Catherine Mann - Desired By The Boss

‘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.

‘HUGH?’

‘We must’ve lost him.’

‘Should we reschedule? We can’t make a decision without him.’

Belatedly Hugh registered what the conference call voices were saying.

He’d tuned out at some point. In fact, he could barely remember what the meeting was about. He glanced at his laptop screen.

Ah. App bug fixes. And something about the latest iOS upgrade.

Not critically important to his business, but important enough that he should be paying attention.

He always paid attention.

The meeting ended with his presumed disappearance, and his flat was silent.

He pushed back his chair and headed for the kitchen, leaning against the counter as his kettle boiled busily.

He’d left his tea mug in the sink, as he always did. He reused it throughout the day, and chucked it in the dishwasher each night.

Why had he cared about April’s mug?

He was neat. He knew that. Extremely neat. The perfect contrast to his mother and her overwhelming messiness.

Although, to be fair, his mother hadn’t always been like that.

At first it had just been clutter. It had only been later that the dishes had begun to pile in the sink and mounds of clothes had remained unwashed. And by then he’d been old enough to help. So he’d taken over—diligently cleaning around all his mum’s things: her ‘treasures’ and her ‘we might need it one days’, her flotsam and jetsam and her ‘there’s a useful article/recipe/tip in that’ magazines, newspapers and books.

But he wasn’t obsessive—at least not to the level of compulsively cleaning an employee’s coffee mug.

It had been odd. For him and for April.

He didn’t feel good about that.

He didn’t know this woman at all.

That had been deliberate. He hadn’t wanted to use the Precise HR Department, or reach out to his team for recommendations of casual workers, university students or backpackers—he hadn’t wanted anyone he knew or worked with to know about what was he was doing.

But the fact was someone needed to know what he was doing in order to actually do it—and that person was April Spencer.

And so she knew about his mother’s hoard and would know it better than anyone ever had. Even him.

That sat uncomfortably. Hugh had spent much of his life hiding his mother’s hoard. It didn’t feel right to invite somebody in. Literally to lay it all out to be seen—to be judged.

His mum had loved him, had worked so hard, and had provided him with all she could and more on a minimal wage and without any support from his father. She didn’t deserve to be judged as anything less than she had been: a great mum. A great woman.

Her hoard had not defined her, but if people had known of it...

The kettle had boiled and Hugh made his tea, leaving the teabag hanging over the edge of his cup.

April had offered to leave yesterday.

But he’d rejected her offer without consideration, and now, even with time, he knew it had been the right decision.

If it wasn’t April it would be someone else. At least April wasn’t connected to his work or anyone he knew. Anyone who’d known his mother.

She was a temporary worker—travelling, probably. She’d soon be back in Australia, or off to her next working holiday somewhere sunnier than London, and she’d take her knowledge of his mother’s secret hoard with her.

His phone buzzed—a text message.