Page 19 of Pride and Privilege

“And I prefer making my own travel arrangements—”

“But your time—”

“I can manage my own diary—”

“Is this—?” Poppy was already hot all over, but her face burned brighter still as she realised that, yes, her mouth was indeed about to say what it was opening to say. “Is this about the other night?”

Roscoe’s jaw clamped shut. It was probably just as well he had access to excellent private dentistry because she thought he might crack a tooth.

“No. Well… No. But about that…” He cleared his throat. There was a pink tinge on his cheekbones. And it was extremely annoying how forcefully Poppy was made to acknowledge that the sight of Roscoe Blackton blushing was one of the most delicious things she had ever seen.

“I just want to make it clear that whatever my…um…intentions, my sentiments, might have been the other night, you can be assured that they will not be repeated. It was extremely unprofessional. And I apologise.” He cleared his throat again. “And if you… If you want to inform HR or recuse yourself from this post, then I will understand and support that.”

She actually, literally sat there with her mouth hanging open for a moment.Hewas apologising toher?

“And further,” he continued in the manner of a man making his last forced confession before death by firing squad, “it has been brought to my attention that my…my unique position in the company gives me…perhaps…a degree of undue influence, and if you felt, on Friday night, that my…my…approach to you was in any way an exertion of that influence, then I—”

“No. No.” She cut him off, for both their sakes. “I didn’t…erm…think that.” She uncrossed her legs. Recrossed them. Nearly dropped her notepad. She tucked some hair behind her ear with the hand holding her pen and wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t accidentally drawn on her face.

“Right,” said Roscoe. He nodded. Looked to the side as though wondering if an escape hatch might have magically appeared in the wall. But when he turned back to her, a featureless mask of professionalism had settled over his features, and his mouth was pressed into a cool line. “So. As I said. I’m not in much need of an EA right now. But I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thank you, Poppy. That will be all.”

NINE

Roscoe did not, infact, let Poppy know if he needed anything. By Wednesday lunchtime, he still hadn’t shared his diaries with her, or redirected his phone. She had been moved to a desk at the end of a row near his office. If she glanced to the left, she could see him through the glass panel by his door. She saw him typing, she saw him reading, she saw him on the phone. She saw him sigh, and yawn, and frown, and rub his hands down his face and look exhausted. She saw him stride out of his office and away to meetings, and she saw people step into his room for yet more meetings, discussions, catch-ups, one-to-ones. And she heard his phone ringing, ringing—his mobile and his desk phone. And all the time, she sat there at her empty little desk with nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and fail to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach.

Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…

She glanced to the left. He had his mobile to his ear, talking. His eyes kept straying to the ringing phone on his desk. His hand hovered over it.

Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…

But he was still talking on his mobile. Then he was listening, frowning at whatever he was being told. He rubbed a hand across his face, then glanced back at the other phone, eyes a little hunted.

Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring…

Enough. Enough of this. She got up, stalked into his office, and snatched up the handset. “Good afternoon, Roscoe Blackton’s office.”

He looked up at her, more in surprise than annoyance, and their eyes stayed locked as she listened to the caller, told them she’d take a message, leant across the desk and picked up Roscoe’s pad and pen.

“Sorry, John,” said Roscoe into his mobile. His eyes were on the pad she held against one thigh, tracking the pen that scribbled the message. He looked away. “Sorry, sorry, you were saying…?”

Poppy finished her own call. She put the receiver down, put the pad down on the desk in front of Roscoe, underlined the word URGENT and left the room.

By Thursday, Poppy’s food ran out completely. The last of her loaf of bread. The last scraping of peanut butter from the value jars she bought at the budget supermarket. And Dave had used the last of her milk making a protein shake.

When she got to work, she sat at her desk feeling dizzy. Her hands were a little shaky, but it hardly mattered, given they had nothing to do. She would wait a few minutes until the rush of morning coffee-makers had cleared out from the staff kitchen, then go down and see if she could grab a banana or two from the fruit basket—

“Didn’t you get my message?”

Her head snapped up, found Roscoe standing at her desk looking irritated. “Where’s the report on Lionel Chen? I’m meeting him now.”

“Message?” She checked her inbox. It was as empty as her stomach.

“I texted you last night. I used the contact number for your out-of-hours mobile.”

“Oh. My phone…um… It ran out of charge. And the charger—”

“That’s the number on the company system. Aren’t you meant to be on call? He’s only in town this morning, flew in last night. This is the only time we can fit him in.” Roscoe let out a breath, rubbed a hand through his hair. “Never mind. He’s already waiting. I don’t have time for this.”

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