Mathilda, SuperWitch (Mathilda's Book of Shadows #1)(2)
Had many boyfriends all of whom were a) cheats, b) cheats and thieves c) just thieves d) confidence suckers (“You’re going to wear that?” etcetera) or e) self-involved, egomaniacal ass**les (maybe “e” is independent trait that applies to all the rest).
Struggled with diet and workout regime for many years until made note of important fact that men actually like ass, it’s fashion designers who don’t (and they’re usually g*y so why?). This was obviously a relief.
Embraced café society when Starbucks took over the world as life is much better with vanilla lattes in it.
Talents: Can cook and am perfectly willing to tell you if an outfit suits you (or not).
Could use help with: Choosing men and dealing with SuperWitch predicament.
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The Aunt
Mavis Lilian Honeycutt-Frost
Married to Uncle Otto but I never met him as he left years ago and is not talked about.
(Ever.)
I’ve known Mavis since I could remember. She is one of those very cool aunts, the kind who brings you chocolate and tells you not to worry about chocolate causing zits because that’s a myth (probably zapped ‘em… mm, Zapping Zit Spell may be useful). She’s also the kind who thinks all your boyfriends are great and then hates them after you break up with them.
She’s English and lives in a small seaside town in Somerset called Clevedon (where I currently live but am now thinking work visa procured for me by Mavis might be magical and may go up in puff of smoke). Being English made Mavis even cooler because she’s foreign and has a posh accent and my sisters and I could go out and visit and feel cosmopolitan after we came home.
She reminds me of Merryweather from the Disney Sleeping Beauty cartoon, dark-haired, short and round (and prefers very tailored, sleek clothing… shame that, would benefit with embracing the Earth Mother Look).
She lives in this big, weird castle-esque type thing on a cliff called The Gables (a Honeycutt piece of property). There is only one place that I’ve known that gives me the same feeling as The Gables – New Orleans. Strange, eerie, dreamlike… once you get there, you never want to leave. It is almost like the place caresses you, yet it feels like it is very warm, comfortable, cozy, safe… and closing in on you, smothering you… and you love every minute of it.
Anyway.
* * * * *
Mathilda’s Move to England
(Enter yummy Sebastian who is off-limits because too much my type and thus must beware.)
So, last summer I won a competition I’d entered for the hell of it, Best Brownies at the Taste of the Rockies. (I dabble in baked goods – but Taste of the Rockies! That’s big.)
After e-mailing the news to Mavis, she wrote that she was having some troubles with the café she’s run for years as café society was beginning to take over England and no one wanted cream teas and Victoria sponge anymore and everyone wanted espresso and brownies.
She asked for my help with a new menu and updated “happening” (wince) decor.
Had just broken up with Penishead Number Who Knows? in Disastrous Love Life of Mathilda and was currently feeling that I’d gone as far as I wanted to go in retail so felt that maybe a look-see into the invitation to change of life wouldn’t be a bad idea. I could rent my condo easily and Auntie Mavis told me a work visa wouldn’t be that hard to obtain (hmm) as she could pull some strings (hmm, hmm).
Life could be worse than living in a seaside town in the Southwest of England and serving cappuccinos to boys with accents. So I did it (craziness! as not normally risk-taker but maybe had a spell cast on me?). Auntie said she’d give me the top floor of The Gables and fix it up so I could have my own little flat (is very nice, with fab view, curlicue iron bed and claw-footed tub, yay!).
I had arrived at Heathrow and was struggling out of customs due to overzealous duty-free shopping when I noted that I could not spot Mavis.
What I did spot was this man coming at me (surely not at me, just toward me to pass me in order to passionately embrace stick-thin, sunken cheeked, freakishly tall, supermodel-esque woman behind me carrying $1,000 Louis Vuitton bag).
Oo la la. I think parts of me started quivering just from looking at him. He was yum-a-licious – tall, great hair and attitude.
He was either a fashion-conscious dickhead or g*y, both of which I was deathly attracted to (alas).
Please note bizarre alternate universe of American/English fashion: In America many (not all) women have a clue about fashion and/or make an effort and majority of men are slobs (unless have girlfriend/wife who dresses them, are g*y, players or are freaks). In England, the opposite is true as many men have natural fashion sense that is quite luscious and most women (not all) are either scary fashion kamikazes or don’t care at all (ack!).
He was looking at me so I was pleased that I had strict life philosophy of never wearing knockabout clothes when could be stylish with a bit of effort even if it meant sacrificing comfort.
When I was just about to pass him he said in a fabulous, deep, English-accented voice, “Mathilda.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement and even if I wasn’t Mathilda I would have said, “Yeah?”
Which is what I said.
“Yeah?” (Smooth)
He told me his name was Sebastian something-or-other (had stopped listening at “Sebastian” because no one is actually named Sebastian, that’s a bad name, there’s no way to make it a nickname and sounds very romance novel-ly/soap opera-ish) and by the time I started to listen again he was telling me Mavis had been called away on urgent business and he was asked to pick me up.