Chapter 35 Matilda
I climbed out of the Uber and made my way to the front door of my parents’ house, knocking tentatively. My sister answered, offering me a familiar smile devoid of warmth. Her eyes swept over me from head to toe, and her lips curled into a look of disdain.
And for once, I considered calling her out for it.
I’d always thought there was no point in opening old wounds, but Luca’s words rang clear in my mind, and, for the first time in a year, I doubted my decision just to let her relationship with Mark go, even for Taylor’s sake.
Every time you give someone a pass for hurting you because you feel guilty for upsetting them, you hurt yourself.
My sister shifted her weight, narrowing her eyes but stepping back to let me in through the front door.
“Where’s your car?” she asked as I stepped in and started down the hallway.
“The oil pressure light came on, so I didn’t want to drive it.” I hated cars at the best of times; I wouldn’t get stranded on the roadside late at night.
She didn’t bother to reply but followed me into the kitchen.
“Your face is still plastered across the news.”
“I know. You’d think they’d have found something else to talk about by now.”
“Something more interesting than Hollywood’s most violent, sex-crazed druggie kissing an ice princess?”
“He’s not a violent druggie, Lauren. You know that’s all a load of rubbish.” I turned to her and leaned against the counter.
“Didn’t look like rubbish when there was a picture of him off-his-face drunk with bloodied knuckles and two women hanging off him.”
I’d found it too when I first searched Luca’s name weeks ago.
When I’d grown a pair and asked him what had been happening in the picture, he had answered me honestly, as he always did.
He’d just lost his latest leading role due to the endless bad press, so Nancy had taken him out to help him forget about it.
By then, he’d stopped caring about the consequences.
It didn’t matter what he did—they’d find a story regardless.
After a few too many drinks and a confrontation with an arsehole harassing a woman in the bar, Nancy and the woman had dragged him out, right into the waiting cameras of the paparazzi.
“And was your incredibly reliable source of knowledge for this information the Daily Mail, or just a random article you found online?”
“So it doesn’t bother you?” She collected two glasses from the cabinet and sauntered to the fridge to grab a bottle of wine.
“What doesn’t bother me?”
“He’s obviously got women hanging all over him. You think you could ever trust someone like that?”
I glared at her back as she maneuvered with the glasses and wine. God, I was sick of the constant bitterness and antagonism. I hadn’t done anything wrong, yet I was the one under fire?
Every time you give someone a pass for hurting you because you feel guilty for upsetting them, you hurt yourself.
Fuck it.
“That’s pretty rich coming from you.”
She froze at my jibe and narrowed her eyes at me over her shoulder.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, it’s pretty rich that you’re warning me about trusting him when you’re not exactly trustworthy yourself.” I crossed my arms to hide the tremor in my hands.
“And what do you mean by that?” She turned around to lean against the counter—arms crossed, brows raised. Perhaps this was her courtroom look when she was trying to get people to crack.
“Mark. Where was the trust there?”
I hadn’t voiced those words in ages. The thought of saying them aloud had always made my skin crawl with anxiety, but now that I had said them, it felt…good.
One perfectly manicured eyebrow rose higher in surprise, but she just laughed. “That was, like, over a year ago. And you weren’t together.”
“It still stands true, though. I was really hurt after that breakup, and what you did made it even worse. I should be able to trust my sister to not do something like that.”
She turned, collected the bottle of wine and a glass from the side, and started pouring, seemingly unbothered.
“Instead of blaming other people for what happened, why don’t you think about why Mark needed to move on in the first place? Something was obviously…” she drawled, looking up and down my body. “Lacking.”
Her words mimicked almost precisely what she’d said immediately after the whole ordeal, and my throat felt tight.
When Lauren was going through her divorce, something had softened between us—I could feel her leaning on me more, which I hadn’t expected but welcomed.
So when she’d slept with Mark, it had cut even deeper.
Any hope that things might be different, that we might be getting closer, had been destroyed.
I didn’t want to tell her how much her words had affected me, how much I thought about them regularly.
God knows I was grateful to be rid of Mark, but I was sick of how much I let both of their actions affect my self-confidence.
Even though it was a reflection on them and not me, there was still that voice whispering in my mind, asking whether I would ever be enough for anyone. And hearing those words aloud hurt.
