Messing with Matilda Read online

  Messing with Matilda

  Cat Lavoie

  MESSING WITH MATILDA

  By Cat Lavoie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Cat Lavoie

  Image by bluelela / blueleladesign.com

  MESSING WITH MATILDA

  Copyright © 2018 by Cat Lavoie

  * * *

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the author.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Messing with Matilda

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Cat Lavoie

  Messing with Matilda

  As a professional organizer in New York City, Matilda Hart wages war against chaos and clutter on a daily basis for her clients—and she vows to never let it invade her own well-ordered world.

  But when her boyfriend decides to deviate from the path she’s been planning for them, Matilda's perfectly structured life begins to crumble. She reluctantly finds herself back in the tiny hometown she fled a lifetime ago—determined to lay low and avoid running into anyone she used to know. So why is she reconnecting with her former best friend and putting up with the bridezilla antics of Amber, her high school nemesis?

  When Matilda is tasked with keeping the bride-to-be’s heartbroken ex away from the ceremony, she discovers she has history with the man who’s trying to sabotage the wedding. Matilda quickly realizes that teaming up with cute and quirky—but hopelessly devoted—Silas Flynn could be mutually beneficial. He needs help wooing the woman he considers the love of his life and Matilda can't pass up the chance to finally get back at the meanest of the mean girls by assisting Silas in his attempts to disrupt her wedding.

  Will everything go according to plan for this mismatched pair? Or will working so closely together make uptight Matilda and laid-back Silas lose sight of their common goal?

  One thing's for sure—things are about to get messy.

  This book is dedicated to Abbie—my loyal writing buddy for over fifteen years and the reason I will forever be a crazy cat lady.

  I miss you. 🐾

  Chapter One

  I try to smile and act calm, cool, and collected, but a stress headache is pounding away on either side of my temples, and I want to go hide under my desk. Why did I agree to this? I have no idea. Forcing the corners of my mouth up even further, I nod enthusiastically at the person sitting in front of me. Did she just ask me a question? I need to start paying attention.

  Despite the multiple meditation apps currently installed on my phone, I don’t deal well with stress. I’ve tried all sorts of New Age breathing techniques and visualization exercises, and I used to own a small clown-shaped rubbery ball that I could squeeze until its creepy eyes bulged out of its head, but I flung it across my office last week in a moment of frustration when my computer was taking forever to update. (I have no patience for this process. Time is money!) The ball ended up lodged between two heavy filing cabinets, and it’s been gathering dust ever since. As soon as this epic waste of prime afternoon hours is over, I’m going to retrieve it.

  I wipe my moist palms on my black pencil skirt. Who needs a pricey gym membership when squirming in your seat makes you sweat as much as an hour on the treadmill?

  Is she still talking? Should I nod again? Yes, that feels right. The last thing I want to do is make my guest feel like I’m not fully invested in our meeting. But I really must remember to clean behind those cabinets.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Hart. Do you need me to repeat the question?”

  My eyes dart back to the woman with mousey brown hair sitting in front of me who can’t be a day over twenty-one. She’s holding a black notebook and pen like a journalist from a forgotten era. I’ve never been interviewed before, but I expected an iPhone or some state of the art recorder smaller than a paper clip. Instead, I’m being quizzed by a wannabe Lois Lane. She’s so young, I bet she has no idea who Lois Lane is.

  I’m about to tell—Brenda? Belinda? Enid?—to “yes, please repeat the question” when there’s a small knock at the door and Evie Glass strolls into my office. Again. I’d forwarded all my calls to Evie’s number earlier in the day to avoid any and all distractions. Even though “no interruptions” is a pretty self-explanatory concept, some people apparently have a hard time grasping it.

  “Sorry to interrupt again.” Evie smiles at my guest. This is the second time my office-mate has barged into the room during this interview and I know exactly what she’s going to say. Before she can say it, I notice that she’s applied another coat of mascara, and it takes an incredible amount of willpower for me to stop my eyes from rolling to the back of my head. Is there a polite way to tell someone they’re being absolutely ridiculous? “Matilda, your mother is calling you on my phone. She’s very persistent and wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

  I clear my throat. “Thank you, Evie. Please inform my mother I’m in the middle of an important meeting, and I’ll call her back the second I’m done.” And if we don’t get this show on the road, we’ll be here all week.

  “Okay. I’ll tell her you’re going to call her the second you’re free.” Evie nods and doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Yes. The second my availability goes from busy to not busy.” Can I dumb it down any further? We both know I’m going to grab lunch from the deli around the corner, return a few messages and emails, and water the office plants before I call her back, but Mom doesn’t need to know that. She’s probably calling to make sure I have extra toothpaste in my apartment for their monthly trek to NYC to visit me this weekend.

