Читать книгу Desired By The Boss - Catherine Mann - Страница 15

TWO DAYS LATER April sat cross-legged amongst a lot of boxes and a lot of dust.

She was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a floppy T-shirt—her jumper having been quickly removed thanks to the excellent heating and the many boxes she’d already shifted today—and yet another box lay ready for her attention. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, and the local radio station filled the room via her phone and a set of small speakers she’d purchased before she’d realised she had absolutely no money.

But she was glad for her previous financial frivolity. This massive house was creaky and echoey, and she’d hated how empty it had felt on her first day, when she’d been sorting through boxes wearing a pencil skirt, heels and a blouse with a bow—in total silence.

Bizarre how such an overflowing house could feel so empty, but it did.

Music helped. A little.

Now, on day three of her new job, already many boxes lay flattened in the foyer. The shredder had disposed of old takeaway menus and shoe catalogues and local newspapers. And she’d labelled a handful of empty boxes for donations. Several were already full with books and random bits and pieces: a man’s silk tie, a mass-produced ceramic vase, eleven tea towels from the Edinburgh Military Tattoo—and so much more. It was nearly impossible to categorise the items, although she’d tried.

But much of the boxes’ content was, as Hugh had told her, junk. The packaging for electronic items, without the items themselves. Gossip magazines from ten years ago, with British reality TV stars she didn’t recognise on the covers. Sugar and salt packets. Pens that didn’t work. Dried-out mascara and nail polish bottles.

It was all so random.

Initially she’d approached each box with enthusiasm. What was she going to learn about the person who’d packed all these boxes from this box?

But each box gave little away.

There was no theme, there were no logical groupings or collections, and so far there was absolutely nothing personal. Not even one scribble on a takeaway menu.

Hugh hadn’t given anything away, either.

It was hard in this house, with all its mysterious boxes, not to think about the rather interesting and mysterious man who owned them all.

Were they his boxes?

April didn’t think so. That morning in the kitchen, those clear but sparse directions and neat instructions had not indicated a man who collected such clutter. There was something terribly structured about the man: he exuded organisation and an almost regimented calm.

But that had changed when he’d shown her this room. The instant he’d opened the door he’d become tense. His body, his words. His gaze.

It had been obvious he’d wanted to leave, and he had as soon as humanly possible.

So, no, the boxes weren’t his.

But they didn’t belong to a stranger, either—because the boxes meant something to Hugh Bennell.

Her guess was that they belonged to a woman. The magazines, toiletries... But who?

His wife? Ex-wife? Mother? Sister? Friend?

So—with enthusiasm—April had decided to solve the mystery of the boxes.

But with box after box the mystery steadfastly remained and her enthusiasm rapidly waned.

On the radio, a newsreader read the ten o’clock news in a lovely, clipped British accent.

Only ten a.m.?

Her self-determined noon lunchbreak felt a lifetime away.

April sighed and straightened her shoulders, then carefully sliced open the brown packing tape of her next box.

On top lay empty wooden photo frames, one with a crack through the glass. And beneath that lay two phone books—the thick, heavy type that had used to be delivered before everyone had started searching for numbers online.

The unbroken wooden frames would go to the ‘donate’ box, and the phone books into the recycling. But as she walked out into the foyer, to add the books to the already mountainous recycling pile, a piece of card slipped out from between the pages.

April knelt to pick it up. It was an old and yellowed homemade bookmark, decorated with a child’s red thumbprints in the shape of lopsided hearts.

Happy Mothering Sunday!

Love Hugh

The letters were in neat, thick black marker—the work of a school or kindergarten teacher.

And just like that she’d solved the mystery.

She started a new category: Hugh.

She wasn’t making a decision on that bookmark, no matter what he said.

She’d let him know in her summarising email that evening.

The email pinged into Hugh’s inbox shortly before five p.m. As it had the previous two days at approximately the same time, with the same subject line and the day’s date. Exactly as he’d specified—which he appreciated.

She did insist on prefacing her emails with a bit of chatter, but she’d stuck to his guidelines for updating him on her progress.

Which was slower than he’d hoped. Although he didn’t think that was April’s fault—more his own desire for the house to be magically emptied as rapidly as possible.

That option still existed, of course. He’d researched a business that would come and collect all his mother’s boxes and take them away. It would probably only take a day.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He hated those boxes—hated that stuff. Hated that his mother had been so consumed by it.

Despite it being junk, despite the way the boxes weighed so heavily upon him—both literally and figuratively—it just felt...

As if it would be disrespectful.

Hi Hugh,

I’ve found a bookmark today—photo attached—and I’ve put it aside for you. If I find anything similar I’ll let you know.

Otherwise all going well. About two thirds through this room...

Hugh didn’t read the rest. Instead he clicked open the attachment.

