29. TWENTY-NINE
“Do you have a fork?” asked Poppy, looking dubiously at the disposable chopsticks she’d just pulled from their paper case.
“Sure.” He stood up to get her one from the kitchen, but she waved him back down.
“I’ll get it. Do you want some water?”
He eyed his almost empty wine glass. Last night had taught him a valuable lesson about getting drunk around Poppy. Lowering his inhibitions was not a wise move. Not when he was already emotionally incontinent. He cringed at the things he’d told her about his dad. Things he’d never told anyone else. Hadn’t even admitted to himself. A mopey rich boy, whining about his gilded life. What the hell must she think of him?
“Yes, water, please.”
Two seconds later there was a massive crash from the kitchen. He jumped to his feet and found Poppy looking down in dismay at a cutlery draw, its contents strewn all across the floor.
“Oops,” she said.
Roscoe laughed. “I should have warned you. Every drawer and cupboard is so jam-packed they have a tendency to explode.”
They knelt down together on the floor and started scooping the mass of forks and spoons and knives back into the drawer.
“It just fell out,” Poppy said apologetically. “It was a bit jammed, so I gave it a tug, and the whole thing fell out.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
“What even is all this?” She held up a long thin fork with two slender prongs. Then something that looked like a nutcracker.
“Grapefruit fork. Lobster cracker.”
“I thought you were joking about the lobster crackers.”
“Nope. Actual thing.”
“And this?” She held out a fork with a flat, curved edge.
“Fish fork.”
“Let me guess,” she said, holding up another small fork. “For Caviar?”
“Oyster fork.”
“Ah. Of course.”
There really was a random collection of stuff. Much of it tarnished silver. He spied a solid gold olive fork and hid it in the tray before Poppy could tease him about it.
But then he spotted something he couldn’t help but smile at. “Not seen this in a while.”
It was a knife—a dinner knife—made of silver, the handle base embossed with a shield.
“What is it?” asked Poppy.
“It’s from the old family set. We used to use it at Conyers every Christmas until my mum ordered a new one. Brings back memories.”
She held her hand out, so he passed it to her. “Is that your family crest? That shield picture with the bird and the tower?”
He nodded, readying himself for her teasing. But she just smiled, almost sadly. “You really are from a different world, aren’t you?”
“No. I mean… Not the important stuff. Not any of the stuff that really matters. There’s only one world for all that.”
“And another world where you eat meals with fifteen different sets of cutlery. I bet you know all that, don’t you? Which spoon to use for what?”
“Erm…yes.”
She tutted in amusement, shook her head then went back to dumping the cutlery in the drawer. He paused. Thought about it. Paused again. Then said it anyway.
“How about I teach you?”
She looked up, holding a bundle of cocktail sticks with what he suspected were real emeralds glinting at their tips—tiny emeralds. Basically worthless.
“The life swap,” he elaborated. “We never really got very far with it. But I could teach you all about this ridiculous world—all these antiquated customs, if you really want to know them. I could… I could take you to the opera. To a polo match. Get you an invitation to some fancy parties—a Vamp;A opening, Wimbledon centre court, my parents’ box at Ascot… You can drive my Aston Martin. Whatever you like.”
She gave him a frowning smile, not quite sure what to make of it all. “Opera and polo? Are you just reciting the plot of Pretty Woman?”
“No…”
She laughed. “Big mistake, Roscoe. Huge. And as tempting as the offer is, I can’t actually drive.”
“I could teach you that?”
“In your car?” But she laughed before he could think of a delicate way to answer. “Don’t worry. I’m not that cruel. But OK.” She winked. “Fork me, Roscoe.”
Poppy sat at an old, wooden, oval dining table that would probably seat about twelve people. It was in Roscoe’s dining room, which she had glimpsed briefly through a door from the living room. It seemed less used. There were thick green curtains drawn over the windows, and the light from the wall sconces was orange and low. Piles of box folders and textbooks teetered in the corners. The remnants of Roscoe’s MBA.
