11. ELEVEN
Oh God, it was true. The end of every working week for the rest of her life was destined to be spent embarrassing herself in front of Roscoe Blackton.
Was tonight worse than treating him like a high-class John? So far she had shouted at him, called him ignorant, fainted on him, revealed the paucity of her pathetic life, and now she was sobbing on his sofa while he looked on in horror.
Except, no… He was no longer just looking, he was moving, coming around the coffee table to sit next to her and put his arm around her, and that was worse, that was far worse than anything else that could have happened.
“It’s OK,” he said, and pulled her against his chest. Which was not OK—not for her sanity. Because his body seemed to be made of granite covered in warm silk, and that was covered in crisp cotton, and it all smelt so gloriously male and human and cosy and fresh, as though whatever laundry detergent he used—or his laundry service used—had managed to distil the bedroom feature of a high-end lifestyle magazine into a scent. Egyptian cotton sheets and wooden floorboards and sumptuous pillows and clear blue sky through an antique window, cottage-garden flowers swaying delicately in the fresh breeze…
That was how Roscoe Blackton smelt. But also, like sex.
Poppy cried a little more, because things seemed overwhelming right then. Besides, the damage had already been done. Yes, those were her tears marring the snowy perfection of that Tom Ford shirt, or whatever brand he wore that cost more than her monthly rent.
“It’s OK,” he said again. And it really wasn’t, because nothing at all had changed, except that Roscoe Blackton now knew how far beneath him she really was.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling away. “God, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. Really. Absolutely do not apologise.”
“I should get going. You’re so busy, and I’ve just totally wrecked your evening—”
“Wait, wait. Have you spoken to HR? Do they know about your situation?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I don’t need…like…charity or anything. I’ll be fine when I get paid this month.”
“I don’t mean charity. But look”—he picked up the notepad again—“your two biggest expenses are travel and rent. I’m sure you can get a loan from BG to buy an annual season ticket. That should save you something if you’re currently buying a monthly one.
She shook her head. “I’m on a six-month rolling contract. I’m not eligible.”
“Then I’ll talk to HR, I’m sure I can sort something out. Get you a permanent contract.”
That made her laugh slightly. “Do you see what I mean? About how people who know people get special treatment?”
Roscoe let out a breath, acknowledging the hit. “I’m your boss. Sort of. For the next few weeks. I’m allowed to look out for people on my team.”
“Ah. Of course.”
He let out another breath of laughter. An acknowledgement that real life was one long series of hypocrisies. He looked back at the notepad.
“What if you lived closer to work? Would your commute be cheaper?”
“I can’t afford to live closer. Do you have any idea what rent costs in central London?”
“But coming all the way from Basildon every day…”
She was surprised he remembered. “The commute’s not too bad. One of the City’s saving graces is that it’s incredibly well-served, transport-wise.”
“How long does it take you?”
“An hour or so.”
“I live five minutes’ walk away.”
“I know.”
Which, of course, led them inevitably to an awkward silence in which they both recalled how she knew that. The gleaming flat. His hands spanning her waist. The size of them and the strength they promised. His thumbs tracking up her ribcage, his breath warm on her neck as he brushed his lips to hers—
He cleared his throat. Looked back at the notepad. “So these big costs are all pretty much fixed.”
“They’re all fixed. I mean, you get to a point when there’s nothing left to cut back and what you’re left with are the absolute essentials needed to survive. They’re all fixed costs. I can’t reduce any of them.”
“Or you end up starving and fainting in the office?”
She blushed slightly. “Yes. Embarrassing.”
“No.” He shook his head and repeated the word. “No. Not embarrassing.” And he said it with such conviction she almost started to cry again. Because as mortifying as this whole evening was, there was something about having someone—and not just anyone, but someone as clever and capable as Roscoe Blackton—look at her life and agree: there wasn’t any more she could do. The numbers didn’t work. The financial golden boy agreed with her. It wasn’t an error she was making. They just did not work.
“And your family, they really need you to contribute this much?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Tell me about them.”