A minute later his boots thumped heavily against the steps up to his mother’s front door. It was freezing in the evening darkness—he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat for the very short journey—but the foyer was definitely a welcome relief as he let himself in.

April was still in the kitchen, her coat halfway on, obviously about to leave.

‘Don’t panic—I didn’t throw it out,’ she said.

‘Throw what out?’ he asked.

He hadn’t seen her since that first morning, and she looked different in jeans and jumper—younger, actually. Her cheek was smudged with dust, her hair not entirely contained in the knot on top of her head.

‘The bookmark,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go grab it for you.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

She’d already taken a handful of steps, and now stood only an arm’s length before him.

‘Okay,’ she said. She inclined her chin in a direction over his shoulder. ‘It’s in a box out there. I’ve labelled it “Hugh”. I’ll just chuck anything in there that I think you should have a look at.’

‘No,’ he said again. ‘Don’t.’

Now she seemed to realise what he was saying. Or at least she was no longer wilfully ignoring him. He knew how clear he’d been: with the exception of any paperwork that included personal details, April was to donate or trash everything.

‘Are you sure?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘It’s just a badly painted bookmark.’

Up until a few minutes ago he’d had no recollection of that piece of well-intentioned crafting, so his life would definitely be no lesser with it gone.

‘I wasn’t just talking about the bookmark,’ April said. ‘I meant anything like that. I’m sure more sentimental bits and pieces are going to turn up. And what about photos? I found some photo frames today, so I expect eventually I’ll find—’

‘Photos can go in the bin,’ he said.

Hugh shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. Again, he just wanted to be out of this place. But he didn’t leave.

April was watching him carefully, concern in her clear blue gaze. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Fidgeting. He never fidgeted.

He wasn’t himself in this house. With all this stuff. Now that the boxes had necessarily flowed into the foyer behind him the clutter was everywhere.

April had left an empty coffee mug on the kitchen sink.

Now he skirted around her, making his way to the other side of the counter, grabbed the mug and opened the dishwasher. It was empty.

‘I’ve just been hand-washing,’ April said. ‘I can wash that before I go—don’t worry about it.’

Hugh ignored her, stuck the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water. Beneath the sink he found dishwashing liquid, and squirted it into the steaming water.

As the suds multiplied he was somewhat aware of April shrugging off her coat. He had no idea why it was so important for him to clean this mug, but it was.

‘You can go,’ he said, cleaning out the coffee marks from inside the mug. He realised it wasn’t one of his mother’s—it was printed with the logo of a Fremantle sporting team he didn’t recognise and had a chip in the handle. It was April’s.

He rinsed the mug in hot water and placed it on the dish rack.

Immediately it was picked up again—by April.

She was standing right beside him, tea towel in hand, busily drying the mug.

He hadn’t noticed her move so close.

She didn’t look at him, her concentration focused on her task. Her head was bent, and a long tendril of dark hair curled down to her nape.

This close, he could see the dust decorating her hair, a darker smudge creating a streak across her cheekbone.

She turned, looking directly at him.

She was tall, he realised, even without her heels.

Today her lips weren’t glossy, and he realised she probably wasn’t wearing make-up. Her eyelashes were no longer the blackest black; her skin wasn’t magazine-perfect.

She didn’t look better—or worse. Just different. And it was that difference he liked.

That she’d surprised him.

He hadn’t been able to imagine her unpacking boxes—but she looked just as comfortable today as she had in her sharp suit. And her gaze was just as strong, just as direct.

He realised he liked that, too.

It should have been an uncomfortable and unwanted realisation. Maybe it was—or it would be later. When his brain wasn’t cluttered with boxes and forgotten bookmarks and had room for logic and common sense...and remembering who he was. Who she was.

Boss. Employee...

For now, he simply looked at the surprising woman beside him.

‘I know this is your mum’s house,’ she said. ‘I get that this must be difficult for you.’

Her words were soft and gentle. They still cut deep.

But they shouldn’t—and his instinct was to disagree. They’re just boxes. It’s just stuff. It’s not difficult in any way at all.

He said nothing.

‘Do you want me to come back tomorrow?’

Had she thought he might fire her over the bookmark?

He nodded sharply, without hesitation. Despite how uncomfortable her kind words had made him. Despite how unlike himself she made him. How aware he was of her presence in this room and in this house. How aware he was of how close she stood to him.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave my mug, then.’

He didn’t look at her as she stepped around him and put the coffee mug into an overhead cupboard.

By the time she’d shrugged back into her coat, and arranged her letterbox-red knitted scarf he’d pulled himself together.

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, with a smile that was bright.

And then she was gone, leaving Hugh alone with a sink full of disappearing bubbles.

April’s roommate was asleep when she got home from stacking shelves at the supermarket, so she went into the communal living room to call her mum.

For once the room was empty—usually the Shoreditch shared house tended to have random people dotted all over the place.

