Messing with Matilda Read online

  I laugh along with her even though I’m mildly insulted she so easily agreed I need to stay away from greasy foods. And I just celebrated my thirty-second birthday a few weeks ago, thank you very much. How old does this girl think I am? My forties aren’t even on the horizon yet.

  My cellphone pings with a new text message, and I discreetly look over to where it’s resting on the corner of my desk to see if it’s anything important. Words flash across the screen, and I try not to gasp.

  Tilly, call me back right this second. It’s about your father.

  What the—? I need to get this girl out of my office now and call my mother. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I have today.” I stand up and walk over to Emma, extending my hand. “It was so nice to meet you, and I’m looking forward to reading your article.”

  “Um, yeah. It was really nice to meet you too. Can I take a picture of you next to your desk? For the article.”

  “Of course,” I say, feeling a bit caught off guard. Nobody told me there would be a picture involved. If I had my way, this article would be buried at the back of the paper right after the obituaries so nobody I know sees it. Buried. Obituaries. I need to call home and find out what’s going on.

  Emma whips out a small digital camera from her bag and points it at me. “If you could just stand next to your desk, that would be perfect.”

  I take a step back and rest one hand on the smooth cherry-stained wood and the other on my hip. I couldn’t look less relaxed if I tried.

  “Big smile for your friends in Messina,” Emma says. My stress headache is replaced by a panic headache, and I twist my face into something I hope resembles a smile but is probably more like a grimace.

  I don’t have any friends in Messina. Not anymore.

  Chapter Two

  I stare at the massive cardboard box leaning against my office wall. Evie bought a bookcase at IKEA last month because her collection of art deco books is overflowing into my office, but she hasn’t gotten around to assembling it yet. It’s not a good look for someone who’s supposed to project a clutter-free image. “When are you going to build your bookcase?” I walk over to her desk and sit in the closest chair. “I almost tripped on it earlier.” Falling flat on my face would have surely made Emma’s article more interesting, but I can’t afford an injury right now.

  “I think it’s so cute that your mother calls you Tilly,” Evie says, deflecting my question like a pro. “Are you ever going to let me call you Tilly?”

  “Not a chance.” Evie and I have had this conversation before, and I know she’s just trying to distract me as I dial my mother’s number for the twentieth time in five minutes. “Why won’t this woman get call waiting?” I ask the heavens when I’m greeted with an aggravating busy signal yet again. I end the call with an angry jab of my finger and a grunt.

  Evie fans out a rainbow of paint swatches on the table in front of her. “I’m sure everything is going to be okay.” She gives me a reassuring smile.

  I wish I lived in Evie’s world where everything is sunshine and rainbows and you throw caution to the wind like it’s confetti at a wedding. It’s a miracle we’re friends. I’m a realist who knows that things can change in the blink of an eye and disaster is only a phone call away. “You can’t be sure of that,” I say, picking up a swatch of orange paint so bright I’m afraid it might be burning my retinas. “Are you redecorating a color-blind person’s living room? Who would voluntarily put this hideous shade on their walls?” I put the swatch down and try my parents’ number again with no success. Can you still call the operator to make sure someone’s phone is working? Do operators still exist?

  “Who else? Mrs. Murray,” Evie says calmly, and it takes me a few seconds to connect the dots.

  “Ah, the client who’s going to put your unborn children through college strikes again?”

  Evie nods. “Yup. Apparently, the midnight sky theme that she requested for her living room is too dark and I should have known better. So now it’s all about the sunshine orange daydream, whatever that means.”

  Even the most cheerful and optimistic person has something that makes them want to hide under the covers—and for Evie that something is Mrs. Murray, a notoriously difficult client who has our office’s number on speed dial.

  “I’m so jealous you’re getting featured in a newspaper,” Evie says wistfully. “It’s so exciting, don’t you think?”

