Chapter 22
Twenty Two
Matilda
“I’m sorry, you did what now?” Rachel barks down the line.
I knew telling her that Henry kissed me would land like a lead balloon, but I needed guidance — and my sister’s brand of unfiltered truth was the best kind.
“He kissed me,” I repeat, flopping onto the sofa, “but I kissed him back, and Rachel… it was incredible.”
“Really?” She sounds so shocked it actually annoys me.
“Don’t sound too surprised. Henry’s hot, like ten-out-of-ten, thirst-trap-TikTok-star hot. How can you possibly be surprised he’s a good kisser?”
“Because it’s Henry,” she says, like the name itself explains everything.
“What does that mean?” My tone’s sharper than I intend.
“Matilda, two weeks ago you were complaining about how moody, rude, demanding and patronising he was — and now suddenly he’s God’s gift?”
“I didn’t mention God,” I huff. “But yes, things have changed. It’s like I’m seeing him differently now, and I… I want to explore that.”
“Matty, what about your job?” she says, voice laced with worry.
“There’s an opening in the residential department,” I say quickly. “I was thinking of applying. I could use the Wright project I’ve been doing with Henry as part of my portfolio. Then I wouldn’t be directly under him — professionally, I mean.”
There’s a pause. “And everyone will think you only got the job because you’re sleeping with the boss. You’ll never be taken seriously.”
Trust Rachel to hand-deliver a reality check. She’s not wrong, though. Office politics has never been kind to women — especially ones who wear heels and lipstick and dare to flirt with ambition.
If Henry and I ever became a thing, people would whisper that I’d slept my way up the ladder. That the Wright project wasn’t mine by merit but by proximity to him.
It sucks. It’s unfair. But she’s right.
By Sunday, the dark cloud over my head has pitched a tent and unpacked luggage. Every time I close my eyes, I replay that kiss. Those hands. That quiet sound he made against my lips. I’d only known that kind of intensity in novels, the kind you hide under your pillow as a teenager.
And now it’s real.
For a few hours I let myself daydream about it — about him — before reality claws its way back in. You can’t mourn something you never really had, but somehow, I already am.
It was just a kiss. The best kiss of my life — but still just a kiss.
I try distracting myself with cleaning, reorganising my wardrobe by colour, tidying my makeup drawer, and attempting (again) to get through Pride and Prejudice. I make it three chapters before muttering, “Why hasn’t someone made a version with just the Mr Darcy bits?” and toss it aside.
Out of sheer boredom, I start scrolling Facebook — the digital equivalent of lobotomising myself one post at a time — when something catches my eye. An article titled “How Diet Can Improve MS Symptoms.”
James.
I click it.
It talks about anti-inflammatory foods, omega-3s, cutting sugar, and foods that help nerve repair. By the end, I’ve got my laptop open, half a dozen tabs loaded, and a page of notes scribbled down.
Two hours later, I’m standing in Sainsbury’s with a basket full of kale, oily fish, turmeric, and coconut milk, wondering when I became the kind of woman who impulse-shops for someone else’s nervous system.
By six-thirty, I’m outside James’s townhouse, juggling three bags of groceries and praying Henry isn’t there. What excuse could I possibly give for turning up unannounced, armed with salmon fillets and good intentions?
I press the intercom. “Hi, James, it’s me — Matilda. I know it’s late, I should’ve called. I just— I brought you a few things. I read something about diet and MS and thought…” Oh god. Stop rambling. “Anyway, I’m sorry if this is weird.”
There’s a pause, then the red light on the intercom goes dark.
Brilliant. I’ve freaked him out. I bend to collect my bags, ready to retreat with what little dignity I have left, when the lock clicks.
“Matilda, darling!” James beams from his wheelchair, warmth radiating from him. “What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in.”
Relief floods me. I squeeze through the doorway, the smell of sandalwood and lavender washing over me.
“What have we got here, then?” he asks as I head toward the kitchen.
“This might sound strange, but I came across an article about how certain foods can help with MS symptoms. I… may have gone overboard.” I pull out a small binder I made — printed recipes, colour-coded tabs. “I thought we could try cooking a few together. If you’re up for it.”
“You did all this for me?” His eyes soften as he takes the binder, glancing between it and the groceries.
“Yes. I just thought… maybe it could help. And honestly, I’d enjoy the company.”
His smile widens, full of warmth. “Interfere? My dear, you’d be the highlight of my week. I’d love that.”
He opens the binder, flicking through the tabs — red for meat, blue for fish, green for vegetarian.
“This is brilliant,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Have you eaten? Shall we try one now?”
I grin, setting the bags on the counter. “Sure. You pick the recipe, and I’ll open this.” I hold up a bottle of red wine. “Though fair warning — the article says no alcohol. So this might have to be your last glass for a while.”
James’s eyes widen in mock horror. “And this is meant to help me?”
I laugh, beginning to unpack the vegetables. “The research shows huge improvements in mobility and fatigue. Maybe if we start small — cooking, light exercise — you could be back walking with a stick soon.”
His hands still on the binder. For a moment, the air changes.
“Why?” he asks quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this for me?” His expression is a mix of confusion and something else — fear, maybe, or disbelief.
I swallow. “Because I care about you. Because I want you to feel strong again. To get back to doing the things you love.” I pause, words catching. “And because… I know it would make Henry happy.”
James’s gaze softens further. “You care about my son.”
“Of course. I’m his assistant. It’s kind of in the job description.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, darling. I mean you really care about him.”
My stomach twists. Panic flutters in my chest, but before I can form a denial, he gives me that same knowing smile Henry sometimes does — the kind that sees too much.
“Maybe let’s keep this between us for now,” I manage, forcing a light laugh. “Things are just… complicated.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Though my son is rather perceptive. I doubt you’ll keep it from him for long.”
The devilish glint in his eye tells me exactly what he’s implying. I shake my head, pretending to be scandalised.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Pick a meal. I’m starving.”