Page 83 of Pride and Privilege

“If you keep pushing, maybe he’ll come around?”

“He won’t. I know him. I can tell when his mind is made up.”

“But this is worth fighting for. You can’t spend the rest of your life doing work you don’t enjoy.”

He shook his head. “I can’t fight him. Every time I do, he gets angry. Works himself up. And I keep thinking…” He looked at her for a moment, weighing something in his mind. “It was a heart attack, Poppy. That time he was suddenly taken ill. He was arguing with my brother Hugo, and he got so worked up he had a heart attack. He could have died. And every time I argue with him, all I can think about is what if it happens again? What if it’s worse this time…and I…I basicallykillhim—”

“No, no.” She stepped closer to him, made him look at her. “No, Roscoe. You can’t think like that. And I’m sure it doesn’t work like that. Your actions aren’t responsible for…heart disease.”

“I can’t get it out of my head.”

He sounded so lost then, utterly wretched. She touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes and leant into her palm.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It’s constantly in my head. Like there’s no way out. I’m stuck at BG doing whatever he wants me to do forever, because the alternative is…”

“Leave, Roscoe. You could leave, work somewhere else.”

He huffed a pained laugh at that and took her hand from his face, holding it between his, plaiting their fingers together. “That reallywouldbreak his heart. It would destroy him. I can’t leave the company. All he’s ever wanted was for one of us to follow in his footsteps, join him at BG and take it over when he’s gone. He pretends now that he never hoped Hugo would, but it’s only recently he’s completely given up on him. He would have liked us both there. Both his sons, like some old-fashioned dynasty. Blacktons forever. But it was always obvious to me that Hugo had no interest in it, and he’s never cared about pleasing people. For all his faults, at least he doesn’t pretend to be any better than he is. But it was just as obvious to me that my dad needed someone to follow him. It was easy to become that person. Get all the praise and attention. I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy being the favourite. And look where it’s got me. Stuck forever. Maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“No,” Poppy said again. “You don’t owe him yourlife.”

“Don’t I? I’m his son. And I can finally admit what that means. You were right all along. I wouldn’t have got where I am without being born into the family I was. My upbringing, my education, all those opportunities. I do owe him. He’s given me everything.”

“But that doesn’t mean he gets totakeeverything. That’s not what parents do.”

Her mum, working all hours. Her grandparents, giving everything…

Roscoe said nothing, jaw set, staring at the ground as though he could see all the way to the bedrock.

“Roscoe,” she said gently. “If he loves you, he won’t be keeping score like that. Love isn’t like that.” And she knew she wasn’t really talking about his father anymore. She could tell by the tears pricking her eyes, the ache in her chest. “Love isn’t about keeping score. It’s not a bargain.”

There’s no weighing scale,she wanted to say.No one judging who is lesser and who is greater and who should give and who should receive.

It’s a partnership. Between equals.

Roscoe finally met her eyes, and the pain she saw there cut her. “That’s the problem, though, don’t you see? His loveisa bargain. It’s conditional. If I fight him, I lose him. Either his heart packs in or he turns his back on me. Either way, I lose him.”

She reached for him, wanted to hold him, soothe him. But he turned away with a small shake of his head and her hand dropped to her side.

“We need to get back for dinner.”

THIRTY-NINE

Mabel was a traditionalistin food if not conversation, and dinner on that warm summer evening was Cook’s extremely unseasonable and somewhat gristly beef stew with dumplings. If a thing wasn’t boiled for four hours, his aunt didn’t consider it food.

Afterwards, they retired to the sitting room and Mabel demanded he play chess with her, which was their usual manner of spending the evening on his visits to Malperton. But Poppy awkwardly confessed she didn’t know how to play, and opted to watch, shaking her head at his offer to teach her. She sat to the side of the small spindly-legged games table in an ancient wingback armchair. His aunt did possess a TV but considered it rude to use if guests were present. The radio was on, an earnest discussion about Victorian literature. Poppy was surely extremely bored. Roscoe played poorly, distracted.

It all felt like more of the same, playing chess. A narrowing set of increasingly poor options. Checkmate at work. His father implacable, the work unending. And now Poppy quiet,withdrawn. But what could he do? There were no right options. His aunt swiped his queen from the board and gave him a long look but said nothing.

Maybe bringing Poppy here had been a mistake. The sprawling old house and his eccentric aunt were so familiar to him, he’d forgotten to think what they must be like from the outside. This place had always been a sanctuary to him, much like Mabel’s old flat in London. And Poppy had liked it there, at the mews house, he’d been able to tell. They had been close that night, warm and true and honest and intimate… Maybe that was why he had come here with her. Chasing that feeling. But it was nowhere to be found. Instead, he was moody, his thoughts had stumbled into bleak alleyways, getting more lost at every turn, and now he was even more annoyed at himself for failing to make sure Poppy had a nice time.

He had been moody since Wednesday. Since that conversation with his father. Since his father interrupted them in his office and he realised the hypocrisy, the idiocy of his actions. And he had been moody since Poppy drew her feet from her lap and pretended to yawn and said it was time for bed when he was ragingly hard and if he just gave in, let her touch him, listened to his dick, he could have had her on his lap, riding him the way they both wanted. And then maybe there wouldn’t be this awful gap growing between them, maybe everything would be warm and easy instead, and wouldn’t that be fucking lovely? To just have Poppy, truly have her, all of her, that dream of his, Poppy at the mews house…

But if it went wrong…? If they argued…? If something came between them, and Poppy moved out—but to where? If she refused his help, his money… Poppy proud and stubborn trying to face down the world single-handedly, the way she had done for years, providing for her whole family while he glided on gilded money-greased wheels through degrees and MBAs andinto a job and then sat in luxury in a stately home playing chess and feeling sorry for himself.

Jesus fucking Christ. He hated himself.

“Your move,” Mabel prompted, and he realised he had been doing nothing for minutes but glaring at the board.

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