“You know what—” I started, but our mother interrupted.
“What are you two doing in here? Dinner is on the table already.” She looked directly at me. “You’re late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I texted to say I had to call an Uber.” I gestured to the bottle of wine in my sister’s hand, grabbed my glass from behind her, and filled it.
“Well, the dinner is going cold now. I spent a lot of time cooking it today, so it’s a shame that it won’t taste as nice because you’re late.”
I took a deep gulp of my wine, willing the crisp taste to give me strength.
My sister placed her hand on our mother’s shoulder, mumbling something as they headed toward the dining room.
I had to give it to our mother. She might have been a lackluster parent, but our family home was beautiful.
Every surface in the kitchen gleamed under the glow of the recessed lighting.
Dark marble countertops stretched across the room, contrasting with the cream cabinets and stainless steel appliances.
There were no family pictures cluttering the space, and it lacked a certain lived-in charm, but it was elegant and sophisticated.
The dining room was a large, open space decorated with dark features: mahogany tables, a modern fireplace, and leather sofas. Unlike in the kitchen, there were some pictures: our mother holding her Olympic medal, my sister after she’d passed the bar exam, and our father meeting the prime minister.
I’d never asked why there was no picture of me on the wall because I knew the answer.
I haven’t done anything.
“Hey, Tee.” I kissed the top of Taylor’s head as I passed her to take my seat. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks.” She smiled up at me, and it made all the drama with Lauren worth it.
“Hi, Dad.” I held up my wine glass in greeting.
“Hi, Matilda, how are you?” His voice was devoid of affection but held no malice. Our relationship had always been a cold, barren landscape. I’d learned as a child that my father wasn’t the affectionate type—and as adults, the only time we spoke to or saw each other was at monthly family dinners.
“Yeah, good, thanks. How about you?”
His eyes flickered to my mother, a subtle yet telling sign that they were mid-disagreement—probably about him working away again. I’d seen this dance so many times before that I inhaled and braced myself for an evening of mediating.
“Fine, thanks.” He sipped his wine and offered a closed-mouth smile.
“Mum.” I scanned the room, desperate for something to break the suffocating silence. “Dinner looks lovely. What are we having?” Small plates, completely devoid of any beige goodness, cluttered the table—no carbs in this household.
“It was from the cookbook your sister bought me for Christmas. It doesn’t have any bad ingredients in it.” I fought the urge to sigh. “I haven’t had a good week, so I wanted something healthy.”
My mum’s version of “not having a good week” was probably having a latte instead of an Americano.
I swear, for the first twenty years of my life, I thought I’d put on ten pounds if I drank semi-skimmed milk.
If my mother ever saw the monstrous drinks Luca bought me most days, she’d send me a referral link to the premium membership of MyFitnessPal faster than you could say “diet.”
“It’s just roasted Mediterranean vegetables with garlic, oregano, and thyme. I seasoned the chicken with the same and roasted it.”
“In oil?” My sister’s lips curved in distaste as she glared at the plates on the table. Mum scoffed as she dished out food for us all.
“Of course not. Just chicken stock.” Lauren looked pleased and took a plate from her.
The conversation continued around recipes and cooking. I drummed my fingers on the table, each of their words rattling through me and leaving behind a trail of frustration.
My forced smile felt suffocating.
“Are you going to say anything, Gerald?” Mum demanded, glaring at him across the table. He looked up from his plate. Taylor kept her head down, spearing some food on her fork.
“What would you like me to say?”
“Whatever you want to say.” My mother’s cutlery clattered to her plate.
“I don’t have anything to say, Julia.” He put a piece of pepper in his mouth and chewed.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Can we not argue today, please?” I mediated. Mum’s mouth opened to retaliate, but I turned to my father and smiled. “How’s work going, Dad?”
“Good. We have a conference in South Africa next week, so I’ll be out of town, but it’s an excellent opportunity for us, so we can’t miss it.” He looked pointedly at my mother, who thinned her lips.
As our father and Lauren’s ex-husband both worked for a private bank, they often traveled together on business. They saw their colleagues a hell of a lot more than they saw their families.
“That will be nice,” I said, sliding a piece of chicken onto my fork. “Will your whole team go?”
“Just me this time.” His eyes flickered to my mother.