They’ve all been so cynical. So negative. Especially Nell, who keeps saying, “But you don’t know him.” Even Maud, who is generally a very positive person, said, “Ava, you need to stop using the word ‘love.’ You don’t love this man. You don’t know enough about him to love him.” And Sarika predicted he would ghost me.
Ghost me? I was so insulted. Ghost me? This is Dutch. I mean, this is Matt. He would never ghost anyone!
Sure enough, as I open up our WhatsApp chat, it’s full of messages:
So? Ava?
Come on, spill!
Are you married yet???
Firmly I type:
All wonderful!! A-plus date!!! We’re 100% compatible!!
Which is true. We are. Apart from a couple of minute details like the Japanese punk. But that makes us 99.9 percent compatible, and I’m rounding up.
In the kitchen, my tagine is bubbling away nicely, and as I lift the lid, it fills the air with delicious, spicy fumes.
“Wow,” says Matt appreciatively as he enters. “Looks fantastic.”
“Thanks!” I beam at him.
“Your back doorframe has gone soft,” he adds, prodding it. “Dry rot, maybe. And the glass doesn’t look too secure. Did you know?”
“Oh, it’s been like that forever.” I smile at him. “It’s fine.”
“Isn’t that a security risk?” he says, undeterred. “You should get someone to look at that. Or replace it with double glazing.”
Double glazing? Replace my quirky original door with double glazing?
“Don’t worry.” I laugh. “We’re really safe here.” I stir my tagine a few times, then add, “Could you pass the harissa?”
“Harissa?” Matt’s brow crinkles as though he doesn’t understand the question.
“Harissa paste,” I elaborate.
Maybe he uses some different word for it. An authentic Lebanese word. Although, wait, isn’t “harissa” Lebanese?
“Harissa paste?” repeats Matt blankly, and I swivel round, feeling equally baffled.
“Harissa,” I say, reaching for the little jar. “Spice paste. Ottolenghi.”
“What’s Ottolenghi?” replies Matt with interest, and I nearly drop my spoon on the floor. What’s Ottolenghi? I peer at him to see if he’s joking, but I don’t think he is.
“He’s a cook,” I say faintly. “He’s quite famous. Really famous. Like, incredibly, incredibly famous.”
I’m waiting for the light to dawn in Matt’s eyes. For him to exclaim, “Oh, Ottolenghi.” But he doesn’t.
“Huh.” He nods, watching as I stir in the harissa. “So…what’s in the stew?”
“Um…um…” I try to get past the fact he’s never heard of Ottolenghi and focus on my dish. “Adzuki beans, onions, sweet potatoes…”
“Cool.” Matt nods again, then adds, “What meat?”
“Meat?” I swivel on my heel and stare at him, baffled. He’s not joking. Oh my God. My stomach has plunged to my heels, because how can he…Meat?
“Is it chicken?” says Matt, peering at the tagine.
“I’m vegetarian!” I say, more shrilly than I intended. “I thought you realized! I thought…” I swallow. “I thought you were vegetarian.”
“Me?” He seems astounded. “Vegetarian?”
“The monastery was vegetarian,” I point out, trying to contain my agitation. “I’ve only ever seen you eat vegetarian food.”
“I know, right?” He grimaces. “I was, like, it’s only a week. I’ll survive. But I tell you, last night I fell on a burger.”
For a moment I can’t quite answer.
“Right,” I say at last. “Right. Well. I’m a vegetarian. So. That’s…So.”
I’m stirring my tagine in agitation, my face hot. How can he not be vegetarian? I almost feel like he fooled me. He deceived me.
It’s not the end of the world, I tell myself desperately. It’s just…Oh God. It was all so perfect.
“But you have a bone simmering on your hob,” says Matt, gesturing at the stove with a baffled look. “How is that vegetarian?”
I focus on the stove anew. Oh, right. That’s why he got confused. Actually, that’s quite funny. I’m so used to Harold’s food by now, I almost blank it out.
“It’s for Harold,” I explain. “He follows a special canine organic diet. I know some dogs are vegetarian, but I went to a consultant and Harold has quite specific dietary needs.”
I wait for Matt to ask about Harold’s specific dietary needs, but instead he’s peering with interest at the pan.
“What’s that, beef?”
“It’s a lamb bone,” I explain. “I’m going to use the broth to make up his week’s food.”
“Wow.” Matt seems fixated by the bubbling meaty liquid. “It looks good. Really good. Could I taste it?”
Out of nowhere, I feel a sudden flare of indignation, and before I can stop myself, I snap, “Are you saying the dog’s food looks better than what I’ve cooked for you?”
Belatedly, I add a little laugh—but Matt’s head has already risen.