Chapter 4 Henry
Four
Henry
For Christ’s sake, I’ve got to get a grip. I can’t just go around thinking about kissing my assistant. I’ll have a sexual harassment claim on my desk by tomorrow morning. I knew it was a mistake asking Jas for advice.
I went to her restaurant two nights ago with that same dull ache in my chest — the one that’s been rearing its ugly head for most of my adult life.
Despite wanting to not be a complete arse to Matilda, I can’t shake the nagging feeling I get whenever she’s around.
Who am I kidding? I’m a bastard to most people these days, but something about her brings out a side of me I’m really starting to hate.
So, I opened up to Jas, and she gave me her usual clear, simple advice — be more approachable, give my assistant more respect and responsibility. Pretty sure none of that meant try to kiss the woman.
I don’t even know what came over me. I told myself I was going to be nicer to her — more approachable, more human. I didn’t mean for that to happen.
Matilda isn’t even my type. She’s beautiful, sure, but too sweet, too soft, too…
pink. The moment I saw her, I knew she was one of the sexiest women I’d ever laid eyes on, but she came into the interview in that purple summer dress, matching heels, and holding a pen with a bloody daisy on the end.
She’s sweetness and innocence wrapped in one package, and I’m just a shell — void inside, damaged goods. Women like her run for the hills.
Jas also told me to ask more questions, show I care about people’s lives — you know, appear human.
And look how well that turned out. I now want to punch some bloke who cheated on Matilda, in the face, and my assistant thinks I’m incapable of dating.
Brilliant. I should probably just keep my mouth shut and stick to what I’m good at — being a dick.
My phone chimes, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
Ben: Henry, I can’t make it tomorrow. Tell Dad I’m sorry.
Well, that’ll do it. No longer thinking about Matilda — fully locked into being pissed at my brother.
One day a fortnight. That’s all he has to commit to with Dad, and he’s flaked three times in a row.
I can’t help thinking about how many weekends Dad might have left.
If it wasn’t for him, I’d have given up on Ben a long time ago.
But Dad still hopes we’ll work things out.
I don’t see it happening. Still, for him, I’ll put on a brave face, play the role he wants to see.
I just wish Ben had the guts to do the same.
I arrive at Dad’s house just after two. Dad’s been through hell.
For thirty years, he’s fought his own body, and I’ve watched him fade.
He used to be strong, confident — magnetic.
My favourite sound in the world was his laugh.
It filled a room, stopped people in their tracks.
He could light up any place he walked into.
Now he doesn’t walk at all.
He lost the use of his legs during lockdown.
Everyone was trapped inside, but Dad was trapped alone.
Mum died when we were kids — I was ten, Ben was five.
He doesn’t remember her, not really, just stories from Dad and me.
But Dad kept her memory alive every day.
Never remarried. Just devoted himself to us — and he did a bloody good job.
Dad was diagnosed with MS, Multiple Sclerosis, in his early twenties.
For years he was fine, apart from the old stumble, or leg cramps, I never noticed anything was wrong.
But as I got older I saw the signs. He never wanted carers.
Claimed he could do everything himself. I’d help out where I could, and that was about all he’d tolerate.
But when lockdown hit, I couldn’t pop round to grab dishes, lift things, or make sure he’d eaten.
One morning, I rang like always. No answer. I figured he was showering or asleep, so I tried again later — except later turned into several calls late into the evening. By seven, I couldn’t wait any longer. I was in the car, panicking. I had a spare key, but I still knocked, hoping.
When I found him lying on the kitchen floor, pale and shaking, I thought he was dead. He’d fallen the night before trying to get water and couldn’t get up.
That image still haunts me.
He was dehydrated, weak, barely conscious.
I called an ambulance. They got him rehydrated, fed, patched up — but he never walked again after that.
I’m not sure if it’s the MS or battles within his mind that stops him from using his legs.
But either way, he remains in his chair, day in and day out.
I swore then I’d take care of him. Work would never come first again.
He’d be my priority, like I was his. He finally accepted some help.
We interviewed a lovely woman called Bernice and she comes to help him in the morning and evening. Babysteps.
Matilda took the brunt of that shift. I doubled her workload, dumped all my frustration and anger on her. I’m not proud of it. Jas has been trying to help me “soften up.” Not sure how well that’s going after last night, but at least I’m trying.
“Is that my boys?” Dad calls from the living room.
Damn you, Ben.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me. Ben couldn’t make it.”
He’s in his usual bright red armchair, but now with oxygen tubes around his face and Dr Hackett sitting beside him. Disappointment flashes in his eyes before he masks it with a smile.
“Dad? What is all this?” Panic creeps into my voice. That familiar feeling of dread wrapping around my throat like a vice.
“Don’t panic, son. Just a silly chest infection. Doc here thought I could use a little oxygen to help the old lungs. Nothing serious.”
“Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not feeling that bad.”
