“It’s fine. Besides, Ida increased my hours at the shop again, did I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t. It’s no wonder though. You’re such a good florist.”
“Thanks.” Bo couldn’t help her proud smile. Ida had been running her elegant Blackheath floristry shop for over forty years, and was particular about who she let choose the bloomsshe sold. Bo had been working part-time for Ida for three years now, and despite Ida’s constant compliments for Bo’s natural eye and talent for flowers, only recently had she started letting Bo accompany her on her 4 a.m. visits to New Covent Garden Market.
“You’re a natural,” Willa replied, giving Bo a proud nudge. “You’re going to take over that shop one day, you know.”
Bo laughed. “I think Ida might have something to say about that.”
“Hey, she’s got to retire sometime, right?” Willa gave a lazy stretch. “Anyway, let me know when you need to stay with me. I’ll get some plants in for you to water.”
Bo grinned. “And you’re sure I won’t get in the way of you and . . . what’s his name again?”
Willa flushed. “Scarrow.”
“Terrible name, Will.”
“He’s a good director though.”
“Hmm. So, what’s he out of ten then?” Bo gave Willa a sly smile, and Willa laughed.
“Oh, a seven maybe?”
“Only a seven? Who’s your ten?” Bo asked, but at that, Willa’s face fell. Bo realized she’d hit another nerve as Berg’s unspoken name lingered in the air between them. “Don’t worry about it,” she was quick to reassure her friend. “You go back to your flat and your Mr Seven. I’ll stay here, sort out my life and . . .” she took a deep breath, “. . . and deal with my Mr Two out of Ten.”
Chapter Two
Cavendish, Crags and Clerk LLP was the fanciest office building Bo had ever been to. Although the facade was red-brick, old and ominous, with smooth square windows and a white stone trim, inside was purely modern, with plush carpeted floors and shiny glasswork walls.
She walked in wearing a dress she normally reserved for her more formal auditions, one which hugged her body and showed her waist and curves to their advantage. She’d matched it with a pair of heels which elongated the long lengths of her legs, before artfully applying a layer of make-up and pulling back her hair. She knew she looked elegant, knew she looked good — well, better than she had the last time she’d seen Max anyway. Anything had to be better than her old and frayed T-shirt, with her hair drying in errant curls around her face and a sheen of sweat on her skin.
Bo spent the best part of a week agonizing over what to wear for this meeting, and not just because she knew she would see Max again. No, Bo wanted to look her best for Geoffrey too, so that when her relationship with him inevitably came up — and she knew it would — she could justify his faith and belief in her. She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in an office looking messy and haphazard while expensive lawyers and Max Fitzroy gave her their marching orders, couldn’t bear the thought of them afterwards wondering why Geoffrey had let her stay as long as he had. Bo knew they would think Geoffrey had either gone senile in his old age or that she’d taken advantage of him, neither of which was true. So, part of her careful dressing that day was to deter any barbed comments which might be thrown her way, to ward off any final suspicions that she was nothing more than a grave-robbing gold-digger after all. That thought made her shudder, being a little too close to home.
She wasn’t her mother, Bo reminded herself. She wasn’t her mother at all.
After giving her name at reception, she was ushered upstairs in a smooth-moving elevator to a large, air-conditioned office with sumptuous-looking chairs and a large desk which just bordered on ostentatious. Bo nervously picked at her fingernails, feeling an equal measure of both fear and trepidation.
Wherever you are now, and if you have the time, please help me by not letting me fuck this up,she found herself suddenly praying to Geoffrey, as though his spirit was a talisman that could protect her from besuited lawyers and her upcoming interaction with his estranged nephew. An interaction which would, no doubt, be made awkward by the fact that she’d slept with same said nephew. Or maybe time and the carnal knowledge Max had of her body would have mellowed him out? Bo could only hope. Maybe the orgasm she’d helped him achieve — one that had made his body tense and voice cry out with such voracity Bo still wondered how they hadn’t awoken Geoffrey from his brandy-induced slumber — had muted his quick temper.
Maybe orgasms are the key to world peace,Bo suddenly found herself wondering, going off on a tangent.Maybe orgasms are the answer to everything. Maybe orgasms are the—
“Jacobien Armstrong?”
A voice, warm and polite, interrupted Bo from her spiralling thoughts.
“What?” she stammered.
“I’m Hugo Crags, a partner here at Cavendish, Crags and Clerk. I was Sir Geoffrey’s lawyer. Are you Jacobien Armstrong?”
“Oh.” Bo brushed her hands on her skirt, leaning forward to accept Hugo’s outstretched hand. “No. Well, yes, IamJacobien Armstrong, but no one calls me that. Jacobien, I mean. Peoplecall me Bo. Bo Armstrong. I was Geoffrey’s, uh . . .” she wavered, newly uncertain. What should she say here? Friend? Carer? Gardener? Poverty-stricken freeloading lodger who occasionally slept with his family members?
“There’s no need to explain anything,” Hugo said kindly, and Bo found herself instantly warming to him. Certainly, Hugo Crags didn’t look like the terrifying besuited lawyer of her recent nightmares. He was middle-aged and slightly balding, with remarkably well-manicured nails and a warm smile which made Bo want to smile back. “Geoffrey spoke very highly of you.”
“Did he?” Bo felt a fresh stab of grief. Even from beyond the grave, Geoffrey’s kindness towards her was felt.
“Yes. Please come and sit down. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water maybe?”
“No, I’m fine,” Bo replied, as Hugo gestured her towards a high-backed chair before his still-ostentatious desk. She stared at the deep-red mahogany, chewing on her lip, and Hugo gave a self-aware laugh.