  I make a face. “It’s the Messina Messenger, Evie. Not the New York Times. A grand total of five people will read it and then it’s going to line Mrs. Merchant’s bird cages.” Truth be told, if my face was going to be splashed across the pages of the New York Times, I wouldn’t be half as nervous. I’m fine with a million strangers reading about me, but the fact that people I grew up with are going to read it makes me want to lose my morning bagel.

  “You’re a local celebrity. I have six brothers and sisters and ten nieces and nephews—it’s a miracle anybody in my family remembers my name when we sit down for dinner.”

  I’m about to protest since I’ve been a guest at several Glass family dinners where it seemed like the only topic of conversation was Evie and her colorful love life, but I get distracted when my latest attempt at calling home doesn’t end with a busy signal. “Finally!” I scream out when my mother picks up after half a ring. “I’ve been trying to call you for ages.”

  “Sorry, dear. I was on the phone with Janice. You know how much of a chatterbox she is. Did I tell you she just got a new hip? She’s taking salsa lessons and going out to new restaurants every week now. She just tried sushi for the first time. Maybe I need to get my hip replaced too. Sounds like fun.” She giggles, and I groan.

  I rub my temples again. “Mother, you cannot decide to get your hip replaced. I’m calling because of that text message you sent me. What’s going on? What’s wrong with Dad?”

  “Oh, yes. The text message. It’s nothing serious, dear. But I was afraid you’d wait until the end of the day to call me back, so Evie suggested I send you a text message to make sure you called me back right away.”

  I look up and see Evie intently examining a flame-colored throw cushion, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

  “Don’t be mad at her,” Mom says, reading my mind. “She was only trying to help.”

  Evie can do no wrong in my mother’s book. I swear my parents would adopt my friend if she wasn’t a thirty-year-old adult.

  “What’s going on, Mother?”

  “Your father had a little spill earlier today during his morning walk, and he hurt his back.”

  I exhale, relieved. I can stop picturing ambulances with blaring sirens and flashing lights and my poor father hooked up to machines and tubes. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s going to be fine. He just needs to rest a bit.”

  “You scared me half to death, Mom.”

  “I didn’t mean to scare you, Tilly. But I’m afraid we can’t come visit you this weekend.”

  My heart sinks—not because I’m disappointed, but because I don’t really mean the words I’m about to say and my sad voice is totally fake. “Oh no, that’s too bad.”

  “I know, dear. But your father can’t sleep on your pull-out couch. And those stairs are so hard on our knees.”

  While I can’t do anything to change the four-story walk-up I currently call home, I always insist that my parents sleep in my bed when they visit, but they always talk their way into sleeping on the living room couch. If all goes according to plan, my parents will soon be visiting me in a building that has an elevator and an apartment that has a guest-room with one of those fancy orthopedic mattresses with a remote control. My father will love it. But I can’t say anything about that yet. “I think it’s for the best. You can come visit me when Dad feels better. Tell him to put ice on it. I'll call later to check up on him.”

  “Why don't you come home for a few days?” Mom asks. “You haven't taken time off in forever, and everyone would love to see you. Amy asked about you just the other
day when I ran into her at the post office.”

  I sigh into the phone and fight the urge to tell my mother Amy was probably just being polite. If she wanted to know how I'm doing, she'd pick up the phone or send me an email. I can't put all the blame on Amy, though... I'm in no rush to talk to her again either. Also, if I were in the market for a vacation, I'd head to Paris or London or Rome—not Messina. "I really can't, Mom. I'm swamped with clients at the moment, and my business has to be my top priority right now."

  I hate disappointing my mother, but the only way I'm making an appearance in Messina is if someone knocks me over the head and drags my unconscious body back there. After a few more minutes of small-talk where I get updated on neighbors I don’t know—or care—about, I’m finally able to hang up.

  “Your dad is okay?” Evie asks with a smug grin as if her earlier predication means she has some sort of supernatural power.

  I nod. “Thank goodness. I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy tonight otherwise.”

  Evie grins. “That’s right. Tonight is the night!” She throws her arms in the air and bumps her hip against mine while dancing to music only she can hear.