  The journalist—What is this girl’s name? Shouldn’t reporters wear name tags?—quickly jots something down in her notebook and I want to snatch it from her hands. What is she writing about me? Apart from the undeniable fact that I share an office with a crazy person, that is. I wouldn’t blame her for that. This space is technically the home of Evie Glass Interior Design, but for the last five years, it’s also been the home of my company, Hart Your Space Services. I have a tiny office in the back of Evie’s studio. Since I’m usually the one who goes out to meet potential clients—and not the other way around—it works out perfectly, and it’s been a happy collaboration so far.

  “Maybe we could ask Ms. Glass to join us for this part of the interview? It would be nice to get your assistant’s perspective.”

  Evie is not my assistant (even though she brought us coffee twenty minutes ago), and I was expecting her to quickly correct our little friend, but her eyes light up, and I realize Evie’s willing to play the part in order to get
her picture in the paper. I hate to step on her dreams, but it must be done. Truth be told, I’d let her take over for me in a New York minute. In fact, I’d let her pretend to be me so I could avoid this torture altogether. The headache goes from bad to worse, and I lightly massage my temples with my fingertips. We need to get things moving. My to-do list is a mile long and I’m itching to check items off. “Stop pretending that I will remember this girl’s name” just shot up to the top of my list.

  “I’m sorry,” I sigh. “What’s your name again?”

  “Emma. Emma Watson—like the actress from Harry Potter. But I’m obviously not her.” Emma giggles, and I notice the Gryffindor sticker on her notebook. The only reason I know anything about Harry Potter is because Evie once accused me of being a “typical Slytherin.” (I had to look it up to see if I should be insulted—I wasn’t.) Should I bring it up or are Emma and I mortal enemies because of our opposing houses? Also, why I am thinking about Harry Potter? Could this interview get any more derailed? “Your mom knows my mom,” Emma adds, nonchalantly.

  “Does she now? How fabulous.” And by “fabulous,” I mean horrible, but I hope my exaggerated grin doesn’t betray me. “Listen, Emma. I’m sure Evie needs to get back to work.” I give my friend a pointed look and she leaves my office, closing the door behind her. I turn my attention back to Emma. “You must have a lot of sightseeing to do. Is this your first time in New York City?”

  Emma’s face lights up. “Yes, it is. How did you know?”

  “Just a wild guess,” I answer, resisting the urge to point out the miniature Statue of Liberty peeking out from the top of an “I Heart NYC” tote bag leaning against her chair. Classic newbie purchase.

  “I love it here so much,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “I never want to leave.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  When the Messina Messenger—my hometown newspaper—contacted me last month to set up an interview, I deleted the email as soon as I read the first few lines and hoped they didn’t have a way of knowing I’d received it. Letters get lost in the mail every day. The same thing can happen to messages sent through cyberspace, right? It could have been gobbled up by my spam folder. I should have known they wouldn’t give up on me so easily. I’m the one who keeps reminding Evie that ignoring her credit card bills will not make them go away. A new email popped into my inbox a week later, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore it this time. I assured the editor in chief that I was perfectly fine with conducting the interview over phone or Skype, but they insisted on sending a reporter to my office. Maybe they were worried I’d block their number or screen my calls?

  “We should get back to my questions,” Emma says, sliding her dog-eared New York City guidebook back into her messenger bag.

  “Let’s do it. I don’t want to keep you too long.”

  Emma had shown me a list of places she wanted to visit before heading back to Messina. Museums. Restaurants. Broadway shows. She wanted to cram in a week’s worth of activities into a day. I can’t blame her for seeking a bit of excitement—nothing ever happens in Messina. I’m surprised they still have a newspaper. When I was a kid, I always rolled my eyes at the headlines, which usually involved teenagers arrested for shoplifting at the corner store or the senior hockey league’s latest hip-shattering defeat. Nobody cared—just like nobody cares about me. I left small-town Connecticut as soon as I finished high school and I’ve never looked back—or been back. So that’s why I’m not too excited at the thought of being celebrated as a proud Messina daughter. I’m more of a bratty child who doesn’t want her friends to see her with her totally unfashionable and uncool parents.

  “How did you become a professional organizer?” Emma asks, reading from her notebook. “Did you always know that’s what you wanted to be?”

