Читать книгу Desired By The Boss - Catherine Mann - Страница 19

APRIL SAT CROSS-LEGGED in bed. It was Sunday, and her roommate had headed out for brunch, taking advantage of an unseasonably warm winter’s day.

Loving my new nails! So pretty. What’s your go-to shade for summer? #diymanicure #mint #glam #THEnailpolish

April studied her nails after she’d scheduled her post to appear at about this time the next day, Perth time—eight hours away. She’d painted them the lovely minty green that THE had supplied, along with their generous Molyneux Foundation donation. Her assistant, Carly, had priority-mailed the bottle overnight all the way to London—at a ridiculous cost that April planned to pay back to the Molyneux Foundation. But it had had to be done.

It was getting increasingly complicated as each week went by to be both April Molyneux and April Spencer. To be truthful, she hadn’t really planned this far ahead, and while her absences at social events had so far been attributed to her marriage breakdown, that excuse wouldn’t last for ever.

So far her Instagram account had supported the narrative of a fragile divorcee-to-be with carefully curated images. Yesterday she’d posted one of the photos she’d taken with Carly just before she’d flown to London. In that image—despite her blow-dried hair and designer-sponsored dress, apparently going for dinner with her sisters—she fitted the brief well.

She had looked fragile. Because she had been.

When that photo had been taken she’d been barely a month on from that devastating evening at the beach.

At the time, April hadn’t seen it. Maybe because she’d become used to seeing herself like that in the mirror: her gaze flat, her smile not quite convincing.

She’d been wearing heaps of make-up to hide the shadows beneath her eyes, to give colour to her cheeks. Without it she’d looked like death. And not in an edgy, model-like way. But really crap. Like, my husband has just left me crap.

She didn’t, she realised, look like that now.

When had that happened?

She dismissed the thought. It was more important that it had—that Evan and all he represented no longer dominated her psyche.

She wiggled her nails, liking the way the sun that poured through the windows made them sparkle. She’d flung open the curtains both for better light for her photos and to revel in experiencing actual sun in London.

Her sponsors were also tricky. But Carly was doing well: scheduling long into the future, where possible, and being creative with everything else. After all, it wasn’t essential that April appeared in every photo. She’d even roped Mila into one—with her sister admirably hamming up her mock-serious pose as she’d modelled long strands of stunning Broome pearls. This nail polish was the first product that had definitely required April to model it. It had been specified by the company, and her hands had featured in too many photos to risk that an eagle-eyed follower wouldn’t notice a substitution. Not that she would have considered it anyway...

But April knew that this couldn’t continue for ever.

The thing was, she’d assumed she’d have everything worked out already.

She’d imagined writing an inspirational post—maybe at her desk at her Fabulous Job In London. She’d talk about overcoming life’s challenges. About realising that she needed to stand on her own two feet and chase her dreams.

And she’d write that she’d done it all by herself, without using her family name to leap to the front of the queue.

Ugh.

That would’ve been rather sickening, wouldn’t it? As if someone as privileged as her was in any position to present herself as poster girl for grit and determination.

Well, she certainly couldn’t post a little snapshot of her life right now. It had been an effort to photograph her hands without accidentally including a glimpse of the peeling walls, or the cheap laminate floor, or the battered beds and bedside tables. She’d actually ended up using a pretty plum velvet cushion she’d retrieved from one of Hugh’s ‘donate’ boxes to lay her manicured fingers artistically across—after asking permission from Hugh via email, of course.

Take anything you want, he’d said.

Hugh...

He hadn’t come up to the main house on Friday. There’d been no need with nothing for him to sort through.

Which was for the best, she’d told herself. Firmly.

And yet her realisation that there was no need for her to see Hugh that day had been tinged with both relief and disappointment.

She’d finished up in the front reception room and was now up the stairs, working on the front guest bedroom. It wasn’t quite as packed with boxes as the first two rooms, although it was definitely a marginal thing. The first few boxes had been full of beautiful manchester—a word she’d discovered was actually a term for bedlinen used only in Australia and New Zealand when she’d provided her summary to Hugh and subsequently confused him.

See? She was learning so much from her move to London. April grinned. Just not exactly what she’d expected.

Sitting, as she was, on the cheapest doona—duvet, she’d learnt, in the UK—she’d been able to find at her local supermarket, she questioned her decision not to take one of the beautiful, soft vintage white linen covers she’d found on Friday.

But she couldn’t. As hard as she was trying to live as if she wasn’t, she was an heiress—with a mammoth trust fund. Someone shopping at the local charity shop deserved an expensive doona cover far more than she did.

What was she doing?

In London? Living in this dodgy shared house? Working for Hugh?

Based on her current progress, in another month she would have paid off her credit card. Only another month of two jobs, rice, beans, two-minute noodles and tins of soup.

