by Leah Ashton
Soon he was out of inner London, riding down the A24 against the flow of commuter traffic. He was warm with exertion, but the wind was still icy against his cheeks. The rest of his body was cloaked in jet-black full-length cycling pants, a long-sleeved jersey, gilet and gloves.
Usually by now the group would have begun to loop back, but today Hugh just kept on riding and riding, heading from busy roads to country lanes, losing track of time. Eventually he reached the Surrey Hills and their punishing inclines, relishing the burning of his lungs and the satisfying ache of his thighs and calves.
But midway up Box Hill, with his brain full of no more than his own thundering heartbeat, he stopped. On a whim, abruptly he violently twisted his cleats out of his pedals and yanked hard on the brakes until his bike was still. Then, standing beside his bike, he surveyed the rolling green patchwork of the Dorking valley as it stretched towards the South Downs beneath a clear blue sky. Out here, amongst woodland and sheep-dotted fields, London was thirty miles and a world away.
What was he doing?
He didn’t have to check his watch to know he’d missed his morning teleconference. He’d miss his early-afternoon meetings too, given it would take him another two and a half hours to get home again.
Reception would be patchy up here, he knew, but still, he should at least try to email his assistant—who worked remotely from Lewisham—and ask her to clear his calendar for the rest of the day.
But he didn’t.
He hadn’t planned to ride this far, but he’d needed to. He’d needed to do something to ease the discontent that had kept him awake half the night—much of it spent pacing his lounge room floor.
Hugh didn’t like how he felt. All agitated and uncertain.
He usually lived his life with such definition: he knew what he was doing, why he was doing it, and he always knew it was the right thing to do. Hugh made it his business to plan and prepare and analyse everything. It was why his business was so successful. He didn’t make mistakes...he didn’t get distracted.
His mother’s house had always been the exception.
When she’d died he’d considered selling it. He’d been living in his own place in Primrose Hill, not far away.
But back then—as now—he just hadn’t been able to.
For a man who prided himself on being the antithesis of his mother—on being a man who saw no value in objects and who ruthlessly protected his life from clutter—his attachment to the house was an embarrassing contradiction.
But he knew how much that house had meant to his mum. He knew exactly what it had represented.
For his mother it had been a place of love, after so many years of searching.
And for Hugh it had been where his mother had finally lived a life free of clutter—a life he had been sure she’d lost for ever. For more than a decade she’d been happy there, her hoard no more than a distant memory.
And so he’d kept it.
He’d ended up hoarding his mother’s hoard. There was no other way to explain his three-year refusal to dispose of all that junk.
Even now, as April Spencer attempted to clean out his mother’s house, he couldn’t let it go.
A stranger—April—had seen that.
Why else would she be going to such lengths to save sentimental crap unless she’d sensed that he wasn’t really ready to relinquish it?
And she was right. The original ‘Hugh’ box still remained as April had left it, cluttering up his coffee table in all its ironic glory.
He just hadn’t been able to walk to the skip behind the house and throw it all away. It had felt impossible.
How pathetic.
Yesterday he’d helped April move those boxes in an effort to normalise the situation: to prove to himself that his visceral reaction to them could be overcome. Except he hadn’t considered April. He hadn’t considered his visceral reaction to her.
He hadn’t considered that, while he might be able to dismiss his attraction to her as nothing when he spent only short periods of time with her, more time together might not be so manageable.
Because more time with her meant he’d seen another side of her: a mischievous forthrightness that really shouldn’t have surprised him, given her refusal to follow his original instructions.
And he liked it. A lot.
He’d also liked it—a lot—when she’d got tangled up in that shirt.
He’d liked being so very close to her—close enough to smell her shampoo and admire the Australian tan revealed below her bunched up T-shirt. Close enough to feel her shiver beneath his touch. To hear the acceleration of her breathing.
In those long moments after he’d helped her out of the blouse it had been as intimate as if he’d actually undressed her.
It had felt raw and naked—and incredibly intense. As if, had he touched her, they would’ve both lost control completely. And for those long moments he’d wanted nothing more than to lose control with April Spencer.
But Hugh Bennell never lost control.
And so he hadn’t. He’d taken a step back, even though it had been harder than he would’ve liked.
He’d assessed the situation: April worked for him.
His priority was cleaning out his mother’s house, not fraternising with his employees.
Besides, he suspected his reaction to April was somehow tangled up with his reaction to the boxes. Because it wasn’t normal for him to have such a magnetic pull towards a woman. He was generally far more measured when he met a woman he liked. In fact he always ‘met’ the women he dated online.
It allowed for a certain level of...well, of control, really. He could set his expectations, as could the woman he was speaking too. There was never any confusion or miscommunication, or the risk of having anything misconstrued.
It was incredibly efficient.
But starting with physical attraction...no.
Although it had been difficult to remind himself why as he’d paced his parquet floor at three a.m.
