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Boxes, boxes, boxes—so many he couldn’t even begin to count.
Hugh reached out to touch the nearest box. It sat on a stack four high, its plain cardboard surface slightly misshapen by whatever was crammed within it.
Some of the many boxes that surrounded it—beneath, beside and beyond—were occasionally labelled unhelpfully: purple treasures...sparkly things.
Others—the work of the woman Hugh had employed to help his mother—had detailed labels and colour-coded stickers: a relic of Hugh’s attempts to organise his mother’s hoard into some sort of system.
But his mother had resisted—joyfully creating ridiculous categories and covertly shuffling items between boxes—and in the end her frustrated assistant had correctly informed Hugh that it was an utter waste of time.
Which he’d already known—but then, what option had he had?
Doctors, specialists, consultants...all had achieved nothing.
How could they? When his mother knew exactly what she was doing?
She’d been here before, after all. Before Len. When it had been just Hugh and his mum and her hoard. And her endless quest for love.
With Len she’d finally had the love she’d searched for for so long. A love that had been powerful enough to allow her to let go of all the things she’d collected in the years since Hugh’s father had left them. Things she’d surrounded herself with and held on to so tightly when she’d been unable to possess the one thing she’d so badly wanted: love.
Without Len his mother had believed that her hoard was all she’d had left. And, despite still having Hugh, despite his desperate efforts, it hadn’t been enough.
He’d been helpless to prevent the hoard that had overshadowed his childhood from returning.
Hugh closed his eyes.
There was so much stuff in this room that if he walked another step he would walk into a wall of boxes.
It was exactly the same in almost every room in the house—every living space, every bedroom. Except the kitchen, halls and bathrooms—and that was only because of the staff Hugh had employed and his mother’s reluctant agreement to allow them into the house each day.
So that was all he’d managed: to pay people to keep the few bits of empty floor space in his mother’s house clean. And to clear a safe path from her bedroom to the front and back doors in case of a fire.
Really, it was not all that different from how it had been when he’d been ten. Except this time he’d had loads of money to outsource what he’d only barely managed as a kid.
And this place was a hell of a lot bigger than the tiny council flat he’d grown up in.
He opened his eyes, but just couldn’t stare at those awful uniform boxes any more.
Back in the entry hall, Hugh grabbed his laptop and backpack, ready to leave...but then he stilled.
The new paint on the door was still wet. He wasn’t going anywhere.
But he also wasn’t going to be able to work—it would seem that three years had done nothing to ease the tension, the frustration and the hopelessness that those damn boxes elicited within him.
Even waiting another three years—or ten—to deal with them wasn’t going to make any difference.
They’d still represent a lot more than they should.
They needed to go. All of them.
This house needed to be bright and light once again. It needed to breathe.
So he sat back down on the bottom step of the grand old staircase, knowing exactly what he was going to do.
It was time.
* * *
It had started with confusion at the supermarket checkout.
‘Do you have another card?’ the checkout operator had asked.
‘Pardon me?’ April had said—because, well, it had never happened to her before.
It had, it seemed, happened several times to the not particularly patient operator—Bridget, according to her name tag. She’d studied April, her gaze flat, as April had tried what she knew to be her correct PIN twice more.
And then, as April had searched hopelessly for an alternative card—she’d cut up every single card linked to the Molyneux Trust back in Perth—Bridget had asked her to move aside so she could serve the next in a long line of customers.
April had dithered momentarily: was she supposed to return the Thai green curry ready-meal, the bunch of bananas and bottle of eye make-up remover to the shelves before she left?
But then the weight of pitying stares—possibly only imagined—had kicked in, and April had exited the shop as fast as she’d been able, her sneakers suddenly unbelievably squeaky on the supermarket’s vinyl flooring.
Now she was at home, still in her gym gear, on her butter-soft grey leather couch, her laptop before her.
For only the second time in the four weeks since she’d been in London she logged in to her internet banking—the other time being when she’d set up her account at the bank. Her fully furnished flat didn’t come with a printer, so she’d have to scroll through her credit card statement onscreen.
But it was still easy to see the reason for her mortification at the checkout—she’d maxed out her credit card.
How was that even possible?
She’d been so careful with her spending—more so as each still jobless week had passed.
She hadn’t bought any new clothes for weeks. She’d stopped eating at cafés and restaurants, and had instead become quite enamoured with what she considered a very English thing: convenience stores with huge walls of pre-made sandwiches in triangular plastic packaging. And microwaveable ready-meals for dinner.
They must only be costing a few pounds a meal, surely?
She had joined the gym, but that had seemed very cheap. And fortunately the flat came with Wi-Fi, so she hadn’t had to pay for that.
So where had all her money gone?
Five minutes later she knew.
With pen and paper, she’d documented exactly where her money had been spent.
Her rent—and four weeks’ deposit—was the biggest culprit. Only now did it dawn on her that even if she did get one of the many, many jobs she’d been applying for, her starting salary would barely cover her rent. With absolutely nothing left over for sandwiches in plastic triangles.
She flopped back onto her couch and looked around her flat.
It was small, but—if she was objective—not that small. And it was beautifully furnished. Expensively furnished. Her kitchen appliances were the same insanely priced brand she’d had back in Perth. Her small bathroom was tiled in floor-to-ceiling marble.
She even had a balcony.
But she couldn’t afford a balcony. She couldn’t afford any of this.
Because she didn’t have any money. At all.
Not for the first time in four weeks, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.
The first time had been after she hadn’t got the first job she’d been interviewed for.
Now, several job interviews later—and many more applications that had led to absolutely nothing—her initial optimism astounded her. She literally had a degree, an internship and then almost ten years of nothing.
