Chapter Thirty-One
“So,” Lisa began, “I think it’s safe to say that where Maximilian Fitzroy is concerned, there are some pretty deep feelings going on. Deep feelings for you.”
Bo said nothing, sipping at her whisky miserably.
“Fucking hell, Bo,” Lisa swore, abruptly losing patience. “Were you even really there tonight? Didn’t you hear the music he wrote and named for you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Well, any fool with a working set of ears could tell that he’s in love with you, or at least, that he was in love with you at some point. I don’t understand. You said he wasn’t serious about you.”
“I don’t understand any of this either.” Bo sat back. “He did say that. He also said I was just a fling.”
“He told you that?”
Bo hesitated. “Well, not to my face. He said it to someone else, who said it to someone else, which I then overheard. Then I spoke to Max, and he confirmed it and . . . and . . .” she tapered off as Max’s words replayed in her head.
I said it, but not in the way you think.
Lisa rolled her eyes. “This is some next-level high school romance kind of shit, you understand that, right? Look, I don’t care who you overheard and what Max said, I know classical music, and that concerto tonight .
. . the Jacobien Concerto, lest I remind you, was a work of love.
For God’s sake, Bo, he even sent you tickets.
Front-row seats. He wanted you to hear his music.
He wanted you to hear how much he loves you.
This man literally opened a vein in front of six thousand people to tell you how much he loves you.
How can’t you see it? No. How didn’t you hear it? ”
Bo chewed on her lip. She’d heard Max’s music tonight, of course she had.
She’d sat in her seat, riveted, as Max played an exquisite ten-minute melody, on the brink of tears the entire time.
She heard in the rise and fall of his music the beginning of their relationship play out; heard in his notes the sultriness of a summer’s evening transform into tension as they’d met again in a legal office.
The first movement had hints of Adagio un poco mosso bled into the middle as their relationship deepened, and there’d been an overarching sadness to the music, a feeling of despair as love grew stronger without ever being returned.
He loved me, Bo realized. He loved me and never said a word. She swallowed down another miserable mouthful of whisky. But then, I never said a word either.
“I wish he’d told me,” she whispered. “If he’d said even one thing that let me know . . .”
“He wrote you a whole bloody concerto,” Lisa returned drily. “What else do you need?”
“You think he’s still in love with me?” Bo asked.
Lisa shrugged. “If I were a gambling woman, I’d say yes. He sent you tickets for a reason. He wanted you there, Bo. He wanted you to hear the music he wrote and named for you. That’s a strange thing to do if he’s not in love with you.”
Bo’s skin tingled and her stomach bubbled with excitement. He loves you, she thought. He’s in love with you. He’s in love with you and you’re in love with him and this . . . this could actually work. This could be the real thing.
“What would you do if you were me?”
“You mean, right now?” Lisa thought for a moment. “That depends. Do you love him? Really love him?”
“Yes.” Bo laughed. “I haven’t been living this sad-girl summer for no reason; of course I love him.
I’ve been in love with him for ages; almost since the moment I first heard him play.
I keep waiting for it to go away, like I’m sick with a cold or something.
But no matter how many tablets I take or days I spend on the sofa with my blanket, I never get well.
Max is like a virus. A virus I can never shake off. ”
“That’s the least romantic way of talking about love I’ve ever heard,” Lisa retorted. “Honestly, he writes you a whole damn concerto and you call him a virus.”
“I love him,” Bo defended herself hotly, “and maybe I don’t have your way with words, and maybe I don’t have Max’s talent for music, but I love him.”
“So, tell him,” Lisa argued. “In your own way, tell him, just like he told you.”
“The only way I know is flowers.” Bo frowned. “What do you want me to do? Send a bouquet to his hotel room?”
“Why not?”
“Well, because I—” Bo stopped, thinking for a moment. “I don’t know where he’s staying, for one thing.”
“I’ll call his agent and find out,” Lisa offered easily. “And if his agent won’t tell me, I’ll pull some strings at work. Why am I the owner and editor of one of Sydney’s biggest newspapers if I can’t use my contacts to sort out my sister’s love life?”
Bo gave a small smile. “Lisa. That’s not like you.”
Lisa shrugged though. “Maybe it should be. Look, my conscience is clean here. I’d like you to be happy with this one.”
“Why? Because he’s Maximilian Fitzroy?”
“Yes.” Lisa was blunt. “Maximilian Fitzroy makes your previous boyfriends look like peasants. Muscled and attractive peasants, but peasants all the same.”
“Lisa.”
Lisa held up her hands. “It’s the truth.
Honestly, Bo, don’t let Max Fitzroy slip out of your hands.
Tell him how you feel. He’s told you. Return the compliment.
” She paused. “And Bo . . . Look, beyond the happy idea that I could potentially get free concert tickets for life out of this, I’ve never seen you so worked up over a man before.
Never seen you actually in love. And I want you to be happy.
Really happy. So, stop overthinking this. Just tell him how you feel.”
Bo blinked, caught off guard. To be seen like this by her sister, to have her vulnerability and longing recognized, was startling. For the first time, she let herself imagine that maybe she could do exactly what Lisa hoped.
She thought again. “Do you know a good florist? One who can rush a bouquet tomorrow?”
At that, Lisa grinned. “No. But Nick has a favourite florist who’s been delivering me my weekly bouquet from him for years. We’ll use her.”
Bo nodded, feeling excitement begin to build within her. “Okay. Okay, let’s do this. I’ll send him flowers, send him a note, tell him I love him too.”
Lisa threw back her whisky, standing abruptly. “Hang on,” she said. “Let me find the florist’s details.”
“Just text Nick?”
Lisa frowned. “No. He’s three hours behind us. He’ll either be working or slumping around his apartment feeling sad. I have a bouquet in my bedroom; it has the card from the florist on it. Wait here. I’ll get it.”
Lisa disappeared through the door and Bo sat forward, her stomach still bubbling with happy excitement.
He loves me, she thought again. Max really loves me.
All this time I thought I meant nothing to him, when he loved me all along.
And I love him too, not that I ever told him.
Max probably thought he meant nothing to me.
He’s been miserable and I’ve been miserable, and for what? We’ve wasted so much time.
Lisa burst back into the room, brandishing a card in the air triumphantly. “I’ve got it!” she declared. “She’s based at Sydney Flower Market. You can go first thing.”
“Great.” Bo grinned. “What’s her name?”
Lisa peered at the card. “I haven’t got my glasses on,” she complained. “And her name is a strange one. Madeline? No, wait, there’s an f in it.” She peered at the card again, before frowning. “Madelief,” she announced triumphantly. “Her name is Madelief.”
The glass of whisky fell from Bo’s hand, staining the carpet below.