Page 35 of Pride and Privilege

Nothing.

“If you are… Just to remind you that Elliott Carter-Hall is here. But I can tell him to wait. Or I can reschedule.”

She heard him swear. A tap running.

“Poppy…”

His voice sounded hoarse. Odd. A little like it had that night he’d walked into the flat like a zombie.

“Is everything OK?” she asked.

“Yes. No. Shit.”

“Can I come in?”

No answer.

Cautiously, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. He was at the row of sinks, his back to her, hands braced on the basin. He caught her eye briefly in the mirror then dropped his head. But what she saw in that brief look made her heart lurch. Panic. Despair.

“Roscoe? Are you OK?”

“I’m just… I’m fine. I’m just having a panic attack. I get them… But it’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

She hurried over to his side and placed a hand on his back, gingerly rubbing a circle. Then again, more firmly, as he took a sharp breath and let it out slowly. He was staring at the sink, head hanging low, as though there was an answer to be found down the plughole. An escape.

“It’s OK,” she said. “You’ll be OK.”

He nodded slowly. “I know.” His voice was tight, as though he was forcing the words out. “They pass. They always do.”

“Let me get hold of Elliott. I’ll cancel that meeting.” She was already fishing her phone from her pocket with her spare hand—the other was still rubbing his back. She felt as effectual as a small child patting the muscled flank of an enormous stallion.

Roscoe shook his head. “Don’t cancel. I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.” She loaded her voice with dryness—with the arch tone he so often used on her.

He smiled slightly in response.

“These Carter-Halls,” she continued, “I know they’re friends of the family, but surely that means they’ll cut you some slack?”

“Andrew, the Duke, is friends with my father. But his sons… The oldest, David, was engaged to one of my neighbours until my brother… Well. It’s a long story. But David and his brother Elliott don’t have any reason to like my family.”

“So screw ‘em, then. Let him take his money elsewhere.”

Roscoe gave a hollow laugh. “My father would kill me. I need to make a good impression. He wants this account.”

“But your father wouldn’t wantthis, would he?” She gestured vaguely towards the sink, as though all this—Roscoe’s stress and panic attack—was held within its blameless enamel bowl. “He wouldn’t want you half-killing yourself for the sake of the company?”

Roscoe didn’t look at her, but she saw the corner of his mouth lift in a wry smile. “Well… He might have to think about it. Weigh it up. And I couldn’t guarantee what his answer would be.”

Poppy made a noise. Not a polite one. “I’m cancelling this meeting. I’ll rearrange it for early next week.”

“No. I’m fine.” He let go his white-knuckled grip on the sink and straightened, flashing her a smile that held more than a trace of embarrassment. “Really. I’m OK. Thank you for…” He trailed off, let out a long breath, looking away.

“I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

“The meeting. I’ll sit in on it. Be moral support, whatever. I read through the documents he sent over. I know his situation, his goals. I can step in if you need me to. Let me help, Roscoe. And you can tell him…” She laughed slightly. “You can tell him I’m an intern.”

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