20. TWENTY
Given her weirdly over-protective neurotic meltdown, Poppy couldn’t blame Roscoe for sticking to his promise of hardly being at the flat. He spent most of Saturday at his parents’ house—probably with his father, who was probably stuffing Roscoe’s head with even more nonsense about sacrificing himself on the altar of BlacktonGold.
So he was probably having a great time. He had his phone back, anyway.
She’d woken up about seven and crept out of her room, half-expecting to find what she found: Roscoe’s bedroom door open and him gone. But not to the office, at least. To the gym. She knew that because he’d walked back into the flat about eight, hair dark with sweat, skin gleaming with it, wearing black shorts and a body-hugging black running top.
She’d been in the kitchen slicing bread and nearly lost a finger.
“Sorry.” That’s what he’d said. Not about the finger—luckily he hadn’t noticed that—and not about melting her brain—because luckily he hadn’t seemed to notice that either. But, “Sorry about the phone. You were trying to help, and I was a dick. I’m sorry.”
He’d come over to the kitchen island, all skin-gleamy and muscle-glowy—she was definitely brain-dead, blood elsewhere—and braced his hands on the edge of the black marble worktop, a little hangdog as he looked at her with cautious blue-grey eyes.
He’d nodded to the bread knife in her hand. “Don’t stab me with that.”
So she’d laughed, as though here were just two flatmates having a jolly flatmate time, and picked up his phone from where she’d placed it next to the fruit bowl. She’d pushed it towards him and said, “I’m doing some sort of egg thing on this sourdough, if you want some?”
“I would, but I’m having breakfast at my parents’.”
He’d showered, changed, and left.
So she was alone in the flat. Again. And she had nothing to do. Again. Because after years of refusing almost every social invitation from friends due to lack of money, she didn’t really have any friends left.
Too poor to afford friends? Was that a thing? Or just an excuse, because all the girls she knew from school, and all the girls she’d met in the various shops and pubs and offices she’d worked in over the years had always felt more like acquaintances than friends. She was a little weird. She knew that. She thought too hard about things no one seemed to think about at all. She was a nerd and got obsessive about small details, and sometimes conversations that got other people all excited just left her feeling bemused.
She used words like bemused.
But that was her grandparents’ fault. All those trips to the library. She’d read far too many books. It wasn’t natural for six-year-olds to do crossword puzzles.
Adjoa was probably the closest thing she currently had to a friend, but Poppy had kept even her at arm’s length. Because the minute you got closer to someone, they started suggesting going for lunch, a coffee, drinks, and Poppy couldn’t afford to. But she hated the way people looked when she turned them down. The way they then started to distance themselves, withdrew the offer of friendship before it even had a chance to start. It was easier to avoid getting those invitations in the first place than it was to turn them down.
But she could afford to go to lunch now she was living here with no travel expenses. Maybe she’d see if Adjoa wanted to get lunch next week, have a proper catch up, because Poppy hardly saw her now she was working for Roscoe.
She hardly saw Roscoe working for Roscoe.
She hardly saw Roscoe living with Roscoe.
Her thoughts were all getting a bit too Roscoe-centric for comfort. And that couldn’t possibly end well.
He was her boss. Her landlord.
He was a rising star of London finance.
He was a member of the British aristocracy.
As she took her breakfast plate back into the kitchen, she tried to imagine how it would be if Roscoe had invited her to come with him to his parents’ house: Carnford House, Mayfair, the Blackton family’s London residence—that Wikipedia page was a mine of information. She tried to imagine herself in some enormous drawing room surrounded by priceless antiques and family heirlooms, sipping tea with the Earl and Countess…
Yeah, right.
Instead, she spent the afternoon at her mum’s place in Lewisham, helping her clean the black mould off the bathroom ceiling.
Roscoe stayed away from the flat as long as he could stand it. He had promised Poppy he would hardly be there, and he intended to keep that promise. But it was a task made harder both by the carrot—Poppy—and the stick: his desire to flee his father’s home office.
He felt guilty at that thought. Every moment with his father was precious, given what had happened. But it would have been nice if some of those precious moments could be spent doing something other than talking about work.
His father was currently discussing at length the impact of American legislation on Chinese tech. Roscoe was nodding along, replying on auto-pilot. A reminder went off on his father’s phone and the man reached for a leather pouch by his side, took out a pill, swallowed it with a sip of water, and carried on talking.
Which was when Roscoe’s mind really started to wander. It wandered to the prescription the doctor had written him that was still tucked, tightly folded, into his wallet. It wandered to that spark of tears in Poppy’s eyes as she told him his work life was making him sick. Had his mother ever had the same conversation with his father? Given they loathed each other, he doubted it. But would this be him in thirty years’ time, taking pills when a machine told him to so that he could keep on functioning like a cog in another, bigger machine?
“Have you heard from Hugo recently?” Roscoe asked when his father paused for breath.
“No.”
“He’s still planning to stay at Conyers, I think. Even with everything that happened. I really think he means it.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“It’ll be good for him, though, don’t you think?” Roscoe persisted a little desperately, trying to force his father to join him on this new conversational path. “I went up there last weekend to see how he’s doing, keep him company. I think he’s really starting to take it seriously.”
His father just grunted.
