“Oh, you know me. Work’s picking up again. Same old.”
“I’m glad to hear it. That bloody lockdown ruined so many businesses. Truly shocking.” He pauses, then adds, “Anyway. No lovely lady in your life yet? I’m not getting any younger. I’d like some grandbabies before I die.”
The grandbaby talk again. I haven’t been on a date in three years. But my mind flashes to last night — the car, Matilda, her lips, the way my pulse wouldn’t settle.
“Well… theremaybe someone,” I say before I can stop myself.
Dad’s face lights up. “That’s amazing! Tell me all about her. What’s her name?”
“It’s… early days,” I hedge. I can’t exactly tell him about my evening with Matilda,my assistant.“We met a few months ago. She’s sweet. We have a lot in common.” Lies. So many lies.
“A few months? And I haven’t met her yet?”
“Work’s been busy,” I rush out. “I actually landed that Nashville contract. Took Matilda with me — she helped seal the deal.”
“Oh, Henry,” he sighs. “You didn’tusethat poor girl, did you?”
“No, she was taking notes. The fact she’s… pretty… helped.”
“I always liked Matilda,” he says softly. “Sweet girl. Kind heart. You can always tell the good ones.”
I laugh. “Dad, you’ve never met her.”
“I know that. But I’ve spoken to her! More than I’ve spoken to you at times. She always asks how I am. Tells me what heels she’s wearing. Purple ones with yellow flowers!” He chuckles to himself.
“She tells you about her shoes?”
He chuckles. “She broke one once while talking to me. Told me all about it — four-inch heel, apparently. We’ve had a running joke ever since. She’s lovely, Henry.” His eyes widen suddenly. “Is she single?”
“Dad, you’renotseriously suggesting I date my assistant.” Well, I didn’t see this coming.
“Why not?”
“Because it’d be unprofessional! And she’s Matilda. She drinks soya-frappa-latte things and probably watchesBridget Joneson weekends. I’m not her type.”
“A guy like you?” Dad asks, almost offended.
“I just mean I’m… well… me.” I trail off. No way I’m unpacking my emotional failings with my father.
“I barely know her,” I add quickly.
“Barely? She’s been your assistant for years!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I know her.” I say in defense. How many bosses can say that they know their assistants on a personal level?
“You must have picked up some stuff about her over the years?” He asks.
I pause. “I know she’s quirky. Great at her job. Probably too good. Picks up my lunch every day — somehow always knows whether I want lemon drizzle or a brownie. Colour-codes my files with those tiny Post-its I pretend to hate but rely on. Drops everything when I ask. Deals with Tanya from accounts so I don’t have to. I once complained about the coffee, and the next morning, there was a fresh pack of my favourite beans waiting. And I never even thanked her. Not once.”
A pit forms in my stomach.
“Well, son,” Dad says, “you can’t say you don’t know anything about her. But I do think that young lady deserves a bit better from you.”
“You’re right,” I sigh, feeling utterly deflated.
“Of course I am. Now pass me another chocolate digestive — none of those fruit shortcakes.”
I chuckle, sliding the plate toward him.
