Chapter Five
Geoffrey’s house still felt a little like home, even though Bo now knew for certain it wasn’t.
While Geoffrey had been living, she’d been comfortable enough to roam around the place, entering rooms without thinking twice and helping herself to pots and pans, plates and foodstuffs.
She knew her way around the old house easily, and in Geoffrey’s final year, when she’d taken on most of the cooking, cleaning and upkeep of the property, she’d moved things around to her liking.
Geoffrey had actively encouraged her to make herself comfortable, praising her for making the place ‘more like a home, and less like a museum’.
“This place needs a family,” he’d told her one day with a sigh. “It’s been selfish of me to keep it to myself. What does a lonely old man need five bedrooms for?”
“It’s your home,” Bo had replied. “You don’t have to justify that choice to anyone, least of all me.”
“I really had intended to fill it with children,” Geoffrey had continued, as though Bo hadn’t even spoken. “But then after I lost—” he’d stopped then, pain crossing his lined features, and Bo had stood to go to his side.
“I know,” she’d said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I know.”
“After losing her, and then later, after the divorce from my wife . . .” Geoffrey squeezed her hand back.
“I didn’t have the heart to put myself out there again.
So, here I am, just a lonely old man, with five empty bedrooms and a garden that’s never been played in.
Watching you busy yourself about the place has given me comfort, you know.
Given me a glimpse of what might’ve been. ”
After Geoffrey’s death, Bo had continued to keep and clean the house.
She’d continued to use the kitchen and bathroom, continued to maintain the garden.
Even in Geoffrey’s absence she’d never felt like a stranger though, comforted as she was by the familiar bits and pieces that made up his home.
She knew her way around the place like the back of her hand and never stopped to consider the option that it was now someone else’s home, and someone else’s things she cared for so well and used so liberally.
Today though . . . today was different. With Max in the house — his house, she reminded herself once again — she didn’t feel comfortable to linger in the shower like she normally did, or to run a duster over the furniture or vacuum over the carpets like she normally would.
She showered with the minimum of fuss, dressed quickly and then tiptoed back downstairs like the interloper she knew Max believed her to be.
She was nothing more than Goldilocks in the lair of a bear who knew damn well she’d been eating his porridge and sitting in his chair.
And sleeping in his bed, her mind provided wickedly, so that there was a definite tinge of pink to her cheeks when she finally entered the downstairs study and found Max in Geoffrey’s old armchair by the empty fireplace.
He looked exhausted, his head laid back against the worn green velvet and his eyes closed, dark circles underneath them.
He opened them slowly when she entered the room, watching as she moved gingerly to the nearby settee and sat on it primly.
He stared at her for a moment, and she stared right back at him, uncomfortable under his gaze but not in the slightest bit frightened.
He’d said she could trust him, and she believed him.
“I’d offer you coffee, but Geoffrey’s kitchen is at this point a mystery to me.
I don’t even know where the cups are kept, let alone the coffee and milk,” Max stated, and for a moment, just for a moment, Bo considered going to make them a pot.
She stopped herself however, realizing that Max might not best be pleased by the knowledge that Geoffrey’s kitchen was no mystery to her, and that she was well versed in where the cups, coffee and milk were kept.
Wisely, she stayed still and silent, waiting for Max to continue.
“You said before that I must hate you, but the truth is I don’t,” Max carried on, and Bo blinked in surprise.
“You don’t?”
“No. I don’t even know you. Not really. It feels unwise to hate someone I don’t know. I don’t have that kind of energy to waste.”
Of all the things Bo imagined Max might say, that hadn’t crossed her mind, and she stared at him.
“You look tired,” she commented, and Max gave a short, unpleasant kind of laugh.
“What an odd reflection to make, given our circumstances.” He stared at her, as though trying to puzzle her out. “I am tired,” he finally admitted. “So tired I can feel it in my bones. So, if it’s all right by you, I’d like this talk of ours to be short and sweet rather than long and drawn-out.”
She nodded. The dynamic between her and Max had shifted since their last meeting, and Bo wasn’t sure yet how to feel about it or what to make of it. Keeping this talk short was fine by her.
“I said earlier I wasn’t going to challenge Geoffrey’s will, and I meant it.” Max said firmly, before pausing, as though waiting for her to reply.
