Chapter Thirteen
Bo realized she was shaking, her heart pounding fast within her chest. She and Willa had been best friends for such a long time, and not once had they ever argued like that.
They’d always supported each other in everything, been each other’s rocks, regardless of their own thoughts and opinions of the situation.
When Oliver left, and Bo had been a literal wreck, Willa caught the first flight back to London with only her passport and a super-size box of melatonin stuffed in her handbag.
She’d never liked Oliver, never trusted him, but not once did she ever use the phrase ‘I told you so’.
Instead, she simply offered Bo hugs and FDSA-approved sleeping pills when required.
It worked both ways. When Berg first went into rehab, and Willa was the one falling apart, Bo decamped across London to Willa’s Hampstead flat, where she did what she did best: cared for another person.
She swept floors and wiped down counters and washed curtains, sleeping next to Willa at night, and when Willa finally blinked her way back into the morning light, her home had never been so clean or their friendship so strong.
So, to have argued so terribly on the phone just now made Bo feel nauseous, a shaky, sickly feeling washing over her. She immediately dialled Willa back, but the call rang out and out, until it finally went to answerphone.
“Wills,” Bo begged. “I’m sorry. Please call me back.”
* * *
Bo was in an off mood for the rest of the day, which wasn’t helped by a stream of bad customers in Ida’s shop, all of whom wanted bouquets they weren’t selling.
Bo loved working at Ida’s, but it was moments like these when she realized she was pretty much trained for nothing.
She had her Australian Higher School Certificate, sure, but her grades were nothing to write home about, and she’d dropped out of Sydney University to pursue the acting career her mother had been so determined for her to have.
She wished now she’d been stronger and stood up to her mother more.
Wished she’d given education more of a chance.
It was too late now though. She was twenty-six, with zero qualifications other than her ‘Miss Teen New South Wales’ and ‘Miss Bondi Beach’ crowns and the lifetime supply of suntan lotion that came with them.
She wished Geoffrey were still alive. When he’d been alive and she’d been caring for him, she’d felt useful and full of purpose.
Now, she felt like she was drifting, waiting for the money her inheritance from Geoffrey would bring.
Waiting to begin her life in earnest, the way she wanted to live it, even though she wasn’t entirely sure what that life would look like once it arrived.
Some days she imagined the money as a kind of answer, a door that would finally open, while other days she suspected it was merely a delay.
That thought made Bo nervous. Was the money just a way of postponing the harder question of who she was without Geoffrey, and what she would do when there was nothing left to wait for but herself?
Max was part of that drifting; she reasoned with herself.
Maybe she didn’t really like him as much as she thought she did.
After all, he wasn’t her usual type, she hardly knew him, and from what she did know, they had absolutely zero in common.
You’re just aimless and bored and at a loss of what else to do, she told herself, somewhat relieved by this revelation.
It isn’t that you like Max. It’s just that you have nothing else to think about or do, and the sex is amazing.
She felt better almost instantly. Have your fun with Max now, she thought. Once the money is in your account, move on. Keep to the arrangement. Keep to the plan.
Bo could accept that Willa was right: she did get attached too easily.
She wouldn’t let herself get attached to Max though.
She’d find a job, find a purpose, have her fun and get on with her life.
Easy. Max wasn’t like Oliver. She wasn’t desperately in love with him, and she didn’t feel inferior when in his presence.
Oliver always let her know, in small but hurtful ways, that he could do better than her.
Women who were prettier, women who were cleverer, women who were more successful.
Bo let Oliver in, opening herself up to him in ways she’d never opened to anyone before, and because she’d let him in, he was able to hurt her.
With Max, it was different. She wasn’t going to let Max in, and because of that, he would never be able to hurt her.
Not that she even thought he would. When she was with Max, Bo felt like an equal.
With Max, she never felt like she needed to apologize for who she was or what she did. With Max, she felt free.
It was no wonder she enjoyed his company so much. Orgasms and free psychotherapy.
When dusk rolled around, and feeling only mildly better, Bo trekked up to the house for her evening shower.