His mind had been as full with thoughts of April as with his continued frustration over the house and all its boxes.
Mostly with April, actually.
The softness of her skin. The way her lips had parted infinitesimally as they’d gazed into each other’s eyes. And that urge to lean forward and take what he knew she’d been offering had been so compelling it had felt inevitable...
No.
And so his bike ride. A bike ride to clear his mind of the clutter his mother’s hoard and April were creating.
It had been a good plan, Hugh thought as he got back on his bike.
A total fail, though, in practice, with his brain still unable to let go of memories of warm skin and knowing blue eyes as he rode back down the hill, alongside the song of a skylark caught up in the breeze.
* * *
Mila: OMG Gorgeous!
April: That’s one to save for his twenty-first! :)
April typed her instant messaging response to Ivy’s gorgeous photo of her son, Nate, covered in bubbles in the bathtub. It felt like for ever since she’d spoken to both her sisters together.
April: How are sales going, Mila?
Mila had recently started mass-producing some of her ceramic work to keep up with sales at her small boutique pottery business.
Mila: Pretty good. I’ve experimented with pricing a bit. I’m still not sure how much people value handmade. So far it seems that the hand-glazing is the key, because...
Mila went into quite a lot of detail—as Mila always did when it came to her business—and then posted some photos she’d taken in her workshop.
April had always been proud of Mila—of both her sisters. She’d always admired how Mila had been so adamant that she’d build her business without the financial support of their mother, bu
t until now April had never really had an issue with spending her family’s money herself.
In fact it had taken her until her mid-twenties before she’d realised she should be doing a lot more with her good fortune than attending parties and buying everything she liked on every fashion festival catwalk.
And so she’d started the Molyneux Foundation.
She’d deliberately chosen not to be the face of the foundation because it wasn’t about her. In fact she’d asked her mother to be the patron. But there was no question that it was April driving the foundation. It had become her project and, along with a small team, she’d made sure the foundation had continued to grow—and for every dollar donated to the foundation Molyneux Mining matched it twice over.
April had experimented with a few different ideas for the foundation—a website, later a blog—and by the time Instagram had gained popularity April had known exactly how to monetise it best to help the foundation. She’d had her team reaching out to any company that sold a product she could include in a photo, and she’d carefully curated the images to ensure that she mixed promotional pictures seamlessly in with those that were just her own.
And it had worked. She didn’t think her mum had expected it to take off the way it had when April had talked her into the two-to-one deal, but it was certainly too late now!
She was incredibly proud of all the foundation had achieved, and of her role in that. But she’d still really just considered it a little side project. She was as hands-on as needed, but it was hardly a full-time job. She’d still had plenty of time to shop and socialise—and until Evan had left her it had never occurred to her to live without the Molyneux money.
The Molyneux money to which she had contributed in absolutely no way at all.
And the brittleness of all that—the fact that without the Molyneux money she had literally nothing...no means to support herself...not one thing she’d bought with money she’d actually earned herself—was quite frightening.
Ivy: How’s the new job going?
April: Good. Mostly. Lots of boxes.
She’d love to post a photo to show the magnitude of the hoard to her sisters, but photography was one of the many things expressly forbidden by the confidentiality agreement she’d signed. Along with any discussion of the contents of the boxes.
April: My boss is interesting.
She’d typed that before she’d really thought about what she was doing.
Ivy: Oooh! Interesting-interesting? Or INTERESTING-interesting? ;-) ;-) ;-)
April: Both.
She’d never been good at keeping secrets from her sisters.
Mila: Photo?
April: No. I can’t even tell you his name. But he’s tall. Dark hair, dark eyes. Stubble. What do you call it...? Swarthy?
Mila: I’ve always liked that word
April: But he’s my boss.
Ivy: From an HR point of view, that’s not really a problem unless there is any question of a power imbalance. And I doubt nepotism is an issue in your current role.
Mila: It’s handy having a CEO in the family.
April: I’m not going to do anything about it, anyway.
Mila: WHY NOT?
Ivy: WHY?
April: It’s not the right time. I need to be single for a while. Right? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when your husband walks out on you?
Mila: I don’t have a husband ;-)
Mila did have a very handsome, very successful boyfriend who adored her, however. Everyone knew they’d get married eventually.
April: Not helpful.
Mila: Sorry. Too soon?
Too soon to be teased about her situation?
April: No. I’m not curled up in the corner sobbing or anything.
She welcomed a bit of levity—she had right from the day that Evan had left her.
Plus, she was well past that now. Now she slept easily—no thoughts of Evan whatsoever. Working fourteen-hour days possibly also helped.
Ivy: I think being single for a while is a good idea.
Ivy was always good for keeping things on topic.
Mila: But you can still be single and do interesting things with an interesting man ;-) ;-)
Ivy: Exactly.
There was a long pause as her sisters clearly awaited her response.
