endearingly enthusiastic about his percussion playing, and he’s fit, because he’s climbed Everest. (Or maybe some portion of Everest. Whatever.)
We’ve reached the mellow, sitting-around stage of the party. Any minute now someone will suggest a curry or pizza. Maud’s quizzing Matt about Harriet’s House because—this is so Maud—she’s only just clocked what Harriet’s House actually is, by idly picking up Genevieve’s book five minutes ago.
“Oh, those houses!” she exclaimed in astonishment. “Those dolls! I know those! They’re really famous!”
“Maudie, what did you think we were talking about, this whole time?” said Nell in fond exasperation, and Maud replied vaguely, “Oh, I had no idea. I never know the names of things.”
Now she’s sitting next to Matt, saying things like, “So who chooses the curtains?” and “How do you choose the color of the dolls’ hair?” while Matt answers patiently and I bite my lip.
“Hey, Ava.” Nell’s voice whispers in my ear. “Sam’s a bit of a star, isn’t he?”
She’s come over to my side without my noticing and nods her head toward where Sam and Sarika are sitting together on the sofa, heads tilted toward each other, speaking in soft voices.
“He’s amazing,” I say in an undertone. “I bet he can cook.”
“Of course he can cook!” says Nell, rolling her eyes. “Are you kidding? Sarika put in about ten cooking requirements. If the guy couldn’t make risotto”—she draws a finger across her neck—“deal-breaker.”
“Risotto!” I say, my eyes widening. “That’s punchy.”
“That’s Sarika,” counters Nell. “Knows what she wants. A guy who can make risotto.”
We both turn to survey the happy couple again, and I notice that Sam has leaned even closer to Sarika. I bet he knows who Ottolenghi is, I find myself thinking—then hastily thrust the thought from my mind. It’s irrelevant. Matt and I have a different kind of relationship. Not so matchy-matchy. More…
Well. More un-matchy-matchy.
“I mean, we were engaged, but only briefly….” Matt’s voice travels across the room, and I stiffen. What? Engaged? What is he saying?
“Engaged!” exclaims Maud with interest. “Ava never told us you’d been engaged.”
“Well,” says Matt, shifting uncomfortably on his seat. “It was only…I mean, ‘engaged’ is probably overstating it….”
I’m blinking hard, my head trying to process this bombshell. Engaged? He was engaged? I suddenly remember asking Matt how serious it was with Genevieve and his answer: “Depends what you mean by serious.”
How could that be his answer? Engaged is serious!
OK, I have to speak to him. Now.
“Oh, Matt!” I say, already on my feet. “I never told you about…that thing you were asking about. That really important private thing that we need to discuss?”
As Matt turns his head, I shoot him my most fearsome daggers, and he blanches.
“Right.” He swallows. “The thing.”
“So shall we do it now?” I smile ominously at him. “Get it out of the way?” I’m already plucking at his arm, quite hard, and he gets up reluctantly. “Won’t be a sec,” I add over my shoulder to Maud. “It’s just a private…”
“Thing,” she supplies. “Yup. Got it.”
I wait until we’re both in the bedroom and the door is safely closed. Then I round on Matt.
“Engaged?”
“Just for twenty-four hours,” he says hastily. “Less than twenty-four hours.”
“To Genevieve?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Matt stares at me, bewildered. “No! Why would I? We’re not doing baggage, remember?”
“We’re doing some baggage!” I almost explode. “We’re doing context! You should have told me when we did those five extra questions. That’s when.”
“But you didn’t ask, ‘Have you been engaged?’ ” Matt says, looking flummoxed, and I suppress the urge to scream.
“OK.” I try to speak calmly. “Let’s start again. So, you were engaged to Genevieve.”
“No!” Matt puts a fist to his head. “I mean, yes, strictly speaking; she proposed to me and it was very hard to say no. So for a matter of hours, yes, we were engaged. Until I broke up with her. But that was it. I mean, it really was it. Relationship over.”
“Right.” I’m still breathing hard, poised to fight, but I can’t think of my next move. Because this doesn’t actually sound quite as heinous as what I was imagining. (Genevieve at the altar and Matt backing away, still clutching his top hat.)
“I never bought her a ring, we never planned a wedding….” He shakes his head. “It barely happened.”
“Did anyone know about it?”
“A few,” allows Matt. “My parents. Her parents. Her followers on social media.”
“A few?” I stare at him. “She has thousands of followers!”
“But they’ve all forgotten about it by now,” he adds unconvincingly. “It was