Page 20 of Pride and Privilege

“Wait!” Poppy stood up as he started to stride away. “I can brief you on the way. I know Lionel Chen. I put his file together. He’s one of your father’s clients.”

“Was. He’s been transferred to me. This is our first meeting, and I am not fucking prepared.” He muttered the last part—the anger directed at himself not her.

She fell into step beside him, the shaky hunger making it hard to keep up with his long stride. “Lionel Chen,” she started. “Splits his time between Hong Kong and London, former CEO of the grocery group N-Mart, but recently retired. He’s been shifting to a lower-risk, long-term strategy over the last few years and is now planning a move into philanthropy so he’s looking at liquidating some assets. His interests are art education—he has six grandchildren—and city air quality—”

Roscoe nodded as Poppy talked, absorbing it all, asking the questions he needed. The tight line of his shoulders didn’t quite relax as they walked, but he took on a more determined air, less harried. When they reached the conference room door, hemet her eyes briefly. “Thank you. Sit in with us? I’d like this minuted.”

She nodded, and joined the meeting. By the time she made it to the kitchen, all the fruit was gone.

At eight PM on Thursday, Roscoe was still at his desk. Which wasn’t unusual. He barely ever left before ten these days. He suspected tonight would be even later than usual, though, even if it was technically the last day of the working week—tomorrow was Good Friday. He had a lot to wrap up before the four-day Easter weekend, and he’d taken two days’ annual leave the Tuesday and Wednesday following that, which he could ill-afford to do, but his brother Hugo needed him up at Conyers. He was having a spot of girl trouble.

There was a light knock on his door. “Come in.”

He glanced up as the door opened, but it wasn’t the food delivery person he was expecting. It was Poppy.

“Someone just dropped this off for you.”

He stood up as she approached his desk with the carrier bag of takeaway. He took the bag from her, though it seemed to take a moment for her fingers to release the handle. She gave herself a slight shake and turned to go. He frowned. She seemed…sort of dazed, a bit out of it.

“Everything OK? Why are you here so late?”

She paused and turned back to him, hesitating before she spoke. “Actually, I… I wanted to speak to you. I was waiting for everyone to go.”

“Oh?” He gestured to the seat in front of the desk and sat down, too, pushing the bag of food to the side. Poppy stared at it, biting her lip.

What was this going to be about? Something she needed to say in private? Maybe shewasgoing to report him to HR after all. He thought he’d been doing a good job of keeping his distance, making it clear that any…interest…on his part was all in the past. But then he’d snapped at her this morning, hadn’t he? And he’d texted her late at night—though he’d agonised for ages over doing it, but he needed that report, and it was her job to help him.

“Thank you, by the way,” he said. “For this morning. The Chen meeting. You were very helpful.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Shit. He knew it. But, as was often the case with Poppy Fields, what she said wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

“You clearly need an EA. And you’re not letting me do my job. I wouldn’t mind so much if you were only sabotaging yourself, but who do you think’s going to get the blame when your work suffers or…or you simply drop dead from exhaustion?”

“It’s fine, I can manage. I didn’t request an EA.”

“But you obviouslyneedone. And I know what you said on Monday, but youarepunishing me for what happened. This could have been a good opportunity for me given my… Well. Given it’s the career I’m in.”

“Right. Your career.”

She flushed at that. And she had every right to. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter, hadn’t realised the sting of disappointed humiliation was still so sharp. And then he made it worse. “So you’ve given up on the analyst job? Just a fleeting fancy, I suppose?”

A flame burnt in her blue eyes. “Yes. I’ve remembered my place. Thank you for the lesson.”

It was brutal, the look she gave him. The anger in her words. Then, just as quickly as it had burned, it was gone, and the ashes left behind hurt him far worse.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small.

It ought to have been him.Heshould have been the one saying sorry—if he had any real class, any real manners. If he was truly any kind of gentleman at all. But it was her who said, her voice low and level, “I’m sorry. I listened to stupid gossip, and I made assumptions. And I listened to self-doubt and…well…desperation, I guess.”

“Desperation?” he repeated.Bye-bye, ego.

“Yes. Desperation. Because I didn’t see another way. I’m not the type of person you think I am. I’ve worked hard to get here. I haven’t…taken short cuts. But now I’m here, I realise I’ve reached a dead end. I’m on a…on a one-way track. And I can’t switch lanes.”

“You’re switching metaphors just fine.”

“Right. Funny. I’m sure that’s the sort of thing that gets laughs at the Cambridge debating society.”

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