Prologue
The First 3 a.m.
It was the dead of night and Bo Armstrong’s room was hot and humid. The August evening brought sticky and stifling summer air in, with no way to break the uncomfortable heat. In an attempt to cool down her little home, Bo had opened a few of her windows, but it was a pointless task. There was no breeze outside to flutter past the windowsill, no relief to be had from the heavy night air. And so, Bo lay in her bed, clad only in a vest and her sleep shorts, her skin already covered with a thin sheen of sweat, her hair pulled up and away from her neck. She was hot and uncomfortable, and sleep evaded her.
It probably didn’t help that she kept replaying the unfortunate events of earlier over and over in her mind. Not seven hours ago, she’d sat through the most awkward meal ever, every scraping of cutlery against priceless dinner plates echoing across the dining room as they’d sat wordlessly over salmon en croûte. The silence had been deafening and even more crushing than the all-pervading heat. Geoffrey, as gentlemanly as ever, kept offering her reassuring glances, but his guest showed no such inclination to politeness. Instead, he’d sat stiffly at the table, his fork clutched between tightly fisted fingers, scowling at Bo whenever Geoffrey talked to her. His anger may have been tightly leashed, but it was still all too evident, and by the time dessert was served, Bo had reached her limits of toleration for his simmering awfulness. She made her excuses and slunk away, leaving Geoffrey and his guest to wallow in the misery that clearly lay between them.
She’d showered in the small bathroom Geoffrey reserved for her use these days. It was one of the perks of her job as his live-in companion. In exchange for preparing his meals,keeping his house in order and providing the company he quietly craved, Bo lived rent-free in his elegant townhouse in the leafy and upmarket London suburb of Blackheath. Not that she did. Not really. Despite Geoffrey’s offer of the best of his five bedrooms, Bo preferred the old summer house at the bottom of his sprawling garden. Something about the weathered building, half-hidden amongst the trees and flowers, called to her. It wasn’t much, with just one bedroom, a small living room and a tiny kitchenette, but it felt like hers.
At first, Geoffrey had fretted about her primitive living arrangements, but Bo had done her best to put his mind at ease.
“All I need is a bed and somewhere I can make coffee,” she’d reassured him.
“It doesn’t even have a bathroom,” Geoffrey had replied. “Just a toilet and a small sink.”
“That’s no problem, not for me.” Bo had smiled. “I’ll just come up to the house whenever I need a shower.”
For three years now, this arrangement had worked perfectly. Every evening, after dinner, Bo would slip into the small downstairs bathroom, washing the make-up from her face and soil from under her fingernails. Afterwards, she’d check on Geoffrey one final time before bed. Most of the time, she’d find him reading in his study, and they’d share a few words about his book or her plans for the next day before she slipped back down the garden path, her hair damp but mind settled. It was a rhythm that suited them both, comfortable, companionable and easy, and Bo couldn’t imagine anything ever changing.
As she’d started the shower, Bo had tried to push aside all thoughts of both that night’s disastrous dinner and Geoffrey’s insufferable guest. As she washed her hair, she tilted her head back under the water and closed her eyes, letting the refreshing spray rinse away both the evening and the heat that clung to her skin. For ten blissful minutes, she’d enjoyed respite from theblistering summer evening, allowing her mind to empty of all but the steady stream of water, before she stopped the shower with a sigh. Stepping onto the cool tiled floor of the bathroom, Bo reached for her towel — just as the door suddenly swung open.
And just as suddenly therehewas. Geoffrey’s dinner guest from hell, Max Fitzroy.
Bo had yelped, yanking her towel from the radiator and frantically pulling it around her body just as Max swore under his breath. He’d spun away from her, but not before he’d gotten a good eyeful of her still-wet body.
“Don’t you knock?” she’d spat, indignant even as a blush coloured her cheeks.
“I never needed to before,” Max had returned, just as bluntly, before a new icy tone entered his voice. “Well, I see dear old Geoffrey is up to his usual tricks.”
“What?” Bo had been confused, but there was no time for answers. Max simply stepped away from her, exiting the room as suddenly as he’d entered it, slamming the door behind him.
Now, Bo turned on her bed, replaying the scene in her head once more.Naked or not, I should have gone after him and lectured him for his rudeness,she thought.Geoffrey’s so kind and Max was so unforgivably awful to him tonight. She’d heard shouting when she’d crept out of the main house after her shower, with both Max and Geoffrey’s voices loud and sharp as they argued. Hearing Geoffrey’s voice raised in anger had surprised her. Bo knew Geoffrey as the gentlest, most generous man, and one who spoke in calm and measured tones. The Geoffrey she knew didn’t shout or snap at others. The Geoffrey she knew didn’t swear or curse. Max, the nephew he hardly saw and rarely mentioned, clearly knew how to needle the old man.
Bo rolled over again, trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. Despite her earlier shower, the heat still satheavily on her skin, and so she kicked at the sheets around her, uncovering her body. Sleep was still an impossibility when she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel outside, before the unmistakable sound of someone trying the door handle echoed into her room. Bo inhaled sharply, her heart suddenly beating faster, her hand abruptly shaky, lingering over her stomach. Should she run? Hide? Frantically, she looked around her for a weapon of any kind to use in self-defence. She was a minimalist though — well, she told herself she was a minimalist. ‘Minimalist’ sounded so much better than ‘too poor to own anything of her own’. Thinking quickly, Bo grabbed the copy ofGlossmagazine that was on her bedside table, rolling it up into the vague shape of something she could poke out an eye with if necessary, or, if worse came to worst, deliver a stinging paper cut with.
A curse sounded from outside her door before she needed to stab anything or anyone however, the voice instantly recognizable to her.Max. Her accidental peeping Tom.
He tried the door once more, before silence fell. Suddenly, the footsteps sounded again, moving around the summer house, coming to an abrupt stop outside her bedroom window, leaving an anticipatory silence that was at once both terrifying and exhilarating.
She watched, mouth hanging open, as Max clambered through her open window, slipping into her room with a quiet thud. He straightened, dusting himself off, before looking at the bed where she lay with a look of absolute surprise.
Hardly daring to breathe, Bo lay still and silent, clutching at her magazine, Max’s presence looming large and obvious, even in the dark of night. Max likewise didn’t move, simply looking down at her while she stared back up at him.
They were only shadows watching shadows, Bo realized. Vague outlines in the dark, without any real knowledge of thehidden depths that lay below. Coming back to herself with a start, she sat up in her bed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Don’t you knock?” she asked him, for the second time that night.
“I never needed to before,” Max answered her, a repeat of his earlier answer, before he paused. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” Bo replied slowly. “So, you’ve kind of stolen the question I was going to ask you.”
Max continued to stare at her. “I snuck in here as a child. It’s always empty. No one’s ever here.”
Bo stared back at him. “Well, it isn’t empty now. I told you; I live here.”
For a moment, Max seemed to consider her words. “Genuinely?”
“Genuinely what?”
