9. NINE
Roscoe did not, in fact, let Poppy know if he needed anything. By Wednesday lunchtime, he still hadn’t shared his diaries with her, or redirected his phone. She had been moved to a desk at the end of a row near his office. If she glanced to the left, she could see him through the glass panel by his door. She saw him typing, she saw him reading, she saw him on the phone. She saw him sigh, and yawn, and frown, and rub his hands down his face and look exhausted. She saw him stride out of his office and away to meetings, and she saw people step into his room for yet more meetings, discussions, catch-ups, one-to-ones. And she heard his phone ringing, ringing—his mobile and his desk phone. And all the time, she sat there at her empty little desk with nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and fail to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach.
Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…
She glanced to the left. He had his mobile to his ear, talking. His eyes kept straying to the ringing phone on his desk. His hand hovered over it.
Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…
But he was still talking on his mobile. Then he was listening, frowning at whatever he was being told. He rubbed a hand across his face, then glanced back at the other phone, eyes a little hunted.
Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…
Enough. Enough of this. She got up, stalked into his office, and snatched up the handset. “Good afternoon, Roscoe Blackton’s office.”
He looked up at her, more in surprise than annoyance, and their eyes stayed locked as she listened to the caller, told them she’d take a message, leant across the desk and picked up Roscoe’s pad and pen.
“Sorry, John,” said Roscoe into his mobile. His eyes were on the pad she held against one thigh, tracking the pen that scribbled the message. He looked away. “Sorry, sorry, you were saying…?”
Poppy finished her own call. She put the receiver down, put the pad down on the desk in front of Roscoe, underlined the word URGENT and left the room.
By Thursday, Poppy’s food ran out completely. The last of her loaf of bread. The last scraping of peanut butter from the value jars she bought at the budget supermarket. And Dave had used the last of her milk making a protein shake.
When she got to work, she sat at her desk feeling dizzy. Her hands were a little shaky, but it hardly mattered, given they had nothing to do. She would wait a few minutes until the rush of morning coffee-makers had cleared out from the staff kitchen, then go down and see if she could grab a banana or two from the fruit basket—
“Didn’t you get my message?”
Her head snapped up, found Roscoe standing at her desk looking irritated. “Where’s the report on Lionel Chen? I’m meeting him now.”
“Message?” She checked her inbox. It was as empty as her stomach.
“I texted you last night. I used the contact number for your out-of-hours mobile.”
“Oh. My phone…um… It ran out of charge. And the charger—”
“That’s the number on the company system. Aren’t you meant to be on call? He’s only in town this morning, flew in last night. This is the only time we can fit him in.” Roscoe let out a breath, rubbed a hand through his hair. “Never mind. He’s already waiting. I don’t have time for this.”
“Wait!” Poppy stood up as he started to stride away. “I can brief you on the way. I know Lionel Chen. I put his file together. He’s one of your father’s clients.”
“Was. He’s been transferred to me. This is our first meeting, and I am not fucking prepared.” He muttered the last part—the anger directed at himself not her.
She fell into step beside him, the shaky hunger making it hard to keep up with his long stride. “Lionel Chen,” she started. “Splits his time between Hong Kong and London, former CEO of the grocery group N-Mart, but recently retired. He’s been shifting to a lower-risk, long-term strategy over the last few years and is now planning a move into philanthropy so he’s looking at liquidating some assets. His interests are art education—he has six grandchildren—and city air quality—”
Roscoe nodded as Poppy talked, absorbing it all, asking the questions he needed. The tight line of his shoulders didn’t quite relax as they walked, but he took on a more determined air, less harried. When they reached the conference room door, he met her eyes briefly. “Thank you. Sit in with us? I’d like this minuted.”
She nodded, and joined the meeting. By the time she made it to the kitchen, all the fruit was gone.
At eight PM on Thursday, Roscoe was still at his desk. Which wasn’t unusual. He barely ever left before ten these days. He suspected tonight would be even later than usual, though, even if it was technically the last day of the working week—tomorrow was Good Friday. He had a lot to wrap up before the four-day Easter weekend, and he’d taken two days’ annual leave the Tuesday and Wednesday following that, which he could ill-afford to do, but his brother Hugo needed him up at Conyers. He was having a spot of girl trouble.
There was a light knock on his door. “Come in.”
He glanced up as the door opened, but it wasn’t the food delivery person he was expecting. It was Poppy.
“Someone just dropped this off for you.”
