Chapter Two
Cavendish, Crags and Clerk LLP was the fanciest office building Bo had ever been to. Although the facade was red-brick, old and ominous, with smooth square windows and a white stone trim, inside was purely modern, with plush carpeted floors and shiny glasswork walls.
She walked in wearing a dress she normally reserved for her more formal auditions, one which hugged her body and showed her waist and curves to their advantage.
She’d matched it with a pair of heels which elongated the long lengths of her legs, before artfully applying a layer of make-up and pulling back her hair.
She knew she looked elegant, knew she looked good — well, better than she had the last time she’d seen Max anyway.
Anything had to be better than her old and frayed T-shirt, with her hair drying in errant curls around her face and a sheen of sweat on her skin.
Bo spent the best part of a week agonizing over what to wear for this meeting, and not just because she knew she would see Max again.
No, Bo wanted to look her best for Geoffrey too, so that when her relationship with him inevitably came up — and she knew it would — she could justify his faith and belief in her.
She couldn’t bear the thought of sitting in an office looking messy and haphazard while expensive lawyers and Max Fitzroy gave her their marching orders, couldn’t bear the thought of them afterwards wondering why Geoffrey had let her stay as long as he had.
Bo knew they would think Geoffrey had either gone senile in his old age or that she’d taken advantage of him, neither of which was true.
So, part of her careful dressing that day was to deter any barbed comments which might be thrown her way, to ward off any final suspicions that she was nothing more than a grave-robbing gold-digger after all.
That thought made her shudder, being a little too close to home.
She wasn’t her mother, Bo reminded herself. She wasn’t her mother at all.
After giving her name at reception, she was ushered upstairs in a smooth-moving elevator to a large, air-conditioned office with sumptuous-looking chairs and a large desk which just bordered on ostentatious.
Bo nervously picked at her fingernails, feeling an equal measure of both fear and trepidation.
Wherever you are now, and if you have the time, please help me by not letting me fuck this up, she found herself suddenly praying to Geoffrey, as though his spirit was a talisman that could protect her from besuited lawyers and her upcoming interaction with his estranged nephew.
An interaction which would, no doubt, be made awkward by the fact that she’d slept with same said nephew.
Or maybe time and the carnal knowledge Max had of her body would have mellowed him out?
Bo could only hope. Maybe the orgasm she’d helped him achieve — one that had made his body tense and voice cry out with such voracity Bo still wondered how they hadn’t awoken Geoffrey from his brandy-induced slumber — had muted his quick temper.
Maybe orgasms are the key to world peace, Bo suddenly found herself wondering, going off on a tangent. Maybe orgasms are the answer to everything. Maybe orgasms are the—
“Jacobien Armstrong?”
A voice, warm and polite, interrupted Bo from her spiralling thoughts.
“What?” she stammered.
“I’m Hugo Crags, a partner here at Cavendish, Crags and Clerk. I was Sir Geoffrey’s lawyer. Are you Jacobien Armstrong?”
“Oh.” Bo brushed her hands on her skirt, leaning forward to accept Hugo’s outstretched hand.
“No. Well, yes, I am Jacobien Armstrong, but no one calls me that. Jacobien, I mean. People call me Bo. Bo Armstrong. I was Geoffrey’s, uh .
. .” she wavered, newly uncertain. What should she say here?
Friend? Carer? Gardener? Poverty-stricken freeloading lodger who occasionally slept with his family members?
“There’s no need to explain anything,” Hugo said kindly, and Bo found herself instantly warming to him.
Certainly, Hugo Crags didn’t look like the terrifying besuited lawyer of her recent nightmares.
He was middle-aged and slightly balding, with remarkably well-manicured nails and a warm smile which made Bo want to smile back. “Geoffrey spoke very highly of you.”
“Did he?” Bo felt a fresh stab of grief. Even from beyond the grave, Geoffrey’s kindness towards her was felt.
“Yes. Please come and sit down. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water maybe?”
“No, I’m fine,” Bo replied, as Hugo gestured her towards a high-backed chair before his still-ostentatious desk. She stared at the deep-red mahogany, chewing on her lip, and Hugo gave a self-aware laugh.
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” he asked her, as he took a seat across the desk from her. “I think it’s older even than the building itself.”
“I like it. My father had a desk like this,” Bo remarked quietly, running a finger along the polished wood.
“Really? Was he in law too?”
“No. Publishing.” Somewhere, in the back of Bo’s mind, lived a collection of hazy images of the father she’d loved so much.
She remembered an ageing man bent over his desk, a stack of papers by his side, a pen moving furiously in his hand.
She could recall sitting in his lap, the smell of ink strong in the air, while he flipped through a newspaper.
She remembered the way he’d held her hand while taking her out for an illicit ice cream.
She had a brief memory of his funeral, of hearing of her sister cry while her mother complained about everyone’s tears staining her black figure-hugging dress.
Feeling awkward, Bo cleared her throat. “Umm, your letter didn’t really say what this meeting’s about, but I guess it’s something to do with Geoffrey’s estate?”
“Please don’t worry; it’s nothing to be concerned about,” Hugo replied easily, waving a hand. “I can see you’re keen to get started, but I’d like Geoffrey’s nephew here before we begin. Saves me having to go over everything twice.”
“Max isn’t, uh, here yet?” Bo felt awkward even asking.
“Max? Oh, you mean Mr Fitzroy. You mean you already know him?” Hugo asked, his face brightening.
“Yes,” Bo replied, her body working overtime to suppress a blush.