And then what?

Would she quit her night job? Start applying for jobs back in her own field—or at least her field of study? Eventually move out of this place to some place on her own?

She didn’t know.

If she did that she’d definitely need to shut down her social media profiles. There was no way she could continue to use them for the Molyneux Foundation all the way over here.

The idea felt unexpectedly uncomfortable.

Because, surely, her social media profile represented all that had been excessive in her life? Shouldn’t she be glad to be rid of it? Glad that she’d be leaving that version of herself behind?

But...

It also represented how successful she’d been—how well she’d connected with her followers and how seamlessly she’d incorporated her sponsors. It represented how much money she’d raised for the foundation by being social media savvy and putting all that Molyneux privilege to good use.

She had over a million followers, and she’d worked hard for every single one of them.

It was only logical reasoning to suppose that those followers were unlikely to care about her new, unglamorous life, but that didn’t make the idea of deleting her accounts seem any more appealing.

She wasn’t entirely sure what it said about her, but she wasn’t ready to give her followers up.

Not yet, anyway.

On Tuesday, April found more photos to add to the ‘Hugh’ box.

This time it was a bunch of birthday photos, all stuffed into a large white envelope that had become deeply creased and soft with years of handling.

She carried it downstairs to the kitchen, leaving it on the kitchen bench while she turned on the kettle for her morning tea break.

The photos she’d scanned with Hugh still remained in the ‘Hugh’ box, atop the benchtop. They hadn’t worked out the finer details after he’d left so abruptly, and she hadn’t seen him since. Was she supposed to keep on scanning the photos she found? Or would he? Or would he not even bother now and just keep the photos...?

She should just put them into the box and let Hugh decide.

Instead she found herself pulling up one of the bar stools and settling down with both her coffee and the envelope before her.

Even as she slid the photos out she questioned what she was doing. There was no need to look at the photos, really. And so to do so felt...not quite right. But that was silly, really. It was her job, after all, to go through everything in this house. That was what she was doing.

And so she did look.

Like the images from Hugh’s first days at school, these birthday shots were across all of Hugh’s birthdays. The envelope was chock-full of them—several from every year. The classic ‘blowing out the candles’ shot, breakfast in bed with unwrapped presents and always a photo of Hugh with his mum. The very early ones also featured his father.

His mum, of course, had been stunning. April had thought so when she’d first seen her in those school photos. She’d had dark hair and eyes, like Hugh, but her face had been rounder and her eyes and lips had looked as if they always smiled, not just in photos. She’d worn her long hair mostly loose, and had alternated year to year from having a fringe and growing it out.

These photos were different from the school ones, though, which had all been taken outside Hugh’s kindergarten or primary school. These were taken indoors. And not all in this house, which surprised April.

For some reason she’d assumed this was the house where Hugh had grown up, but the photos showed she was wrong. Silly of her, really, given she’d known his mum hadn’t had much money, and Islington was decidedly posh.

April took a sip from her coffee, and then shuffled back to the beginning again.

Outside, it had started raining, and the occasional fat droplet slapped against the kitchen window.

The first photo had a chubby Hugh sitting on his mother’s lap, reaching out with both hands for a birthday cake in the shape of a lime-green number one. Standing at his mother’s shoulder was—April assumed—his father. A tall man, but narrower in the shoulders than Hugh, he had dark blond hair. He was handsome, but his smile looked uncomfortable.

They sat at a dining table with a mid-nineteen-eighties swirly beige laminate top. Behind them was a sideboard with shelving above it, neatly filled with books, trinkets and brass-framed photographs.

For Hugh’s second birthday the cake photo was again taken at the same table. This time Hugh looked as if he was deliberately avoiding the camera, his gaze focused on something out of the picture. Again, he was with his mum and dad. There were more things now, on the shelves behind Hugh and his parents: more brass-framed photographs, more books. But still neat.

For his third birthday Hugh had had a cake in the shape of a lion, with skinny, long pieces of liquorice creating its eyes, nose and whiskers. There was no dad in this one, and while the table and sideboard were still the same the paint on the walls was now blue, not beige. There was less on the shelves—only a few photos. A new house? Or new paint?

April checked the other photos from his third birthday—yes, definitely a new house. His breakfast in bed was no longer beside a lovely double sash window, but instead one with a cheap-looking frame, probably aluminium.

His mum, though, still smiled her luminous smile.

When Hugh had turned four, the birthday parties had clearly begun.

There was Hugh playing pass the parcel, sitting on top of an oriental-style rug with his friends. Or playing pin the tail on the donkey. This photo was a wider shot, showing Hugh from the side, blindfolded and with his arm outstretched. Beyond him was a small kitchen, where a row of parents stood, some observing their kids, others chatting to each other.

