I can see yet another sculpture, which seems to depict a raven. OK, I can cope with a raven. I walk up to it, intending to say something complimentary, then notice that in the raven’s mouth are human teeth.
I emit a scream before I can stop myself, then clap a hand over my mouth.
“What?” Matt looks up from putting our coats in a cupboard which is so discreet I hadn’t noticed it. “Are you OK?”
“Yes!” I try to gather myself. “I was just…reacting to the art. Wow! It’s really…Does it belong to you?” I’m seized by a sudden hope that it’s his flatmate’s, but Matt’s face brightens.
“Yeah. It’s all by Arlo Halsan?” he says as though I might recognize the name. “I was never really into art, but I saw his stuff at a gallery, and I was like, I get this artist. Blew me away. I have another piece in my bedroom,” he adds with enthusiasm. “It’s a hairless wolf.”
A hairless wolf? A hairless wolf is going to watch us have sex?
“Great!” I say in a strangled voice. “A hairless wolf! Awesome!”
Matt closes the cupboard and opens another door, which I hadn’t noticed either because everything is so uniform and sleek and monochrome. “Come and meet the guys,” he says, and ushers me through the door.
The first thing I notice is how huge the space is. The second is that everything is black or gray. Concrete floor, black walls, metal blinds. There’s a seating area with black leather sofas, three desks with an array of computers on them, and a punching bag hanging from the ceiling, which is being thumped by a thickset guy in shorts with his back to us.
On one of the leather sofas is a guy in jeans and massive sneakers. He has headphones on and is intently gaming. I swivel to see the screen—and bloody hell, it’s massive.
“Ava, Nihal. Nihal, Ava,” says Matt by way of introduction, and Nihal raises a brief hand.
“Hi,” he says, and flashes me a sweet smile, then turns his attention back to the gunfire on the screen.
“And that’s Topher,” says Matt, gesturing at the guy whacking the punching bag. “Topher!”
Topher stops punching and turns to face us, and I feel an inner jolt. Whereas Nihal is skinny and quite conventional-looking, Topher is arresting. He’s powerfully built, with a face which is…
Well. I don’t like to use the word “ugly.” But he’s ugly. So ugly he almost comes full circle. His eyes are sunk into his face. His dark eyebrows are massive. His skin is bad. Yet somehow he’s compelling. He radiates personality, even standing there, all sweaty in his sports shorts.
“Hi,” he says in a gravelly voice, and gestures at his ears with his gloved hands. “AirPods.”
“Nice to meet you!” I say feebly as he resumes bashing the punching bag. Then something at floor level catches my eye, and I stare in disbelief. There’s some sort of robot approaching us over the concrete floor. Like the kind people have to vacuum their houses. But this one is holding cans of beer.
Harold spots it at the same time as I do and starts barking frenziedly. I grab for his lead before he can attack it, and we both watch agog as the robot glides toward Nihal.
“I’m sure Harold will get used to that,” says Matt.
“But what is it?” I say, bewildered.
“Robot.” Matt shrugs. “We have a few. One for beer, one for pizza, one for crisps…”
“But why?” I say, even more bewildered, and Matt peers at me as though he doesn’t understand the question.
“Makes life easier?” He shrugs. “Come and see my room, then I’ll get you a drink.”
Matt’s room has black walls, a gray concrete floor, and the hairless wolf sculpture over the bed, which I try very hard not to look at as I unpack Harold’s things. (Why hairless?)
I set out Harold’s bed and blanket and spritz everything with his essential oils. As Matt enters, holding a glass of wine and a beer, I exclaim, “All ready for the sleepover!”
“In my family, dogs aren’t allowed in the bedroom,” responds Matt, and I laugh, because he has a really dry sense of humor. Then, as I stand up and see his frown, my heart plunges. That wasn’t humor. He means it. He means it?
“Harold always sleeps in the same room as me,” I explain, trying to hide my rising anxiety. “He’ll get lonely if he doesn’t.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine in the kitchen,” says Matt, as though