Page 49 of Pride and Privilege

“Normal, non-posh voice.”

“Via Wales?”

“Quite possibly.”

“But seriously, if a person walks into a room, a job interview, a client meeting, and talks with an accent like mine, do you think people would treat them the same way as if they spoke like you?”

“I think if they didn’t, then you’d have to question whether you wanted to work with them. Because they’d be idiots to care.”

“Ah, and there it is,” she said, mimicking his words from earlier.

“There what is?”

“The unconscious privilege. The assumption that you’d have achoiceabout whether to work with someone or not. Haven’t you heard? Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You didn’t choose to be my EA. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No—”

“Because I didn’t get a choice either about my job. Do you think I’d really be allowed to work anywhere else?”

“I think you could quit tomorrow and never work another day in your life and still have a roof over your head and food on the table.”

Roscoe let out a long breath. He had one elbow on the bar. They were still in the same place as when they’d arrived. The pub was busy around them, other people’s noise, other people’s lives bustling and boisterous. He had barely noticed, the extent of his world formed by the redhead before him. He twisted his pint on its damp beer mat.

“That’s probably true.”

“But…? You look like you’re about to say ‘but’.”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“No. Because it makes me sound whingy and childish.”

“To be fair… So does this.”

He poked her shoulder softly, and she breathed a laugh, half-teasing, half-gentle. “Spit it out.”

He took a breath. “If I did quit… It would lose me my father.”

Silence. He glanced up at Poppy, found her eyes sad and sorry. And he wished he’d never said it, particularly as he was talking to someone who didn’t really have a father at all. He straightened up, drank his beer, explained briskly, “It’s conditional. His affection. It always has been. My brother figured it out quicker than I did. Decided not to play for it. I’ve never been strong enough to walk away.”

“Your father doesn’t deserve you.” Fierce conviction in her voice. That tigress again.

And…shit. He was almost crying in Wetherspoons, which was not at all how he had planned this evening to go. Cheap bloody lager. He forced the feeling away, finished his pint, gestured to the bartender with his empty glass for another.

He forced a laugh. “See what I mean about whingy?” Then he changed the subject and tried to save the evening.

Poppy treated Roscoe to fried chicken on the way home. Althoughtreatedmight have been a stretch.Subjectedwas probably more accurate. It was the grimiest, grubbiest establishment she could find—the type that was probably ten percent mouse—and Roscoe hesitated dubiously before stepping foot onto the scuffed linoleum floor.

“Come on, Richie.” She tugged his sleeve. “Time to finish the night in style.” She waved away the wallet he had started to pull out. “No need to flash the Black Amex. My treat.”

He slipped his wallet back into his pocket, smiling wryly. “I have a perfectly normal Coutts card, thank you very much.”

She snorted.

There was a bit of a queue—it was just past eleven, the pubs were closing. Most people were either heading home or trying to line their stomachs before heading into the next stage of the evening.

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