21. TWENTY-ONE
Roscoe was definitely a weirdo, because he was basically getting a hard-on from looking through Poppy’s spreadsheets.
They had moved to the sofa for comfort. There was a lot to go through. He’d showered and changed after his gym session and was now sitting with Poppy’s ancient laptop on his knee. It weighed a ton, was making a worrying noise, and was so hot he thought it might leave a scorch mark on his jeans.
Poppy sat next to him, close, leaning in so she could point to things on the screen, or occasionally run her fingers over the trackpad—on the laptop that was balanced on his groin.
Maybe that explained the semi.
But her work really was impressive. She was running multiple fake portfolios, analysing different asset blends, the impact of different strategies. She had reams of data, rudimentary analyses, even models.
“You really taught yourself all this?”
“There’s a lot of stuff online.”
“You need a trading account. It’ll be so much easier than updating these spreadsheets. You can see things changing in real time.”
“All the ones I looked at required proof of funds, even for the practice ones. Or an invitation or something.”
“Here.” He navigated to a web page. “This is what I use… Oh, I’m not sure it’s supported on this browser.”
“Yeah. That’s the other problem I had.”
“I’ll get my laptop. Hang on.”
He hurried to his room and returned a moment later with his personal laptop. Or one of them. “Here. You can have this one. It’s my old one—I got a new one a few months ago.”
“Seriously?”
She took the laptop gingerly, as though it might break. It did look pretty slim and insubstantial next to her brick.
“Yes. It’s yours. Let me wipe all my stuff…”
Then they really got their nerd on. Configuring a laptop together. Roscoe knew how to show a girl a good time.
But twenty minutes later, Poppy had her own practice trading account set up. He left her playing around with it as happy as a kid in a sandbox while he went to make them some coffee.
Roscoe wasn’t quite so happy. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen worktop as he waited for the coffee machine to do its thing, struck by the undeniable realisation that he had yet again failed to get a handle on the puzzle box that was Poppy Fields. He seemed to have the next Warren Buffet sitting in his living room, and she’d spent the last month making him sandwiches.
Before he’d finished with the coffee, Poppy came into the kitchen. “Do you have any big bags?” She started looking in the cupboards. “Like those big Ikea ones or something. Though, actually, I suspect you’ve never been to Ikea, have you?”
“No, they don’t sell those Fabergé eggs I’m so fond of decorating the flat with. Of course I’ve been to Ikea.”
“For the meatballs?”
“Yes, Poppy. For the meatballs. What do you need bags for?”
She gave up looking and closed the cupboard door with a sigh. “Dave just texted me. He wants me to clear my stuff out today. He’s got a new tenant moving in next week.”
“You gave a month’s notice. Officially you still live there for another week or so.”
“I know. But he’ll chuck it all in the street if I don’t go soon.”
“How are you going to get it across town? Do you have a car?”
She looked at him like he’d just asked if she had a private jet. “No, I don’t have a car. I’ll get the train. It’ll only take a few trips and I still have my train pass until the end of the month.”
“No need for that. I’ll drive you.”
An hour later, they were on their way—admittedly not very quickly, it being London traffic and all.
“This is not the kind of car I thought you’d have,” said Poppy. “It looks like something American Presidents get bundled into during terrorist scares.”
Roscoe laughed. It was rather enormous. And entirely black. “It’s just a hire car. They dropped it off while you were changing. My car isn’t really very practical for a job like this.”
“Oh God, let me guess. It’s a tiny little red Ferrari. Convertible.”
“Please. I have some taste.”
“What then?”
“Aston Martin. DBS. Coupe.” It was the car James Bond drove. A modern version of it. But he didn’t want to admit that to Poppy. She would, quite justifiably, roast him for it. And his brother had already done the job.
“What’s coupe mean?” Poppy asked.
“Not a convertible. Soft-tops are rubbish. All the bugs, the wind. No thanks.”
“And does it mess up your hair?” she teased.
“Exactly.”
His eyes were on the road, but he felt her studying him.
“I liked it longer.”
He risked flashing her a look. Was rewarded by the flush of pink on her cheeks. “I know,” he said with a grin, voice deliberately low.
“That’s unfair—mocking me with my drunken antics.”
“Not mocking. Just…reliving. Enjoyably so.”
He glanced over again, but she was staring straight ahead, cheeks now crimson. Damn. It was just so easy for their banter to slip into something more flirtatious. He really needed to put a stop to that. He was about to rescue her from one sleazy landlord. He couldn’t end up becoming another.
The reality of that hit home when they got to her old flat. She refused his help packing—probably for privacy’s sake—just what did she have hidden in that chest of drawers?—so he was stuck making small talk with Lecherous Dave in the living room until there were some boxes he could help carry.
“Thought you weren’t sleeping with her?” accused Dave as an opening topic.
Roscoe grimaced. He was leaning in the living room doorway and glanced over his shoulder into the short corridor behind him which led past the bathroom to the bedrooms. Poppy’s was at the end and the door was half-closed, but she’d probably still be able to hear every word.
“I’m not.”
“Right. And she’s moving in with you? Pretty fast work.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Haven’t you seen that Harry Met Sally movie?”
“I think that’s supposed to be more of a comedy than a fundamental mathematical proof. Believe it or not, Dave, I’m perfectly capable of being friends with a woman and not wanting to sleep with her.”
From behind him came the sound of a drawer being slammed shut. But he hoped Poppy was listening. She needed to feel sure his intentions were exactly as honourable as he’d told her they were. Maybe if he kept saying it often enough, he’d start to believe it, too.
Dave just scoffed. But so long as Poppy believed him, that was the main thing. Especially when he had helped her carry the last of her bags and boxes down to the car and he saw the paucity of her belongings. Everything she owned fit in the back of one moderately over-sized SUV. With plenty of room to spare. She was putting so much faith in him. Her life was basically in his hands—not just her job and the place she lived, but also her future. Because if she was funding her studies with the money saved from not having to commute, it made her even more dependent on being able to stay at his flat.
She had no savings to fall back on, no family home with a dozen spare bedrooms to move into. If things didn’t work out at his place, where would she go? Would she be able to find anywhere else she could afford? Would she end up somewhere even worse than Lecherous Dave’s?
Hindsight dogged him as he got back into the driver’s seat and reversed carefully out of the narrow bay. He had been high-handed, had interfered in her life, hadn’t really given her the chance to say no to his plan. And even though his motivations were good, maybe it was all an example of the wealthy conceit he’d always thought himself free of: demanding the world be arranged to his liking, with little regard for who it inconvenienced. His father did it all the time.
Yes, he knew—had argued the point with himself a dozen times—that his current position as both boss and landlord meant he couldn’t ethically pursue anything with Poppy. But it was all too easy to forget whenever she was around. Whenever he spoke to her and the teasing banter came so easily, the combative light came into her eyes, and she smiled those complicated multi-faceted smiles, a puzzle-box he longed to unlock… It was all too easy to forget his promise when he looked at her, heard her, smelt her, came as close to touching her as he ever dared—a light touch on her arm, a brush of shoulders as they passed each other…
He had let himself enjoy all that, hadn’t he? Forbidden as it was, he knew he had been enjoying stepping close to that line. It had seemed harmless. But it wasn’t. Not with her worldly possessions in the back of the car. Not with the power he had over her.
He had to be a friend and ally. Nothing more. He was definitely, definitely not another Dave.
He would give her everything she needed, and ask nothing in return.