Desired By The Boss
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Stop.
This was Ivy and Mila’s influence, scrambling her common sense. It wasn’t how she really felt. She’d never felt like this.
She reached past him, incredibly careful not to brush against him, and switched on the kettle.
She sensed rather than saw him smile—her gaze was on the kettle, not him.
‘Let me help you,’ she said. ‘Stop trying to convince yourself you want something you don’t actually want. At all. Stop pretending.’
Too late, she realised the error of her ‘help him with the kettle the way she’d help him with his stuff’ metaphor. She’d ended up less than a foot away from him.
Or maybe it hadn’t been an error at all.
‘Okay,’ he said. His voice was deep. Velvety.
April looked up and their gazes locked.
It was like the stripy blouse moment all over again. But more, even.
She was suddenly unbelievably aware of her own breathing—the rise and fall of her chest was shallow, fast. And the way her belly clenched, the way her nails were digging into her palms to prevent herself from touching him.
‘I’ll stop pretending,’ he said.
His gaze slid to her lips.
She closed her eyes. She had to, or she couldn’t think.
The way Hugh was looking at her...
‘April...?’ he said, so soft.
Was that his breath against her lips? Had he moved closer so he could kiss her?
She refused to find out.
Instead, she stepped away. Two steps...three.
‘Good!’ she said. ‘Great! Let’s make time to go through the stuff I find each couple of days, okay?’
Hugh wasn’t thinking about the boxes. ‘What?’
April nodded sharply. ‘Okay, I can finish up here. Thanks for your help.’
He was gone a minute later—just as the kettle whistled to say that it had boiled.
Later, as she walked to the supermarket, all rugged up in scarf and coat, Hugh’s words echoed in her brain.
I’ll stop pretending.
But she wouldn’t stop pretending. She couldn’t.
For now she was April Spencer, not April Molyneux.
The thing was she had no idea what was pretend any more.
Hugh sat at his desk, typing a message to an old friend from university.
Ryan had completed the same computer science qualification that Hugh had, although he’d made his money in a completely different field—internet dating. Ryan’s innovative compatibility matching algorithm had been game-changing at the time. But his friend had long since sold the empire he’d built, and now ran an extremely discreet, exclusive online dating agency, using a new—Ryan said better—matching algorithm.
This had come in handy for Hugh.
Ryan’s system was cutting-edge, and Hugh honestly couldn’t fault it. He’d liked every woman he’d met through Ryan’s system—even if he hadn’t been attracted to them all. Or them to him.
After all—there still wasn’t an app that could guarantee that.
He didn’t date often, but when he did he was very specific. He liked to meet at quiet, private restaurants where it was easy to converse without distraction. He’d go to the movies, or to a show. He didn’t go to bars or pubs—there was too little order and too many people talking. He couldn’t think.
If things went well, after a few dates he might sleep over at his date’s place. But he never lingered long the morning after. Or stayed for breakfast.
Usually, at some point later, he’d be invited to a party, or to a family event.
He always said no.
At such events he would become ‘the boyfriend’. And he didn’t want that.
Understandably, usually things ended then.
A couple of times he’d met women equally happy to avoid a relationship. Those arrangements had lasted longer, until eventually they’d run their course too.
Of course he was always clear that he wasn’t after a relationship, and he was never matched with anybody who specifically wanted to settle down. However, it would seem that the ‘wanting a relationship’ and ‘not wanting a relationship’ continuum was not linear. And everyone’s definition of where they stood along that line varied. Wildly.
So a woman who started off not wanting a relationship might actually want a bit of clarity around her relationship with Hugh. Or an agreement of exclusivity.
And exclusivity, to Hugh, was an indicator of a relationship—not that he had ever dated more than one woman at once, however casually.
So at that point he was out.
He got it that he was weird when it came to relationships. Women always eventually asked him about his stance. But it wasn’t easy for him to define.
He knew, intellectually, that it originated from his mother’s serial dating. She had been quite openly on a quest to find her Mr Right after the disappearance of his deadbeat father. He’d become used to the cycle of hope and despair that each new boyfriend would bring, and he’d decided he had no wish to experience that for himself.
But—and this had been his original theory—the risk of a relationship ending in despair was surely reduced if you approached dating with comprehensive data on your side. If you were matched appropriately—your values, your interests, your goals—then surely you minimised risk.
And this, in his experience, was true. He had never experienced the euphoric highs or the devastating lows of his mother’s relationships. When he dated it was...uncomplicated.
