Chapter One #3
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.”
“You’d have made a great dad,” Bo had been quick to reassure him.
Her own father had died when she’d been young, and her memories of him were all warm.
Geoffrey, always kind, always compassionate and always interested in her life and welfare, had been like a substitute father to her.
She couldn’t imagine him not being a wonderful dad.
Geoffrey, however, had given her a sad, knowing smile.
“No,” he told her. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Now, Bo sighed as she thought about Geoffrey dead, and of the home into which he’d put so much love and hope being sold away. “He’ll sell,” she told Willa again, before miserably sinking back onto her sofa.
“What happens to you when he does?” Willa asked, and Bo shrugged.
“Well, I think I can safely say I’ll be on the first plane back home.
I think you and I can both agree that my attempt at an acting career has been a bust. If it hadn’t been for Geoffrey letting me live out here nearly rent-free, and for Ida giving me a job in her flower shop, I’d have been home with my tail between my legs years ago.
Both London and acting haven’t worked out as I hoped. ”
“Your acting career hasn’t been a total bust,” Willa argued. “You just haven’t had the same chances as me, that’s all.”
Bo knew she was telling a lie. Willa was nothing if not unshaken in her positivity, determined to see the best in everything and everyone. She was a kind-hearted soul, and Bo knew she was trying her best to keep Bo’s hopes and dreams alive. Where acting was concerned, however, Bo knew the truth.
“I’ve had some of the same chances as you,” Bo replied, reaching over to squeeze Willa’s hand. “We met at an audition, remember? The honest truth though is that I just haven’t got the same talent as you. I’ve been a substandard actress at best.”
“But you’re beautiful and—” Willa began to argue, but Bo cut her off quickly.
“Beauty can only get you so far in a career such as ours, you know that. Will, I watch you in movies, and you just . . . just become your roles. I never had that gift. I can never really pretend to be anything other than me.” Bo paused.
“I wish I could pretend I was someone else. Me isn’t exactly a great place to be right now. ”
“Well,” Willa squeezed Bo’s hand back. “Maybe your Mr Two out of Ten at 3 a.m. will let you stay in this place until the house is sold? It’s not like anyone uses this summer house, is it? You’re well away from the house and any potential buyers here.”
Bo found it hard to be as optimistic as her friend however, slowly shaking her head.
“No,” she said. “No. He’ll want me out. He isn’t sentimental or even friendly, Will.
You know something though? It might sound crazy, but I can give up the summer house.
Losing this place, although scary, wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
I’m a big, strong girl, and I can take care of myself.
No, the worst thing about this whole situation is losing Geoffrey’s garden.
He and I spent hours and hours working there.
His camellia shrub . . . Madelief . . . you should see how pink she gets when she blooms. Her petals are like candy-striped strawberries.
For the past three years I’ve been watering Madelief and trimming and feeding her so that Geoffrey would still see her flower, even when he couldn’t take care of her himself.
Now?” Bo gave a deep sigh. “Now, it’ll never bloom again.
A developer will snap up this house and all the land and build on it. All that work, and for what?”
“Oh, Bo,” Willa replied. “This was meant to be a temporary thing while you waited for your big break. You had to go and get attached, didn’t you?”
“I can’t help it. I attach myself to the most unsuitable things.” Abruptly, Bo thought of Max. After they’d slept together, he’d lingered in her thoughts longer than he reasonably should have, and she caught herself hoping he might come back to Geoffrey’s house, even if only to see her.
It had been a useless dream, however. Max had been true to his word. He said he wouldn’t come back while Geoffrey lived and breathed, and he hadn’t. Now though . . .
Now though. Bo took a deep breath when she thought of seeing Max once more, of what would happen when she and the other interested parties were face to face again.
A misleading legal term, really, since the interested party in question had shown zero interest in her since sleeping with her all those months ago.
In fact, his interest in her had pretty much been withdrawn from the moment of, well, withdrawal.
“What will you do?” Willa asked again, and Bo thought hard.
“Go to the meeting. Face the other interested parties. Get my marching orders and walk out with my head held high.”
Willa nodded approvingly. “That seems sensible. Want to stay with me for a while? I’m at my London flat for a few months while filming this movie, but you could sleep on my sofa.”
Bo gave her friend a soft smile. “Are you sure? I don’t want to get in the way of all your film premieres and red-carpet moments with Hollywood’s finest.”
Willa rolled her eyes. “Those are few and far between, thank God. And of course I’m sure. You’re my best friend, Bo. The only person who keeps me sane in this crazy life of mine, well, except for—” Willa stopped, taking a deep breath. “Look, I’d love to have you stay with me.”
Bo chewed on her lip for a moment. “Thanks, I’d love that to. It’ll be a trek to Ida’s, and a trek to New Covent Garden Market too, but I can’t afford to do anything else right now.”
At that, a look crossed Willa’s face. “You’re not still sending money to your mother, are you?”
Bo blushed, and Willa shook her head, exasperated.
“Bo . . .”
“You and I both know my mum’s hopeless with money. She never has enough. Besides, I only send her what I have to spare.”
“Which is nothing,” Willa stated bluntly. “You work two jobs and sleep in a rent-free shed, and yet every penny you save goes straight into and then through your mother’s slippery fingers.”
“She’s my mum,” Bo argued, loyal to the core.
Willa gave her a look that was both fond and furious. “No. You’re kind, and she’s an emotional pickpocket.”
Bo’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t argue.
She didn’t bother to tell Willa it was just easier this way.
Easier to keep transferring small amounts she didn’t really have than to endure the tearful phone calls, the long, guilt-laced silences, as well as the pointed reminders of everything her mother had sacrificed for her.
Margot Armstrong had weaponized disappointment like no one else, and sending her money simply kept the peace.
Even if it was money Bo didn’t really have.
“It’s fine. Besides, Ida increased my hours at the shop again, did I tell you?”
“No, you didn’t. It’s no wonder though. You’re such a good florist.”
“Thanks.” Bo couldn’t help her proud smile.
Ida had been running her elegant Blackheath floristry shop for over forty years, and was particular about who she let choose the blooms she sold.
Bo had been working part-time for Ida for three years now, and despite Ida’s constant compliments for Bo’s natural eye and talent for flowers, only recently had she started letting Bo accompany her on her 4 a.m. visits to New Covent Garden Market.
“You’re a natural,” Willa replied, giving Bo a proud nudge. “You’re going to take over that shop one day, you know.”
Bo laughed. “I think Ida might have something to say about that.”
“Hey, she’s got to retire sometime, right?” Willa gave a lazy stretch. “Anyway, let me know when you need to stay with me. I’ll get some plants in for you to water.”
Bo grinned. “And you’re sure I won’t get in the way of you and . . . what’s his name again?”
Willa flushed. “Scarrow.”
“Terrible name, Will.”
“He’s a good director though.”
“Hmm. So, what’s he out of ten then?” Bo gave Willa a sly smile, and Willa laughed.
“Oh, a seven maybe?”
“Only a seven? Who’s your ten?” Bo asked, but at that, Willa’s face fell.
Bo realized she’d hit another nerve as Berg’s unspoken name lingered in the air between them.
“Don’t worry about it,” she was quick to reassure her friend.
“You go back to your flat and your Mr Seven. I’ll stay here, sort out my life and .
. .” she took a deep breath, “. . . and deal with my Mr Two out of Ten.”