  Sometimes I wonder how we ended up being friends. “Don’t start celebrating just yet,” I say, trying not to smile at her silly dance.

  “I’m going to miss you, though.” The dancing has stopped now, and Evie keeps her eyes glued to the binder she just pulled off a shelf.

  “We’re still going to be working in the same office and seeing each other every day,” I say. “And I’ll only be a subway ride away.”

  A small smile creeps up on Evie’s face. “But what if it’s two in the morning and I can’t sleep and I need to talk to my best friend about this weird dream I had? Right now, all I have to do is open my apartment door and cross the hallway to your place. I don’t even have to change out of my fuzzy slippers and pajamas.”

  “You can call me even if it’s two in the morning.” I say the words, but I know I’ll be seriously aggravated if Evie wakes me up in the middle of the night to whine about the latest loser she’s been dating. At least she brings ice cream or cookies when she comes over now.

  “I’m not sure Arthur is going to appreciate that. He can barely stand me as it is.”

  The phone on Evie’s desk rings before I get the chance to protest—my boyfriend isn’t Evie’s number one fan, but Arthur does his best to be pleasant and civil around her for my sake. Evie picks up the receiver and immediately rolls her eyes. She points to the paint swatches and pretends to choke herself. “Of course, I have time to talk, Mrs. Murray. Sunshine orange daydream is out? Okay. No problem. What do you have in mind?”

  I give Evie an encouraging thumbs up and head back to my office to tackle the first item on my daily to-do list: update Hart Your Space’s Facebook page with before-and-after pictures of my latest project. I’ve been working with a bestselling romance writer on a complete overhaul of her home office. She said her new space has dramatically improved her productivity and she’s promised to give me a shout-out in the acknowledgments section of her next novel. Uploading the pictures helps take my mind off the Messina Messenger article for a few minutes. I need to focus on the future—including my business—and stop dreading this blast from the part. Nobody’s going to read it anyway.

  A few hours later, Evie and I are ready to call it a day and go home. “Are you nervous about tonight?” she asks.

  I rummage through my bag to find my keys and lock up our small office. It’s no use lying. “A little bit. I’m not used to Arthur being so mysterious. We’re going to this new Japanese place on 44th. It’s called Kawaii Neko, which means cute cat. Arthur and I both swore we wouldn’t look at the menu online so we’d be surprised.”

  Evie stifles a laugh. “Your relationship is nothing if not exciting.”

  “It’s about to get even more exciting,” I say, a smile playing on my lips.

  Almost two years ago, I was hired by a podiatrist’s office to evaluate and improve their workspace. The receptionist who was supposed to show me around was out sick so Arthur, a doctor who had a bit of free time between patients, took me around the office and pointed out the problem areas—overflowing cabinets, unorganized filing systems, cluttered supply closets. To this day, it is one of my favorite assignments because Arthur called to ask me out the day after I finished working with his team. I said yes and am definitely going to say yes again tonight when he asks the question every woman who’s madly in love with her boyfriend wants to hear: will you move in with me?

  “Does Arthur walk around with a giant vat of hand sanitizer?” Evie asks as we make our way to the subway. “If I touched strangers’ feet all day, I’d want to bathe in the stuff.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve told you a million times that he wears gloves. It’s not as gross as you think. And strangers’ feet have been good for Arthur. I’d gladly fondle a bunion to have a view of Central Park from my large gourmet kitchen. And an enormous walk-in closet with custom shelving. And a guest room as big as the master bedroom.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re more in love with Arthur’s apartment than Arthur himself.”

  If it was said by anyone else, I might have been insulted by that statement, but Evie and I have a strict “tell it like it is” policy when it comes to the men in our lives. I am always free to point out she only dates losers with no potential, and I don’t bat an eye when she accuses me of lusting over an oversized closet with custom shelving units. “Of course not. I love Arthur because he’s a nice guy. The apartment just adds to his appeal.”

