Chapter 11
Matilda steps up to what I can only assume is a custom-built podium—because apparently, even her lecterns need to match the marble theme—and surveys her audience with the kind of confident smile that suggests she’s about to either inspire us or completely destroy our faith in humanity—and possibly relationships.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, her voice carrying the authority of a lifestyle guru who’s spent years telling people how to live their lives and getting paid handsomely for it, “welcome to my Ask Matilda: Holiday Romance & Lifestyle Mastery Q&A, featuring insights from my upcoming book.”
She holds up what appears to be an advance copy of Sleigh Bells & Wedding Bells: How to Land Your Perfect Christmas Catch, and I have to admit, the cover is as over-the-top as everything else in this house—complete with gold foil lettering and what looks like actual glitter embedded in the design.
This should be interesting, Fish mewls from her cozy spot inside my coat. I predict either enlightenment or total societal collapse.
My money is on collapse, Sherlock replies nervously. Hoomans giving relationship advice is like cats teaching swimming lessons.
Hey, I can swim, Fudge protests. The doggie paddle is named after us for a reason.
“Now,” Matilda continues, her smile becoming somehow both warmer and more predatory, “my philosophy is simple—life is too short for cheap champagne and cheaper men. So let’s get started, shall we? No question too personal, no advice too practical.”
A woman in the front row immediately raises her hand as if she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment.
“How do I know if my boyfriend is marriage material?” she asks, and I can practically hear the collective intake of breath from the audience as if they, too, had the same burning question.
Matilda doesn’t hesitate. “Darling, does he drive a BMW or a no-name sedan?”
The woman blinks. “A no-name sedan?”
“There’s your answer, sweet pea. It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one—but significantly easier to stay warm in a Mercedes during winter. A no-name equals a hobosexual. BMW equals husband material.”
The silence that follows could probably be heard in the next county. Then someone in the back starts giggling, and before you know it, half the room is either laughing or looking absolutely horrified. I’m in the latter category—Macy clearly isn’t. So sorry for Jordy.
Did she just reduce relationship compatibility to car models and invent the term hobosexual? Sherlock asks, sounding like his worldview just got run over by a luxury vehicle.
I told you—societal collapse is inevitable, Fish replies smugly. Next, she’ll be rating men by their credit scores and shoe brands.
“Any other questions?” Matilda asks brightly, as if she hasn’t just suggested that automotive preferences are the foundation of lasting love and possibly caused several breakups in real time.
Georgie’s hand shoots up so fast she nearly launches herself out of her chair and possibly into orbit. “What if you’re a woman of a certain age looking for love?”
Here we go.
“Georgie,” Mom whispers and hisses at the very same time, the same horror in her voice she reserves for natural disasters—namely Georgie, “would you sit down!”
“I’m asking for a friend,” Georgie announces loudly, which fools absolutely no one.
Matilda beams at her like she’s just found her star pupil, and she just may have.
“Darling, men age like fine wine, women age like milk—unless you invest in good skincare and better lighting. The key is strategic positioning near flattering lamps and never, ever, meeting anyone for the first time in broad daylight. Think vampire rules, but for dating.”
I’m starting to understand why Grandma makes so much money, Fudge barks. She’s telling people exactly what they want to hear—that everything can be fixed with the right purchase and proper mood lighting.
Buffy wrinkles her nose at me. “She may not be totally off the mark with that last point.”
I nod because it’s true. Lighting is everything. I’ve looked like a ghoul a time or two and the lousy illumination was the only thing to blame—and maybe the fact I haven’t slept since last summer. That might have played a part in it, too.
“Should I lie about my age?” Georgie asks, apparently deciding to abandon all pretense that this is for a friend.
“Never lie,” Matilda replies with the wisdom of a woman dispensing commandments. “Just strategically omit. Think of it as a resume for romance. You highlight your best qualities and leave the less favorable details for the second interview. Age is just metadata anyway.”
Oh, good grief, the thought comes from Mom’s direction, though I notice she’s taking notes like she’s cramming for finals.
Macy clears her throat delicately and raises her hand with the kind of refined gesture that suggests she’s about to ask something far more sophisticated than Georgie’s practical inquiries.
