There’s a pause, then the red light on the intercom goes dark.
Brilliant. I’ve freaked him out. I bend to collect my bags, ready to retreat with what little dignity I have left, when the lock clicks.
“Matilda, darling!” James beams from his wheelchair, warmth radiating from him. “What a lovely surprise! Come in, come in.”
Relief floods me. I squeeze through the doorway, the smell of sandalwood and lavender washing over me.
“What have we got here, then?” he asks as I head toward the kitchen.
“This might sound strange, but I came across an article about how certain foods can help with MS symptoms. I… may have gone overboard.” I pull out a small binder I made — printed recipes, colour-coded tabs. “I thought we could try cooking a few together. If you’re up for it.”
“You did all this for me?” His eyes soften as he takes the binder, glancing between it and the groceries.
“Yes. I just thought… maybe it could help. And honestly, I’d enjoy the company.”
His smile widens, full of warmth. “Interfere? My dear, you’d be the highlight of my week. I’d love that.”
He opens the binder, flicking through the tabs — red for meat, blue for fish, green for vegetarian.
“This is brilliant,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Have you eaten? Shall we try one now?”
I grin, setting the bags on the counter. “Sure. You pick the recipe, and I’ll open this.” I hold up a bottle of red wine. “Though fair warning — the article says no alcohol. So this might have to be your last glass for a while.”
James’s eyes widen in mock horror. “And this is meant tohelpme?”
I laugh, beginning to unpack the vegetables. “The research shows huge improvements in mobility and fatigue. Maybe if we start small — cooking, light exercise — you could be back walking with a stick soon.”
His hands still on the binder. For a moment, the air changes.
“Why?” he asks quietly.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this for me?” His expression is a mix of confusion and something else — fear, maybe, or disbelief.
I swallow. “Because I care about you. Because I want you to feel strong again. To get back to doing the things you love.” I pause, words catching. “And because… I know it would make Henry happy.”
James’s gaze softens further. “You care about my son.”
“Of course. I’m his assistant. It’s kind of in the job description.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, darling. I mean youreallycare about him.”
My stomach twists. Panic flutters in my chest, but before I can form a denial, he gives me that same knowing smile Henry sometimes does — the kind that sees too much.
“Maybe let’s keep this between us for now,” I manage, forcing a light laugh. “Things are just… complicated.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Though my son is rather perceptive. I doubt you’ll keep it from him for long.”
The devilish glint in his eye tells me exactly what he’s implying. I shake my head, pretending to be scandalised.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Pick a meal. I’m starving.”
Twenty Three
Henry
Monday morning arrives far too slowly. My nerves wake me at 4:30 a.m., and I end up going for a run just to burn off the restless energy clawing at my chest. It doesn’t help. By the time I’m showered and dressed, I’ve already cycled through six different versions of what I’ll say to Matilda and hated every one of them.
