39. THIRTY-NINE
Mabel was a traditionalist in food if not conversation, and dinner on that warm summer evening was Cook’s extremely unseasonable and somewhat gristly beef stew with dumplings. If a thing wasn’t boiled for four hours, his aunt didn’t consider it food.
Afterwards, they retired to the sitting room and Mabel demanded he play chess with her, which was their usual manner of spending the evening on his visits to Malperton. But Poppy awkwardly confessed she didn’t know how to play, and opted to watch, shaking her head at his offer to teach her. She sat to the side of the small spindly-legged games table in an ancient wingback armchair. His aunt did possess a TV but considered it rude to use if guests were present. The radio was on, an earnest discussion about Victorian literature. Poppy was surely extremely bored. Roscoe played poorly, distracted.
It all felt like more of the same, playing chess. A narrowing set of increasingly poor options. Checkmate at work. His father implacable, the work unending. And now Poppy quiet, withdrawn. But what could he do? There were no right options. His aunt swiped his queen from the board and gave him a long look but said nothing.
Maybe bringing Poppy here had been a mistake. The sprawling old house and his eccentric aunt were so familiar to him, he’d forgotten to think what they must be like from the outside. This place had always been a sanctuary to him, much like Mabel’s old flat in London. And Poppy had liked it there, at the mews house, he’d been able to tell. They had been close that night, warm and true and honest and intimate… Maybe that was why he had come here with her. Chasing that feeling. But it was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was moody, his thoughts had stumbled into bleak alleyways, getting more lost at every turn, and now he was even more annoyed at himself for failing to make sure Poppy had a nice time.
He had been moody since Wednesday. Since that conversation with his father. Since his father interrupted them in his office and he realised the hypocrisy, the idiocy of his actions. And he had been moody since Poppy drew her feet from her lap and pretended to yawn and said it was time for bed when he was ragingly hard and if he just gave in, let her touch him, listened to his dick, he could have had her on his lap, riding him the way they both wanted. And then maybe there wouldn’t be this awful gap growing between them, maybe everything would be warm and easy instead, and wouldn’t that be fucking lovely? To just have Poppy, truly have her, all of her, that dream of his, Poppy at the mews house…
But if it went wrong…? If they argued…? If something came between them, and Poppy moved out—but to where? If she refused his help, his money… Poppy proud and stubborn trying to face down the world single-handedly, the way she had done for years, providing for her whole family while he glided on gilded money-greased wheels through degrees and MBAs and into a job and then sat in luxury in a stately home playing chess and feeling sorry for himself.
Jesus fucking Christ. He hated himself.
“Your move,” Mabel prompted, and he realised he had been doing nothing for minutes but glaring at the board.
He looked up. Met Poppy’s eyes. Saw a question there, perhaps a plea. Or maybe that’s what he wanted to see. An excuse to stand up, move, do anything else than what he was currently doing, restlessness crawling beneath his skin, tension threatening to clutch his chest, steal his breath. He begged tiredness to his aunt and excused them from the evening. If she wondered why these two work friends went up to bed at the same time, she said nothing. Roscoe didn’t think about it either.
They walked up the creaking staircase with Roscoe telling Poppy she could have a bath, read a book. He could bring her a glass of wine. He told her they could do whatever she wanted—explore the library rather than go to bed? Walk out and look at the stars…?
At her bedroom door, she took hold of his hand and led him into the room.
She closed the door behind him. Let go of his hand and crossed to the bed, turned on the side lamp there. She came back and switched off the overhead lamp. Then paused. She looked at him. Her arms were folded while he stood still, trying to pretend his heart wasn’t racing and his head wasn’t full of bare skin and hot mouths.
She stepped closer. “Would you kiss me if I asked you to?”
Heat clawed up his neck, tightened his insides. “Yes.”
She didn’t ask. But she stepped even closer, until they were inches apart. She reached up, slid her hand into the hair at the back of his head and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.
They were only gentle for a moment, then he was kissing her like he could climb inside her, like he could meld them skin to skin. He licked the inside of her mouth, tugged and bit her lower lip, pulled her head back and kissed her throat, as though he could bite her, claim her that way, just make the whole world and its rules fuck off because she was his and he was hers and things couldn’t possibly go wrong between them. He wouldn’t ever leave her homeless, defenceless, on the street. His mouth returned to hers, and he tasted salt on her lips. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and he was surprised to find they weren’t his, because they were only one breath away.
“Hey, hey…” He brushed them from her cheeks with his thumbs, forehead against hers, unwilling to give any space between them. “What’s wrong?”
