Page 43 of Pride and Privilege

“That would be great. But I’m not quite starting from nowhere.”

She opened her laptop back up and showed him exactly what she knew.

TWENTY-ONE

Roscoe was definitely aweirdo, because he was basically getting a hard-on from looking through Poppy’s spreadsheets.

They had moved to the sofa for comfort. There was a lot to go through. He’d showered and changed after his gym session and was now sitting with Poppy’s ancient laptop on his knee. It weighed a ton, was making a worrying noise, and was so hot he thought it might leave a scorch mark on his jeans.

Poppy sat next to him, close, leaning in so she could point to things on the screen, or occasionally run her fingers over the trackpad—on the laptop that was balanced on his groin.

Maybethatexplained the semi.

But her work really was impressive. She was running multiple fake portfolios, analysing different asset blends, the impact of different strategies. She had reams of data, rudimentary analyses, even models.

“You really taught yourself all this?”

“There’s a lot of stuff online.”

“You need a trading account. It’ll be so much easier than updating these spreadsheets. You can see things changing in real time.”

“All the ones I looked at required proof of funds, even for the practice ones. Or an invitation or something.”

“Here.” He navigated to a web page. “This is what I use… Oh, I’m not sure it’s supported on this browser.”

“Yeah. That’s the other problem I had.”

“I’ll get my laptop. Hang on.”

He hurried to his room and returned a moment later with his personal laptop. Or one of them. “Here. You can have this one. It’s my old one—I got a new one a few months ago.”

“Seriously?”

She took the laptop gingerly, as though it might break. It did look pretty slim and insubstantial next to her brick.

“Yes. It’s yours. Let me wipe all my stuff…”

Then theyreallygot their nerd on. Configuring a laptop together. Roscoe knew how to show a girl a good time.

But twenty minutes later, Poppy had her own practice trading account set up. He left her playing around with it as happy as a kid in a sandbox while he went to make them some coffee.

Roscoe wasn’t quite so happy. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen worktop as he waited for the coffee machine to do its thing, struck by the undeniable realisation that he had yet again failed to get a handle on the puzzle box that was Poppy Fields. He seemed to have the next Warren Buffet sitting in his living room, and she’d spent the last month making him sandwiches.

Before he’d finished with the coffee, Poppy came into the kitchen. “Do you have any big bags?” She started looking in the cupboards. “Like those big Ikea ones or something. Though, actually, I suspect you’ve never been to Ikea, have you?”

“No, they don’t sell those Fabergé eggs I’m so fond of decorating the flat with. Of course I’ve been to Ikea.”

“For the meatballs?”

“Yes, Poppy. For the meatballs. What do you need bags for?”

She gave up looking and closed the cupboard door with a sigh. “Dave just texted me. He wants me to clear my stuff out today. He’s got a new tenant moving in next week.”

“You gave a month’s notice. Officially you still live there for another week or so.”

“I know. But he’ll chuck it all in the street if I don’t go soon.”

“How are you going to get it across town? Do you have a car?”

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