The room was very neat, the kitchen bench clear but for trays of party food. In fact in all these early photos every room was tidy. April knew that careful angle selection could make the messiest room appear tidy, but she didn’t believe that was the case here. There wasn’t one cardboard box, or any pile of useless random things to put inside one, anywhere to be seen.

When had it started?

April flipped ahead through the photos, trying to work it out.

In the end it was that sideboard behind the dining table that told the story.

In front of that blue-painted wall it gained items year on year. At first neatly. More books, more photos, more trinkets, a small vase, a snow globe. But each item had definitely been carefully placed.

By the time Hugh had reached age seven the shelves were stuffed full. So many books jammed in horizontally and vertically. Photos in mismatched frames along the top. A few more trinkets...fat ivory candles. A carved wooden horse.

But still neat. Organised chaos.

By Hugh’s ninth birthday it was just chaos.

Books were randomly stacked with pages outwards. The vase had been knocked over and damaged, but it still remained on its side in multiple pieces. Paper had now appeared on the shelves: envelopes with plastic windows, sheets of paperwork...piles of magazines.

In the background of a blurry photo of kids dancing—musical statues?—April spotted a cardboard box. Just one. Beside it was a stack of newspapers, and beside that a stack of books.

But in the photo of Hugh and his mum together she was still smiling. Her hair was still lovely, her eyes sparkling. Hugh was smiling too, looking up at his mum.

April’s throat felt tight and prickly.

It seemed impossible, given she’d now spent weeks surrounded by the hoard, but until now she hadn’t really thought about the actual compulsive hoarding that must have occurred for this house to be in this state.

Maybe because the house was very neat—for a house full of boxes. And April associated hoarding with those unfortunate people you saw on television documentaries, with rotting food and mountains of rubbish. Vermin. This place wasn’t like that.

But that didn’t mean accumulating all this junk was normal.

April went back to the photos. For Hugh’s tenth birthday there had been no party. Possibly he just hadn’t wanted to have one, but April doubted it.

There weren’t any party photos the year after, or any of the years after that.

Instead it was just pictures of Hugh and his mum and—in the background—more and more boxes...

‘Boxes suck as party decorations.’

Hugh’s voice made April jump.

Her stool wobbled dramatically, and his hand landed firmly at her waist, steadying her.

She was wearing a chunky knitted jumper with a wide neck. The wool was soft against his fingers and the shape of her waist a perfect fit against his palm. But he made sure his hand dropped away the instant the chair was still.

A moment after that April practically leapt from her seat, turning to face him.

‘I didn’t hear you,’ she said, unnecessarily.

Her gaze roamed over him—just briefly. He was wearing his normal uniform of sorts: jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, trainers. Completely unremarkable.

And yet he sensed April’s appreciation. She liked how he looked.

Although hadn’t he known that since he’d helped her out of that stripy top? He’d certainly appreciated how April looked from the moment he’d first seen her.

Today was no different.

She wore light-washed jeans, and her jumper was pale lemon, oversized and slouchy, revealing much of her golden shoulders and a thin silver chain at her neck. Her dark hair was scraped back from her face in a high ponytail. It was neater than normal—probably because it was early in the day, and all those rogue strands hadn’t had the opportunity to escape.

He gave himself a mental shake. It wasn’t important. Wasn’t he supposed to be annoyed with her?

That was what he’d meant to do when he’d walked into the kitchen to find April so absorbed in those photos that she hadn’t heard his approach. He’d meant to ask her, What the hell are you doing?

Although, he reflected, that would have been a dumb question.

She was looking at photos. Duh.

But why? There was no need any more. The photos were his responsibility now. And something about having her look through them felt...almost intimate. Crazy when a few days ago she’d done the same thing with his school photos and he hadn’t cared.

Or at least hadn’t let himself care. He’d still been telling himself the photos were worthless and meaningless to him, after all.

But that hadn’t been true.

So maybe that was why his instinctive reaction was anger—anger that she’d been looking at images he now accepted meant something to him. Just what they meant he could work out later. They were his, and they were private photos. None of her business.

But by the time he’d gone to speak he hadn’t been angry at all.

Boxes suck as party decorations.

‘You stopped having birthday parties,’ April said, reading his mind.

‘Yeah,’ Hugh said.

He stepped closer to the bench, picking up a bundle of the photos she’d been studying with such concentration. He’d dump them in the box to take down to his flat. He would go through the photos later. It had been nice of April to offer to help him, but it wasn’t necessary.

‘I didn’t notice at first,’ he said. ‘You know...all the clutter, I mean. I was a kid. It was just my house. When I was old enough to tidy I kept my room pretty neat, but the rest of the house... I don’t know. Like I said, it was just my house.’