But that was where his stance on relationships became much more about him. Because, despite all this data-matching and uncomplicated dating, he still didn’t want a relationship.
It was a visceral thing. When he woke up in a woman’s bed—he never invited them to his place—his urge to leave was not dissimilar from the way the bloody boxes that filled his mother’s house made him feel.
Trapped.
It all came back to the same thing: to Hugh, relationships were clutter.
Ryan: I’ll send you the link to our latest questionnaire—we’ve tweaked things a little so you’ll need to answer a few more compatibility questions.
Hugh: No problem.
Ryan: Then the system will automatically send you a shortlist. Same as always—if the women you say yes for also say yes then you’re set.
Hugh: Great. Thanks.
But it was weird... He’d been keen to talk to Ryan, but now he was losing enthusiasm. He’d been so sure that it was the six or more months since his last date that had triggered his interest in April. And today he’d almost kissed her.
Hugh: What’s your current success rate with your matching algorithm?
Ryan wouldn’t need time to look this up—he knew his company inside out.
Ryan: Almost one hundred per cent. We rarely have a customer receive no matches.
That wasn’t what Hugh had meant.
Hugh: So one hundred per cent go on at least one date?
Ryan: Yes. And over ninety per cent of users rate their first date experience with a score of eight or above. We’re very proud of that stat.
Hugh: Second date?
Ryan: We don’t track activity beyond the first date.
Hugh: Long-term relationships? Engagements? Marriages?
Ryan: Lots. There are many testimonials available.
He pasted a link, but Hugh didn’t click on it.
Hugh: Percentages?
Ryan: We don’t have that data.
Hugh: Could you guess?
He could just imagine Ryan sighing at his laptop screen.
Ryan: Low. Easily under ten per cent. Under five per cent, probably. Which makes sense when you consider that each user gets matched with multiple people. But anyway our job is the introduction. The rest is up to the couple. But, mate, why the interest? Do we need to update your profile to ‘Seeking a long-term relationship’?
Hugh: No. Just—
He stopped typing.
Just what?
Why was he suddenly questioning the method he’d been following for ten years? Especially when he’d contacted Ryan today to follow that exact method again. Nothing different. No changes.
He finished the sentence:
Hugh: No. Just wondering.
If Ryan had been a close friend—the kind of mate who knew when you were talking out of your backside—he would’ve questioned that. But he wasn’t a close friend. Hugh didn’t have close friends. The habits of his childhood—of keeping people at a distance, and certainly away from his home—had never abated.
Hugh asked Ryan a few more questions—just being social now. About his new house, his new baby...
After several baby photos, Ryan wrote: We should catch up for a beer. Somewhere quiet, of course.
Hugh: Sure.
And maybe they would organise it. But, in reality, ninety-five per cent of their friendship was conducted via video-conference or instant message. And that suited Hugh just fine.
Later, he answered the new compatibility questions.
He hesitated before submitting them.
Why?
Because his subconscious was cluttered with thoughts of April Spencer.
Particularly the way she’d looked at him that afternoon in the kitchen. Particularly the way her lips had parted when she’d closed her eyes.
But Ryan’s algorithm would never match him with April.
April was vivacious and definitely sociable. She had an easy sunniness to her—he found it difficult to imagine that many people would dislike April. He imagined her surrounded by an ever-expanding horde of friends and family, living somewhere eclectic and noisy.
While he— Well, he had a handful of friends like Ryan. A handful he felt no need to expand. No family.
She was a traveller...an adventurer. She must be to be her age and working at this job in London. Meanwhile, he’d lived nowhere but North London. And he rarely travelled—save for those essential meetings when he’d first expanded his company internationally. Now he insisted all such meetings took place via video-conference.
He was intensely private, and unused to having his decisions questioned.
She questioned him boldly, and she’d told him about her family and her absent father without the slightest hesitation.
And somehow he’d revealed more to her than to anyone he could remember.
So, no, they wouldn’t have been matched.
Apart from the added complication of her working for him, their obvious incompatibility could not be ignored.
He was attracted to her—that was inarguably apparent. She was beautiful. It was natural, but it didn’t mean anything. April Spencer was all complications. He didn’t do complicated.
What he needed was a date with a woman who knew exactly what he was offering and vice versa. And who was like him: quiet, private, solitary. No ambiguity. No confusion. Just harmless, uncomplicated fun.
He clicked ‘Submit’.
A minute later he received an email confirmation that his responses had been received.
Now he just needed to wait to be matched.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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.