If he thinks I’m going to thank him profusely for not suing me, he can think again, Bo decided indignantly.
Geoffrey wanted me to have the garden, and while I didn’t have a blood relationship with him to stake my claim, we still had a relationship built on affection and trust, which is more than Max can say.
“I should challenge the will,” Max carried on in her silence.
“I fully intended to do that this morning when I first saw it. I’m Geoffrey’s only living — well, I’m the only family he had left in the world, and up until you arrived on the scene, I was the only name on his will too.
You can imagine how I felt this morning when I learned that had changed. ”
“So, challenge the will then,” Bo retorted, almost perversely wanting to goad him into it, even at her own expense.
“No,” Max replied. “Oh, I should, and I think I would win too, if I did. Look at the optics of it to the outside eye: me, the rightful heir to Sir Geoffrey Nesbit’s estate, winnowed out by the blonde, leggy and young companion who took advantage of an old man.”
“Carer,” Bo corrected him instantly, but her voice wavered slightly, and Max shrugged.
“You could shout that from the rooftops of London, and no one would believe you.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
Max gave her a long, hard look. “Because you’re beautiful, Bo. You’re young and beautiful, and people will believe that Sir Geoffrey, being old, mostly forgotten and out of his prime, wanted a piece of that beauty.”
Bo shifted in her seat. Beautiful. People told her that all the time, as though it were a compliment, a kindness towards her. As though it hadn’t already been said, a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, until the word no longer meant anything to her at all.
She was sick of it. So sick of it.
Bo knew she was beautiful. She’d been trained her whole life to know it, her mother remarking upon it almost every hour.
Stand straight, shoulders back, smile more.
Beauty was the only armour Bo had ever been given in life; the language she was best fluent in.
But what had beauty ever done for her? Beauty hadn’t helped her career.
Beauty hadn’t made Oliver stay. And now, even here, her beauty was being used to rewrite the truth, turning care into manipulation and affection into scandal.
Suddenly, Bo had had enough and her patience fractured.
“Funny, the only person in this house who ever had a piece of this beauty was—” Bo began, before she snapped her mouth shut, reddening.
“Me?” Max filled in for her, and for the first time that day, he looked flustered. “Look, Bo, I think it’s for the best if we forget that night. I think we can both agree it was a one-off event—”
“Event?” Bo interjected, feeling stung and not knowing why. “You can hardly liken a night of sex to, I don’t know, throwing discus in the summer Olympics.”
“Fine,” Max snapped, rolling his eyes. “An incident then.”
“An incident, like a train crash. Fine,” Bo snapped back, and for a moment they both sat in silence, glaring at one another.
Abruptly, Max sighed, his shoulders dropping.
“I don’t want to argue with you Bo. I really don’t.
I told you; I don’t hate you and I’m not going to challenge the will.
Whatever I personally thought of Geoffrey, his wishes were made more than apparent.
He wanted you to have the garden and so you shall have it, with no argument from me.
But like I also explained earlier, there are some logistics to work out. ”
“So, that’s the aim of this little talk then? Logistics?”
“Partly. Actually,” Max added with a swallow, “I’d also like to make a deal with you.”
At that, Bo fell silent. Max seemed unnaturally nervous, as though reluctant to go on much further, and she was intrigued by his use of the word ‘deal’.
“All right,” she said slowly, doing her best to keep her voice calm. “I’m listening.”
Max straightened, regaining the measured composure he’d shown earlier. He cleared his throat, looking her directly in the eye. “As you’ve probably guessed, I don’t live in London,” he began. “I live and work in Berlin.”
“How nice for you. I hear the wienerwurst is excellent.”
There it was again, that hint of an amused twinkle in his eye. It brightened the dull grey of his eyes into a sparkling sea-blue, and Bo was momentarily mesmerized. Quickly, she reminded herself she was cross with him, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“As I was saying, I live and work in Berlin,” Max tried again, the twinkle disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.
“However, I find I have a need to be in London this summer. Work,” he explained, as though Bo had asked.
“I had planned to rent a place and then hire a housekeeper to care for it for me.”
“Okay,” Bo replied, beginning to have an idea of where this conversation was going, and not knowing how to feel about it.