Her voice had a crack in it. “If I asked you to sleep with me, would you?”
He drew in a breath, closed his eyes. “Poppy…”
“I can’t do this anymore.” The words broke from her, torn and wretched. She stepped back, and his heart knifed at his ribs.
“I can’t do this half and half thing,” she said. “Whatever line you’re worried about crossing, it’s too late, I’ve crossed it. We’ve both crossed it.”
“Poppy, I can’t… I don’t know how… I’m such a mess right now. I’m having panic attacks every day. I’m scared of everything…”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I want to be there for you. I want to help, but you won’t let me in. You keep talking about giving me things—that you can give but not take. But you’re not giving me you, are you? You’re always holding yourself back.”
“No—”
“Because I’m vulnerable. Dependent. Powerless. That’s how you see me, isn’t it? So much lesser than you. Like I’m the maid in some old fucking novel.”
“Not lesser, Poppy. Please—”
“Then what?”
“Because I’m scared. I’m scared of fucking this up, of what happens if it goes wrong…”
“This. Here, now. This is you fucking it up, Roscoe. It’s happening right now.”
He closed his eyes, hand covering them. His thoughts were painful, swirling things, all of them fucking useless. How, how…? He couldn’t see… Nothing but a wall of black emotion closing his throat. But please, please, God, don’t—
“I’m not good enough, am I?” she continued. “You can’t introduce me to your family. If we did this, it would only ever be some illicit work affair. Just another guy fucking his secretary. Sordid and sleazy, and that’s not good enough for the Golden Boy. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“No! It’s nothing to do with that.”
“Then what?”
“Poppy… Please… You came to my flat once and nearly slept with me when you didn’t want to, and how can I…? It’s in the back of my head every time we… Whenever I…” He shook his head. “How can I risk your home, your job, knowing that awful flat is out there waiting for you? Or somewhere worse? I’ve already messed up your life, interfered, and I don’t know how I can be with you without fucking things up even more. There are rumours at work already and—”
“I can look after myself.”
He didn’t know how to answer. It wasn’t that straightforward.
“You don’t believe me, do you? Maybe I wouldn’t be able to live life to your standard, but I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself. I’ve done it for years.”
“You fainted in my office…” he said wretchedly, unable to shake the memory of it.
“So what? I would have survived. I can survive without you. Do you think I’m pathetic, Roscoe?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No.”
“Clueless?”
“No.”
“Weak?”
“No, no! None of those things. The opposite.”
“Then you have to trust me. Stop trying to protect me. Stop trying to…to be everything to everyone. I don’t want you to save me. I want you to see me as equal.”
“I do.”
“No! You don’t! You keep putting things between us—our jobs, my situation. And I can’t change those things. I can’t afford to quit my job. I can’t afford to move out of your flat. It feels like you’re punishing me for things I can’t control.”
“No…”
“You are. Because you won’t see me, the woman standing right here asking you for what she wants. You only see my history, my circumstances, my job title. And you’re going to deny us both the chance for this to be anything. It’s not sustainable, this half-and-half thing. Don’t mess with me, Roscoe. I said I didn’t want to get hurt. If you refuse to be with me—properly be with me—then say so. Put me out of my misery. Give me that much, at least.”
Poppy wished she hadn’t been crying. That she wasn’t red-eyed and tear-stained and a bit sniffly as Roscoe looked down at her, his normally mild eyes burning.
She was trying to be brave. God, she was trying so hard to be brave, but to give him that ultimatum was the hardest thing she had ever done. He would say it had to end, of course he would, and he would move to the mews house, she would move back to Liz’s office, and all of it would be over.
It would kill her.
Not literally—she would still get up each day and go to work and earn the money her family needed. That wasn’t a choice. But it would kill all the soft and hopeful parts of her. It would hurt beyond imagining, and she would endure it because she would have to, but as Roscoe looked at her, misery in his eyes, she couldn’t imagine how she would survive it.
Distantly, down the hall, an old grandfather clock chimed the hour. She swiped her tears away, irritated, chin up, meeting him squarely. She refused to let him pity her. He might still see her as nothing but her poverty and circumstances, but she would meet all his aristocratic breeding, all his wealth and power and privilege with the one thing that no one could take from her: her pride.
He opened his mouth, and she tensed for the blow. He said, “You deserve better than me.”
It threw her, not quite what she expected. “What?”
