd. “Are you all cowards?”
“Me!” Matt shouts suddenly, raising his hand. “I’ll do it!”
“What?” I gasp.
“Live a little,” he says, and winks at me before marching forward to join the busker. I watch, flabbergasted, as they cheerfully exchange a few words. Volunteering at one of these things is my idea of the opposite of fun.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our very brave volunteer…Matt!” bellows the busker, and the crowd erupts. As Matt grins at me, I can’t help laughing. Maybe I’d hate this—but he looks delighted to be there, standing beside a guy in neon-pink shorts and a headset, who’s telling the audience to clap along and cracking jokes about health and safety.
I wasn’t paying attention to the show earlier on, so I don’t know what the act is. Some kind of acrobatics? Or comedy? I’m prepared for something quite cringeworthy, maybe involving hats. But then, as the busker starts issuing instructions to Matt and gets out his equipment, it becomes clear what the act is—and my smile freezes. Is this for real? Is this busker seriously intending to juggle flaming torches over Matt’s prone body? And Matt’s agreeing to it?
He’s not just agreeing, he’s laughing along. He’s joining in with the busker’s jokes about whether he’s made a will or funeral arrangements. He’s sitting on the ground and waving around. And the crowd is clapping and cheering.
I watch, petrified, as the busker lights the flames. He wasn’t joking: That’s real fire. My stomach is all twisted up; I can’t even watch. But I can’t not watch either. In the end I compromise by watching through my fingers, holding my breath. Oh God…
The buildup seems to go on forever. But at last, after an unbearable amount of banter, the actual stunt occurs—a blur of whirling, flaming torches to the sound of huge applause. And as soon as it’s over, it seems obvious: Of course the busker was never going to drop a flaming torch on Matt and set him alight. But even so, I feel weak with relief.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Matt!” thunders the busker, and, finally finding my voice, I cheer and whoop as loudly as I can.
As Matt rejoins me in the audience, he’s flushed and his smile is wider than I’ve seen it for weeks.
“Awesome!” I say, hugging him, my heart still thudding with adrenaline. “That was amazing!”
“Couldn’t resist.” He flashes a grin at me. “Your turn next.”
“No!” I recoil in genuine horror. “Never!”
“He’s juggling a chainsaw next, if you’re interested?” Matt deadpans, then laughs at my expression.
He seems somehow transformed, just by that one experience. There’s a light in his eye and a lift in his voice. He sounds teasing, not rocklike. I’ve got my playful, carefree Dutch back, I suddenly realize. And I hadn’t appreciated how much I’d missed him.
“Hey, look, gelato!” I exclaim, seeing a stall at the side of the piazza. “Proper Italian ice cream. Let’s get you a nocciola as a reward.”
“And let’s get you a stracciatella,” rejoins Matt cheerfully—and arm in arm we head in that direction.
As we walk, my mind can’t help whirring. Does Matt realize how much his personality changes? Does he realize how much less carefree he is in London than he was in Italy? I want to raise the issue—but how do I put it? I can’t say, “Sometimes you turn into a rock.” I need to phrase it positively.
“It’s really great when you relax and stop thinking about work,” I venture as we join the ice-cream queue.
“Yup.” Matt nods easily.
“Can I be honest, Matt?” I press on. “I think you should try to switch off more. Shed your worries.”
“I guess work gets everyone down,” says Matt, after a pause. “Sorry if I’m antisocial sometimes.”
There’s a tiny knot of frustration inside me. I want to retort, “It’s not just that you’re antisocial, it’s more than that,” but at the same time I don’t want to ruin the mood. It’s a gorgeous balmy evening and we had a lovely dinner and now we’re getting ice cream. Matt’s face is shining and animated; he looks supremely happy. I’m not going to rain on that parade.
As he hands me my stracciatella cone, I sigh contentedly. “Just so you know, ice cream is incredibly important in Ava-land.”
“Ditto Matt-land,” he counters with a grin. “In fact, we have National Ice Cream Day. Three times a year.”
“Amazing!” I say admiringly. “We need to introduce that custom into Ava-land. Wait, I’ll pay,” I add more seriously, as he reaches for his wallet. “You got dinner.”
I hand over the money—then we head to a nearby wall and perch there, licking our ice creams and watching people as they stroll by. Music is coming from a nearby bar, and there are gales of laughter from the busker’s audience. The sky above us is a deepening blue, and there are twinkling lights all around the piazza. It’s an enchanting sight.
“Speaking of money,” says Matt presently. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ava—did you ever get the money for that piece of freelance work?”
It takes me a moment to work out what he’s talking about, but then I recall. A few months ago I wrote a leaflet for a nearby independent pharmacy—then weeks later I realized I hadn’t invoiced them. Matt was with me when I sent the invoice out, and I guess he’s remembered, all this time.
“No,” I say vaguely. “But it’s fine. It hasn’t been that long.”
“Well over a month,” he contradicts me. “And it was long overdue, anyway. You should chase them.”
“I will.” I shrug. “I’m sure they’re on it.”
“Threaten them, if necessary,” adds Matt.
