10. TEN
“Shit! Poppy!”
Roscoe flung himself around the desk and onto his knees at Poppy’s side. He reached out for her, but she was already stirring, trying to sit up. He put an arm around her shoulders, felt how weak she was against him, trembling slightly, a hand pressed to her face. “Shit, shit…” she mumbled.
“What happened? Are you OK?”
“Low blood sugar, I guess.”
“You’re diabetic?”
“No. Just…hungry.”
She still had a hand to her face, over her eyes, breathing slow, deliberate breaths to steady herself. Although each one shook. “I should…”
“No, don’t stand.” He shifted position slightly, slipped his other arm under her legs and lifted her up, then carried her to the little sofa in the corner of his office. She made some noise of embarrassed protest, but he was already putting her down, setting her back against the sofa cushion. “Just sit. Take a moment. I’ll get you some water.”
There was a sideboard near the sofa area, a mini-fridge on one end of it. He normally hated the humming sound it made, but now he was grateful to have it. He set a glass of water down on the coffee table, then got a cereal bar out of his desk drawer.
“Eat this. It’ll get your blood sugar up.”
She gave a faint laugh, studying the packet as though it contained a joke.
“These are the ones I buy. They’re the cheapest ones there are. Why on earth are you buying them?”
“I don’t know.” He went back to his desk and collected the bag of takeaway. “It’s just what they had in the supermarket.” He put the food down on the coffee table and took the lounge chair opposite her. “I could give you one of the macronutrient-protein-whatever ones, but they’re disgusting.”
She laughed slightly again, still shaky, incredibly pale. But she unwrapped the bar and took a small bite.
“What happened?” he asked, eyes tracking over her face, her downcast lashes. “Tell me you’re not starving yourself on some crazy diet.”
“I just tried to explain. I have no money.”
“But you must have enough to buy food.”
“No. I don’t.”
He paused, studying her. “I’ve seen the job advert for the permanent EA position. You’re not on peanuts.”
True, it was peanuts compared to his wage, but he barely ever thought about what he earned. The remuneration package he’d agreed on for this role was just numbers. It didn’t mean anything to him other than as an indicator of progression.
Poppy shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She didn’t answer. After a moment, he unpacked the food from the bag. He couldn’t remember what he’d ordered, but as he opened the trays and discovered enchiladas and savoury rice, he was glad he’d clearly been stressed enough to forgo his usual boring order of grilled chicken and veg in favour of something heavy on the carbs and melted cheese.
“Really,” he said, setting the wooden spoon in one of the trays and pushing it towards her. “Make me understand why you can’t afford to eat.”
“Really,” she echoed. “You wouldn’t understand.” She gave the food a yearning look, then started to stand. “I need to go.”
“No. Not a chance. Not until you eat something.”
“That’s your dinner.”
“If you pass out on the underground, a lot of London commuters are going to be really pissed off with you.”
“They wouldn’t notice. They’d trample my unconscious body in their haste for bank holiday freedom.”
Roscoe chuckled. But Poppy still wasn’t eating. “Just to be warned,” he said. “I will spoon feed you.”
She pulled a face, but he saw the moment she gave in, the tiny shrug. She took hold of the tray with a shake of her head and started to eat, self-consciously at first, and then a larger mouthful.
“Mmm.” She moaned. “This is good.”
He ignored the sound of that. But given he then got stuck watching her lips wrap around the fork, he couldn’t make any pretensions to nobility.
“You seem to have read my Wikipedia page,” he said, his smile teasing, trying to put her at ease. If he could get people to trust him with their money, surely he could get his EA to explain why she was apparently starving. “Double first from Cambridge, you know. I’m pretty good at understanding things. So tell me why you’re fainting in my office.”
She looked up from the food, fork in her mouth, resting there, the tines denting her lower lip as she gave him a considering look. She drew the fork away, dug it into the food.
“I have a family to support.”
“A…family? You’re a parent?”
She held his look for a moment, completely serious, before she let out a slight laugh. “No,” she relented with a slight shake of her head. “But I have a mother, and two younger brothers. And almost half my salary goes towards them.”
“Why?”
“Because living costs in London are criminal.”
“I’m sure they are, but…”
“You’re a numbers guy. It’ll be easier if I give you the numbers. Give me a pen and paper and I’ll write it down. It’s all memorised. Burnt there.”
Roscoe fetched the pad and pen from his desk. Poppy quickly wrote down some columns of numbers. The pen she was using was from Caran d’Ache and had cost him around nine hundred pounds or thereabouts. He couldn’t actually remember. He’d bought it on a whim. Now was probably not the time to bring that up.
“Here.” She handed him the pad, not meeting his eyes, blushing fiercely though her posture was tight, fighting her own embarrassment. “My mother’s income and outgoings, and mine.”
He scanned the list, frowning. “But that’s… At the end of the month that leaves you…”
“Nothing. Yeah.”
“But you have groceries listed. So you are buying food.”
She looked uncomfortable. “Normally I can just about feed myself. But this month…”
“What happened?”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I went for a drink. That night in the bar.”
“Sorry to point it out, but you did look like you’d had more than one.”
“I didn’t know they were going to do rounds! Or cocktails! Or that cocktails there cost a million pounds. I’d budgeted for one five-pound glass of wine. I was going to drink that, wish Liz happy birthday, and go home. But it didn’t quite go to plan… And I guess I was stupid to agree to go at all, waste money on something frivolous… But the thing is…there’s a social side to work. And I don’t… I never go for work drinks. I dread the collections for people’s birthdays. The invitations to go out for lunch… I have a reputation for being odd. Reclusive. Maybe a bit cold. But it’s because I can’t afford it. I can’t ever say yes. It’s always no, no, sorry, no. And sometimes it just doesn’t seem like there’s any end to it, and I… I…”
And then, to Roscoe’s horror, she started crying.