Chapter Seven
Bo spent far too long working out what to wear for dinner that night.
With Sir Geoffrey, she’d worn whatever she was most comfortable in.
Jeans, old shirts, sometimes even her pyjamas.
She’d pad up to his house in her old clothes to cook them both dinner, Geoffrey drinking a glass of port or sherry at the kitchen table while she stirred up spaghetti Bolognese or chicken curry.
Comfort food was her forte and happy place, having spent years under the fastidious yoke of her mother’s diet, surviving off salads and lean steak or whatever other food her mother was currently picking at.
Her mum didn’t really eat so much as miserably move food around her plate, always in a constant battle with her own body’s needs.
Margot Armstrong, beautiful, proud and vain, lived in horror of curves, and saw women who had them as weak, lazy and unattractive.
As such, she kept to a rigid diet and enforced the same upon her daughter, determined that Bo would never be one of those women with the full hips and breasts she so despised.
In London, and away from her mother’s eternal quest to be thin, Bo ate what she pleased.
She’d learned to love carbohydrates and had a new appreciation for bread and butter.
She worked hard in Ida’s shop and Geoffrey’s garden during the day, burning off her energy and working up a hunger, and saw nothing wrong with eating a full and hearty meal at night.
Geoffrey never complained about the simple and hearty meals Bo prepared for them, in fact, he encouraged her by filling the larder with all manner of delicious ingredients.
“I’m too old for avocado mousse and escargot,” he told her. “At my age, I’ve earned the right to eat what I please, and at your age, you can eat what you want without feeling the effects.”
Standing before her tiny cupboard, clutching a handful of shirts, Bo felt grief for Geoffrey strike her again.
Never again would she go up to the house to cook for him.
Never again would she sit at his kitchen table and talk about her life, about the flowers that were growing well and the auditions that went badly.
She sat on her bed, sadness overwhelming her, wiping away tears with the shirts she still held tight in her hand.
The shirts. Shaking her grief away, Bo brought her mind back to the task at hand: dressing for dinner.
Somehow, despite Max’s casual attire, she didn’t think he’d be the kind of person to appreciate a guest at his table in their nightwear.
She still remembered the first night they’d met, when Max had sat and glared at her from across the dinner table.
She’d felt gauche and underdressed in her old jeans and T-shirt, and in a way, she’d felt more comfortable, and certainly more of an equal, when they’d both been naked and intertwined later on her bed.
Jeans and a shirt were definitely out then, Bo decided. She pushed them to one side, examining her small collection of dresses and once again feeling overwhelmed by choice even though her options were somewhat limited.
This isn’t a date, you’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly. Just pick something and put it on. Max won’t care what you wear. He will, however, care if you’re late. So, for the love of God, throw something on and get yourself up to the house.
Listening to her more sensible self, Bo pulled out one of her least revealing dresses.
It was a simple summer cotton in a dark grey — because this isn’t a date — and after zipping the dress at the back, she pulled her hair up and out of the way, pinning it in place.
She applied a scant layer of make-up, the barest amount just to accentuate the blue of her eyes and the fullness of her lips — even though this isn’t a date — and then, before she could think the better of it, she sprayed perfume on her wrists — even though it definitely, absolutely and completely isn’t a date.
It was a lightly floral scent that her sister had chosen for her, sweet without being cloying, and Bo could smell it as she walked up the garden towards the house.
She stopped at the sliding doors of the kitchen though, abruptly feeling unsure.
When it had been Geoffrey’s home she’d always just walked in, kicking off her shoes by the welcome mat and making herself comfortable.
She couldn’t very well do that now that it was Max’s home though.
So, she tapped quietly on the glass doors, hoping Max would hear her and let her in.
She wanted him to see that she could respect the professional boundaries between them; wanted him to see that she knew when a line had been drawn in the sand and that she understood not to kick at it with her feet.
Max didn’t answer his door though, and nor could Bo see him through the glass in the kitchen. Frowning, she tapped again, louder this time, but still there was no response.