He stood up as she approached his desk with the carrier bag of takeaway. He took the bag from her, though it seemed to take a moment for her fingers to release the handle. She gave herself a slight shake and turned to go. He frowned. She seemed…sort of dazed, a bit out of it.
“Everything OK? Why are you here so late?”
She paused and turned back to him, hesitating before she spoke. “Actually, I… I wanted to speak to you. I was waiting for everyone to go.”
“Oh?” He gestured to the seat in front of the desk and sat down, too, pushing the bag of food to the side. Poppy stared at it, biting her lip.
What was this going to be about? Something she needed to say in private? Maybe she was going to report him to HR after all. He thought he’d been doing a good job of keeping his distance, making it clear that any…interest…on his part was all in the past. But then he’d snapped at her this morning, hadn’t he? And he’d texted her late at night—though he’d agonised for ages over doing it, but he needed that report, and it was her job to help him.
“Thank you, by the way,” he said. “For this morning. The Chen meeting. You were very helpful.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Shit. He knew it. But, as was often the case with Poppy Fields, what she said wasn’t quite what he was expecting.
“You clearly need an EA. And you’re not letting me do my job. I wouldn’t mind so much if you were only sabotaging yourself, but who do you think’s going to get the blame when your work suffers or…or you simply drop dead from exhaustion?”
“It’s fine, I can manage. I didn’t request an EA.”
“But you obviously need one. And I know what you said on Monday, but you are punishing me for what happened. This could have been a good opportunity for me given my… Well. Given it’s the career I’m in.”
“Right. Your career.”
She flushed at that. And she had every right to. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, hadn’t realised the sting of disappointed humiliation was still so sharp. And then he made it worse. “So you’ve given up on the analyst job? Just a fleeting fancy, I suppose?”
A flame burnt in her blue eyes. “Yes. I’ve remembered my place. Thank you for the lesson.”
It was brutal, the look she gave him. The anger in her words. Then, just as quickly as it had burned, it was gone, and the ashes left behind hurt him far worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small.
It ought to have been him. He should have been the one saying sorry—if he had any real class, any real manners. If he was truly any kind of gentleman at all. But it was her who said, her voice low and level, “I’m sorry. I listened to stupid gossip, and I made assumptions. And I listened to self-doubt and…well…desperation, I guess.”
“Desperation?” he repeated. Bye-bye, ego.
“Yes. Desperation. Because I didn’t see another way. I’m not the type of person you think I am. I’ve worked hard to get here. I haven’t…taken short cuts. But now I’m here, I realise I’ve reached a dead end. I’m on a…on a one-way track. And I can’t switch lanes.”
“You’re switching metaphors just fine.”
“Right. Funny. I’m sure that’s the sort of thing that gets laughs at the Cambridge debating society.”
“Oh, this again?” he said, voice heating with some shameful mix of hurt, embarrassment, frustration. Insecurity. “What was it you said? Golf and polo and rowing?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“Actually, I have an extremely good idea what you think of me.”
“That you’re entitled and privileged and take everything for granted?”
“I’ve worked hard, Poppy. You might be disappointed to learn that you can’t exactly sleep your way into an MBA. Doesn’t quite work that way at Cambridge either.”
“So maybe you had to jump through some hoops to get here, but most people don’t even get access to those hoops!”
“What does that even mean?”
“Do you seriously think everyone gets the chance to go to Cambridge? Get educated at Harrow like you? And that…that playing sport and making friends with all those guys who are now going into business, politics, finance, isn’t helpful to you at all? Your connections, your accent, your upbringing, the way you can be in a room with rich, powerful people and feel they’re your social equals, know how to talk to them… You think none of that gives you an advantage?”
He breathed a laugh of irritation. “We’re both just people, Poppy. We both went to school, got educated, and now we’re both here, at BG, doing our jobs. I don’t really see how I’m so different to you.”
It was her turn to scoff. She nodded at the bag on his desk. “That’s how we’re different.”
“Takeaway food?”
“You have food. And I don’t. It’s a fairly fundamental difference.”
“If you’re hungry, just order some in. I know it’s not strictly company policy, but no one’s going to report you.”
She gave a hollow laugh. “I can’t order it in. That’s the whole point. I have no money.”
“So pay with card.”
“I. Have. No. Money.”
She held his eyes for a moment, then seemed to give up looking for whatever it was she hoped to see there.
“Why am I bothering?” She shook her head. “You’ll never understand.”
She pushed herself up from her chair, turned on her heel, and promptly fainted.