Bo shrugged. “I think the only woman he would ever have left his wife for was Madelief.”
Ida said nothing for a moment, before she took another long drink of vodka. “Well, he sounds like an old fool to me. You always told me how desperate Geoffrey was for children. For a family. He gets a woman pregnant and doesn’t acknowledge the child? Leopards and spots, Bo. Leopards and spots.”
Bo sighed. It was something she’d thought about recently. About why Geoffrey, who’d been so desperate for a family, hadn’t married Max’s mother. Hadn’t acknowledged Max as his son and said hang the consequences to all who criticized him. All she could think was that Geoffrey hadn’t been a happy man. She knew he hadn’t loved his wife and figured that he probably hadn’t loved Max’s mother either. Why exchange one unhappy marriage for another? Even for the sake of a child?
Underneath all these thoughts though, lurking a little like unease, was a new awareness that Max was probably right: Geoffrey might’ve been a good man to her, and a kind man to her, but to others, he hadn’t been so pleasant. It was another grown-up emotion born of newly felt adulthood: that someone could be unpleasant, selfish and inconsiderate, and you could love them anyway. That someone could show one side of their face to some, and a crueller side to others. That someone could make bad choices and bad decisions and recognize them but continue to make them anyway.
Bo recalled the first day she and Max had met. He’d assumed she was sleeping with Geoffrey, and she’d been outraged by the suggestion, because it wasn’t true. But why had Max thought it in the first place?
Max wouldn’t have thought what he did unless experience taught him to expect it,Bo realized.There must have been other women before me, and Geoffrey probably did sleep with some of them. That doesn’t mean he didn’t love Madelief, because he did. At least, he told me he did, and I believed him. He really did love her, and he really did lose her, even if he only had himself to blame. But he let that loss twist him. He let that loss consume him. I won’t. Not ever. I’m not going to be like that.
Even if Max didn’t love her, Bo decided, she wasn’t going to end up like Geoffrey. She wasn’t going to let loss twist her into something awful. When her relationship with Max did end, she was going to walk away gracefully and do her damnedest to move on.
At least Geoffrey taught me that,Bo thought.If nothing else, I know hownotto act when Max and I end. Loving someone is beautiful, even if they never love you back. Max told me that. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I do now. So, even if he doesn’t love me back, even if he never loves me back, I can remember my love for him as the beautiful thing it is, and then, when I’ve moved on, as the beautiful thing it was.
“What happened to Madelief?” Bo suddenly asked, and Ida shrugged.
“I told you; we lost touch. I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Max wanted to know. About what happened between Madelief and Geoffrey.”
“You should tell him.”
“It isn’t my story to tell,” Bo replied, and Ida nodded thoughtfully.
“No. Nor mine. But Max is Geoffrey’s son. He should know about his father. Who he was and what he was like. Who knows, it might bring Max a kind of peace. You said he was estranged from Geoffrey?”
Bo nodded.
“No wonder, with a story like theirs. All the same, perhaps if Max knew more about what made Geoffrey the way he was, he might . . . not forgive him, that isn’t the right word. But it might help him understand him.”
Bo nodded, finishing her vodka in one neat gulp. She shuddered, and Ida laughed.
“You need to get better at drinking.”
“And you need to stop hiding vodka in your flower shop.”
“I will soon enough.” Ida paused, giving Bo a sideways glance. “I’m selling up, Bo.”
At that, Bo nearly dropped her empty mug. “What?”
Ida shrugged. “I’m selling up. I’m an old woman, and I’ve worked here all my life. It’s time for me to retire. Time for me to enjoy what life I’ve got left.”
“Ida,” Bo stammered, completely stunned. “You’re not old.”
“Says the twenty-six-year-old. I am old, Bo. I’ve got forty years on you and more. I’m finding the 4 a.m. wake-ups too hard these days. Dragging myself to New Covent Garden Market three times a week . . . flowers are a young person’s game.”
“But . . . but this has always been your shop,” Bo protested, and Ida nodded.
“It has. But it could be yours. If you want it.”
Bo paused, and in her silence, Ida refilled her mug.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. You’re good at this business, Bo. You’re an excellent florist and I think you’d be an excellent businesswoman too. You know this shop inside and out and the customers love you.”
“But I can’t afford to buy you out,” Bo instantly returned, before she thought a moment. “Actually,” she said slowly, “in a few months, I will be able to afford it.”
“Exactly. The timing is perfect. I’ll stay on for a bit, help you get settled in. Not that I think you’ll need it. I’ll be reasonable with the value of the business too. You know how I love this place. I’d never leave it to just anyone.”
