“It arrived at the Armstrong News offices last week. It was marked for the attention of Miss Armstrong in a manila envelope, so my secretary delivered it to me. I opened it, because it had my name on the front, obviously, and inside were those tickets, as well as a signed note from Maximilian Fitzroy himself.”
Bo’s heart leaped in her chest and her mouth ran dry. “Umm, what did the note say?” she asked, trying to sound ultra-casual, and Lisa gave a snort.
“It simply said ‘With my most sincere compliments, Max’.”
Bo’s heart sank. Sincere compliments? That was all Max had to say to her, after all this time? “Oh.”
“Oh indeed,” Lisa turned the wheel, pulling up outside of her house. She stopped the car, unclipping her seatbelt and then turning to face Bo. She gave Bo a long, keen look. “So, do you want to know what I did next?”
Bo swallowed. “Okay.”
“Great. So, at this part in my funny story, I now have four tickets to the concert tomorrow night instead of just two, and think, oh, there’s been an error. Maybe the concert hall hasn’t realized I’ve received the tickets from my original purchase, and in the world’s best case ever of customer service, have had Maximilian Fitzroyhimselfsend me more tickets. Being an honest soul and all, I think, I better give them a call. So, I do. I call the concert hall, and they can’t help me, because they don’t understand what’s happening, and I was like, mate, same.” Lisa paused, leaning towards Bo. “So, I decide to have people from Armstrong News call Max Fitzroy’s agent, and now my story getsreallyinteresting.”
“Lisa,” Bo began, aware of where all this might be going, “look . . .”
“Oh, I’m not finished yet, Bo. You see, Max’s agent is a very understanding man and was obviously concerned that Max’s tickets — and, lest we forget, his most sincere compliments — had gone to the wrong person. There must be a million Armstrongs out there, right?” Lisa gave Bo a look. “Right?”
“Right,” Bo agreed, her mouth still dry.
“So, Max’s agent calls Max, who tells him that he wanted the tickets sent not to a Lisa Armstrong, but to one Miss Jacobien Armstrong. You.”
Bo couldn’t help it. She flushed red, shifting on the leather of Lisa’s passenger seat.
“Unfortunately for Max’s agent, in carrying out Max’s request, they looked up Jacobien Armstrong and found a registered address for her right here at Armstrong News. So,that’s where they sent the tickets, and that’s how they, and this funny story, ended up in my possession.”
“Okay.” Bo cleared her throat. “Lisa, I can explain . . .”
“I really hope you can, because I’m not finished yet,” Lisa cut her off. “You see, I was very confused at this point, because in my head, I’m thinking, wait, Bo doesn’t even know Maximilian Fitzroy, so why is he sending tickets to his concert to her? And then, being the excellent journalist that I am, I think, well, maybe she does know him. My mind harks back to a conversation I had with you, about a year ago, where you told me that you enjoyed classical music, a conversation in which you made an obscure reference to Beethoven. You, Bo Armstrong, referencing Beethoven! I mean, the last time I checked your musical interests, you were still collecting eyelashes on eBay from those 2D boys with no direction—”
“One Direction,” Bo corrected flatly.
“—and not enjoying the melodies of a German composer who’s been dead for a few hundred years. So, by now, I’m pretty convinced you know Max Fitzroy, whose specialty is said dead German composer, and I’m sitting in my office one afternoon, puzzling it all out, when my secretary Mavis comes into the room.”
Oh God. Mavis. Bo knew then she was doomed. Mavis had worked for Lisa for years and knew everything about her and the whole Armstrong family. In fact, Bo was certain that Mavis still had hard copies of every one of her mediocre report cards squirrelled away in a filing cabinet somewhere with her sister’s tax returns and her brother’s sports participation award ribbons.
“Mavis, being the dear that she is, can see I’m sorting something out and asks if she can help, and I say no, not unless she can find an up-to-date address for Max Fitzroy. Mavis then leans towards me and says, ‘Max Fitzroy, how funny you wanthis address, when I’ve just filed a heap of paperwork with his name on it into one of Bo’s files via legal’.”
Bo squirmed again. Of course, Cavendish, Crags and Clerk would have sent the details of the sale of 13 Orchard Drive to her lawyers, who were still the Armstrong family lawyers. For a moment, she rued not having had the foresight to instruct her own lawyers in the UK.
“So,” Lisa finished, sitting back. “Do you still not want to tell me? Or should I keep this funny story going by getting in touch with legal?”
“Max and I know each other,” Bo confessed instantly. “He’s Geoffrey’s son.”
“You mean Sir Geoffrey? Your old employer? But he didn’t have a son.”
“He did,” Bo replied. “Just not openly.”
Lisa’s mouth dropped open. “Fuck me. Fleet Street would have had a field day with that information back in the day. Hell, we would have run the story too. Geoffrey was meant to be one of the good ones. Everyone knew Major was messing around . . . but Sir Geoffrey?”
Bo shrugged. “I wish it weren’t true. Max wishes it weren’t true. But it is.”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought Geoffrey had it in him.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, looking at the horizon ahead. “I’m still tempted to run the story. Maximilian Fitzroy, secret son of Sir Geoffrey Nesbit. That would sell, especially with Max’s concert tomorrow night.”
“Don’t,” Bo begged. “Please don’t. Max would hate it. I would hate it.”
Lisa gazed at her. “You know what Maximilian Fitzroy would hate? I take it you and Max got close then? Is that right?”
Bo blushed. “Yes, well, Max is Geoffrey’s son, and we met each other . . . and then Geoffrey left me half of the Londonproperty . . . and then . . .” Bo’s words dwindled into nothing, but Lisa picked up where she left off.
