Page 63 of Pride and Privilege

She had to work with him next week. Had to be around him at the office. So it made sense to get used to being around him like this, to cover up all the memories of skin and kisses with perfectly normal conversation. Put Roscoe Blackton back in the box, seal him away, so the feel of his mouth didn’t flood her brain during meetings.

So she said, “Sure,” and Roscoe ordered Chinese. It was just around the corner, he said, would only take ten minutes, he said. Would you like a drink? he said. And she said, “Sure.”

Poppy stood with a glass of wine, studying the books on one of his bookcases. They were a mix of cheesy science fiction, old spy novels from the seventies, and huge tomes of economic theory and history. Did he ever get the time to actually read them? She suspected he was the type of person to buy books optimistically, full of good intentions, only for life to interfere. Currently, the titles on the spines she looked at seemed to say things likeThis Is A Bad IdeaandWhy Are You Here?andRemember That Thing He Did With His Tongue?Poppy took a large mouthful of wine.Sure, That Will Help, said the next book. Poppy turned away in disgust.

“Do you even get to spend much time here?” she asked Roscoe.

He’d just brought some plates through from the kitchen and put them down on the coffee table. He picked up the remote control and flicked the TV on.Yes,thought Poppy.Fill the silence.

“Not much,” said Roscoe.

“Seems a pity when it’s so cosy.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But you know what work’s like.”

She walked closer, stopped by the sofa, one hand on the cushioned back. “How has it been? The…um… What you went to the doctor for?”

He paused, and she apologised for asking, their mutual awkwardness getting all tangled up together. Roscoe broke through it with a smile. “It’s fine, Poppy, honestly. It’s nice that you asked.”

He picked up his wine from the coffee table and toyed with its stem, not meeting her eyes.

“It’s been better. A bit better. Since my dad came back. Some of the pressure’s off.”

“But you’re still managing his clients.”

“Yeah. He needs to take it easy, though. Far easier than he is.” Roscoe shook his head. “He’s barely slowed down at all.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to make yourself sick, too.”

He gave her a self-conscious glance. “I know. I’m not. I mean… I’m nottryingto. If I had any choice… If it were possible to work less…”

“Does the medication help?”

He took a sip of wine. Scrunched his face up. “I haven’t started taking it yet. I’m still deciding.”

“But if the doctor…”

“It has side effects. It’s not…not a miracle cure. I took it before for a year or so. And it definitely helped. It was definitely the right choice back then. But now… I feel like… Like this anxiety is situational, you know? Last time it felt more…more existential. I was in the final year of university trying to prove something, trying to figure out my path. But now… I guess I feel in some ways Ihaveproved myself. That I can do the job I want to do. I know I can. The problem is… I’m not actually doing that job.”

“You don’t like the PM role?”

“I love the PM role. But my dad wants me to do this tax thing instead. Wants me in management, leadership. And it’s the whole…trying to do two things at once, trying to force myself to care about this thing I really don’t care about, and knowing that my dad only has more of the same in store for me… That’s when I start to feel panicky—when I’m failing people, when I can’t do what they need me to do. And I don’t see a way out of that. He wants me to be something I’m not. And I’ve spent twenty years, the whole of my life that I’m capable of remembering—I’ve spent it all proving I am exactly who he needs me to be. And it turns out I’m not. I don’t think I can be.”

Roscoe put his glass down, shoulders tense, scrubbed a hand over his face, about to apologise, brush off all of what he’d said. But Poppy didn’t want him to do that. He didn’t need to erase the truth he had just spoken, the way he constantly erased himself to be who his father wanted.

She went to him, put her hand on his arm. “Maybe the man you are is better than the one your father wants you to be.”

He gave her a shaky smile, a sheen of tears in his eyes. He put his hand over hers, found her fingers, wrapped them in his. “Thank you. But I don’t think I know how to be anything other than my father’s son.”

The doorbell rang, their food arriving. Roscoe flashed her a tight smile, but she had the feeling he was desperately grateful for the interruption.

TWENTY-NINE

“Do you have afork?” asked Poppy, looking dubiously at the disposable chopsticks she’d just pulled from their paper case.

“Sure.” He stood up to get her one from the kitchen, but she waved him back down.

“I’ll get it. Do you want some water?”

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