  I lean back in my chair. I’d like to have a perfectly prepackaged answer to that question. Do I really want to get into how I was the only kid I knew who enjoyed putting her toys away more than actually playing with them? And how I was once kicked out of The Container Store because they were closing for the day and I didn’t want to leave? Or how the beauty of a clutter-free room can move me to tears like one of the sappy chick flicks Evie keeps going on about? “I went to Clutter College,” I say with a wink. “And got a degree in Mess Prevention.”

  “So that’s why you moved to New York? What was your college experience like?”

  So much for trying to be funny. “I was kidding. There’s no such thing as Clutter College.”

  “Of course.” Emma discreetly scratches her pen across the notebook page. The silence that follows is both tense and uncomfortable and I’d now pay good money to have Evie burst into the room. Emma’s mother is probably going to call my mother and tell her I gave Emma a hard time. It’s official—I will definitely never hear the end of it.

  “Actually,” I say, clearing my throat. “I studied business at NYU with a minor in psychology. One day, we had a lecture on hoarding during one of my psych classes. The guest speaker was a professional organizer who assisted hoarders when they needed to declutter their houses. I just found it so fascinating and knew that’s what I wanted to do.”

  Emma’s eyebrows shoot up and I know I’ve said the magic word: hoarding. Ever since hoarding reality shows started popping up on television showing the most extreme of cases, everyone loves talking about the people who have twenty years’ worth of daily newspapers stacked up in the middle of their living rooms or wrappers from every piece of candy they ever ate scattered on every surface.

  “Have you ever dealt with any hoarders yourself?”

  “Only once,” I say. “After graduation, I started working for Dr. Paxton, the woman who gave that lecture at NYU, and I got the chance to tag along during a consultation. Two sisters were living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment and they were threatened with eviction unless they cleaned up their place. It was a real fire hazard—stacks of books and old toys blocking practically every door and window. Piles of garbage were everywhere. It was sad because the two ladies loved every piece of trash they owned. In fact, it wasn’t trash to them; it was memories—and no one was going to force them to throw out their memories.”

  “What happened next?” Emma asks.

  “Well, Dr. Paxton and I sat down with them and painstakingly went through all of their possessions. We were able to convince the sisters to throw away some stuff and donate other things, all while listening to them talk about what these things meant to them and trying to reassure them that the memory associated with the object wouldn’t disappear if the object did. It was a long process—it took over a week—and it was absolutely draining. I have to admit that I thought we were wasting our time and they’d just go back to their old ways once we were out the door.”

  “Did they?”

  Emma’s fascination makes me smile and I’m glad I have a happy ending to this story. “I keep in touch with Dr. Paxton and she follows up with them every few months. It’s been over five years now, and things are still going well. While these cases can be interesting, I’m glad that my typical day involves more low-key situations. Basically, I help people make better use of their space and tame the clutter that can hinder their productivity.”

  There you go. I’ve just crushed this interview. Would it be weird if I high-fived myself? I’m about to get up from my chair and escort Emma out of my office when she picks up her notebook again and goes back into reporter mode. “What do you miss most about Messina?”

  Oh, no, no, no. She did not just go there. I should say my parents, but Mom and Dad come down every few weeks so I don’t get the chance to miss them that much. Obviously, the Messina Messenger readers don't need to know I don't have wistful, nostalgic memories about the place where I grew up. In fact, I've lied about being a native New Yorker more than once. There’s my former best friend Amy, but there’s no way I’m bringing her up in this interview.

  Think, Matilda, think. “Bob’s Hamburger Hut,” I blurt out. Just saying
the words makes my stomach grumble. Oh, how I miss the bacon cheeseburgers with special Hut sauce and crispy onion rings—I ate far too many of them in my teenage years. They also had a pink lemonade slushie that was so sweet it should have been served with a free shot of insulin and a toothbrush. I must have had a stomach of steel back then.

  “I love that place,” Emma says. “I could survive on their strawberry milkshakes alone. I guess you must rush back there every time you’re in town?”

  The gluttonous smile on my face slowly starts to fade—I walked right into that one. Emma asked a trick question and she doesn’t even realize it. Am I going to lie and say I go back all the time, or am I going to own up to the fact that I left Messina and haven’t looked back? Sweat starts trickling down my back again. It would have been a good idea to have a plan before this interview even began. It’s not like I didn’t expect her to ask questions about my ties to Messina. I just wish I had a better story to tell.

  “I’m trying to cut back on the junk food,” I say, which is technically not a lie.

  Emma laughs and nods. “I completely understand. I still have a few more Hut years in front of me, but I’ll have to do the exact same thing when I start pushing forty.”