“KPop Demon Hunters?” Bo raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Hey, don’t judge me. The heart wants what it wants,” Willa replied with a grin. “So, where did this Mr 3 a.m. rank then?”
“Against a singing cartoon demon?”
“It doesn’t have to be a cartoon, demon or otherwise. A ten just represents your ideal, most attractive man. I have this one friend who has Harry Styles as her ten; she likes that boyish, cheeky, tight jeans vibe he has going on. And then I have this other friend who has Steven Spielberg circa 1982 as her ten.”
“That’s slightly niche.”
“Don’t get me started. She has a replica E.T. finger that glows when pressed. God knows what she does with it, but I can never watch that movie again.” Willa prodded Bo in the shoulder. “So, spill. This Mr 3 a.m. . . . Where are you putting him?”
Bo thought for a moment. Max, with his grey eyes, thick dark-blond hair and wide lips was nowhere near a ten. Her last boyfriend, Oliver, she considered more attractive, even though his personality — or lack of one — left a lot to be desired, as had his wandering eye. Still, looks-wise he’d been a solid five, maybe even a six. So, where did that leave Max?
“A two,” she said softly, without really thinking it out. “He’s a two.”
“Atwo?” Willa repeated, her jaw dropping. “I’m sorry, did you just say atwo?”
“Well, I don’t know, I’ve never really—” Bo started to reply, regretting her hasty words, but Willa had already stood, stretching out her delicate legs.
“A two?!” she repeated again. “You mean to tell me that you, Bo Armstrong, who never shagged anyone who didn’t have bulging biceps and an ass you could sink your teeth into had sex with a man you describe as a mere two? Spielberg circa 1982 is more attractive than a two, Bo.”
Bo flushed. “Look, this isn’t something I normally do, okay? Grading men on their looks . . . it feels wrong.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Willa replied, pulling the hair tie from her ponytail and shaking out her long, dark hair. “Men do it to us all the time though, you get that, right? I’ve already appeared on about a hundred online sites being ranked by my looks.”
“Yeah, but you’re famous. Not that being famous makes it any better,” Bo argued, however, Willa only shrugged.
“Fair. But come on, Bo, do you honestly think your Mr Two out of Ten at 3 a.m. didn’t boast about you to his friends after you slept with him? I told you, men do it all the time.”
“I don’t think so. I already told you; I don’t think I’m his type.”
“Type? You’re an Australian five eight blonde with an hourglass figure to die for. Type doesn’t matter when you look like you do. Trust me on this one, he told all his friends about you.”
“If he has any,” Bo returned, chewing on her lip. “He was . . . a little abrasive, if I’m totally honest. Not the most pleasant man I’ve ever met.”
“An abrasive and unpleasant two?” Willa blinked at her. “Why the fuck did you fuck him then?”
Bo opened her mouth to reply before closing it again abruptly. She couldn’t tell Willa about how Max’s sultry words, sarcastic endearments and strong-looking fingers had rendered her body so close to jelly she’d been like a pliant doll in his arms. “I don’t know,” she finally said, her cheeks still red. “It was hot, he was there, it just happened.”
Willa stared at her for a moment, before nodding slowly. “Okay. It just happened. Is it likely to happen again?”
“No.” Bo spoke firmly. “It was a one-time thing, believe me. He’s going to want me out of the way as soon as he can so he can sell this place.”
“You think he’ll sell?”
Bo recalled how angry Max had been the night of his visit. Recalled how harshly he’d spoken about Geoffrey, thought back to how he’d alluded to miserable childhood moments spent in the rambling old house and gardens. “Yes,” she said firmly. “He’ll sell.”
As she said the words, she felt a stab of grief. Geoffrey had bought this house — a rambling, three-storey Victorian mansion set behind high walls in a leafy part of Blackheath — in his prime. The garden had been his passion, and he’d put hours and hours into landscaping it. By the time she’d arrived, age had taken its toll on him and he was no longer able to care for the shrubs he’d nurtured and flowers he’d grown. So, she’d taken on the job herself, though Geoffrey jokingly told her the whole thing could go back to seed for all he cared.
“Except for Madelief,” he added, pointing to his beloved camellia. “She needs to stay forever.”
She’d never known a man to name a plant before, but Madelief was Geoffrey’s pride and joy and so she became Bo’s pride and joy too. She always made sure the shrub was trimmed, made sure the roots were fed.
“I planted Madelief just after I bought the place. She was the first thing I ever brought here. You know, I bought this house with intention of it being a family home,” Geoffrey told her once. “The only marriage I ever made turned into a disaster though, and there were no children.”
She’d reached out to squeeze the old man’s hand, and he’d smiled at her gently.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he lamented. “I don’t think parenting is in my skillset.”
