Page 98 of Pride and Privilege

She stood up, face pale, cheeks blotched with red. The sheen of tears in her eyes ratcheted his fury up another notch. He went to her and folded her into his arms, face pressed into her hair, murmuring he scarcely knew what.It’ll be alright, I’ve got you, it’ll be alright…

He lifted his head to meet his father’s eye, but the man just scoffed, disgusted. “I guess the relationship rumour was true.”

“Liz,” said Roscoe. “Could you take Poppy to your office for a few minutes and make her a cup of tea? I’ll be there shortly.”

“I’ve asked her to leave the building immediately,” his father said before either woman could respond. “She’s fired.”

“No,” said Poppy, drawing back from Roscoe to turn towards his father. “Actually, I quit. I’ll go with Liz and write my resignation letter.”

“That’s a coincidence,” said Roscoe. “I was about to write my own.”

“I’ll do it for you,” said Poppy, giving his hand a squeeze. Her breezy bravado was as shaky as his own.Come with me,her eyes said. But she knew he had to do this. She knew he couldn’t walk out without having this conversation with his father.

He watched Liz and Poppy leave. His father shook his head with a sardonic snort of laughter. “How dramatic. Very soap opera. Although I suppose that’s fitting. Perhaps we’ll be haunted by the ghost of Pat Butcher next.”

He sat down, gesturing for Roscoe to sit in the seat Poppy had just vacated—the place they had sat when his father opened that bottle of whisky, celebrating his win in Zurich.

“Did you think I was joking?” said Roscoe, standing his ground.

His father looked up. “About the girl? I suppose shagging your secretaryissomething of a joke. Although we’ve probably all done it at one time or another.”

Roscoe grimaced. It was hardly a secret his parents’ marriage was loveless. But his father usually avoided being so crass about it.

“About resigning,” Roscoe said, trying to get back to what he needed to say. He had expected to be shouting by now, storming out of the room, job, quite literally, done. But his father, as usual, wasn’t going to let the conversation go the way Roscoe wanted.

His father snorted. “Now that is a joke. Your name’s on the door. You can hardly resign from your own company.”

“It’s no more my company than it is Hugo or Evie’s.”

“Go and get the whisky if you’re going to drag those fools into it.”

When Roscoe didn’t move, his father let out a long-suffering sigh and went to the sideboard himself. He set two glasses downon the coffee table and once more nodded for Roscoe to sit down.

“Don’t sulk,” he said, when Roscoe stayed standing. “Did you think I was going to be happy about your choice of girlfriend?”

“So that’s what this is about, is it? Not the reputational damage to the company? Not the accusations of nepotism—of you manipulating the board? You didn’t call a crisis meeting about any of that, did you? Instead, you dragged Poppy in here just to insult her to her face.”

His father took an infuriatingly calm sip of whisky. “I’m too old and too tired to listen to some Romeo speech, Roscoe. Don’t embarrass yourself by flying to protect her honour.”

“Only you would think that embarrassing.”

“Oh, yes, yes—” He waved a hand through the air. “You love her, marvellous, I understand. But give yourself twenty years—when that girl is barely a memory on your bedsheets—and you’ll look back on today and wince. Now sit down. Because you’re right. We do have more important things to talk about.”

Roscoe wasn’t sure why he obeyed. The shock of his father telling him he was right about something. Or the fact that his brain was still fuzzy and dark and reeling from the whole day so far. Or maybe it was the way his father briefly rubbed his chest as though feeling a twinge. Roscoe eyed the man warily. None of this could have been good for his father’s stress levels. Roscoe imagined blood pressure rising, heart muscle pounding… He picked up his whisky and took a sip.

“How did it go today?” asked his father. “With Lissi, Domnall White?”

Roscoe stared at him. “That’swhat you want to talk about? Not the news story?”

“The news story is nothing. Barely an inch buried in the business pages. PR are drafting a statement.”

“But you fired Poppy over it!”

He pursed his lips, apparently disappointed that Roscoe was still harping on about that minor point. “She’s an enterprising girl. I’m sure she’ll land on her feet. Especially with you looking out for her. But she can’t work here, Roscoe. The cat’s out of the bag. People know about your relationship. Do you think they’ll be kind to her? She’s better off at LibertyBrooks now. Write her a reference if you need. Perhaps I was hasty about that.”

Hasty? This was a complete one-eighty from ten minutes ago. Roscoe blinked, thrown. He pretended to study the whisky in his glass, tilting it this way and that and watching the play of light on the amber liquid as he tried to get the analytical part of his brain back on track.

Was this a ploy? Had his father, realising Roscoe wouldn’t back down over Poppy, decided to brush over the topic for now? Distract Roscoe with praise and whisky and…and that rub of his chest? Roscoe eyed the man askance, that blameless spot on his white shirt where he had touched his chest… But no…his father wouldn’t stoop to such petty manipulation…

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