22. Hildy
Hildy
THREE DAYS BEFORE THE PRESCOTT-SCHAFER WEDDING
TAMNIèS, France—While the other guests napped, worked on their tans, or paid an emergency visit to their nail tech, Hildy and Corinne strategized damage control. It wasn’t the fingernail itself so much as the overall harmony of the proceedings that had them on edge.
The good news was that Hildy had a plan to smooth things over. The bad was that it required Walter’s participation.
“Do whatever you have to do to guarantee buy-in,” Corinne advised. “If that means banging it out, no judgment. Although I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
“Sure. I’ll take one for the team.”
“Try not to suffer too much,” she deadpanned, sending Hildy off with an ironic salute.
As usual, when Hildy wanted Walter there was no sign of him. She had no choice but to confront him in his room. If only the walk were longer, so she’d have more time to pump herself up. Her enthusiasm ebbed even further when she ran into Maude in the covered passage outside his door.
“He’s in there,” Maude helpfully volunteered, before Hildy could trot out an excuse. “I’m sorry I misled you about the situation with the two of us.”
“Trust me, I get it.” Sometimes a fake relationship was the shortest distance between two points. “And you were right about it not being any of my business.”
“That’s not how Walter made it sound.”
“Oh?” Speaking of phony, Hildy was not quite selling nonchalance. It was generous of Maude to overlook the bad acting and answer in good faith.
“He told me a little about your history. I didn’t realize the two of you were so—”
During the epic pause that followed, Hildy tried to guess where Maude was heading. Rude? Immature? Fucked up?
“Entangled,” she finally said.
“I suppose that’s accurate.” Hildy Johnson, queen of understatement. “How much did he share?”
“Not much. Reading between the lines, I gather there’s been … conflict.”
“That’s one word for it.” A memory struck, of running into Walter outside a theater. She’d been seized by a rush of pleasure—there he is!—as if her nervous system had forgotten they didn’t like each other anymore.
And then he said, “Who are you with?” and a flash burst in her eyes. That was how she found out he was working for a tabloid.
The worst part wasn’t that he’d used her life as a professional foothold.
Hildy had made a deliberate choice to be seen with high-profile dates in public places to keep her name out there while she got ready to launch Life, Styled.
The problem wasn’t the press; it was Walter.
He’d made her feel silly and forgettable, as if their time together meant nothing to him.
She was an assignment, not a friend or a fellow journalist—much less anything more.
“But you were close? At one point?” Maude asked.
Hildy shrugged, as if that was a stretch. Maude didn’t need to know about the brief interlude during which Hildy would have shouted from the rooftops that she liked Walter more than anyone she’d ever met. Trusted him, admired him, wanted to kiss him—the whole enchilada.
“Maybe you could talk to him—”
“How’s Lo?c?” Hildy interrupted.
“Fine, I assume.” Maude looked down, fiddling with her earring, but she could take a hint. Which was good, because it was past time to set aside the Walter of it all and get down to business.
“Listen, I’m sorry we upset your sister. I’m going to fix this. Not just the fingernail but the whole thing. I know that wasn’t how she wanted the day to go.”
Maude tipped her head, acknowledging the apology with surprising equanimity. “Fee is stronger than she looks. Yes, she’s invested in this idea of making everything perfect and shiny and beautiful, but that doesn’t mean she’s in denial about the fact that life doesn’t always work that way.”
“Of course not,” Hildy murmured. Wanting your world to be aesthetically and spiritually harmonious didn’t mean you were a superficial person.
Or that you were trying too hard to give reality a glow-up because of your fundamental immaturity and unwillingness to grapple with hard truths.
No matter what people said in the comments.
“I think she hoped her wedding would be an exception, but Fee will bounce back.” Maude gave a rueful shrug. “Walter tells me chaos is part of the process.”
He’d know. Hildy kept that thought to herself.
“About Walter … and me,” she began. “I appreciate you trying to help, but this is one of those situations where you get shot with an arrow and it can’t be removed without doing more damage.
The only solution is to break off the sticking-out part and get on with your life.
” Hildy was pretty sure she’d seen that in a movie.
“Or it could be a splinter,” Maude pointed out. “You need to get it out so you can heal.”
It wasn’t the argument that struck Hildy so much as the tone. “Are you big-sistering me?”
“Sorry. Is that annoying?”
“I like it, actually.” That didn’t change the fact that despite what Maude or Corinne or anyone else might believe, Hildy and Walter weren’t going to kiss and make up. Flowers didn’t spring from the ashes if you’d spent years sprinkling salt all over them. And napalm. “Fiona’s lucky to have you.”
“On that note, I’d better go check on her.” Maude’s smile was guarded, like she didn’t want to get Hildy’s hopes up. “Good luck.”
As soon as Walter opened the door to her knock, Hildy slipped past him, noting very casually with her keen observational skills as a journalist that his hair was still damp from the shower, and he smelled like honey and thyme.
That would be the body wash from the wedding guest welcome hamper, though she didn’t remember the scent being quite that mouthwatering straight from the bottle.
While Walter closed the door behind her, Hildy took the opportunity to snoop.
