Page 72 of Pride and Privilege

She stepped out of the shower with a flutter of butterflies low down, a tingling shimmer of remembered touch. Remembered pleasure. She saw his face turned to hers on the pillow, the line of his lashes, the glow in his eye, the sound of his low, smooth voice and the crisp, rich way he pronounced her name and she…

She was fucked, really. Had fallen deep.

Dressed, hair still wet, she made herself breakfast and ate it at the kitchen counter, looking around the big, empty flat. It was Sunday. Roscoe would be away until Tuesday. Tomorrow, work would keep her busy. But today…

Roscoe would normally go to the gym. She tried to imagine doing it herself. He had suggested several times that she make use of the building’s facilities, but she never had. They seemed alien somehow. Made for other people, not her. She didn’t even own any sportswear or a swimming costume. She imagined turning up in the cheapest the high street could offer, pale skin, chipped nails, completely clueless about how it all worked. She’d never been to a gym in her life, let alone one for…well…rich people, basically. She didn’t know the etiquette, didn’t know what equipment they had or how it all worked, didn’t know if there were lockers. Did you need a coin? Maybe it was ridiculously modern and you locked it with a thumbprint.

She might be here, living in this flat. She might now know the difference between a sherry glass and a wine glass. But she was so far from being able to move through this world the way Roscoe did that she gave a helpless little laugh as she carried her plate to the sink. She turned to survey the flat, turning quickly as though she could catch it unawares and surprise it into feeling like home.

It did not.

“Teach me the confidence thing. That’s the real difference between people like you and people like me.”

“You have every reason to be confident. You’re smart. Brilliant. Beautiful.”

She pulled a face, but only because the wobbly feeling in her chest threatened to overwhelm her. And this wasn’t like her, she told herself, shaking it away. She didn’t normally hang on other people’s opinions of her. Didn’t let them daunt her or lift her up. Everything she had achieved in life she had got by being bolshy, brave, refusing to give up. No one had wanted to give an unqualified teenager a job, but she had visited every shop on the high street, pestered every market stall holder, until the guy at the fruit and veg store said alright. A three-hour trial on Saturday morning. Up at five AM to get there on time. Unload the van, fingers freezing in the dawn air.

Six months there, six months of a few pounds and grubby notes paid cash-in-hand—to hand straight to her mother. But just as importantly: six months pocketingRetail Experience—as she typed it up on the library’s borrowed computer. Her first ever CV. It cost twenty pence a sheet to print, but that was an investment—a couple of quid to print some copies off. And then hitting the high street again, looking for signs in shop windows—Help Wanted—until she landed a job in a discount shoe shop.

She’d offered to tidy up their little back office one day. Sorted out the paperwork. Got into the habit of being the first to answer the phone.Office Administration, she added to her CV.

Twelve months there. Then eighteen at an estate agent.Office Administrator.Answering phones, fending off the banter and flirtations of the sales guys, the lettings guys… And so on. Temping. Office work. Whatever was available. Whatever paid a little more than the last. Until she arrived at BlacktonGold—and not on the executive floor, not in George Blackton’s team, but in the facilities office at first. Administrative Assistant (Facilities).Then Administrative Assistant (HR). Then Administrative Assistant (Executive Business Support). And now…

Executive Assistant to Roscoe Blackton, Senior Portfolio Manager. At least until he hired someone permanent and she went back to her old role.

Was she really going to stop there? Her career up until now had been like a set of stepping stones, some with tiny gaps between them that hardly felt like progress at all, and others with larger strides. But there had always been a progression, a sense she was heading somewhere—or at least getting further from where she had started. Why had she suddenly decided now to put a limit on herself, as though she had reached the end of her road?

Maybe it was because the next step wasn’t a step at all. It was a mad flying high jump into a different world, where her colleagues wouldn’t be hardworking girls like her but men like Roscoe. Or maybe she had stalled due to the weight of the chip on her shoulder, this feeling that she was lesser, lower, unwelcome. But Roscoe said he didn’t think that. So maybe…maybeshewas the one who had put the chip there.

It was a strange idea. An uncomfortable one. The real question, though, was could she break free of it?

If she tried to do this thing, join their world, there was a good chance they wouldn’t let her. Her CV might get crumpled and tossed in the dirt—tossed in the bin for someone like her mum to empty once everyone else had gone home. But there was only one way to find out. Was she going to be a coward, or was she going to be Poppy Fields? She fired up her laptop, opened her CV, and got to work.

THIRTY-THREE

Roscoe got back toLondon far later than he had planned. Hendrich Lissi had invited him and Aubrey to dinner again after the conference closed on Tuesday, and though Roscoe had been aching to get home, it hadn’t seemed politic to refuse—not when his mission was to woo Hendrich into consulting for them and opening up his little black book of contacts.

So it was gone one AM when Roscoe returned to the flat, eyes gritty with fatigue, head woolly, but heart goingthump, thump. Because he hadn’t, as Aubrey advised, returned to his mews house. But to the penthouse. Where Poppy was.

She knew about him being late—she was the one who had rebooked the flights—but he hadn’t been expecting her to wait up for him. Or maybe he woke her despite his best efforts to be quiet, because as he walked past her bedroom on the way to his, her door opened.

She smiled softly. “Hey.”

His answering smile broke wide and free. “Hi.”

She was all hints and shadows in the dim light, silhouetted by the amber glow of the bedside lamp in the room behind her. Leggings and long sleep-top and messy, tumbling hair.

“Good flight?” she asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

Then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, she stepped to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, face against his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she said.

He swallowed around the sudden ache in his throat. “I missed you, too.”

Her hands moved over his back, rubbing gently up and down the muscle along his spine. He was almost embarrassed by the shuddering sigh he gave, the way his shoulders dropped, the sudden sense of relief and peace making him screw his eyes closed as he dropped his mouth to the silk of her hair.

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