In front of her on the slightly dusty table were a small bowl, set on a small plate, set on a larger plate. Three forks in a row on the left. Three knives and three spoons in a row on the right. There were more spoons above the bowl, another small plate, five glasses of varying shapes and sizes, and a heavy, folded napkin.
“Just as well Mabel’s a hoarder,” commented Roscoe, leaning over to adjust the position of yet another small plate. “With enough crockery to host an army.”
“Mm,” replied Poppy, because he was leaning over from just behind and to the side of her chair, his arm brushing her shoulder, his jaw inches from her ear. His breath touched the back of her neck.
“There,” he said. “Perfect. Well… Any butler would have a heart attack, but it’s good enough for now.”
Then he pulled a chair closer and sat there with his knee almost touching hers while he said things like, “This is the salad fork. And this is the water goblet.”
“Mm,” she said. And her brain said, “Crumbs.”
Was that offer still on the table? The one with the touching and the kissing?
Probably not, her common sense said.
Definitelynot, her self-preservation stated, glaring.
Damn,said the rest of her. Are you sure?
“Food service is normally to the right, counterclockwise,” said Roscoe. “Drinks to the left.”
“And when it’s takeaway Chinese?”
He chuckled, moving her soup bowl off the plate. “These dim sum are our salad course.”
She picked up one of the small forks. “Salad fork?”
He nodded, and she tried to pretend he wasn’t watching the progress of the dumpling to her mouth. She chewed. Swallowed. She could hardly taste it. Could hardly get it past the tension constricting her throat.
“Roscoe?”
“Yes?”
“Shall we just eat on the sofa?”
He laughed, standing up. “If madam so wishes.”
They settled into opposite corners of the sofa, holding one plate each, one fork.
“See?” said Roscoe. “This is all you really need.”
Poppy just smiled and tucked in happily. She’d eaten dinner at her mum’s, but that had been hours ago at six. And it was now… Shit. She saw the time in the corner of the TV screen. Nearly midnight. At least the flat was only ten or fifteen minutes’ walk away.
That morning, when she left Roscoe’s other flat, she never would have imagined that she would be here, tonight. Not just physically in this space she’d never suspected existed, but here—friends again with Roscoe. How did that keep happening? They made no sense together, might as well be aliens from different planets, but the moment they started speaking, it was the easiest thing in the world. As though they’d been friends for years.
Just friends. She tried to welcome the thought.
They talked about the TV show. A little bit about work. Roscoe reminded her he was away in Zurich from tomorrow. They talked about the food. He told her about the last formal dinner he’d been to, something at the City of London Guildhall. He started telling her a story about visiting Mabel in this flat as a boy. And then he put his finished plate on the coffee table and smothered a yawn with the back of his hand.
“I’ll get going,” said Poppy, putting her plate down and standing up.
Roscoe glanced at the time. “How did it get past midnight? I’ll walk you back to the flat.”
“Are you staying here?”
“I told Aubrey I was. He’s picking me up in the car tomorrow. We’re flying to Zurich together.”
“Then don’t worry about walking me home.”
“It’s late, Poppy.”
“It’s five minutes.”
“I’ll call you a car.”
“Really, it’s fine.”
“Or you could stay here.”
A pause.
“I just mean…” said Roscoe. “It’s late. And you’re tired. And there’s a bed right here.”
Her heart started thumping. Stupid heart. But her brain wasn’t stupid. It refused to pretend. “Is this a good idea?” she asked.
“No.” Roscoe looked at her, meeting her honesty with his own. “Probably not. But I really don’t want you to leave. And the thought of you alone in that flat makes me sad.”
It made her sad, too. Not the flat, but the being alone. The being somewhere that Roscoe was not.
Oh dear. This was not good.
“So I’ll just… I’ll just sleep here. In your spare room. Go back to the flat in the morning. And you’ll catch your flight to Zurich.”
“Exactly.” Roscoe nodded. Picked up the plates. Turned towards the kitchen. “Except there is no spare room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“Wait, there’s only one bedroom?”
“It’s fine,” said Roscoe. “It’s a comfy sofa. It’ll be fine.”