Bo remained quiet.
“Okay,” Willa tried again. “Tell me what he does for fun. Other than you, that is.”
Bo thought quickly. Max played piano. That was work though, wasn’t it? What did Max like to do? Did he have any hobbies beyond his music? Bo didn’t know. They’d never really spoken about their lives beyond a ‘need to know’ basis.
Willa huffed. “Okay, so you don’t know that either. Okay, then tell me this: does he have any family? Friends?”
Bo began to blush now, realizing, exactly as Willa intended, that she knew next to nothing about Max. “He went to Eton and likes Indian food,” she suddenly blurted out. That was something, right? Two things, in fact.
Willa made a noise. “Eton? You’re kidding me, right? Fuck me, Bo. I’m pretty sure if I looked up ‘posh twat’ on the urban dictionary it would show me this guy’s picture with a cross-reference to ‘bumbling idiot’.”
“That’s not fair,” Bo replied instantly. “You don’t know him.”
“Bo, neither do you.”
Feeling somewhat caught out, Bo went on the attack. “Just because you’re feeling sensitive about Berg today doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.”
A long, drawn-out silence from Willa followed. “This has nothing to do with Berg,” she finally said, her voice icy.
“It has everything to do with Berg,” Bo replied. “You want me to come to LA with you so I can hold your hand through yet another Berg-related crisis, and you’re pissed that I won’t.”
“Bo—”
“No, Willa Abbott. It’s time you and Berg sorted yourselves out. If you want to go to LA to see him, then go, but don’t try and hidewhyyou’re going to see him by making a smokescreen out of his addiction. And definitely, one hundred per cent don’t make me come along with you for the ride.”
With a click, Willa ended the call.
Chapter Thirteen
Bo realized she was shaking, her heart pounding fast within her chest. She and Willa had been best friends for such a long time, and not once had they ever argued like that. They’d always supported each other in everything, been each other’s rocks, regardless of their own thoughts and opinions of the situation. When Oliver left, and Bo had been a literal wreck, Willa caught the first flight back to London with only her passport and a super-size box of melatonin stuffed in her handbag. She’d never liked Oliver, never trusted him, but not once did she ever use the phrase ‘I told you so’. Instead, she simply offered Bo hugs and FDSA-approved sleeping pills when required.
It worked both ways. When Berg first went into rehab, and Willa was the one falling apart, Bo decamped across London to Willa’s Hampstead flat, where she did what she did best: cared for another person. She swept floors and wiped down counters and washed curtains, sleeping next to Willa at night, and when Willa finally blinked her way back into the morning light, her home had never been so clean or their friendship so strong.
So, to have argued so terribly on the phone just now made Bo feel nauseous, a shaky, sickly feeling washing over her. She immediately dialled Willa back, but the call rang out and out, until it finally went to answerphone.
“Wills,” Bo begged. “I’m sorry. Please call me back.”
* * *
Bo was in an off mood for the rest of the day, which wasn’t helped by a stream of bad customers in Ida’s shop, all of whom wanted bouquets they weren’t selling. Bo loved working at Ida’s, but it was moments like these when she realized she was pretty much trained for nothing. She had her Australian Higher School Certificate, sure, but her grades were nothing towrite home about, and she’d dropped out of Sydney University to pursue the acting career her mother had been so determined for her to have. She wished now she’d been stronger and stood up to her mother more. Wished she’d given education more of a chance. It was too late now though. She was twenty-six, with zero qualifications other than her ‘Miss Teen New South Wales’ and ‘Miss Bondi Beach’ crowns and the lifetime supply of suntan lotion that came with them.
She wished Geoffrey were still alive. When he’d been alive and she’d been caring for him, she’d felt useful and full of purpose. Now, she felt like she was drifting, waiting for the money her inheritance from Geoffrey would bring. Waiting to begin her life in earnest, the way she wanted to live it, even though she wasn’t entirely sure what that life would look like once it arrived. Some days she imagined the money as a kind of answer, a door that would finally open, while other days she suspected it was merely a delay. That thought made Bo nervous. Was the money just a way of postponing the harder question of who she was without Geoffrey, and what she would do when there was nothing left to wait for but herself?
Max was part of that drifting; she reasoned with herself. Maybe she didn’t really like him as much as she thought she did. After all, he wasn’t her usual type, she hardly knew him, and from what she did know, they had absolutely zero in common.You’re just aimless and bored and at a loss of what else to do,she told herself, somewhat relieved by this revelation.It isn’t that you like Max. It’s just that you have nothing else to think about or do, and the sex is amazing.
She felt better almost instantly.Have your fun with Max now,she thought.Once the money is in your account, move on. Keep to the arrangement. Keep to the plan.
Bo could accept that Willa was right: she did get attached too easily. She wouldn’t let herself get attached to Max though.She’d find a job, find a purpose, have her fun and get on with her life. Easy. Max wasn’t like Oliver. She wasn’t desperately in love with him, and she didn’t feel inferior when in his presence. Oliver always let her know, in small but hurtful ways, that he could do better than her. Women who were prettier, women who were cleverer, women who were more successful. Bo let Oliver in, opening herself up to him in ways she’d never opened to anyone before, and because she’d let him in, he was able to hurt her. With Max, it was different. She wasn’t going to let Max in, and because of that, he would never be able to hurt her. Not that she even thought he would. When she was with Max, Bo felt like an equal. With Max, she never felt like she needed to apologize for who she was or what she did. With Max, she felt free.
It was no wonder she enjoyed his company so much. Orgasmsandfree psychotherapy.
When dusk rolled around, and feeling only mildly better, Bo trekked up to the house for her evening shower. Her phone conversation with Willa still rankled, and she decided to take it out on the tiles of the old bathroom, scrubbing at them with a brush and some bleach while the hot water ran. Max clearly hadn’t got around to hiring a housekeeper yet, because the house was beginning to show signs of mess and untidiness. A damp towel on the floor here; a patch of mildew there. Geoffrey, who’d liked things pristine, would have had a cardiac if he’d seen the mould that was beginning to grow on the grout — well, he would if his heart hadn’t already given out, at least. Bo scrubbed and scrubbed till her hands began to ache, and only when the bathroom was tidy and clean once more did she shut the water off, wrap her towel around her body and open the door — running straight into Max on the other side.
“You’ve been in there about an hour,” he complained, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You said I could shower when I wanted,” Bo retorted, not in the mood for a lecture. “I didn’t realize there was a time limit.”
“I thought something was wrong,” Max replied easily. “For all I knew, you were passed out on the bathroom floor. You could have slipped and hit your head. You could have inhaled too much of your shampoo and gone into a coconut-induced coma.”