“I’m such a mess. I’m a coward. I’m scared of everything. I don’t trust my own mind. How do I know… How do I know that you really want this? That I haven’t, somehow, made you feel like this is your only option? That it’s real…”
“By knowing me! Trusting me. Don’t make me beg, Roscoe. Not like you have these last few weeks.”
His eyes widened, confusion swiftly followed by horrified realisation. Guilt. “I didn’t ever mean to make you feel like that. When I held back… Every time I stopped myself…”
“I know. Because you’re my boss. You can’t take advantage. I know.”
“Because you came to my flat, Poppy, after that party. You came to my flat when you didn’t want to. You touched me when you didn’t want to.”
“I did want to.” It came out as a whisper. She looked away, cheeks burning. “Of course I did. Just like every other idiot in the building.”
“But you wouldn’t have gone home with me if you hadn’t been desperate to move roles.”
“I would never have had the courage. I didn’t have the courage. I was nervous and awkward and intimidated, and I couldn’t relax, and that stupid plan I’d had seemed ridiculous, so I started laughing…”
“Intimidated,” he repeated. “Don’t you see what I mean?”
“Because you were you and I was me… Poppy from Peckham.” She gave a laugh, but it was bitter through and through. “And what’s really changed? You don’t see me any differently at all.”
“No. I don’t. Because you were perfect from the beginning.”
She stared at him, unable to speak. His soul had been in those words, as though he had pulled it from his body, put it on a silver plate and held it out to her. Believe me, his eyes pleaded.
Was it her?she wondered again. This chip on her shoulder about being less than him—was that all her? Had he ever treated her like she was nothing? Was he even capable of seeing anyone that way? You wouldn’t like him if he was, her heart said. Think about it.
“Please, Poppy,” he said. “Tell me that you see me differently. That you don’t see the man other people at work see, the type of man they can make up those stupid rumours about, throwing my privilege around, exploiting it. Please… Do you see me? Do you feel free to say no…? My name, my family, my money… Tell me none of it scares you.”
She looked up at him—the size of him, the shape of him, the beauty of his face. All the frantic fear and thoughts that went on behind those eyes. Phone chargers and Easter eggs and his insane generosity. Cleaning her fingers and hiding in toilets and destroying himself for his father’s sake. Beautiful, stupid man.
“I do see you.”
He took a half-step closer. “You’re not lesser, Poppy. If anything, you’re far better than me.”
She was crying again, helplessly, silently, a feeling in her chest so big it hurt, though it was made of a thousand things other than pain.
He moved closer still, and why were they smiling? Soggy, stupid, smiles, both of them somehow almost laughing. Crying, laughing, but it was only the relief… It was only seeing the sun rise after the storm and knowing the world hadn’t ended… Catching sight of each other again after the dark.
“I’m not better than you,” she said.
His smile slanted, telling her it was an argument she wouldn’t win. That he would argue the point until the end of time and delight in every moment of it. You’re better than me, Poppy. I’ll believe it forever. And now there was hope. A cautious hope in his eyes, fragile and hanging on hers. Pleading apology and warmth building as they kept looking at each other, a steady glow rising in all the corners of the room, in the shadows the lamplight made, in the windows and the glints in the ancient, imperfect glass. Are we through this? Are we through the worst and still together?
“Equals,” she said.
He gave the tiniest shrug, and she watched him smile. She loved his smile. It seemed miraculous to see it again—have it be for her.
“But you realise,” he said. “I’m a complete idiot?”
She bit back a wobbly laugh. “Yes.”
“And you’re definitely not intimidated by me anymore?”
“I’m not now.” Her laugh, wet and sniffly, stretched the dried tears on her cheeks. “I’ve lived with you. Slept in the same bed as you.” She grinned. “Heard you snore.”
He paused, head tilted. “I do not.”
“Don’t worry.” She bit her lip, mischief sparking. “It’s very cute. Like a snuffly puppy.”
He narrowed his eyes, but she continued, awash with giddy joy. “What I’m saying is, I know you leave towels on the bathroom floor—”
“One time!”
“And drink juice from the carton—”
“I’m used to living alone—”
“And you don’t eat the crusts on your sandwiches.”
“Only to spite my old nanny,” he deadpanned.
She bit back a laugh. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not intimidated anymore, because we’re friends, aren’t we? We have each other’s back. Or that’s what I thought… What I hoped…”
“Yes, God, we’re friends.” He moved towards her as though the thought of her not being his friend was somehow worse than all the rest. He took her hand. “I hope we’ll always be that.”
She looked down at her hand in his, all the light dimming. “That’s what you want? To be friends?”
“No. I want everything.”