Evidence of the crowd of backpackers who lived here—three from Australia and two from South Africa—was scattered everywhere, though. Empty beer bottles on the cheap glass coffee table, along with a bowl of now stale chips—crisps, they were called here—and a variety of dirty plastic plates and cups. One of the other Aussie girls had had a friend dossing on the couch, and his sheets and blankets still lay tangled and shoved into a corner, waiting for someone magically to wash them and put them away.

Which would happen—eventually. April had learnt that someone would get sick of the mess, and then do a mad tidy-up—loudly and passive-aggressively.

On a couple of occasions in the two weeks she’d been here it had been her—a lifetime of a weekly house-cleaning service meant she definitely preferred things clean, even though she’d had to look up how to clean a shower on the internet. She’d then realised that her relatively advanced age—she was the oldest of the group by six years—meant that everyone expected her to be the responsible, tidy one who’d clean up after everyone else.

And that wasn’t going to happen.

She was too busy working her two jobs and trying to stay on top of her April Molyneux social media world to add unpaid cleaner to the mix. So she’d coordinated the group, they’d all agreed on a roster...and sometimes it was followed.

So April ignored the mess, cleared a spot on the couch and scrolled to her mum’s number on her phone.

‘Darling!’

It was eight a.m. in Perth, but her mum was always up early. She’d finally retired only recently, with April’s eldest sister Ivy taking over the reins at Molyneux Mining. But so far her mother’s retirement had seemed to involve several new roles on company boards and a more hands-on role in the investments of the Molyneux Trust.

So basically not a whole lot of retirement was going on for Irene Molyneux. Which did not come as a surprise to anyone.

‘Hi, Mum,’ April said. ‘How’s things?’

‘Nate is speaking so well!’ Irene said. ‘Yesterday he said “Can I have a biscuit, please?” Isn’t that amazing?’

Irene was also embracing the chance to spend more time with her two-year-old grandson. After five minutes of Nate stories, her mum asked April how she was doing.

‘Good,’ she said automatically. And then, ‘Okay, I guess...’

‘What’s wrong?’

And so April told her about the bookmark, and her new boss’s crystal-clear directive. She didn’t mention the details, though—like the sadness she’d seen in Hugh’s eyes in the kitchen. His obvious pain.

Her mother was typically no-nonsense. ‘If he isn’t sentimental, it isn’t your role to be.’

But that was the thing—she wasn’t convinced he didn’t care. Not even close.

‘I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.’

‘Mmm...’ her mother said. ‘You can always quit.’

But... ‘It pays almost double what I was earning at my last placement.’

‘I know,’ Irene said.

Her mum didn’t say anything further—but April knew what she was thinking. She was torn between supporting April in her goal to pay off her credit card and live independently—a goal she’d supported once she’d been reassured April wasn’t going to end up homeless—and solving all her problems. With money.

Which was understandable, really. Her mother had, after all, financially supported April her entire life. And April honestly had never questioned it. She was rich—it was just who she was. Her bottomless credit cards had just come with the territory.

But, really, the only thing she’d ever done that really deserved any payment was her work for the Molyneux Foundation. And besides a few meetings she’d probably spent maybe an hour or two a day working for the foundation—with a big chunk of that time focused on making sure she looked as picture-perfect as possible in photos.

It had been a cringe-worthy, shamefully spoiled existence.

‘You understand why I need to do this, right? All of this: living here, living on my money, living without the Molyneux name?’

‘Yes,’ Irene said. ‘And you know I admire what you’re doing. And I’m a little ashamed of myself for being so worried about you.’

This was cringe-worthy too—how little her family expected of her. Her fault as well, of course.

‘But that’s my job,’ Irene continued. ‘I’m your mum. I’m supposed to worry. And I’m supposed to want to fix things. But, if I put that aside, here’s my non-mum advice—keep the job. Keep working hard, pay off your debt and move out of that awful shared house. It’ll make me feel better once you’re living in your own place.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ April said, smiling. ‘I’ll do my best.’

And then she remembered something she’d been thinking about earlier.

‘Hey, Mum, did you keep that type of stuff? Stuff that we all made at school—you know, gifts for Mother’s Day? Finger paintings? That sort of stuff?’

Irene laughed. ‘No! I’m probably a terrible person, but I remember smuggling all that stuff out to the bin under cover of darkness.’

They talked for a while longer, but later, when April had ended the call and gone to bed, her thoughts wandered back to that faded little bookmark Hugh had once given to his mother.

Was she just being sentimental? She wasn’t sure how she felt about her mum not keeping any of her childhood art—but then, had it bothered her until now? She hadn’t even noticed. Maybe Hugh was right—maybe it was just a badly painted bookmark.

But that was the thing—the way Hugh had reacted...the way he’d raced to see her immediately, and the way he’d washed her Dockers mug as if the weight of the world had been on his shoulders...

It felt like so much more.