I roll my eyes and drop my bag on the floor. “Dr Hackett, good to see you.”
“Be a champ, Henry, put the kettle on, will you?” Dad says.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Hackett adds. “Good chance to talk about your dad’s care.”
“Sounds good.” I smirk at Dad, who’s already rolling his eyes at us both.
As the kettle clicks on, I turn to Hackett. “Alright, how bad is it?”
He sighs. “Not great, Henry. He’s refusing physiotherapy. The inactivity, his diet — they’re making him a target for infections. If this continues, he’ll need permanent oxygen. And if I keep giving antibiotics, he’ll build a tolerance. Next infection could land him back in hospital.”
“He won’t go back.”
“He might not have a choice next time.”
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry.”
“No need. I can only imagine how hard this is for you.”
“I just… feel like he’s giving up. I’ve tried everything — walks, the garden, the theatre. Nothing works.”
Hackett places a hand on my shoulder. “Keep being here. You’re doing a great job. He’s been through a lot. He just needs reminding it’s not over.”
“You’re right. Thanks, Doctor.”
We finish our tea, and Hackett gives Dad one last pep talk about physiotherapy, which Dad shuts down with his usual, “Oh, stop being soppy.”
After Hackett leaves, Dad’s mood darkens slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I do. He’s getting too tired to hide it.
“So, when am I going to see my boys together again?” he asks.
“Hopefully soon, Dad. Something came up with Ben. Maybe next Saturday.”
He frowns but doesn’t push it.
“What happened between you two?”
“Nothing, Dad. He’s just busy.” Lie. Easier than the truth — that Ben just stopped showing up one day.
I make another round of tea and sit back on Mum’s old floral sofa. It’s ancient — borderline biohazard — but Dad refuses to part with it.
“So, Henry, what’s new?”
“Oh, you know me. Work’s picking up again. Same old.”
“I’m glad to hear it. That bloody lockdown ruined so many businesses. Truly shocking.” He pauses, then adds, “Anyway. No lovely lady in your life yet? I’m not getting any younger. I’d like some grandbabies before I die.”
The grandbaby talk again. I haven’t been on a date in three years. But my mind flashes to last night — the car, Matilda, her lips, the way my pulse wouldn’t settle.
“Well… there may be someone,” I say before I can stop myself.
Dad’s face lights up. “That’s amazing! Tell me all about her. What’s her name?”
“It’s… early days,” I hedge. I can’t exactly tell him about my evening with Matilda, my assistant. “We met a few months ago. She’s sweet. We have a lot in common.” Lies. So many lies.
“A few months? And I haven’t met her yet?”
“Work’s been busy,” I rush out. “I actually landed that Nashville contract. Took Matilda with me — she helped seal the deal.”
“Oh, Henry,” he sighs. “You didn’t use that poor girl, did you?”
“No, she was taking notes. The fact she’s… pretty… helped.”
“I always liked Matilda,” he says softly. “Sweet girl. Kind heart. You can always tell the good ones.”
I laugh. “Dad, you’ve never met her.”
“I know that. But I’ve spoken to her! More than I’ve spoken to you at times. She always asks how I am. Tells me what heels she’s wearing. Purple ones with yellow flowers!” He chuckles to himself.
“She tells you about her shoes?”
He chuckles. “She broke one once while talking to me. Told me all about it — four-inch heel, apparently. We’ve had a running joke ever since. She’s lovely, Henry.” His eyes widen suddenly. “Is she single?”
“Dad, you’re not seriously suggesting I date my assistant.” Well, I didn’t see this coming.
“Why not?”
“Because it’d be unprofessional! And she’s Matilda. She drinks soya-frappa-latte things and probably watches Bridget Jones on weekends. I’m not her type.”
“A guy like you?” Dad asks, almost offended.
“I just mean I’m… well… me.” I trail off. No way I’m unpacking my emotional failings with my father.
“I barely know her,” I add quickly.
“Barely? She’s been your assistant for years!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I know her.” I say in defense. How many bosses can say that they know their assistants on a personal level?
“You must have picked up some stuff about her over the years?” He asks.
I pause. “I know she’s quirky. Great at her job.
Probably too good. Picks up my lunch every day — somehow always knows whether I want lemon drizzle or a brownie.
Colour-codes my files with those tiny Post-its I pretend to hate but rely on.
Drops everything when I ask. Deals with Tanya from accounts so I don’t have to.
I once complained about the coffee, and the next morning, there was a fresh pack of my favourite beans waiting.
And I never even thanked her. Not once.”
A pit forms in my stomach.
“Well, son,” Dad says, “you can’t say you don’t know anything about her. But I do think that young lady deserves a bit better from you.”
“You’re right,” I sigh, feeling utterly deflated.
“Of course I am. Now pass me another chocolate digestive — none of those fruit shortcakes.”
I chuckle, sliding the plate toward him.
I’ve never thought of Matilda as someone I’d date. But now… I’m starting to wonder.