it’s not meant to be. Is it, Matt? No matter what these guys think.” She gestures at the audience with a rueful, wistful smile.
My entire face has flamed. What is she saying? How is this appropriate? In fact, why am I even sitting through this? Abruptly, I get to my feet, reach for my bag, and start edging along the side of the auditorium.
“Oh no!” Genevieve suddenly trills charmingly. “I’m so sorry. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve upset Matt’s new girlfriend. Ava, don’t be shy, you’re part of the Harriet’s House family now!”
She gestures in my direction, and to my horror, a spotlight finds me. Immediately, the whole audience swivels round. And it’s all very well Matt saying it’s “online rubbish,” but these people aren’t online. They’re right here, gaping at me and even taking photos.
“She’s not that pretty, is she?” murmurs a girl in front of me to her friend, and I glare back indignantly.
“Hi,” I say shortly. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Enjoy the show!”
I head to the door, murderous thoughts swirling round my head. All I can say is, there’d better be a Harriet’s House bar and it’d better serve Harriet’s House vodka and they’d better do double shots.
* * *
—
There is a Harriet’s Bar, it turns out, and it’s half empty, which I guess is because so many visitors have flocked to the main auditorium. It doesn’t serve vodka, but it does sell “Bubblegum Bellinis,” and I sit down on a barstool and order two in quick succession. I know I shouldn’t let Genevieve get to me. Or the superfans. Or this Japan business. But I can’t help it: I’m bubbling over with stress.
Every time I discover a new layer to Matt’s life, it’s a more toxic, complicated layer. And he doesn’t even seem to see it. He doesn’t seem to recognize it. He walks around with blinkers on, like some sort of horse pulling a heavy wagon, and his job is the wagon….No, his family is the wagon….
Abruptly I realize I’m muttering to myself like a crazy person. I glance up, hoping that no one’s watching me, to see a face I recognize. It’s Matt’s grandpa. What’s his name again? Oh yes, Ronald. He’s sitting at the other end of the bar, dressed in a pinstripe suit, drinking a glass of wine, and he’s such an incongruous sight on his pink fluffy barstool, I can’t help smiling. He catches my eye, clearly wondering if he knows me.
“I’m Ava,” I say, sliding along to join him and extending a hand. “Matt’s friend? We met at the Warwicks’ house?”
“Ava!” His eyes brighten. “Yes, I remember. Are you enjoying the expo, my dear?”
“Kind of,” I say. “Aren’t you at the event? Everyone’s onstage right now. Matt, his parents, Genevieve…”
“I know.” A faint shudder passes across his face. “Very entertaining, I’m sure. It’s the audience that I find difficult. They shriek.”
“Yes,” I agree. “They do. I guess you’ve been coming to the expo forever?” I add, as it occurs to me that Harriet’s House has been his life too.
“Well.” Ronald seems to consider this. “We didn’t have an expo in my day. Everything was different. Less…excitable. I always come and see how things are getting along.” He gestures vaguely toward the auditorium. “But I prefer to be out here.” He lifts his glass to me in a toast and I follow suit. “And you?” he queries politely. “You didn’t want to watch Matthias onstage?”
“I started watching. But…” I trail off and slump slightly. I don’t particularly want to get into discussing Genevieve and her superfans.
“Another drink?” he asks, noticing my empty glass, and nods to the barman.
“Drowning our sorrows,” I say, and it’s meant to be a joke but comes out sounding more heartfelt than I meant.
“Indeed.” Ronald smiles, but he sounds pretty heartfelt, too, and his hand trembles slightly as he lifts his glass.
Underneath his courteous demeanor, this elderly man seems just a bit fragile. I can remember Elsa shutting him up repeatedly at lunch, then Matt telling me that in his family, talking “isn’t easy.”
And suddenly I feel a surge of impatience. What is it with these Warwicks? Things should be talked about. Things should be out in the fresh air, not locked up to fester.
“May I ask you something?” I say, turning to Ronald. “You started telling me a story, the first time we met. Something bad had happened to you. But we got interrupted before you could finish. Well, we’ve