  Evie makes a face. “Nice? This is your boyfriend we’re talking about, not a cute barista who puts extra vanilla syrup in your caramel macchiato. Show a bit of passion, woman!”

  “I’ve had a long day. After being grilled by a child journalist and scared to death by my mother, I think I deserve a bit of slack. Besides, I’m saving all of my passion for later tonight, if you catch my drift.”

  I almost burst out laughing at the look of mock horror on Evie’s face, and she gives me a playful shove. “I’m happy for you,” she says. “I can’t wait to hear all the details. Well, almost all the details. Some things are best left to the imagination.”

  When we finally make it back to our apartment building—after surviving a cramped and especially muggy rush hour commute—Evie and I part ways. Working with your best friend has its fair share of perks, but we also appreciate our alone time. I promise to come say goodbye before heading out so she can inspect my outfit and make any necessary adjustments. She’ll probably want to add a colorful scarf or some other accessory that I think looks hideous. (She once made me wear pineapple-shaped earrings for a date. They were buried at the bottom of my handbag before I hit the sidewalk to hail a taxi.)

  I open my front door and inhale the lingering scent of the orange ginger room spray I spritz into the air before leaving every morning. I’m going to miss my apartment. I’m overwhelmed by the feeling as I walk inside and switch on the lights. When I first moved in, I didn’t see much promise in the tiny one-bedroom space. It was a scary time for me. I was jobless following Dr. Paxton's retirement and I was afraid the little money I'd been able to save would drain fast. Within a week of meeting Evie in the building's laundry room, I had a new friend, an office for the company I wanted to start, and thanks to Dr. Paxton's help, I had a list of clients. Finding this apartment led to a beautiful friendship and a fulfilling career which then led to the man I love. Everything seemed to come together in perfect serendipity. Am I dooming myself by moving away?

  I shake my head and carefully drop my keys into the pink porcelain bowl resting on the small table next to my door. Of course, not. When did I become such a whimpering pile of feelings? I don’t believe in serendipity. I believe in hard work and moving forward. And cohabitation is the next logical step for Arthur and me.

  After a quick shower, I examine the date night outfit already laid out on the bed. A smart pants suit seemed like a good idea
this morning, but it’s a warm summer night, and I feel like wearing something a little sexier. This isn’t a job interview after all. I’m going to remember this dinner for the rest of my life. Searching through a closet full of business attire—sending more than a few outfits to the floor in the process—I sigh and sit down on the bed. This would be so much easier with a walk-in closet. I finally decide on a black cocktail dress and black strappy sandals. Evie is not going to approve.

  The phone rings as I’m putting the clothes that fell on the floor back on their designated hangers. Just the thought of leaving them there for an entire evening is enough to make me break out in hives. Some people (Evie) accuse me of being obsessed with cleanliness. I try to tone it down when there are witnesses around, but when I'm alone, I can fuss as much as I want. I flick a piece of lint (where did that come from?) off a pair of black dress pants and grab my phone. A picture of Arthur reading the newspaper flashes across the screen and I can't help smiling.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I answer, grabbing my makeup bag. “Are you downstairs?” Arthur is usually early for everything, and the prospect of putting on my makeup in a hurry isn’t very appealing. The last time I tried to rush through my beauty routine, I stabbed myself in the eye with a mascara wand, scratched my cornea, and ended up walking around with a patch over my right eye for three days. Evie used a pirate voice to talk to me long after the patch came off.

  “No, actually, I’m calling to say I’m going to be late,” Arthur explains. The sounds of traffic and soft jazz tell me he’s calling from his car. “I’m on my way home right now. Do you mind meeting me at the restaurant? Do you need me to text you the address?”

  “No,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. The restaurant is walking distance from my apartment, but I was hoping to walk it hand-in-hand with my boyfriend.

  “My last appointment was a lot longer than expected. I’m rushing back home to take a shower, and it doesn’t make any sense for me to come to your place just so we can walk to the restaurant together,” Arthur says, reading my mind. “I’ll head straight there ASAP.”