Page 8 of Pride and Privilege

Aubrey gave him a once over. “Is this a party or a wake, Goldy?”

“Feels like a wake. The death of the self, maybe.”

“You can’t even summon up a little schadenfreudian glee at being promoted over me?”

“Seems unsporting when it wasn’t a fair fight.” He sipped his drink, the burn doing nothing to ease the bitter frustration in his gut. “Where’s Poppy? Did you frighten her off?”

“Your redhead? She said she had a headache. Can you believe it? No concern for my tender ego at all. She could have invented a sick aunt. A dental emergency. But no. All I merit is a headache.”

Roscoe dredged up a chuckle. Ignored his disproportionate swell of relief. Why did it matter if Aubrey failed? He barely knew the girl. Had no reason—or right—to get to know her better.

He toyed with his glass on the bar’s shiny top, looked up and caught his eye in the mirror behind the neat rows of spirits. Aubrey was right. He hardly looked like a man celebrating his own success. Because he wasn’t. This was all his father’s success, wasn’t it? He turned, looked out at the room, saw his father and Andrew Carter-Hall talking together, Andrew laughing, clapping a hand on his father’s shoulder in his usual effusive way.

Twenty years’ effort and the only thing that really mattered was the name he was born with.

He threw back the rest of his drink, told Aubrey he had a headache, and headed for the exit, leaving his friend shaking his head at the bar.

Maybe it was bad form to leave your own party early. Roscoe couldn’t summon the will to care. He made it down to the building’s foyer and paused as he pushed the glass door open. It was just after nine, dark outside, the street painted in noirish shades of yellow and grey. He wasn’t surprised it was also pouring with rain. It was only fitting.

His place was ten minutes’ walk away, so he didn’t bother calling a car, just turned the collar of his coat up and shoved his hands into his pockets before stepping out from the covered entrance.

Then stopped. Turned. Because there was a woman huddled under the entrance’s shelter, shivering slightly as she eyed the unrelenting rain.

“Hello again,” Roscoe said to Poppy, stepping back under the shelter.

She glanced up at him, expression tight, then nodded past him to the street. “Thought it might stop if I waited.”

“Do you have far to go?”

“Just the tube.”

He turned his head, studied the rain for a moment as though he was a seer able to read tea leaves and not just a man trying to work out what to say next. “Not sure it’s going to stop soon.” He looked back at her. “I could call you a company car?”

She blushed, shaking her head. “No. No, thank you. And…about the other night…”

“Did you get home OK?”

“Yes. Sorry. Not sorry, I mean, about getting home. Sorry about…about the words. And the…everything.”

Roscoe laughed softly. “Don’t worry about it. Most entertaining part of the evening by a long way. Much more entertaining than tonight’s effort, too.” He lifted his eyes to the building above them with a dry nod.

“Your party? You didn’t enjoy it?”

“I’m leaving early so…” He smiled. “No. I didn’t much enjoy it. And you? You also seem to be leaving early.”

She frowned, fidgeted with the strap of her handbag. “I wasn’t meant to be there at all.”

“Why not? Everyone was invited.”

“But was everyone there?” She met his eyes squarely for the first time. Several strands of hair had worked themselves loose from the coil of her French-twist. Tiny curls at the nape of her neck. A longer strand brushing the curve of her jaw.

“I suppose noteveryone,” he said. “But they wouldn’t all fit. Are you saying it wasn’t a good turnout?” he teased. “Do you think I should be offended?”

She gave him a studying sort of look, as though suspecting he might be stupider than she thought. So Roscoe put his supposedly large brain to use.

“You mean it was all senior management types.”

“Exactly. The great and the good of BlacktonGold—”

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