Page 65 of Pride and Privilege

“The life swap,” he elaborated. “We never really got very far with it. But I could teach you all about this ridiculous world—all these antiquated customs, if you really want to know them. I could… I could take you to the opera. To a polo match. Get you an invitation to some fancy parties—a V&A opening, Wimbledon centre court, my parents’ box at Ascot… You can drive my Aston Martin. Whatever you like.”

She gave him a frowning smile, not quite sure what to make of it all. “Opera and polo? Are you just reciting the plot of Pretty Woman?”

“No…”

She laughed. “Big mistake, Roscoe. Huge. And as tempting as the offer is, I can’t actually drive.”

“I could teach you that?”

“Inyourcar?” But she laughed before he could think of a delicate way to answer. “Don’t worry. I’m not that cruel. But OK.” She winked. “Fork me, Roscoe.”

Poppy sat at an old, wooden, oval dining table that would probably seat about twelve people. It was in Roscoe’s dining room, which she had glimpsed briefly through a door from the living room. It seemed less used. There were thick green curtains drawn over the windows, and the light from the wall sconces was orange and low. Piles of box folders and textbooks teetered in the corners. The remnants of Roscoe’s MBA.

In front of her on the slightly dusty table were a small bowl, set on a small plate, set on a larger plate. Three forks in a row on the left. Three knives and three spoons in a row on the right. There were more spoons above the bowl, another small plate, five glasses of varying shapes and sizes, and a heavy, folded napkin.

“Just as well Mabel’s a hoarder,” commented Roscoe, leaning over to adjust the position of yet another small plate. “With enough crockery to host an army.”

“Mm,” replied Poppy, because he was leaning over from just behind and to the side of her chair, his arm brushing her shoulder, his jaw inches from her ear. His breath touched the back of her neck.

“There,” he said. “Perfect. Well… Any butler would have a heart attack, but it’s good enough for now.”

Then he pulled a chair closer and sat there with his kneealmosttouching hers while he said things like, “This is the salad fork. And this is the water goblet.”

“Mm,” she said. And her brain said,“Crumbs.”

Was that offer still on the table? The one with the touching and the kissing?

Probably not, her common sense said.

Definitelynot, her self-preservation stated, glaring.

Damn,said the rest of her.Are you sure?

“Food service is normally to the right, counterclockwise,” said Roscoe. “Drinks to the left.”

“And when it’s takeaway Chinese?”

He chuckled, moving her soup bowl off the plate. “These dim sum are our salad course.”

She picked up one of the small forks. “Salad fork?”

He nodded, and she tried to pretend he wasn’t watching the progress of the dumpling to her mouth. She chewed. Swallowed. She could hardly taste it. Could hardly get it past the tension constricting her throat.

“Roscoe?”

“Yes?”

“Shall we just eat on the sofa?”

He laughed, standing up. “If madam so wishes.”

They settled into opposite corners of the sofa, holding one plate each, one fork.

“See?” said Roscoe. “This is all you really need.”

Poppy just smiled and tucked in happily. She’d eaten dinner at her mum’s, but that had been hours ago at six. And it was now…Shit.She saw the time in the corner of the TV screen. Nearly midnight. At least the flat was only ten or fifteen minutes’ walk away.

That morning, when she left Roscoe’sotherflat, she never would have imagined that she would be here, tonight. Not just physically in this space she’d never suspected existed, buthere—friends again with Roscoe. How did that keep happening? They made no sense together, might as well be aliens from different planets, but the moment they started speaking, it was the easiest thing in the world. As though they’d been friends for years.

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