Page 48 of Pride and Privilege

Oh… That wasn’t good.

Can’t get jealous about your platonic non-girlfriend employee tenant who can only ever be your non-girlfriend. Because if you did, you ended up in:

“Wetherspoons?”

Roscoe eyed the sign as Poppy held the door open, looking back at him with both annoyance and amusement. “Yes, Wetherspoons. Because you said, and I quote,‘Show me how to celebrate like an average person.’”

“In all fairness, I haven’t slept for forty-eight hours and may not be as linguistically tactful as usual.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Richie Rich. Stop stalling. It’s time to slum it with the plebs.”

So they entered the bar, the carpet sticky underfoot, the air sticky with the smell of cheap, sweetened spirits.

Poppy found a gap at the bar. “Vodka and lemonade for me. Ooh, look, they’re doing doubles for only fifty pence extra. And you’ll have…whatever their cheapest lager is.”

Roscoe wasn’t much of a beer snob and had, in fact, been in this exact Wetherspoons several times. But it was too much fun to play along with Poppy’s inverse-snobbery to admit to any of that. “I think we might have a repeat of our first meeting if you’re doing doubles and I’m drinking weak lager.”

“Drink quickly then to keep up.” She winked at him before turning to the bartender. “Maybe you’ll ask to feelmyhair.”

Roscoe stared at the back of her head.

This was all Aubrey Ford’s fault.

They drank their first drinks while talking, probably wisely, about work. They drank their second and third drinks while talking, probably less wisely, about everything else.

“Ah, there it is,” he said with a smile.

“What?”

“That accent I remember from the first night we met.”

Poppy scowled at him. Or pouted. Honestly, it was a mixture of both.

He chuckled. “Why do you hide it?”

“Because I work in a place where everyone talks like they’re performing Shakespeare in the bloody Park.”

Roscoe spluttered a laugh, coughing on his beer.

“Seriously, you try booking a table for a business lunch at L’Darroze sounding like Eliza Doolittle.”

“I like your voice.”

Oh God. He couldn’t blame that one on Aubrey. That was the beer’s fault.

She pulled a face. “Now ifyoucalled them up,” she said, “they’d be bending over to help you. It’s an unfair advantage, your accent.”

“How so?”

“Because it’s such a clear signal.I’m rich. I’m posh. I had a nanny and went to Oxbridge.”

“Anyone can put on a voice.”

“But can you switch yours off?”

“Erm… Like this?”

She burst out laughing. “What was that meant to be?”

---