I haven’t spoken. “We can put his bed there; he’ll be very comfortable. Won’t you, Harold?”
The kitchen? Who makes their beloved family member sleep in the kitchen?
“I don’t think he will, actually,” I say. I’m trying to smile in a relaxed way, but I feel super-unrelaxed. My dog is not an appliance, and he’s not sleeping in the kitchen. “He’ll miss me. He’ll whine. It won’t work. That’s just…you know. How it is. Sorry.”
Not sorry, my eyes add silently.
Matt’s eyes run over Harold, over the dog bed, and up to me again. I’m still smiling, but my chin has tensed and my hands have curled into fists. I mean, basically this is nonnegotiable. And I think Matt’s realizing it.
“Right,” he says at last. “So…”
“It’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “It’ll be fine. You won’t even notice him.”
I won’t mention that Harold always starts off sleeping on his own bed but joins me under the duvet at some point during the night. We can cross that bridge when we come to it.
“I put some stuff in one of the drawers in the bathroom,” I say brightly, changing the subject. “The left-hand one.”
“Cool.” Matt nods. “That’s where Genevieve always used to—” He stops himself and there’s a prickly silence, during which my mind whirs.
There was a Genevieve?
Of course there was a Genevieve. Of course he has a past. We’re grown-ups; we both have pasts. The real question is: What do we want to know about those pasts?
Matt has been darting wary looks at me, and now he draws breath. “Genevieve was my—”
“Yes!” I cut him off. “I get it. Girlfriend. You have history. We both do.”
Matt and Genevieve. No, it sounds crap. Matt and Ava is far better.
“But this is what I think,” I continue before Matt can blurt out something unhelpful like how great she was in bed. “We were lucky. We met in a magical, wonderful bubble. We didn’t know anything about each other. We had no baggage. No baggage,” I repeat for emphasis. “And in this day and age, that’s a precious gift. Don’t you think?”
“I guess,” says Matt.
“I don’t need to know anything about Genevieve,” I say, trying to emphasize the point. “I’m not interested in Genevieve! Couldn’t care less! And you don’t need to know about Russell.”
“Russell?” Matt stiffens. “Who the hell is Russell?”
Oh, OK. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Russell by name.
“Doesn’t matter!” I make a brushing-aside gesture with my hand. “Ancient history! Baggage! We’re not doing baggage. OK? This is a hand-luggage-only relationship.” I walk over so I’m standing directly in front of Matt and survey his strong, handsome, honest face. “This is us,” I murmur. “Right here, right now. And that’s all that matters.” I brush my lips gently against his. “Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Matt’s eyes crinkle fondly as he gazes at me. “And, yes, we were lucky.” As Harold pads over to us, Matt reaches down and caresses his head. “As for you,” he addresses Harold in mock-stern tones, “you’d better not snore.”
“He doesn’t snore,” I assure Matt earnestly. Which is true. Sleep-whining isn’t snoring; it’s a completely different sound.
I’m just pulling Matt close for another kiss when his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket. He clicks his tongue with annoyance and says, “Sorry. Work. Do you mind? Make yourself at home….”
“No problem!” I say. “Take your time!”
As he answers the phone, I head out to the main living space and look around expectantly.
I’m already getting used to the black. But maybe I could suggest a few brighter accessories to cheer it up. Yes! Like a throw. He needs some throws and cushions.
Topher is now wearing a hoodie over his shorts and sitting at one of the desks, squinting at the screen.
“Hi, Topher,” I say, approaching him with a smile. “We didn’t meet properly. I’m Ava, and this is Harold. We look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Oh, OK.” Topher glances up briefly. “Good to meet you. But you won’t like me. Just FYI.”
“I won’t like you?” I can’t help laughing. “Why not?”
“People don’t.”
“Really?” I decide to play him at his game. “Why not?”
“I have unfashionable emotions. Melancholy. Envy. Wrath. Schadenfreude.” He types something in a sudden energetic flurry. “Plus, you know. I’m a bastard.”
“I’m sure you’re not.”
“I am. I’m mean-spirited. I don’t give money to beggars in the street.”
“You started a charity,” observes Nihal, walking past on the way to his desk. “Topher talks bullshit,” he adds to me. “Don’t ever listen to him.”