26. TWENTY-SIX
Move out. That was the only answer. Move out. Perhaps attempt to gatecrash a major crime and get taken into a witness protection scheme. A new name, a new country.
If she moved back to her old estate near Peckham, that might be easy. She knew where the drug dealers lived.
Stupid, stupid thoughts for a stupid, stupid girl.
She tossed from side to side in her bed. Roscoe’s bed. Lying on her side, then her back, the sheets all tangled up and uncomfortable. Everything was uncomfortable. Her skin. Her bones. Her brain. Her life.
It was light outside. Early sunshine hazy through the window, dust motes in the air, a little London grime on the expanse of glass. Roscoe’s windows only got cleaned weekly. Pft. How slobbish. How vulgar. This was practically a slum.
Is that how we’re going to play it?her brain asked. Childish denial? Thinking about anything but last night?
What were her other options? Sobbing great wracking tears until she couldn’t breathe? She’d already done that—biting her arm so she wouldn’t be heard, other hand clutched to her stomach as though the humiliation might disembowel her. Then the waking nightmare of exhausting recollection until the dawn light came through the window.
Her phone was still…somewhere. Wherever she had drunkenly put her bag when they came in last night. The kitchen. The living room. But she knew it was just past seven AM. She’d heard Roscoe leave for the gym.
Gotta keep that body honed. There were probably a few women still out there who hadn’t been wrecked by it.
She breathed a bitter laugh as she pushed the sheets from her legs and got up. Was blaming Roscoe going to be her tactic? When she’d practically begged him to kiss her? Had, in fact, uttered the very words kiss me.
Ugh.
RB Goldy. How had she ever thought she could resist the allure? She was an idiot. Had fallen for her boss. Her landlord. As he had reminded her approximately seven million times last night.
She showered, pulled on some clothes, and slipped out of the flat before he returned from the gym.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His thoughts sounded in time with his steps on the treadmill.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Forty minutes of it, chest heaving, sweat stinging, muscles burning, and he still hadn’t quite exhausted the refrain.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—
He slapped the machine off, stumbled down. His brain helpfully gifted him a crisp, high-definition vision of Poppy, mostly naked, spread before him on his sofa.
Fuck.
He stalked towards the boxing bag.
Ah, Lewisham. Land of hopes and dreams and market stalls selling curious vegetables. And absolutely no Roscoe Blackton.
Her brothers weren’t happy when she arrived at the flat so early. Liam threw a cushion at her, Harvey grumbled something incomprehensible, dragged his duvet around his shoulders like a grouchy pyjama party king, and shambled off to their mum’s room, where he curled up in her bed and went back to sleep.
It was almost 10AM. Her mum had been at work for hours.
She spent the day, had lunch with Liam and Harvey—instant noodles, toast, more tea than was healthy. Liam went off to work after lunch, and her mum returned. Poppy made dinner. Fish fingers. Oven chips. Baked beans. More tea than was healthy. She dunked biscuits in it and tried not to think about the way Roscoe ate fried chicken.
The way he ate her—
Her biscuit broke off in her tea and she swore, trying to fish it out with a spoon. Too late. It was soggy, crumbled in the bottom of her mug. Would come back to haunt her when she reached the dregs of her tea, malty and gritty and gross. But that was life. Some things couldn’t be undone.
She left Lewisham before it got dark, got off the tube near Roscoe’s flat just as the sun was setting, twilight turning London into shades of purple and ash. She wandered around, unable to take the street to his place. Twice she tried to turn towards it, but her footsteps carried her away, down different roads. She walked until she was almost lost—almost, because it was always possible to see some landmark in the distance and orientate herself back home.
Home?
Roscoe’s flat.
But she was in streets she hadn’t been to before. Older, quieter streets, tucked away from the busy rumble of buses and shop-fronts. There were trees here. Old London planetrees with their flakey, patched bark, pushing up the paving stones like irascible elderly relatives refusing to play nice, sit still, behave.
She passed the entrance to a mews, open iron gates set in an archway, a cobbled drive leading to an even quieter, more tucked away spot lined with old amber-bricked and white-stuccoed houses. The door to one opened and—
Roscoe stepped out. Followed by a woman.
She was young, pretty, blonde. And she definitely wasn’t his sister—Poppy knew what Evelyn Blackton looked like. It was that Wikipedia article. Or the Tatler one. Or there were photos online. Anyway, the point was, this definitely wasn’t Evelyn.
The blonde woman laughed, looking up at Roscoe, who grinned, giving a casual one-shouldered shrug. They turned to walk up the mews towards the street. Towards where Poppy stood, her feet not quite obeying her shouted instruction to move.
Roscoe’s face fell. Or jumped. Or did something.
“Poppy?”
The woman at his side looked between them, a curious smile on her lips. She had the same rich-person gleam as Roscoe. Expensively glossy hair, perfect skin, smart black jacket and designer-looking handbag. She was clearly part of his world. Part of his life if she emerged from houses with him.
“Sorry,” Poppy said, because that was the sort of thing Poppy always said. “I was walking around. I didn’t mean to be here. Didn’t know you would be here. I don’t…even know where I am.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed with amusement. She looked from Poppy to Roscoe. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Roscoe had done little but look at Poppy thus far. His cheeks were tinged pink, and if he had been wearing a coat, he looked like he would have wanted to shove his hands deep in the pockets. Unfortunately, he was not, and Poppy was subjected to the sight of Roscoe in casual jeans and a blue top that looked soft enough to weep on.
“Of course. This is Poppy, a colleague from work. Poppy, this is Cassie. A friend of mine.”
The woman held her hand out. “Cassie Banberry-Thompson,” she elaborated as though the name ought to mean something. “I grew up next to Ross. In Lancashire. We’re practically siblings.” She seemed to emphasise the last part.
“Oh,” said Poppy. “Hi.”
There was a pause where Roscoe probably should have said something. When he didn’t, Cassie said “Well!” with a sly, twinkling sort of smile. “This has been fun. But I need to get going. Remember what I said, though, Ross. Keep your wits about you.” She winked at Poppy and somehow managed not to look daft doing it. “Nice to meet you, Poppy from work.”
“And you. Bye.”
Cassie went, leaving a lingering cloud of perfume. And a moment of pure awkwardness.
“Sorry,” said Poppy again. “I should go, too.”
“Wait. I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.”
He had, in fact, already messaged her twice. Once to ask where she was. My mum’s, she’d replied. And once to ask if she was OK. Of course, she’d replied.
“I wasn’t sure if you were coming home—back to the flat, I mean. Or if you were planning to stay at your mum’s.”
She shrugged. “I can if you want.” Though there wasn’t the room.
“No. No. Of course not. I was going to say… If it makes you more comfortable, I can stay here instead.”
“Here?”
“Erm. Here. Where I live.”