Well, this is awkward. You’re standing here in a dress, with perfume and make-up on — even though this is one hundred per cent not a date — and even if it was a date, the man in question doesn’t appear to be home. He’s clearly forgotten about you and gone out.
Trying the handle, Bo found to her surprise that it was unlocked, same as it had been when Geoffrey was still alive. She slid the door open warily.
“Max?” she called out, but from the kitchen there was quiet. “Max, are you home?”
The kitchen looked untouched. There was no wine open on the table — because it wasn’t a date — and no cutlery or plates laid out either.
Bo felt the stirrings of worry within her, and she glanced at the home screen of her phone, just to make sure she had full reception and could make an emergency phone call if necessary.
Oh God, please don’t let him have fallen in the bathroom or fainted in the bedroom or tripped over one of the boxes of Geoffrey’s books in the hallway, she prayed.
I don’t want to go back to Cavendish, Crags and Clerk for another will reading.
They’ll all look at me suspiciously and nickname me the Black Widow of Orchard Drive or something.
Before Bo’s imagination could really run away with her though, she heard it.
In the distance, the sound of piano playing.
The study, she realized. Max was in the study, playing his piano.
He wasn’t dead on the bathroom floor or prostrate with twisted limbs over a signed copy of The Downing Street Years by Margaret Thatcher.
Relief poured through her as she tiptoed towards the music, uncertain again as to whether she should disturb Max or let him carry on.
Was he one of those tortured genius types, wedded to his art?
Bo wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to antagonize him though.
She just wanted to get through dinner and then their happily complicated arrangement for the next few months without making a total nuisance of herself.
She’d already deprived Max of half his inheritance; a situation out of her control, true, but still.
She had no desire now to rob him of his privacy, which was something she could control.
The door to the study was open, and Bo blinked to see the room empty of all but Max and his piano.
Piano, however, felt like an inadequate term for the instrument that had been squeezed into the space.
It was massive, at least four foot high and six foot wide, beautifully polished and impressive even to her untrained eyes.
The study had felt big when it just contained Geoffrey’s desk and shelves of books, now, the room seemed tiny, dwarfed as it was by the piano that now sat in pride of place in the middle.
There was no time for Bo to feel regret for Geoffrey and his books again though.
She was hardly in the room for a second when her attention was taken away from the size of the piano to the music Max was creating on it.
She watched, thunderstruck, as Max’s hands moved deftly over the keys, long-fingered, sure and powerful, creating the most insanely beautiful music Bo had ever heard.
Her mouth was open, just a breath away from calling out his name, but she closed it slowly, unwilling to break his concentration and thus the sound he was making.
She crept into the room quietly, her back to the wall, where she sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, content simply to listen.
Overwhelmed by the music playing and the feelings it stirred within her, Bo wanted to be as small as possible.
She wanted the notes to sweep over her body like the wind swept across a field of flowers, moving them but not disturbed by them.
It was insanity, but she felt like one of the flowers in Geoffrey’s garden, petals furled against a coming storm, ready to blossom when it passed.
Bo wasn’t sure how long she sat on the floor, curled up against the wall, but when at last the room fell silent there were tears on her cheeks.
For a time, there was quiet, and she watched, fascinated, as Max drew in shaky breaths, his neck glistening with sweat.
When at last he turned, his eyes meeting hers, there was no surprise in his gaze.
He knew I was there the whole time, Bo realized.
“Max,” she whispered, unable to say another word, and he sighed.
“I wanted to check her tuning,” he explained, running a hand along the polished casing. “You have to be careful when moving a piano. The slightest knock can throw out a key and then destroy a whole concerto.”
“No. It was beautiful.”
He shrugged. “Not beautiful enough. I told you I occasionally murder Beethoven. Normally I don’t let people listen to my private rehearsal, so there can be no witnesses to the crime.
” He paused, looking at her for a long moment, something intense and searching in his gaze.
“So, what should I do with you, now that you’ve seen me at my worst? ”