“Apparently not. She’s not one of the usual crowd anyway, and I asked everyone from the orchestra, and it’s not any of them, either.”
“Well, you know what Max is like. No doubt she’ll be the usual type.”
“Not this one,” Raphaella announced imperiously. “I asked, and Max says she’s no one. Just a fling.”
Bo winced.No one,she repeated in her head.Just a fling.
“He said she’s beautiful but not someone he can be serious about.”
Now, the breath caught in Bo’s chest, joining her frozen heart, and she felt a deep stab of pain.
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t give me the details. You know how he is. But he did say she’s an out-of-work actress. You know what I mean.” Raphaella gave a high, mean-sounding laugh. “Pretty, but entirely empty. Talentless as well as brainless.”
“But Max doesn’t do brainless,” the friend replied, and Bo heard Raphaella laugh again.
“He does pretty though, and like he said, she’s just a fling. He’s not serious about her. Besides, he said it’s already over. He’s had his fun and moved on. Typical Max.”
Angry, hurt tears began to build in Bo’s eyes, and she squeezed them shut to stop them from spilling over.
“So, are you going to make a move on him then? You were so good together last year, and we were all so surprised when he ended things with you. He must be reconsidering . . .” the voice of Raphaella’s friend began to drift away, and Bo realized they were walking towards the house and away from her. Soon, silence settled over her garden once more, the only sound that of Bo’s breath coming in tight, wounded pants.
She remained crouched on the floor for a few moments, hugging her knees to her chest, all thoughts of torches, nets and great crested newts forgotten.
Well,she thought bitterly, wiping at her cheeks.So, this is what heartbreak feels like.
She didn’t know why she was so hurt. Had no idea why she felt so wounded. Max had been clear about his feelings towards her: he didn’t have any. From him, that had been hard, but understandable. He’d been kind to her, and if not kind, then at least civil. But to hear how he really felt about her, and from Raphaella, of all people! Bo felt a pain inside of her so hot and deep it was like being burned from the inside out. She recalled likening their fast-dissolving arrangement to a house made of jelly on the crumbling edge of a volcano, and now she knew the house had fallen, deep into the chasm below, taking her and her heart with it.
Bo’s mind began to spiral, fast and merciless. Of course this was how it would end. Of course this was howshewould end. She was only a pretty face, wasn’t she? Just a temporary distraction for Max, someone to help pass the time until someone more suitable — someone like Raphaella — camealong. It was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Her mother had told her all her life that beauty was her only currency, her true worth. And now Max, without meaning to, had proved those words right.At least now you know,Bo tried to console herself.Now you know, and because you know, you can move on.
Still, when she thought of what Max had said — just a fling, brainless, talentless and, worst of all, not someone he could be serious about — that hot pain inside her burned even hotter, until she felt shaky and ill with it. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Bo remembered hearing. She understood why people said that now. The pain inside her was hotter than hell. Hotter, angrier, bitter and a thousand times more hurtful.
Standing on shaky legs, Bo silently made her way back into the garden, gulping down a lungful of the cool summer evening air. She looked up towards the house, seeing the bright lights inside and felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Suddenly, those lights in the house she’d once loved represented everything she couldn’t have: Max, his music and the life that came with him. She would never meet his friends. Never sit in his house again and hear him play piano. She would never lie in his arms or cook him food or feel his skin against hers.
It really was over.
Bo gulped down another lungful of air, trying to quell some of that painful fire inside, still staring up at the house. As she stared, the sliding door opened, and Bo saw Willa spill out of it, a glass of wine in one hand and an aperitif in the other, with a smile stretched wide across her gorgeous face.
Wills,she thought, exasperated even in her agony.She’s only gone and joined Max’s fucking party, hasn’t she?
Behind Willa emerged a man though, his hand on the small of Willa’s back, and Bo knew exactly who it was from only one glance.
It was Max.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In all the time she and Bo had been friends, Willa was a restrained drinker. When they’d first met and Willa refused offers of second glasses of wine or shots of vodka, she would mention acting classes and puffy skin as her reasons for abstaining. Of course, Bo later learned that Berg was the real reason for Willa’s lightweight attitude to alcohol. Berg was an addict, and Willa would have sold her soul to get him into recovery. It was almost as if every drop Willa didn’t drink was a silent offering to the Gods to keep Berg from the drops he did drink (as well as things he smoked, swallowed, snorted and injected), and it had been painful to watch Willa go from disappointment to disappointment every time Berg relapsed, regressed or, on one awful occasion, had to be revived.
So, to watch Willa now, happily throwing back wine and letting Max top her glass up liberally was a shock to Bo. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching as Willa smiled and laughed up at Max, and she wondered with more than a hint of annoyance why Willa was being so nice to the man who’d just smashed open her heart. She watched for another few minutes, waiting for Willa to gesture to the garden, the pond or her, only for Willa to carry on laughing, smiling and chatting. Max meanwhile was nodding at what Willa was saying, clearly unaware he was in the presence of one of the most famous women on the planet. Briefly, Bo remembered that Max had never heard of Willa when she’d mentioned her and had never seen her in any of her films. For all Max was aware, Willa was at his party as a friend of a guest, and not as the best friend of the woman he’d been sleeping with over the summer.
After a few minutes, it became more than clear that Willa had failed in her mission to tell Max about the pond. As Max topped up her glass once again, it was apparent that she’dcompletely forgotten about the trespassers,the pond’s great crested newts and Bo.
Bo sighed. She knew she would now have to go and recover both Wills and this situation, which meant, she realized with a sinking feeling, she would have to talk to Max.
Max, who thought of her only as a brainless and talentless fling he could never be serious about.
With a renewed sense of anger, Bo wrapped her cardigan tightly around her and stalked up the garden towards the house. Max saw her coming and — and was heflinching? Max? Flinching at the sight of her? With barely repressed anger, Bo stopped in front of Willa and Max, prodding Willa in the shoulder so that her wine sloshed in her glass.