“Threaten them?” I give a shocked laugh. “We’re not all karate warriors!”
“You don’t have to be a warrior, but you’ve done some good work for them and they should pay you; it’s only right. I think you’re sometimes too—” Matt cuts himself off, shaking his head. “No. Sorry. Wrong time, wrong place. Forget it.”
“Forget what?” I say, my curiosity piqued. “What do you think? Say it.”
“Doesn’t matter. We should just enjoy the evening.” He spreads his arms around. “It’s beautiful here. I really enjoyed our dinner.”
Does he think I can just sit here now and not hear the end of what he started?
“Matt, too late!” I retort. “I want to know! Whatever you were going to say, say it, or I’ll keep bugging you.”
There’s silence, punctuated by another roar of noise from the piazza. I turn my head to see that the busker is now having some kind of confrontation with a policeman, while the crowd jeers. Oops. Wonder what happened there.
Then Matt exhales, drawing my attention back to him.
“You were honest with me a moment ago, Ava. Now can I be honest with you?” He takes my hand in his as though to soften his words. “Sometimes—just sometimes—you’re overoptimistic about people. And situations.”
I gape at him. Overoptimistic? How is that even a thing?
“Optimistic is good,” I retort. “Everyone knows that!”
“Nothing too extreme is good,” counters Matt. “I love that you see the best in everything, Ava. I do. It’s one of your most lovable qualities. But everyone needs to deal with reality sometimes. Otherwise…they risk getting hurt.”
I feel a prickle of resentment. I know about reality, thank you. And OK, yes, I sometimes choose not to look too hard in its direction. But sometimes that’s because reality is inferior to what life should
be like.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the busker packing up his things with stiff, angry gestures. There. That’s reality, in all its shittiness. It’s not the heady moment of cheering and glory; it’s a policeman bringing you down to earth.
I crunch my ice-cream cone and eye Matt over the top of it.
“Real is hard,” I say, almost as though it’s his fault.
“Yup.” Matt nods.
He doesn’t crack a joke like Russell would. Or tell me I’m stupid. Or try to distract me. He’s prepared to sit patiently with me and my thoughts. He’s good at that, I’ve noticed.
“I’ll chase the invoice,” I say after a while.
Without speaking, Matt tightens his hand round mine, and I feel a swell of something warm inside. Not the white-hot rush of first infatuation, but maybe second love. Solid love. The love that comes of knowing what’s inside as well as outside a person.
I love this man because of who he is and in spite of who he is. All at once. And I hope he loves me the same way.
Nineteen
We decide to hold the party a week later, by which time my enthusiasm for exploring Matt’s life has very slightly dimmed.
I tried to launch myself bravely at golf. But that did not go well. I was actually quite galvanized beforehand. I was prepared to deal with any obnoxious people. I was all set to follow the rules. I was ready to stand at the golf-club bar, talking casually about “par 4” and “birdies.”
But none of that came into it, because we didn’t go near a golf club. It turned out that my big challenge of the day wasn’t the people or the rules or even the outfit, it was hitting the golf ball. Which turns out to be impossible.
Matt took me to a driving range, gave me a bucket of balls and a club and a quick lesson. He said that I would probably miss the first few times I tried to hit the ball, but after that, things would fall into place.
Things did not fall into place. I aimed carefully at every single one of those wretched bloody balls, and I missed them all. All! Do I need to get my eyes tested? Or my arms tested?
It was so embarrassing. Especially because a couple of other golfers noticed my failure and started watching. Then one of them clocked Matt as being Rob Warwick’s brother and they called over a friend. They all thought it was hilarious. When I got to the last ball in the bucket, I could actually hear them laying bets. By this time my face was beetroot and I was panting, and I was so determined to hit the last ball that I gave an extra-energetic swing. Which meant I didn’t just miss but wedged the golf club right into the ground, practically dislocating my shoulder.
I will say I have more respect for golfers now. Because what they do—hit the ball all round the course, without once missing it—feels like a superhuman feat to me.
On the way home, Matt asked, did I want to try again? And I said, maybe we should stick to the tai chi for now. And that’s how we left it.
So golf was a bit of a fail. And then that night we had a row because Matt decided to “tidy up” my flat and got rid of some essential notes for my book. Like, essential.
“They were ratty Post-its,” he said, when I confronted him. “You hadn’t looked at them for weeks.”
“But I was going to!” I said furiously. “They were vital to my novel!”
I was quite cross, I must admit. The notes were all about Clara’s upbringing in Lancashire, and I’d come up with a brilliant anecdote about a mangle and I’ll never remember it.
“To be honest, I thought you’d given up on the novel,” he said with a shrug, and I stared at him in shock.
“Given up? Matt, it’s a work in progress.”
“Uh-huh.” He surveyed me warily. “But you never do any writing.”
“I have a job, if you remember, Matt,” I reminded him, in prickly tones.
“Right.” He nodded. “But all you’ve done this week is talk about the other book you want to do. I suppose I got confused. Sorry.”
At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. Other book? Then my brow cleared. It’s not his fault he can’t keep up with my portfolio career.
