“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” he asked her, as he took a seat across the desk from her. “I think it’s older even than the building itself.”
“I like it. My father had a desk like this,” Bo remarked quietly, running a finger along the polished wood.
“Really? Was he in law too?”
“No. Publishing.” Somewhere, in the back of Bo’s mind, lived a collection of hazy images of the father she’d loved so much. She remembered an ageing man bent over his desk, a stack of papers by his side, a pen moving furiously in his hand. She could recall sitting in his lap, the smell of ink strong in the air, while he flipped through a newspaper. She remembered the way he’d held her hand while taking her out for an illicit ice cream. She had a brief memory of his funeral, of hearing of her sister crywhile her mother complained about everyone’s tears staining her black figure-hugging dress.
Feeling awkward, Bo cleared her throat. “Umm, your letter didn’t really say what this meeting’s about, but I guess it’s something to do with Geoffrey’s estate?”
“Please don’t worry; it’s nothing to be concerned about,” Hugo replied easily, waving a hand. “I can see you’re keen to get started, but I’d like Geoffrey’s nephew here before we begin. Saves me having to go over everything twice.”
“Max isn’t, uh, here yet?” Bo felt awkward even asking.
“Max? Oh, you mean Mr Fitzroy. You mean you already know him?” Hugo asked, his face brightening.
“Yes,” Bo replied, her body working overtime to suppress a blush.
“Good. That will make things easier,” Hugo remarked, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Mr Fitzroy is running late. He’s not a morning person, normally, which is understandable.”
“Is it?” Bo’s throat and mouth felt dry.
“Yes, well, you know what he’s like when he’s working.” Hugo waved his hand again. “Sleeps the day away, doesn’t he?”
Bo gave a tight smile by way of a reply, to save herself the awkwardness of acknowledging that she didn’t really know Max at all.
They’d hadn’t spoken about themselves, or their work, or their likes and dislikes. They hadn’t shared anything at all beyond the words which had caused them to tumble into bed together.
No. They hadn’t really talked. They’d just fucked.
“Did, uh, Mr Fitzroy say how he long he might be?”
“No. He just said that he was running late. To save us some time this morning, I’ve just emailed him over a copy of all the relevant documents, including Geoffrey’s will, so he can startreading it on the way. Here,” Hugo said and shuffled a pile of paperwork towards her. “Copies for you too.”
Bo frowned in confusion. “Why would I need a copy of Geoffrey’s will?”
“Well, as one of the beneficiaries, it’s standard practice.”
“Beneficiaries?” Bo spluttered. “What do you mean?”
A slight frown crossed Hugo’s face. “You’re a beneficiary in Sir Geoffrey’s will. He’s left you quite a substantial gift. Surely, he must have told you? Before he passed?”
For a moment, Bo felt light-headed and dizzy, almost ill. “No,” she whispered. “No, he didn’t say a thing.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Hugo looked puzzled. “How odd. I was sure that Geoffrey would have told you. Well, this is a nice surprise for you now then, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Umm, what did Geoffrey leave me? You said it’s quite . . . quite substantial?”
“Yes. It’s an amazing gift for a young woman such as yourself to receive. I told you; Geoffrey always spoke highly of you. He updated his will with me about a year ago, and one of his priorities was making sure that you were taken care of.”
There it was again, that stab of grief, sharper now, so that it caught the breath in Bo’s lungs. Even after his death, Geoffrey was taking care of her, and Bo couldn’t remember the last time she’d let someone do that. Her mother had taught her how to best augment her beauty, how to smile the right way, how to make herself wanted. She’d never taught her how to feel safe, or loved, or looked after. Yet here was Geoffrey, who had been such a gentle if complicated man, thinking of her in the quiet and deliberate way of someone who truly cared.
Momentarily, Bo’s chest ached with the knowledge of it. The idea of being thought of, remembered and provided for — the idea of being trulyloved —was almost too much for her. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something sokind for her without any expectation of return. Bo’s eyes began to fill with tears, and Hugo, seeing her face, jumped up to offer her his handkerchief.
“Sorry,” she blubbered, dabbing at her eyes. “I just . . . I thought I was here today to receive an eviction notice. To learn that Geoffrey wanted to make sure I was taken care of, even after he was gone . . .”
Hugo nodded, a soft expression on his face. “He loved you, Ms Armstrong. He really did, and that love is reflected in the gift he’s given you today.”
“I loved him too. I miss him.” Awkwardly, Bo blew her nose. “He was a good man.”