“What about intellectual compatibility?” she asks, clearly trying to establish herself as the classier questioner. I’m sure Matilda is impressed that finally, someone is asking a sensible question, Macy thinks to herself, along with a healthy dose of smugness.
“Intellectual compatibility is absolutely important,” Matilda agrees, and for a moment, I think she might actually give reasonable advice that won’t result in mass relationship casualties.
“But so is financial compatibility. A man who can discuss philosophy is lovely, but a man who can afford to take you to Paris to discuss it while eating overpriced cheese is infinitely better.”
The sound Macy makes could charitably be described as a strangled cough or possibly the death rattle of her romantic ideals and trust fund expectations.
What am I supposed to do with Jordy? She scoffs at the thought. I can’t just tell him he’s a hobosexual and toss him to the curb for other women to gobble up. She gives Buffy the stink eye. And how I bet she’d love to get her hands on my man—just the way she’s sunk her claws into my business.
So much for an olive branch.
“After all,” Matilda continues, warming to her theme, “you can have deep conversations anywhere, but deep conversations over champagne and caviar are significantly more enjoyable than deep conversations over coffee and day-old donuts. It’s simple math, really.
Romance plus money equals happiness. Romance minus money equals therapy bills. ”
She’s not wrong, Fish admits reluctantly. I prefer my philosophical discussions while eating premium salmon.
Another hand goes up—a nervous-looking woman about my age who looks like she’s been through the relationship wars and lost several major battles. “My husband forgot our anniversary. What should I do?”
“Check his bank account balance first,” Matilda replies without missing a beat, like she’s been waiting all day for this exact question.
“If it’s healthy, forgive him and buy yourself something sparkly as a reminder gift.
If it’s not, perhaps it’s time to upgrade your romantic portfolio.
Think of it as relationship day trading. ”
Did she just suggest treating marriage like a stock investment? Sherlock asks, appalled.
“I think she did,” I whisper, equally stunned.
The questions keep coming like confessions at a relationship disaster support group, and Matilda’s answers become increasingly outrageous and far more financially focused.
“How do I get my man to commit?”
“Cook him one perfect meal, then mention casually that your father owns a yacht and three vacation homes. Commitment will follow faster than reindeer on Christmas Eve chasing carrots.”
“Is it wrong to want a man who can provide financial security?”
“Absolutely not! Love may make the world go round, but money makes it go round in first class with complimentary champagne and leg room. Why settle for coach when you can fly private? That’s like choosing to live in a cardboard box when there are plenty of mansions available.”
Georgie raises her hand again, and I brace myself for whatever’s coming next.
“What if you’re attracted to younger men?” she asks with the kind of hopeful expression that suggests this is definitely not hypothetical and possibly involves specific individuals she’s already scoped out—who happen to be present and dressed as waiters.
“Age is just a number,” Matilda declares, “but his bank account balance is a fact with decimal points. A twenty-five-year-old trust fund baby is infinitely preferable to a fifty-year-old struggling artist, regardless of what romance novels might tell you. Youth and money are the perfect combination—like chocolate and peanut butter, but more expensive.”
I’m simultaneously horrified and impressed, the thought comes from Mom’s direction. She’s like a relationship advice tornado—devastating but oddly mesmerizing and probably leaving a trail of broken hearts and empty bank accounts. I’m so glad I don’t care about money.
That’s when Buffy raises her hand, and something in her expression makes me pay closer attention. She looks like she’s about to ask something that actually matters.
“What if you keep choosing the wrong type of man?” she asks quietly, and there’s something vulnerable in her voice that cuts through all the comedy like marshmallows melting in cocoa.
Matilda’s expression softens slightly—the first genuine emotion I’ve seen from her all day that doesn’t involve dollar signs. “Stop shopping in the clearance section of the dating market, dear. Quality costs more upfront but saves money in therapy bills and box wine purchases.”
Ouch, Fish mewls. That one hit close to home. Bizzy, it’s time to dump the big oaf with the badge.
Sherlock simply growls in response.
“How do you know when to give up on someone?” Buffy continues, apparently deciding to go full vulnerability in front of this circus.