Page 24 of Pride and Privilege

Roscoe let out a breath, acknowledging the hit. “I’m yourboss.Sort of. For the next few weeks. I’m allowed to look out for people on my team.”

“Ah. Of course.”

He let out another breath of laughter. An acknowledgement that real life was one long series of hypocrisies. He looked back at the notepad.

“What if you lived closer to work? Would your commute be cheaper?”

“I can’t afford to live closer. Do you have any idea what rent costs in central London?”

“But coming all the way from Basildon every day…”

She was surprised he remembered. “The commute’s not too bad. One of the City’s saving graces is that it’s incredibly well-served, transport-wise.”

“How long does it take you?”

“An hour or so.”

“I live five minutes’ walk away.”

“I know.”

Which, of course, led them inevitably to an awkward silence in which they both recalled how she knew that. The gleaming flat. His hands spanning her waist. The size of them and the strength they promised. His thumbs tracking up her ribcage, his breath warm on her neck as he brushed his lips to hers—

He cleared his throat. Looked back at the notepad. “So these big costs are all pretty much fixed.”

“They’reallfixed. I mean, you get to a point when there’s nothing left to cut back and what you’re left with are the absolute essentials needed to survive. They’reallfixed costs. I can’t reduce any of them.”

“Or you end up starving and fainting in the office?”

She blushed slightly. “Yes. Embarrassing.”

“No.” He shook his head and repeated the word. “No. Not embarrassing.” And he said it with such conviction she almost started to cry again. Because as mortifying as this whole evening was, there was something about having someone—and not just anyone, but someone as clever and capable as Roscoe Blackton—look at her life and agree: there wasn’t any more she could do. The numbers didn’t work. The financial golden boy agreed with her. It wasn’t an error she was making. They justdid not work.

“And your family, they really need you to contribute this much?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Tell me about them.”

She didn’t want to, Roscoe could see it. She was still embarrassed, thought she was taking up his time, knew he ought to be working. And OK, he probablydidneed to be working. But he could catch up later. This was important. And more than that, it was interesting.

He was a smart guy; he knew that. He was inquisitive, curious. Willing and able to take in vast reams of information about the world and analyse it, digest it, understand it. And he definitely wasn’t ignorant. He followed multiple news channels all day every day. Knew more about current affairs than almost anyone—because it all affected the markets. So yes, he was aware of the cost-of-living crisis. He was aware of poverty. Ofgenerationalpoverty, the poverty trap, life below the breadline, underfunding of public services, social care cutbacks, benefit sanctions, austerity, unemployment, the housing crisis… etc., etc. He was aware of it.

But he was, he realised now, only aware of it in an abstract way. As background noise to inflation rates and property valuesand employment rates and so on and so on. He was aware of it as information to feed into models and predictions. As just more grist for the mill: information that he would use to make his clients money, and therefore make BG money, and therefore make himself money.

So, yes. He wasawareof it.

But he didn’tunderstandit.

He didn’t understand how a smart, capable woman like Poppy Fields could be working long hours at a reasonably well-paid job and be almost literally starving to death. He didn’t understand how her mother could be working two different jobs and not be able to put a roof over her children’s head without Poppy’s support.

Of course he didn’t understand that. How could he? There was a thousand-pound pen on the table that he’d bought on a whim. He owned two flats within a half-mile radius of each other partly because he was choosy about who he brought back to his real flat. If he hit his performance targets this year, the remuneration package he’d just agreed on for this job would net him more in his first year than Poppy or her mother would earn in decades.

Of course he didn’t understand not being able to afford a sandwich. How could he?

“Tell me, Poppy. I want to know.”

“You’ve seen the numbers.”

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