God help me — I think I’m actually in trouble.
Twenty Two
Matilda
“I’m sorry, you didwhatnow?” 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 wasincredible.”
“Really?” She sounds so shocked it actually annoys me.
“Don’t sound too surprised. Henry’shot, like ten-out-of-ten, thirst-trap-TikTok-star hot. How can you possibly be surprised he’s a good kisser?”
“Because it’sHenry,” 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 yourjob?” 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 tohim.
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 throughPride and Prejudice.I make it threechapters 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.”