Well—not nothing. But nothing she was about to put on her CV. A million followers and a charitable foundation that she’d established herself could possibly sound impressive to some HR departments. But they weren’t relevant to the environmental officer roles she was applying for.
And, just as importantly, they would reveal her real name. And she just couldn’t do that.
Although it was tempting at times. Like tonight. How easy it would be to still be April Molyneux and organise the reissue of one of the many credit cards linked to her insane fortune? By this time tomorrow she could be eating all the Thai green curry she wanted.
She could even upgrade to a far more impressive flat.
April pushed herself up and off the couch, to search for something to eat in her lovely kitchen.
Her fridge was stocked only with expensive Australian Riesling, sparkling designer water—also expensive—a partially eaten wheel of camembert cheese—expensive—and the organic un-homogenised milk that she’d bought because she’d liked the pretty glass bottle it came in—probably also more expensive than it needed to be.
April felt sick.
Was she really so disconnected from the reality of what things cost?
Her whole life she’d known she was rich. But she’d thought she still had some sense of the reality of living in the real world: without a trust fund, without the mansion your mum had bought for you.
She’d liked to think she’d projected some sort of ‘everywoman’ persona to her Instagram and Facebook followers. That despite the good fortune of her birth that she was really just like everybody else.
She poured herself a bowl of probably overpriced granola and used up the rest of her fancy milk, then sat back in front of her laptop.
Earlier today, before heading to the gym, she’d scheduled the next couple of days’ worth of social media posts.
April Spencer might be in London, but April Molyneux—to her followers, anyway—was still in Perth, effortlessly adjusting to her new single life.
Before she’d dyed her hair she’d made sure she’d honoured every single product placement agreement she’d signed, and had posed for months’ worth of photos. She’d taken even more selfies, with all manner of random backgrounds—she’d come up with something to caption them with as she needed to.
Plus she still took random photos while here in London—the habit was too ingrained for her to give it up completely. She just made sure her hair and anything identifiably London wasn’t in any of the photos. So the book she was reading...the shade she’d painted her toenails...that kind of stuff. All was still documented, still shared, interwoven with her blonde April photos and carefully coordinated with her assistant back home—thankfully still paid for by the Molyneux Foundation.
So her social media life carried on. Her followers continued to grow.
And what were they seeing?
She scrolled down the page, taking in her last few years of photos in a colourful blur.
A blur of international holidays, secluded luxury Outback retreats, designer shoes, amazing jewellery, beautiful clothes, a gorgeous husband and attractive—wealthy—friends.
They were seeing an unbelievably privileged woman who had absolutely no idea what it was like to exist in the real world.
April slapped her laptop screen shut, suddenly disgusted with herself.
And ashamed.
The whole point of all this—the move to London, her quest for a job, living alone for the first time in her life—had been about finding herself. Defining who she was if she wasn’t Evan’s wife. Or one of the Molyneux heiresses.
But so far all she’d achieved was a self-indulgent month during which she’d patted herself on the back for ‘living like a normal person’ but achieved absolutely nothing other than a new, reasonably priced wardrobe.
She knew her mum, Ivy and Mila all assumed this was just a bit of a game to her. They assumed that once she did eventually get a job she’d supplement her income with Molyneux money. On reflection, no one had pointed out the now damned obvious fact that she couldn’t afford this apartment.
And, unlike April, they would know. Mila had never used her Molyneux fortune: she knew exactly how far a dollar or a pound could stretch. And Ivy had dedicated her life to building up the Molyneux fortune—so she knew, too.
She couldn’t even be annoyed with them. Up until tonight, and that stupid, sad ‘declined’ beep at the cash register, they’d been right.
They’d been right to think that their pampered middle sister couldn’t cut it in the real world.
And, if she was brutally honest, she hadn’t even been trying. She’d thought she had, but people in the real world didn’t have no income for a month—and no savings—and then casually take their time applying for some mythical perfect job while living in a luxury apartment.
She flipped her laptop open again.
She needed to find a job. Immediately.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_cdb01ebe-0dce-5cea-9338-b5f69bb9646a)
SHE HAD A nice voice, Hugh thought.
Unquestionably Australian. Warm. Professional.
She didn’t sound nervous, although she did laugh every now and again—which was possibly nerves. Or possibly not. Her laugh was natural. Also warm. Pretty.
Hugh’s lips quirked. How whimsical of him. How unlike him.
Currently, April...he glanced down at the printed CV before him...April Spencer was answering the last of his four interview questions.
Rather well, actually.
He leant back in his chair, listening carefully as her voice filled the room, projected by the speakers hooked up to his laptop.
This was the third interview his recruitment consultant had organised, although the other two applicants had been quite different from April. One an art curator, another an antique specialist.
Both complete overkill for the position. He’d been clear with the consultant, Caro, that his mother’s collections were not of any monetary value—although Caro had made some valid points that knowledge of antiques and curation skills might still be of use.
But still... He felt as if employing either skill-set would be pretending that all those boxes were something more than they actually were. Which was a hoard. A hoard he wanted out of his life.
‘...so I feel my experience working for the Molyneux Foundation demonstrates my understanding of the importance of client privacy,’ April said as she continued her answer. ‘I regularly dealt with donors who requested their names remain absolutely confidential. At other times donors wished for their donation—whether it be product, service or otherwise—to be announced at a date or time suitable to their company. In both scenarios complete discretion was essential.’
‘But your role at the foundation, Ms Spencer, was as social media coordinator,’ Hugh prompted, scanning her CV. ‘Why would you have access to such sensitive information?’