Hugh hadn’t intended to continue the conversation. At all. And yet—he continued.

‘The other kids didn’t notice either. Why would they? Their parents may have, but I wouldn’t have known, and Mum never would’ve cared.’

‘Really?’ April asked with raised eyebrows.

Hugh shook his head. ‘No. At first it wasn’t that bad, and my mum had always been pretty forthright about people accepting each other for who they were. She figured if the house was a bit untidy what was the big deal?’

‘But you didn’t like it?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘And it just got worse. And as kids get older they notice things. I had a friend over one day after school, before it got really bad, and he had a box fall on him while we were playing. He was fine, but I remember his mum talking to my mum in this really low, concerned voice, asking if she was okay and if she’d like some help. My mum didn’t like that. She laughed, I remember, and said she’d just had a busy week and really needed to get all the stuff to the charity shop.’

He was flipping through the photos, but not looking at them.

‘That was a lie. I knew she was never going to do that. Although I suppose maybe she was telling herself that she would one day. I don’t know. But—anyway—my mum never lied. Ever. And that combined with the other mum obviously thinking something was wrong... Well, then I knew something was wrong. So I didn’t have anyone over again.’

April hadn’t moved from where she stood. She just watched him, letting him speak.

‘Things got worse after that. Mum was always really sociable. I remember when I was really little that she’d have these elaborate dinner parties where she’d always try something fancy out of this fat hardcover cookbook she’d get from the library. But they stopped, too. She’d still go out and see her friends—we had a nice neighbour and I’d go and stay with her and watch TV—but the house was just for us. Us and the damn boxes.’

‘That must have been hard,’ April said.

Her words were soft. Kind. That was the last thing he wanted. Kindness. Pity. He didn’t know her. Why was he telling her this?

‘I was fine,’ he said, his words hard-edged. ‘I managed.’

She stepped close to him now and reached out her hand, resting it just below his elbow.

Instinctively he shook his arm free. ‘What are you doing?’

She looked surprised—at her action or his, he couldn’t be sure.

April swallowed. ‘Sorry. I...’ There was a pause, then she straightened her shoulders. ‘I wanted to touch you,’ she said. ‘I thought it might help.’

He shook his head. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘A long time ago?’ she prompted, her forehead wrinkled.

Hugh ran a hand through his hair. ‘I mean since I had to live like that. Mum—’ He hadn’t intended to explain, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘When she met Len I was in the Lower Sixth, and she got better. She got the help she needed—did this cognitive behavioural therapy stuff, got in a professional organiser—and then, when she married Len, we moved here. She was good for a long time. It only started again when Len died, and—honestly—I did all I could. Everything I could think of to stop it happening again, to stop her filling the emptiness she felt after my father left and Len died with stuff. Objects she could cling on to for ever, that would never leave her—’

Her hand was on his arm again. His gaze shot downwards, staring at it. Immediately she removed her touch.

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind. It felt good.’

She placed her hand on his arm again.

Her touch through the fabric of his hoodie was light against his skin. Her fingers didn’t grip...they were just there.

‘I’m a hugger,’ April explained, her gaze also trained on her hand. ‘I can’t help it. I hug everybody. Happy, sad, indifferent. Hug, hug, hug.’ She sighed. ‘It’s sucked, really, not having anyone to hug since I’ve been in London.’

‘You want a hug?’ he asked, confused.

Her head shot up and she grinned. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I was just explaining.’ She nodded at their hands. ‘The touching thing. Because I’m guessing you’re not a hugger.’

A rough laugh burst from his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not a hugger.’

Her lips curved upwards again. ‘I thought so.’

He rarely touched anyone except by accident. When would he? He had no family. A handful of friends. He worked remotely. He was resolutely single. And when he dated touch was about sex. Not this—not reassurance or comfort. This was touch without expectations.

It should be strange, really, to find comfort in the touch of a woman he was attracted to. The few times they’d touched before had been fleeting, but charged with electricity. And, yes, that current was still there. Of course it was.

But what she was offering was straightforward: her touch was simply to help him calm his thoughts and to acknowledge the uncomfortable memories he’d just shared.

It was working, too.

His gaze drifted from her hand to the photos he still grasped. On top was a photo taken of him in bed the morning of his tenth birthday. He’d just unwrapped his present: a large toy robot that he’d coveted for months. His mum had used the timer on her camera, propping it on his dresser, and she sat beside him, her arm around him, his superhero pillows askew behind them.

He and his mum were both smiling in the photo, and Hugh smiled now. A proper smile at a happy memory.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

For making him keep the photographs. For listening.

‘My pleasure,’ said April.

Then she squeezed his arm and her touch fell away.

‘Wait,’ he said.