Her phone conversation with Willa still rankled, and she decided to take it out on the tiles of the old bathroom, scrubbing at them with a brush and some bleach while the hot water ran.
Max clearly hadn’t got around to hiring a housekeeper yet, because the house was beginning to show signs of mess and untidiness.
A damp towel on the floor here; a patch of mildew there.
Geoffrey, who’d liked things pristine, would have had a cardiac if he’d seen the mould that was beginning to grow on the grout — well, he would if his heart hadn’t already given out, at least. Bo scrubbed and scrubbed till her hands began to ache, and only when the bathroom was tidy and clean once more did she shut the water off, wrap her towel around her body and open the door — running straight into Max on the other side.
“You’ve been in there about an hour,” he complained, crossing his arms over his chest.
“You said I could shower when I wanted,” Bo retorted, not in the mood for a lecture. “I didn’t realize there was a time limit.”
“I thought something was wrong,” Max replied easily. “For all I knew, you were passed out on the bathroom floor. You could have slipped and hit your head. You could have inhaled too much of your shampoo and gone into a coconut-induced coma.”
The fact that he knew what scent her shampoo was pleased Bo. Not that she would give him the satisfaction of knowing that. “I was cleaning,” she explained. “This house is a mess.”
He didn’t try to argue with her on that point. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to cook and clean for me. We’re past that point now.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want any payment for it,” Bo said. “But you said I could have this bathroom for myself, and I don’t want to shower in mould and mildew. Also, have you ever thought about picking your towel off the hallway floor and, I don’t know, hanging it up?”
“I meant to put it in the washing machine, but I’ve been preoccupied. Eight hours of daily piano practice will do that to you. Not that I have to justify my choices within my own home to you or anyone else.”
“You’re messy,” Bo said again, crossing her arms over chest and matching his pose.
“I’m not. So, I’d appreciate it if your preoccupied, piano-playing fingers could pick your towel up at least.” She could feel herself getting worked up, her tiredness and earlier argument with Willa making her cranky. “I don’t like mess.”
Max stared at her for a moment. “Why are you in such a pissy mood?” he asked finally. “Are you really going to bicker with me about a fucking towel, of all things?”
“I’m not in a pissy mood—”
“You are,” Max insisted. “I can feel annoyance rolling off you in waves. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”
Max gave her another look. “No, you’re not. Something’s bothering you, and it isn’t the towel on the hallway floor. Not really.”
Bo took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart and bring down what was probably an unhealthily high blood pressure. “You’re right: I am in a bad mood,” she confessed. “I argued with a friend this morning.”
“So?” Max gave an infuriating shrug. “You argue with me all the time. You’re good at it.”
“Yes, but, my friend and I . . . we never argue. Not normally. I’m not used to it, I don’t like it, and now I’m out of sorts because of it.”
“What did you argue about?” Max asked, and it was odd, how his eyes went from hard and questioning to soft and compassionate within seconds.
There was genuine concern within them, the colour of his irises like the stillest of well waters, and Bo was mesmerized by the shifting nature of his gaze.
Quickly, she looked down and away from his kind but penetrating face.
“What did you argue about?” Max asked again.
“You’ll feel better if you tell someone, and I’m here. ”
Bo squirmed with momentary discomfort. “You,” she finally admitted. “We argued about you.”
“Me?” Max looked surprised. “Why on earth would you argue about me?”
Bo squirmed again. “Well, umm, my friend . . . she thinks our, umm, arrangement is a bad idea. A really bad idea.”
Max didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, and Bo could hear his breath as he inhaled and exhaled slowly. He was clearly thinking, and Bo swallowed as she continued to stare at the floor, her toes still bare against the cool white tiles.
“Bo,” Max eventually said, his tone calm and measured. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Bo dragged her eyes up from the floor to meet Max’s gaze. There was genuine curiosity in the look he gave her, and she swallowed nervously again.
“Do you think our arrangement is a bad idea?” he asked her, and Bo shrugged.
“Probably.”