38. THIRTY-EIGHT
They had lunch, explored the grounds and gardens some more. It was all very outdoorsy and wholesome and Poppy could understand why Roscoe saw this place as a break from his London life.
The sun and fresh air had reddened his cheeks, giving him a farm boy glow. He strolled along at her side in old jeans and leather boots and a soft t-shirt, looking all healthy and strong-limbed and vital, as though he could rescue stranded calves, carry them down mountains over his shoulders. He smiled, and there was warmth in his voice as he spoke about the place, the land, the house, his boyhood visits here. But none of it thawed the gap between them. It grew and solidified like ice, even as he spoke cheerily about fishing with Hugo with toy rods made of sticks and string, and Evie dropping her doll in the water, and Roscoe plunging to the rescue while Hugo just laughed… Every word seemed to take him further from her, add another barrier round the topic they really needed to discuss.
Them.
But she supposed she was a coward, too, because she didn’t bring it up either. And there were things she needed to discuss with him. Things that would only make it worse. Because she’d had an email the day before to confirm she’d been accepted on the course she’d applied to. From September, she could start her slow journey towards getting the qualifications she needed for a degree. Several years of study and then she might just about be qualified to apply for an internship at BlacktonGold.
But if she brought that up, it would remind Roscoe that her doing the course was contingent on staying at his flat, where she had no travel expenses and could afford to work part-time. I’m completely dependent on you. And she could mention that it would be Liz who would need to approve the change in her hours, because they ought to start recruiting his permanent EA and she’d go back to George’s team. You won’t be my boss anymore. But your father will.
How would those things weigh in whatever ethical equation went on behind Roscoe’s eyes when he looked at her? Would he be more or less likely to decide she was equal enough to screw?
Her step faltered as the bitterness of that thought took her by surprise. She was angry, she realised, even as her toe caught on a tree root and Roscoe put out his hand to steady her. Not just a little miffed or bemused by his daft rule, but furious and hurt and jealous that he was holding himself back from her.
“I’m fine,” she told him, and removed her arm from his grip, walking on down the path.
“Poppy…”
Had she spent so long telling herself he was too good for her that she’d forgotten to ask whether he was good enough for her? How long was she going to let herself exist on crumbs from his table? On the little bit of himself she was permitted to have.
“Where does that path go?” She pointed to a stile in an overgrown hedge.
“Just more fields, and down to the village eventually. But my father sold some of that land off last year.” He paused, but her expression must have told him there was no point asking about her sudden change in mood. “Mabel was furious,” he continued instead, leaning on the stile and looking out across the field. “Not that she has a say. It’s all his—this entire estate. She says he only lets her stay here because it’s cheaper than paying someone to look after the place. I’m not sure that’s entirely true. But they’ve never got on.”
“Why’s that?”
“Personality clash, mostly. And some…differing political views. Plus she thinks he’s a bully. And controlling. And…erm…a terrible father. And husband. And person. Basically.”
He gave a hollow laugh, scratching his jaw. Poppy’s anger didn’t vanish, but she managed to bury it under a flood of sympathy—enough that she could ask gently, “Is he? A terrible father?”
Roscoe met her eyes briefly. “I mean… Suffice to say… It’s understandable why he might give that impression sometimes.”
“What did he want to talk to you about the other day?”
The day they were interrupted, when Roscoe had returned late, windswept and haunted, as though he had been walking and thinking for hours…
“Hendrich Lissi, mostly. He wanted to congratulate me.”
“It is something of a coup. Especially if he can bring us Domnall White as a client.”
“Mm,” said Roscoe, turning to walk down the path again. He snagged a leaf from a tree. Tore it absently between his fingers. Poppy watched the shredded green litter the path.
“If you hate the project so much,” she said, “why not suggest Aubrey take the lead? He’d be perfect for it. Then you’d have more time to look into the ethical stuff.”
“I did. I tried. He said no.”
“Oh.”
“He wouldn’t listen at all. He wants me on this tax thing. Seems to think it’s my divine fucking calling as heir to the BG throne.” Another shredded leaf fell to the floor. “And that providing an ethical option for top clients who personally fucking request it is a stupid fucking idea.”
She stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Sorry,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “It’s just getting to me a bit.”
“If you keep pushing, maybe he’ll come around?”
“He won’t. I know him. I can tell when his mind is made up.”
“But this is worth fighting for. You can’t spend the rest of your life doing work you don’t enjoy.”
He shook his head. “I can’t fight him. Every time I do, he gets angry. Works himself up. And I keep thinking…” He looked at her for a moment, weighing something in his mind. “It was a heart attack, Poppy. That time he was suddenly taken ill. He was arguing with my brother Hugo, and he got so worked up he had a heart attack. He could have died. And every time I argue with him, all I can think about is what if it happens again? What if it’s worse this time…and I…I basically kill him—”
“No, no.” She stepped closer to him, made him look at her. “No, Roscoe. You can’t think like that. And I’m sure it doesn’t work like that. Your actions aren’t responsible for…heart disease.”
“I can’t get it out of my head.”
He sounded so lost then, utterly wretched. She touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leant into her palm.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s constantly in my head. Like there’s no way out. I’m stuck at BG doing whatever he wants me to do forever, because the alternative is…”
“Leave, Roscoe. You could leave, work somewhere else.”
He huffed a pained laugh at that and took her hand from his face, holding it between his, plaiting their fingers together. “That really would break his heart. It would destroy him. I can’t leave the company. All he’s ever wanted was for one of us to follow in his footsteps, join him at BG and take it over when he’s gone. He pretends now that he never hoped Hugo would, but it’s only recently he’s completely given up on him. He would have liked us both there. Both his sons, like some old-fashioned dynasty. Blacktons forever. But it was always obvious to me that Hugo had no interest in it, and he’s never cared about pleasing people. For all his faults, at least he doesn’t pretend to be any better than he is. But it was just as obvious to me that my dad needed someone to follow him. It was easy to become that person. Get all the praise and attention. I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy being the favourite. And look where it’s got me. Stuck forever. Maybe it’s what I deserve.”
“No,” Poppy said again. “You don’t owe him your life.”
“Don’t I? I’m his son. And I can finally admit what that means. You were right all along. I wouldn’t have got where I am without being born into the family I was. My upbringing, my education, all those opportunities. I do owe him. He’s given me everything.”
“But that doesn’t mean he gets to take everything. That’s not what parents do.”
Her mum, working all hours. Her grandparents, giving everything…
Roscoe said nothing, jaw set, staring at the ground as though he could see all the way to the bedrock.
“Roscoe,” she said gently. “If he loves you, he won’t be keeping score like that. Love isn’t like that.” And she knew she wasn’t really talking about his father anymore. She could tell by the tears pricking her eyes, the ache in her chest. “Love isn’t about keeping score. It’s not a bargain.”
There’s no weighing scale,she wanted to say. No one judging who is lesser and who is greater and who should give and who should receive.
It’s a partnership. Between equals.
Roscoe finally met her eyes, and the pain she saw there cut her. “That’s the problem, though, don’t you see? His love is a bargain. It’s conditional. If I fight him, I lose him. Either his heart packs in or he turns his back on me. Either way, I lose him.”
She reached for him, wanted to hold him, soothe him. But he turned away with a small shake of his head and her hand dropped to her side.
“We need to get back for dinner.”