His room wasn’t identical to hers in the soulless copycat fashion of an American hotel chain, but the décor had a similar weathered coziness: reading chair, thick rug, painted wardrobe, big fluffy bed.
She took all of this in at a glance, because Walter was apparently the kind of neat freak who used actual hangers and drawers instead of scattering his personal items over every surface.
A total bust on the espionage front, but then that wasn’t the main purpose of this visit.
“You have an idea,” Walter guessed, before she could launch into her preamble.
Hildy felt compelled to disagree, because it was rude to see through someone as though they were dressed in head-to-toe plastic wrap. “I wouldn’t call it an idea. This is more of an agenda. Or—a plan of attack.”
“I’m all ears.” He gestured for her to take the chair.
“We need to table this.” She circled a hand between them.
He copied the gesture, brows lifting in question. “This?”
“The fighting. Friction. Occasionally immature behavior. Our whole deal. Just until the wedding’s over,” she added, in case he thought this was a permanent ceasefire.
Walter didn’t answer right away. She would have given a lot to be able to unscrew a panel on the side of his head and spy on his thought process.
“Do you really think that’s possible?” he finally asked.
“What I think is that it doesn’t look good for either of our brands to derail the wedding of the century.”
“Is that your main concern?”
Her heart beat a little faster, sensing danger. “As opposed to what?”
“Fiona and Robbie’s personal happiness.”
“What am I, Lady Macbeth? Of course I care about them. My plans have layers. It’s a hallmark of my style.”
“How do you see this playing out?” he asked, after another loaded silence.
“We declare a truce. Right now, tonight, just the two of us. Grab a pair of your tightie-whities and wave them around like a flag.”
“Nice try. I’m not showing you my underwear. Which are not white, by the way.”
“Have you tried OxyClean?”
“Why Hildy, don’t tell me you’ve started doing your own laundry?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mr. Judgmental.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Great,” she said through a strained smile. “Glad to hear it.”
“Do you need an antacid?”
She bit back a retort. One of them had to set an example. “We can’t just pretend not to hate each other. If we’re going to sell this, we have to take it to the next level.”
“Mild distaste?”
Hildy started to roll her eyes before catching herself. “We need to be—cordial. Pleasant.”
“Like maiden aunts? Should I also take up crochet?”
“Sure, Walter. Whatever floats your boat.” Hildy blew out a breath, hoping it would take the sarcasm with it. “We need to act like we like each other, and any conflict people may have observed between us was just … the way people talk to each other when they’re—you know.”
“Friends?” he guessed.
She shrugged. Close enough. “No more egging each other on, okay?”
Walter held up a finger, like this was a press conference and he was waiting for her to call on him.
“Yes?” Hildy said, with what she felt to be remarkable forbearance.
“How much are we pretending to like each other?”
She gave a thoughtful hmm. “I figure if we have sex on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, preferably in broad daylight, that should cover it.”
He made a wheezing sound.
“Any more questions?” she asked sweetly.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
“You have plenty of experience at that.”
“It was a job, Hildy.”
“I’m sure hitmen tell themselves the same thing.” She started for the door, before changing her mind and strolling up to Walter, who was still hovering awkwardly in the middle of the carpet. “Corinne had a suggestion, but I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
At this distance, she didn’t have to raise her voice above a whisper.
He swallowed roughly. “What was it?”
“Have you heard of a sexorcism?”
“What?”
“Sounds fake, right? We should just shake on it. Like professionals.” She held out her hand.
Walter stared at it for several breaths before pressing his palm to hers. They stayed like that, watching each other. The shower gel smelled even better at close range.
“It’s not very French,” he said at last. “A handshake.”
“Go ahead. French it up.” She offered him her cheek.
He leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind before he pressed his lips to the side of her face.
It wasn’t too long or too wet, but it sure as hell wasn’t an air kiss.
She started to turn, thinking to give him the other cheek, but Walter didn’t pull away.
As her face moved against his, their mouths brushed.
Hildy angled her head slightly, lips easing apart as they met Walter’s. It was barely a conscious decision.
Bad idea, her better self whispered. Shhh, her body replied. Let us have this.
Why did the feel of his tongue in her mouth unravel her more than another man’s mouth between her thighs? She’d never gotten this hot this quickly from kissing anyone else. As Hildy sagged, boneless, he wrapped an arm around her waist to draw her up and against him.
“Is that French enough for you?” she whispered.
He breathed a ragged “no” against her earlobe.
She twisted to meet his mouth again, hardly realizing they were moving until she felt the edge of his mattress against the back of her legs.
That jarred her enough to register the insistent buzzing of her phone, which snapped Hildy out of her trance.
Sanity returned with a vengeance. Hildy used the heel of her hand to shove him back a step.
“For reference, that was taking it too far.”
“I guess we overcorrected.” His breathing was still uneven.
Hildy gave a decisive nod. “It’s good we had this time to practice.” She checked her phone, only half surprised to see a series of texts from Corinne. Most were variations on the theme of a stop-sign emoji.
Were she and Walter that predictable? How annoying. Hildy preferred to think of herself as a force of nature, shifting and changing like the wind.
“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she told him, hurrying for the door.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Walter promised.
Whatever that meant.