Page 58 of Pride and Privilege

Home?

Roscoe’s flat.

But she was in streets she hadn’t been to before. Older, quieter streets, tucked away from the busy rumble of buses and shop-fronts. There were trees here. Old London planetrees with their flakey, patched bark, pushing up the paving stones like irascible elderly relatives refusing to play nice, sit still, behave.

She passed the entrance to a mews, open iron gates set in an archway, a cobbled drive leading to an even quieter, more tucked away spot lined with old amber-bricked and white-stuccoed houses. The door to one opened and—

Roscoe stepped out. Followed by a woman.

She was young, pretty, blonde. And she definitely wasn’t his sister—Poppy knew what Evelyn Blackton looked like. It was that Wikipedia article. Or theTatlerone. Or there were photos online. Anyway, the point was, this definitely wasn’t Evelyn.

The blonde woman laughed, looking up at Roscoe, who grinned, giving a casual one-shouldered shrug. They turned to walk up the mews towards the street. Towards where Poppy stood, her feet not quite obeying her shouted instruction tomove.

Roscoe’s face fell. Or jumped. Or did something.

“Poppy?”

The woman at his side looked between them, a curious smile on her lips. She had the same rich-person gleam as Roscoe. Expensively glossy hair, perfect skin, smart black jacket and designer-looking handbag. She was clearly part of his world. Part of hislifeif she emerged from houses with him.

“Sorry,” Poppy said, because that was the sort of thing Poppy always said. “I was walking around. I didn’t mean to be here. Didn’t know you would be here. I don’t…even know where I am.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed with amusement. She looked from Poppy to Roscoe. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Roscoe had done little but look at Poppy thus far. His cheeks were tinged pink, and if he had been wearing a coat, he looked like he would have wanted to shove his hands deep in the pockets. Unfortunately, he was not, and Poppy was subjected to the sight of Roscoe in casual jeans and a blue top that looked soft enough to weep on.

“Of course. This is Poppy, a colleague from work. Poppy, this is Cassie. A friend of mine.”

The woman held her hand out. “Cassie Banberry-Thompson,” she elaborated as though the name ought to mean something. “I grew up next to Ross. In Lancashire. We’re practically siblings.” She seemed to emphasise the last part.

“Oh,” said Poppy. “Hi.”

There was a pause where Roscoe probably should have said something. When he didn’t, Cassie said “Well!” with a sly, twinkling sort of smile. “This has been fun. But I need to get going. Remember what I said, though, Ross. Keep your wits about you.” She winked at Poppy and somehow managed not to look daft doing it. “Nice to meet you, Poppy from work.”

“And you. Bye.”

Cassie went, leaving a lingering cloud of perfume. And a moment of pure awkwardness.

“Sorry,” said Poppy again. “I should go, too.”

“Wait. I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day.”

He had, in fact, already messaged her twice. Once to ask where she was.My mum’s, she’d replied. And once to ask if she was OK.Of course, she’d replied.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming home—back to the flat, I mean. Or if you were planning to stay at your mum’s.”

She shrugged. “I can if you want.” Though there wasn’t the room.

“No. No. Of course not. I was going to say… If it makes you more comfortable, I can stay here instead.”

“Here?”

“Erm. Here. Where I live.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Poppy looked at himwith a mixture of confusion and embarrassment, as though this might be some kind of joke, him messing with her. He winced internally but nodded back into the mews. “I have a house here. Half a house. A maisonette. A flat, really. I’ll show you.”

He led the way to the door. It was painted a shade of royal blue, two small bay trees in pewter-coloured pots on either side, the numbers 27a, 27b in brass. He unlocked the door, led the way upstairs. Poppy hadn’t spoken and he couldn’t quite think what to say.Please…was all his brain could come up with.Please, please…Please what?

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