Chapter Twenty-Eight
Life had a strange way of going on.
One moment, Bo was living in the room above Ida’s shop, crying herself to sleep, missing Max and wondering how she would ever move forward with her life, and the next, she owned the shop and the room above it, and was going to sleep at night, wondering what sort of flowers she would need to buy for the week ahead.
She was busy in the best possible way, and that busyness kept her from missing Max too much. Eventually, she stopped crying herself to sleep at night, and eventually, she was able to look at his awful purple shirt without feeling a pang of wistfulness which stole her breath away.
Progress.
She redecorated the shop and added her name to it too.
It went from being Ida’s Blooms to Ida Bo’s Blooms, and Bo liked it.
Ida liked it too, and Bo retained her as part-time help (as Ida said, it was either work part-time for her or go on couple’s golf tournaments with her husband, which was an all-round unsupportable idea).
They’d switched roles in a way, and it was pleasant for them both.
It helped that the shop was incredibly busy, which Bo knew she had Willa to thank for.
Videos and images of Willa working at the shop for those few weeks Bo was away went viral, and people still came hoping to get a glimpse of her.
“Your friend was good for business, even if she was hopeless at the job,” Ida remarked. “You’re the perfect set of friends: she’s a fantastic actress but a terrible florist, and you’re a terrible actress but a fantastic florist.”
Bo had laughed, knowing Ida was right. It had been a relief to leave her agent and tear up her headshots, just as it was a relief to finally be free of a career she hated and be in a job she genuinely loved.
Progress.
She didn’t see Max and learned from Hugo Crags that he’d gone back to Berlin, as he’d always intended. The phone call from the office of Cavendish, Crags and Clerk had been a surprise, as Bo always imagined Max would deal with the sale of their properties privately.
“There’s been an offer on 13 Orchard Drive,” Hugo informed her one morning. “One point three million.”
“Oh.” Bo thought for a moment. “You told me not to settle for a penny under three million pounds. What does, umm, what does Max say?”
Hugo had cleared his throat. “Actually, this offer is only for 13 Orchard Drive, not the house at number 12.”
Bo’s stomach sank. “A developer?”
“Surprisingly, no. A gentleman who wants to make the whole place a family home. He’s already bought number 12, by the sounds of things. Now he wants the garden too. I spoke with his agent earlier today.”
Bo thought for a moment. “You mean, Max sold his half without me?”
Hugo was silent for a moment. “That’s how it seems. He dealt with it before he went back to Berlin.”
It had been months, but Bo still felt a stab of pain.
They’d agreed to sell together. Agreed to split the proceeds in half.
Instead, Max hadn’t even told her he was selling, which hurt.
Not just because he hadn’t told her, but because it was clear he couldn’t even stand in the same room as her now to sign on a dotted line.
“Oh.” Bo exhaled heavily. “Okay.”
“Shall I refuse the offer?”
“No,” Bo replied quickly. “You say he wants to keep the place as a family home? The whole place together?”
“Yes.”
An image of Geoffrey came to Bo’s mind. She thought of how he would feel, knowing that the home he’d bought but never managed to fill with a family would finally be complete.
“I love that house and garden,” Bo whispered, and Hugo cleared his throat again.
“Right. Well, shall I turn him down? Press him for a higher offer?”
“No.” Bo took a deep breath. “Tell him I accept.”
It was another weight off her shoulders, another step in the right direction.
She paid Lisa’s loan back with interest, and her sister had never sounded so proud when she called Bo to thank her.
Progress.
She went back to Geoffrey’s house just once to pack up the last of her things.
It made her heart pulse to realize that nothing had changed; that everything was the same as always.
Madelief was in full bloom, and Bo thought seriously about digging the whole plant up and transplanting her to a new home, before deciding against it.
In her heart, she knew Madelief belonged here in Geoffrey’s garden; that she’d never belong anywhere else.
So, she simply took a cutting of one of the branches, before sealing up her boxes and moving on.
Progress.
One evening, Willa had an engagement party.
It was held in London, and Bo went as Willa’s chosen maid-of-honour.
She met Scarrow finally, who she found pompous and arrogant in the extreme, to the point where she almost thought about calling Berg to ask him just what the fuck he was letting Willa do.
She didn’t call Berg though. Instead, she cornered Willa.
“Are you really happy, Wills?” Bo had asked, point blank, and Willa had blinked, startled, before she gave a shrug.
“I have to be. I can’t keep chasing something which will never be mine. I have to move on, Bo, and I think that Scarrow and I will work well together in the long term.”
Scarrow. Bo’s eyes had narrowed upon him in the distance, holding court with a circle of producers. “He’s just so . . .” she had to stop herself from saying awful, “. . . difficult.”
Willa let out a small, breathy laugh that didn’t quite ring true. “He’s just stressed,” she’d explained. “The film is behind schedule, and the studio are breathing down his neck. He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment.”
Bo had taken a deep breath, determined to try one last time. “And Berg? He’s not here tonight.”
“I didn’t invite him,” Willa’s words were sharp, “and I don’t want to talk about him, okay?” Her expression had then softened. “Bo, I just need you to support me. You don’t have to fix me. You don’t have to fix anything. You just need to be my friend.”
“I can do that,” Bo had agreed, even if the knot of worry in her chest hadn’t quite been eased.
Later, after Bo had toasted her best friend and wished her the best for a happy future, she sat back down at her table in the expensive silk dress Willa had chosen for the occasion and sipped at her glass of champagne.
A man she didn’t know came and sat next to her, flirting and laughing and talking, and she had a nice time, talking and laughing back.
He asked her for her number at the end of the night, and Bo was surprised.
She hadn’t thought about dating or sex in a long time, at least, not dating or sex that didn’t involve Max, and she stared at him for a moment, wondering if she was ready.
“Thanks,” she eventually said, her voice calm. “But I just got out of a relationship which was important to me, and I’m not ready for anything else just yet.”
It was the first time she’d acknowledged that maybe she had been in a relationship with Max, and that it had been important to her. It was okay not to be okay, Bo realized, and she went home that night more at peace than she’d felt in months.
Progress.
Before Bo knew it, six months had flown by, and Lisa was calling her, asking her if she was coming back to go to Max’s concert.
“I paid hundreds of dollars for these tickets,” Lisa informed her, and if that wasn’t a guilt trip, Bo wasn’t sure what was. “I could have resold your ticket, but I kept it at your insistence.”
Nope. Now that was a guilt trip, Bo decided.
Not that she needed to be guilt-tripped into anything.
She’d already booked her flights, arranged Ida to cover the shop, packed her bags and taken out travel insurance.
She was curious about seeing Max perform and wanted to hear the live version of the piece she’d heard so often in Geoffrey’s study.
Bite the bullet, swallow the hair of the dog that bit you, Bo told herself as she boarded her flight from Heathrow. See him perform, clap when he’s earned it and then put it to rest, once and for all.
She stared at the clouds as the plane took her across the world, and she wasn’t full of dread or hurt or pain this time. She even smiled when her second flight approached Sydney.
Progress.