“Maybe we could all go up there more often?” suggested Roscoe, thinking of the gardens, the grounds, the endless sky…
“I’ve spent enough time away from work as it is. And with everything that’s happened, you’re behind on where you should be.”
“Yes. Right. I suppose that’s true.”
His father resumed his previous conversation. But Roscoe’s mind still idled through Conyers’ lawns and flower beds—and dwelled, understandably, on the entertaining sight of Hugo digging a vegetable patch. That had been worth the trip up there alone.
He felt he understood it though. Hugo’s need to remake himself with each muscle-burning drag of the spade. Bathe his guilt and pain in fresh air. It cut through all the bullshit, somehow. Nature. Green things. Honest, earthy work. Allowed a man to breathe.
“You know,” he said, not waiting for a break in his father’s monologue. “It was interesting talking to Elliott Carter-Hall the other day.”
That name at least got his father’s attention. “Oh?”
“He was explicit about wanting green investment only. Environmental, mainly. He accused the few ethical options we have of being nothing but greenwashing.”
“He’s always been hot-headed. Far less common sense than his brother, that’s for sure.”
Roscoe privately suspected that wasn’t quite true. David Carter-Hall was more obedient than sensible. His younger brother Elliott seemed… Well. Like a man with an agenda.
“It’s his prerogative if he wants to limit his returns and increase his risk,” said Roscoe’s father. “But I hope you advised against it.”
“I did. But I suspect we’ll lose him as a client.”
“I’ll speak to his father.”
“I thought I might review our ethical funds, the ESGs, SRIs… See if I can’t build a more robust option to keep Elliott happy. And others with the same concerns.”
His father studied him for a moment. “Is that the best use of your time?”
Was it? No. Not if he wanted to keep chasing that one percent. Not if he was going to meet his father’s deadline for the new tax advisory service. But was it a better use of his time? Was it a good use of his remaining time on this planet?
Possibly.
Or perhaps a change was as good as a holiday, and this was as close as he was going to get to either.
On Sunday morning, Roscoe returned from the gym to find Poppy sitting at the kitchen island working on… Well. He could only assume it was a laptop. But it looked like it should be in a museum.
Grinning, he strolled over for a closer inspection of the antique. She hastily closed the lid, but not before he read the words Poppy Fields CV.
“Updating your CV?” A spike of unpleasant emotion forced the question from him before he could think better of it.
“No. Yes. A little.”
Roscoe walked to the sink. Poured himself a glass of water. He turned and leant back against the worktop and took a sip. Ever so casual. Fooling no one. “Applying for a new job?”
She was blushing, but she shook her head. “No.”
“I know the EA position was meant to be temporary, and with everything that happened with my dad there wasn’t time to start the recruitment process… But if you want to stay, I can make the position permanent. Not that I give out jobs to my friends.”
Shit. That was exactly what he was doing. But the thought of work without Poppy there in his corner was…
Awful. He didn’t want to think about it.
“What I mean is,” he continued, “I’d be happy to make that recommendation to HR, talk to Liz.”
“Thank you.” But her voice was all tight corners, as correct and proper as a freshly made army bed. “But I’m not looking at my CV for a job. It’s…” Her colour deepened. She toyed with the crooked power cable where it lay on the edge of the counter. “Well, it’s embarrassing.”
He stepped away from the sink and put his glass down on the kitchen island opposite where she sat. “I’m sure it’s not. Tell me. Please. If you want to.”
“I was going to apply to some courses. See if I could reduce my hours a little and use the time to study. I can probably afford it now that I don’t have to commute.”
“Why is that embarrassing?”
“Because I’d be studying A-Levels! I left school when I could. Had to start earning money, barely got any qualifications. I’ve never been to university or anything like that.”
“Poppy… That’s not embarrassing. Why would you think that?”
“You have an MBA. You went to Cambridge.”
“Well. So did a lot of idiots.”
She gave a small laugh, and Roscoe leant his forearms on the kitchen island, bending down to meet her eye where she sat hunched on the stool. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Really? Because my ultimate aim is to work up to a degree and then…” Her cheeks were flaming, but she forced herself to meet his eyes, courage sparking in their blue depths. “Then I want to apply for the grad scheme. At BG. Or wherever will take me. If I can’t get a junior role with my current experience, it’s my best option.” She paused. “Wanting that job… It’s never been a fleeting fancy. It’s been my plan for two years.”
Her bravery wasn’t just in admitting that, but in bringing them both back to a memory of that first night and how things had been between them. She forced him to remember. And she forced him to remember that night in his office when he had sneered, again, and dismissed the things she said about her career.
I’ve remembered my place. Thank you for the lesson.
No wonder she’d looked at him with such anger. Shame crawled sick and hot over his skin. But he made himself meet her eyes squarely. She deserved that much. She deserved much more.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
It sent a little tremor through her. He saw her hand twitch.
“I was dismissive. And ignorant. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
“No. It’s not. But I’ll try to make up for it. I can help you. I can help you choose the right courses. I know people—I can get you work experience. And I can teach you some of the basics—set you up with a practice trading account so you can get an idea of how investment works…”
He trailed off because she was smiling, half-laughing.
“That would be great. But I’m not quite starting from nowhere.”
She opened her laptop back up and showed him exactly what she knew.