“That’s not a book, that’s a podcast,” I explained kindly. “Totally different.”
I’m quite excited by my podcast idea, actually. I want to start a craft discussion, inspired by my Etsy batik. I’ll interview other crafters and we’ll talk about how our projects enhance our lives. I just need to get the equipment and decide on a name for it.
“Speaking of which,” I added, looking around, “where is my batik?”
“D’you mean that chewed rag under the sofa?” Matt said, and I bristled again, because what is it with the pejorative language?
(It was under the sofa. And to be fair, Harold had chewed it a bit, but it’ll be fine.)
(Also: I must find time for my batik, because the materials cost quite a lot and I was planning to sell five cushions, but I haven’t made any yet.)
Anyway. Never mind. Golf is a minor detail. And everyone has little arguments. And there have been brilliant times too. Like this morning, when we tried a more advanced tai chi routine and we aced it! Then Topher sent us a video he’d secretly taken of us doing tai chi at different times, set to “Eye of the Tiger.” It’s really funny—in fact, I can’t stop watching it.
But the most positive thing of all is that tonight we’re holding our drinks party! We’ve decided to host it at Matt’s flat, and as I bustle around, filling bowls with crisps, I feel quite excited.
“Nihal,” I say, seeing him sit down at his workstation and put on his headphones. “You know we’re throwing a party in, like, five minutes?”
“Sure.” He nods, squinting at the screen. “I’ll be there. Deffo.”
As he starts typing, I quickly put up a picture which I’ve bought to brighten up Matt’s flat. It’s the same poster that I’ve got at my place, with the silk-petal frame and the message “You can cut all the flowers, but you can’t stop spring from coming.”
I’ve put it right next to the Bastard Chart, which is frankly hideous. Especially since someone’s written Fuck Off Topher in green pen across the bottom. As I stand back to admire my new addition, I notice Nihal reading it.
“What do you think?” I say. “Isn’t it a gorgeous poster? Those petals on the frame are real silk.”
“I don’t follow,” he says, peering at it. “Are you defining ‘spring’ as the season in which vegetation starts to appear?”
I feel a tweak of frustration. Not another one.
“Well,” I say with a relaxed smile. “I don’t think it really—”
“Because in terms of flora, if you really were to remove from the entire earth’s biosystem—”
“I know!” I cut him off before he can mention dead bees. “I know about pollination. It’s not supposed to be literal, it’s just a beautiful, inspiring thing to have on your wall. Better than the Bastard Chart, you have to admit,” I can’t resist adding.
“I like the Bastard Chart,” Nihal replies.
“You can’t like looking at it,” I object. “You can’t actually enjoy looking at the Bastard Chart.”
“I do,” says Nihal. “I find it peaceful.”
He looks at me mildly and I gaze back at his sweet-natured, brainy face with a mixture of frustration and affection. I’ve got quite fond of Nihal, despite him being even more literal-minded than Matt.
“OK, well, the party starts soon,” I say. “My friends are arriving any minute.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” says Nihal, peering at his work again. “Can’t wait to meet them,” he adds politely.
I head back toward the kitchen and look around. Where’s Matt got to? Doesn’t he realize we’re hosting an event here? I know I’m a bit wired, but I can’t help feeling nervous about this little gathering. This is our two worlds mingling—and what if they’re oi
l and water? What if they all fight?
At last I track down Matt to his bathroom. He’s perched on the edge of the sink unit, his phone clamped to his ear, looking stressed. I don’t even need to ask who it is. Or what it’s about. I catch his eye and point at my watch, and he winces.
“OK, Dad, look…Yup. I know. I have to go. Let’s discuss this later….Dad, I have to go….Yes. Yes, I know. We’ll talk about it later. Bye.” At last he turns off his phone.
“Sorry,” he says heavily. “I was just…” He exhales and closes his eyes. Oh God. I can see him turning into a rock before my eyes.
“What’s up?” I ask, because I’m trying to get to know Matt’s business as much as I can, in a supportive and empathetic way. “Is it the Japanese theme park again?”
Harriet’s House is building a new theme park in Japan, and every day there seems to be some new nightmare. Just from overhearing Matt’s conversations, I’ve learned more about Japanese employment law than I ever thought I would, not to mention the general pitfalls of construction. (My takeaway has been: Don’t ever construct anything.) There was a brief saga about pumping water out of some stretch of land and I had a few helpful ideas about that, but that seems to be done with now.
“My parents want me to go over,” says Matt flatly, and for a crazy moment I think, Go over what? until I realize what he means.
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” I say after a pause. “You should go and visit.”
But Matt shakes his head. “For the duration. For six months, till the build is finished. Although in practice it’ll be a year, if not more.”
“A year?” I stare at him. “A year in Japan?”
“They have a point.” Matt rubs his head wearily. “We need someone on the ground. The guy they hired is way out of his depth.”
“But why does it need to be you?” I say in dismay. “And what about the rest of your job?”
“They want me to supervise everything else from Japan. They’re worried this project is spiraling. They want family out there.”