This was not what she’d expected. She’d expected words of caution. Now the possibilities had short-circuited her brain.
Mila: April?
April: I don’t know what to do.
Ivy: But you know WHO to do!
Mila: Ha-ha-ha!
April: Can you post some more photos of Nate?
Mila: Boo. You’re no fun.
Ivy had taken the bait, though, and bombarded them with three adorable photos in quick succession. The conversation swiftly moved on, for which April was extremely grateful.
But that night it was Hugh Bennell who crowded her dreams.
* * *
April was almost finished for the day when Hugh opened the front door. The charity truck had just left, taking away the latest boxes full of donated things.
It had left the foyer almost empty, with only a neat stack of flattened boxes near the door and the ‘Hugh’ box sitting on the bottom step of the grand stairway.
‘Hello!’ April said, smiling as he stepped inside. She hadn’t seen him since the stripy blouse debacle, but had already determined her approach: regardless of her sisters’ opinion, she was going to remain strictly professional.
Even considering another approach made her...
Well. It didn’t matter. It was too soon after Evan, and Hugh was her boss. These were compelling supporting arguments for professionalism.
No matter how compelling Hugh himself might be, simply by walking through the glossy black door.
April had just sent him her summary email, but was doing a quick sweep-up of the dirt that the charity man had tracked inside before going home.
‘Hi,’ he said, shooting only the briefest glance in her direction before striding for his box. It was the first day since that afternoon in his basement that she’d had anything to add to it, and of course she’d let him know.
Hugh picked up the box in the swiftest of motions and then immediately headed down the hallway—which led through the kitchen, the utility room and then outside to the skip.
April had assumed he’d come and check the box after she’d gone for the day, so she wasn’t really prepared for this.
‘Wait!’ she said, before she could stop herself.
He stopped, but didn’t turn. ‘Yes?’ he asked. His tone was impatient.
She knew she shouldn’t have said anything.
‘Nothing—sorry,’ she said.
There. Professional.
Then, somehow, she was jogging up the hallway. ‘Wait...please.’
Again he stopped immediately at the sound of her voice.
This time he turned to face her.
She’d run up right behind him, so he was really close, with only the open box between them.
She reached inside. She’d found a lot of sentimental things across two boxes today: a large pile of ancient finger paintings and children’s drawings—all labelled ‘Hugh’ with a date in the mid-nineteen-eighties—and all of his school reports, from preschool through to Year Thirteen.
But it was some photos that she picked up now, in a messy pile she’d attempted to make neat. But that had been impossible with the collection of different-sized photos: some round-edged, others standard photo-sized, some cut out small and weathered, as if they’d been kept in someone’s purse.
‘These are from your first days of school,’ she said.
Hugh didn’t even look at them. He shrugged. ‘I don’t ca
re.’
But he wasn’t meeting her gaze, he was just looking—April thought—determinedly uninterested.
‘I don’t believe you.’
That got his attention.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, sounding as British as April had ever heard him.
‘I don’t believe you don’t care,’ she said, slowly and clearly. As if there was any chance he’d misunderstand.
His gaze was locked on hers now. ‘I don’t see how that matters.’
April fanned the photos out as if they were a deck of cards. ‘Look,’ she said, giving them a shake. ‘These are photos of you in your school uniform. For each year there’s a photo by yourself, with your school bag. And another with your mum. These are special.’
‘They’re not,’ he said. He nodded at the box. ‘Please put them back.’
April shook her head. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said firmly, her gaze remaining steady.
It would seem she’d thrown her professionalism out of the window.
She’d get extra shifts at the supermarket if he fired her and the temp agency blacklisted her. Or clean toilets. Whatever. She just couldn’t pretend that she agreed with this.
‘You’re making a mistake.’
His eyes narrowed. His voice was rough. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’ He turned away from her and continued down the hallway. ‘I’ll just throw them out tomorrow.’
‘Do you hate her?’ April blurted out the words to his rapidly retreating back.
Faster than she’d thought possible he was back in front of her. Right in front of her. He’d dropped the box at some point and there was now no barrier between them.
His presence crowded her, but she didn’t take a step back.
‘No!’ he said. Not loudly, but with bite. Then he blinked, and belatedly added, ‘That is none of your business.’
His words were calm now, but—again—deliberately so.
‘I know,’ she said, because of course it was true. But she just couldn’t stop. ‘You know, I don’t have any photos of myself with my mum like this,’ she said conversationally. ‘I know that because my sisters went through all Mum’s old photos when I had my thirtieth birthday party, for one of those photo-board things.’ She swallowed, ignoring Hugh’s glower. ‘I have a couple from my first day of school in Year One, but that’s about it. And I have hardly any photos of myself as a kid with my mum. It was different twenty-five years ago—people didn’t take as many photos. And it was usually Mum who took the photos anyway, rather than being in them.’