Page 41 of Pride and Privilege

As she took her breakfast plate back into the kitchen, she tried to imagine how it would be if Roscoe had invited her to come with him to his parents’ house: Carnford House, Mayfair, the Blackton family’s London residence—that Wikipedia page was a mine of information. She tried to imagine herself in some enormous drawing room surrounded by priceless antiques and family heirlooms, sipping tea with the Earl and Countess…

Yeah, right.

Instead, she spent the afternoon at her mum’s place in Lewisham, helping her clean the black mould off the bathroom ceiling.

Roscoe stayed away from the flat as long as he could stand it. He had promised Poppy he would hardly be there, and he intended to keep that promise. But it was a task made harder both by the carrot—Poppy—and the stick: his desire to flee his father’s home office.

He felt guilty at that thought. Every moment with his father was precious, given what had happened. But it would have been nice if some of those precious moments could be spent doing something other than talking about work.

His father was currently discussing at length the impact of American legislation on Chinese tech. Roscoe was nodding along, replying on auto-pilot. A reminder went off on his father’s phone and the man reached for a leather pouch by his side, took out a pill, swallowed it with a sip of water, and carried on talking.

Which was when Roscoe’s mind really started to wander. It wandered to the prescription the doctor had written him that was still tucked, tightly folded, into his wallet. It wandered to that spark of tears in Poppy’s eyes as she told him his work life was making him sick. Had his mother ever had the same conversation with his father? Given they loathed each other, he doubted it. But would this be him in thirty years’ time, taking pills when a machine told him to so that he could keep on functioning like a cog in another, bigger machine?

“Have you heard from Hugo recently?” Roscoe asked when his father paused for breath.

“No.”

“He’s still planning to stay at Conyers, I think. Even with everything that happened. I really think he means it.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’ll be good for him, though, don’t you think?” Roscoe persisted a little desperately, trying to force his father to join him on this new conversational path. “I went up there last weekendto see how he’s doing, keep him company. I think he’s really starting to take it seriously.”

His father just grunted.

“Maybe we could all go up there more often?” suggested Roscoe, thinking of the gardens, the grounds, the endless sky…

“I’ve spent enough time away from work as it is. And with everything that’s happened, you’re behind on where you should be.”

“Yes. Right. I suppose that’s true.”

His father resumed his previous conversation. But Roscoe’s mind still idled through Conyers’ lawns and flower beds—and dwelled, understandably, on the entertaining sight of Hugo digging a vegetable patch. That had been worth the trip up there alone.

He felt he understood it though. Hugo’s need to remake himself with each muscle-burning drag of the spade. Bathe his guilt and pain in fresh air. It cut through all the bullshit, somehow. Nature. Green things. Honest, earthy work. Allowed a man to breathe.

“You know,” he said, not waiting for a break in his father’s monologue. “It was interesting talking to Elliott Carter-Hall the other day.”

That name at least got his father’s attention. “Oh?”

“He was explicit about wanting green investment only. Environmental, mainly. He accused the few ethical options we have of being nothing but greenwashing.”

“He’s always been hot-headed. Far less common sense than his brother, that’s for sure.”

Roscoe privately suspected that wasn’t quite true. David Carter-Hall was more obedient than sensible. His younger brother Elliott seemed… Well. Like a man with an agenda.

“It’s his prerogative if he wants to limit his returns and increase his risk,” said Roscoe’s father. “But I hope you advised against it.”

“I did. But I suspect we’ll lose him as a client.”

“I’ll speak to his father.”

“I thought I might review our ethical funds, the ESGs, SRIs… See if I can’t build a more robust option to keep Elliott happy. And others with the same concerns.”

His father studied him for a moment. “Is that the best use of your time?”

Was it? No. Not if he wanted to keep chasing that one percent. Not if he was going to meet his father’s deadline for the new tax advisory service. But was it abetteruse of his time? Was it a good use of his remaining time on thisplanet?

Possibly.

---