dying and everyone from my life is appearing before me, starting with complete randoms? Because I can’t think of any other reason that Lyric should be here on the doorstep. She only stayed on the course for an afternoon. I’d forgotten all about her.
“I was in London,” she says, as though realizing I need an explanation. “Thought I’d swing by.”
“Do you…” I swallow. “Do you know Matt?”
“Do I know Matt?” She gazes at me incredulously. “Do I know Matt? Oh my God.” A smile of relish curves across her face. “He didn’t tell you? That’s hilarious. We were to-ge-ther. We were a cou-ple.”
She enunciates the words in slow, deliberate tones, as though I have a low IQ, and I flinch, even as my brain is groping for answers.
“Is your name Sarah?” I ask, in sudden realization.
“Is my name Sarah?” She gives a throaty laugh. “Yes, genius. I’m Sarah. Matt and I were together. Lo-vers,” she adds, savoring the word.
I have an unwanted vision of her slithering round, naked, with Matt, and I close my eyes, trying to get rid of it. Because things were shitty enough without this.
“We were going to give it another chance on that retreat,” Sarah continues, clearly enjoying her story. “But then we couldn’t stop arguing, so I was like, ‘Fuck off, then.’ ”
I’m feeling a bit faint. They were a couple? All that time, while we sat in the monastery in our pajama suits, thinking we were all strangers…they were a couple? And Matt said nothing?
“I mean, I knew that,” I say, trying my hardest to regain some ascendance. “I knew that.”
“No you didn’t.” Her eyes mock me pityingly. “Anyway, I’m in London and I just wanted to swing by. Tell Matt I’m engaged.”
She waves a ring at me, her eyes flashing in triumph. I dimly register that it’s a band of yellow stones and that I really don’t like it. (Which isn’t the point, but you can’t help what your brain thinks.)
“Congratulations,” I say numbly.
“Yeah, thanks. Met him in Antwerp. He’s Dutch. Actually Dutch. Not like, ‘Call me Dutch.’ ” She gives a little laugh with an edge to it. “Speaking of which…when will Matt be back?”
“Don’t know. Not for a while. Not for hours, in fact.” I take a step forward, trying to force Lyric backward into the hall. Because it’s come to me that I really, really want her to leave. “I think you should go now,” I add for good measure. “I have things to do. So. Goodbye.”
She takes a step back but then pauses, her eyes running over me as though for enjoyment.
“Fine. I’m off.” She shrugs. “You’ll tell Matt I was here?”
“Oh yes,” I say, with a slightly savage smile. “I’ll tell him.”
As the door closes, there’s a kind of buzzing getting louder in my ears. I think I’m going a bit mad. I knew Lyric was attracted to Matt at the retreat. I could tell by how she looked at him in that fixated way. But how could I ever have imagined she was attracted to him because she was his lover?
Everywhere I turn, I feel wrong-footed. I think I’ve got a handle on who Matt is, I think I understand him and his life…but then something else weird pops up. Secret discussions. Private decisions. Girlfriends he never thought to mention. Why didn’t he tell me? I feel like screaming. Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
Hardly knowing what I’m doing, I pick up his putter, which is resting against the wall. His stupid bloody putter, symbol of his misery. I lift it high in the air and thwack the leather footstool. And it’s such an excellent feeling that I do it again and again, venting my frustration, my bewilderment, my anger, until my muscles are aching, until I’m panting hard, until—
CRASH!!!
I don’t know what hits me first: the smashing sound or the realization that the putter has slipped out of my hands on the backswing. For a moment I’m so shocked that I can’t even imagine what destruction has happened behind me. Broken vase? But there aren’t any vases in the hall. There’s only—
There’s only—
Oh God.
No.
Hyperventilating, hardly daring to move, I slowly turn round to see what I’ve done—and it’s so terrible I think my legs might give way.
I haven’t.
Please, please say I haven’t….
But I have. It’s a nightmare, right in front of my eyes. I’ve smashed the raven. Matt’s precious, beloved work of art. Only one fragment remains on the wall; the rest is pulverized. There’s