“Good. That will make things easier,” Hugo remarked, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Mr Fitzroy is running late. He’s not a morning person, normally, which is understandable.”
“Is it?” Bo’s throat and mouth felt dry.
“Yes, well, you know what he’s like when he’s working.” Hugo waved his hand again. “Sleeps the day away, doesn’t he?”
Bo gave a tight smile by way of a reply, to save herself the awkwardness of acknowledging that she didn’t really know Max at all.
They’d hadn’t spoken about themselves, or their work, or their likes and dislikes. They hadn’t shared anything at all beyond the words which had caused them to tumble into bed together.
No. They hadn’t really talked. They’d just fucked.
“Did, uh, Mr Fitzroy say how he long he might be?”
“No. He just said that he was running late. To save us some time this morning, I’ve just emailed him over a copy of all the relevant documents, including Geoffrey’s will, so he can start reading it on the way. Here,” Hugo said and shuffled a pile of paperwork towards her. “Copies for you too.”
Bo frowned in confusion. “Why would I need a copy of Geoffrey’s will?”
“Well, as one of the beneficiaries, it’s standard practice.”
“Beneficiaries?” Bo spluttered. “What do you mean?”
A slight frown crossed Hugo’s face. “You’re a beneficiary in Sir Geoffrey’s will. He’s left you quite a substantial gift. Surely, he must have told you? Before he passed?”
For a moment, Bo felt light-headed and dizzy, almost ill. “No,” she whispered. “No, he didn’t say a thing.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Hugo looked puzzled. “How odd. I was sure that Geoffrey would have told you. Well, this is a nice surprise for you now then, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Umm, what did Geoffrey leave me? You said it’s quite . . . quite substantial?”
“Yes. It’s an amazing gift for a young woman such as yourself to receive. I told you; Geoffrey always spoke highly of you. He updated his will with me about a year ago, and one of his priorities was making sure that you were taken care of.”
There it was again, that stab of grief, sharper now, so that it caught the breath in Bo’s lungs.
Even after his death, Geoffrey was taking care of her, and Bo couldn’t remember the last time she’d let someone do that.
Her mother had taught her how to best augment her beauty, how to smile the right way, how to make herself wanted.
She’d never taught her how to feel safe, or loved, or looked after.
Yet here was Geoffrey, who had been such a gentle if complicated man, thinking of her in the quiet and deliberate way of someone who truly cared.
Momentarily, Bo’s chest ached with the knowledge of it.
The idea of being thought of, remembered and provided for — the idea of being truly loved — was almost too much for her.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something so kind for her without any expectation of return.
Bo’s eyes began to fill with tears, and Hugo, seeing her face, jumped up to offer her his handkerchief.
“Sorry,” she blubbered, dabbing at her eyes. “I just . . . I thought I was here today to receive an eviction notice. To learn that Geoffrey wanted to make sure I was taken care of, even after he was gone . . .”
Hugo nodded, a soft expression on his face. “He loved you, Ms Armstrong. He really did, and that love is reflected in the gift he’s given you today.”
“I loved him too. I miss him.” Awkwardly, Bo blew her nose. “He was a good man.”
“He was. Let me also make one thing quite clear. If ever in the process of our business we need to serve an eviction notice, we don’t call people into our office to do so. We might be lawyers, but we aren’t cruel.”
Bo dabbed at her eyes again. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “Is his . . . his gift to me really that substantial?”
Hugo nodded. “It really is. When Geoffrey drafted his will to me, I asked him repeatedly if he was certain about the changes he was making. He told me that he’d never been surer of anything.”
“Does Max know?” Once again, Bo recalled the phrase other interested parties.
Geoffrey had always told her that following his death, Max was to have everything.
If he’d changed his will in any way in her favour, it meant something was being taken from Max.
Bo felt a rush of nervousness run through her at the thought.
“Like I said earlier, Mr Fitzroy has received a copy of the will this morning by email, so I imagine he does know by now. I’m sure he’ll be fine about it though. He’s always been a reasonable man.”
“Has he?” Bo struggled to equate her knowledge of Max — that petulant, argumentative and almost downright unpleasant individual — with Hugo’s description of him as “reasonable”.
“Yes. Very reasonable. Besides, given that his inheritance from Geoffrey is still quite sizeable, I’m sure he’ll have no reason to complain. Rest assured, Ms Armstrong, Geoffrey is taking care of his nephew in much the same way as he’s taking care of you.”
“That’s good,” Bo replied, nodding, and Hugo gave her another kind smile.
“Look, why don’t you start reading the will while we wait for Mr Fitzroy? I’m sure he won’t be too long now. Can I get you that coffee or tea? A glass of water?”
Bo opened her mouth to reply, to thank Hugo for his kindness.
Before the words could leave her lips however, the door to Hugo’s office slammed open, and Max thundered in.
He looked livid, fury written into every fibre of his being, and Bo watched as he stalked towards Hugo’s desk, slamming his hand upon the polished redwood and leaning across to Hugo with an angry snarl.
“All right, where is she?” Max demanded, slamming his hand on the table again. “Where is she?”
“Who?” Hugo replied, his voice calm and level, even as Bo cowered in her seat.
“Who do you think? The bloody cuckoo in Geoffrey’s nest, Jacobien Armstrong. Where is she?”
“Mr Fitzroy, if I could just explain—”
“No, don’t ‘Mr Fitzroy’ me, and don’t try and explain. Just tell me where this gold-digging Jacobien Armstrong is, so I can see her for myself before I sue her for every penny of what she’s stolen from me.”