She didn’t want to, Roscoe could see it. She was still embarrassed, thought she was taking up his time, knew he ought to be working. And OK, he probably did need to be working. But he could catch up later. This was important. And more than that, it was interesting.
He was a smart guy; he knew that. He was inquisitive, curious. Willing and able to take in vast reams of information about the world and analyse it, digest it, understand it. And he definitely wasn’t ignorant. He followed multiple news channels all day every day. Knew more about current affairs than almost anyone—because it all affected the markets. So yes, he was aware of the cost-of-living crisis. He was aware of poverty. Of generational poverty, the poverty trap, life below the breadline, underfunding of public services, social care cutbacks, benefit sanctions, austerity, unemployment, the housing crisis… etc., etc. He was aware of it.
But he was, he realised now, only aware of it in an abstract way. As background noise to inflation rates and property values and employment rates and so on and so on. He was aware of it as information to feed into models and predictions. As just more grist for the mill: information that he would use to make his clients money, and therefore make BG money, and therefore make himself money.
So, yes. He was aware of it.
But he didn’t understand it.
He didn’t understand how a smart, capable woman like Poppy Fields could be working long hours at a reasonably well-paid job and be almost literally starving to death. He didn’t understand how her mother could be working two different jobs and not be able to put a roof over her children’s head without Poppy’s support.
Of course he didn’t understand that. How could he? There was a thousand-pound pen on the table that he’d bought on a whim. He owned two flats within a half-mile radius of each other partly because he was choosy about who he brought back to his real flat. If he hit his performance targets this year, the remuneration package he’d just agreed on for this job would net him more in his first year than Poppy or her mother would earn in decades.
Of course he didn’t understand not being able to afford a sandwich. How could he?
“Tell me, Poppy. I want to know.”
“You’ve seen the numbers.”
“But I don’t understand the reality of it.”
She drew back in on herself. “Why would you want to? Unless you have some kind of poverty porn fetish? Like those trust fund kids who go on slummy nights out just for the lolz and bantz.”
“No. Not at all.”
How could he explain that he was genuinely curious? That he wasn’t the sort of person who could be content with their own ignorance—at least, not once it had been pointed out? And also…if he was being honest, he’d always thought of himself as one of the good guys. He wasn’t a spoilt rich boy. Except, he was beginning to realise perhaps he was.
How had Aubrey put it? He needed to check his privilege.
“I really want to know,” he told Poppy. “I think maybe…I haven’t been aware of quite how easy I’ve had it.”
“So you want to see how the other half lives?”
“Exactly.”
“You’d have to live it to understand it.”
Which was when the idea popped into his head. And it was a really stupid idea, crazy even, and yet it took hold.
Maybe it was just because he hated the idea of Poppy leaving this room and going out into the night, travelling alone for miles to get back to a flat where she had nothing to eat and no breakfast to look forwards to the next day.
Maybe it was because he had watched the Christmas film Scrooged at an impressionable age and he hated the part where Bill Murray’s character finds the frozen body of Herman, the homeless guy he failed to help earlier. Because if Murray’s character had only tried a little harder, been a little kinder, then Herman might have lived. And the thought of leaving simple things undone haunted Roscoe. What if…? He always wondered. What if…? It was probably part of what kept him working late night after night, or setting his alarm for some ungodly hour of the morning to check the overnight markets.
Or maybe it was because he hated his ignorance and wanted to restore his pride.
Maybe it was because he knew his dad would hate the idea.
Maybe he wanted to finally prove to himself—to Poppy, the world—that he could do just fine without the trappings of wealth.
Maybe he hadn’t really slept in seventy-two hours and wasn’t thinking rationally.
Maybe he was just desperately, helplessly, endlessly curious about Poppy Fields.
Maybe it was because she had cried in his arms.
Maybe it was for all those reasons. Maybe people were chaotic and messy and never really knew why they did anything.
Maybe that’s why he said: “What if I did?”
“Did what?”
“Live it. Your life. What if we just…swapped lives?”