“Shit,” he said. “Shit. I meant to get to the gym, I had some work to do… How is it half-nine?”
He flung the duvet back, got up. Poppy was treated to the sight of his body for a moment until he pulled his t-shirt back on and handed hers to her. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish I could cancel…”
“Don’t be silly. Go shower, pack. I’ll make breakfast.”
“If I could get a later flight, but I’ve got that dinner meeting today before the conference starts tomorrow morning.”
“With Hendrich Lissi, I know. The tax guy. I emailed you the briefing notes on Friday. Go and shower, Ross. I’ll make coffee.”
Fifteen minutes later, Roscoe appeared, trying to stow his laptop in his bag with two suit bags over his other arm. Poppy took them from him, took his bag and laptop, and handed him a coffee. “Drink that.” She put the laptop away, closed his bag. “Do you have everything you need? Passport?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He looked at her, about to say something kind and reassuring about last night, something apologetic perhaps, some explanation of why it was wrong and couldn’t happen again. She turned away.
She had dressed quickly while Roscoe showered, pulling on her things from yesterday. Now she picked up her bag. “I’ll get going.”
“Poppy…”
“Have a good trip, Ross. See you Tuesday.”
“Let me see you to the door…”
He followed her downstairs, held the front door open for her, and again he nearly said something, her stomach coiling cold and uncomfortable in anticipation. But:
“Morning, Ross.”
Aubrey was there, a smart silver town car behind him. He looked at Poppy, face precisely neutral while hers flamed. “Morning, Poppy. Dropping off some files, I see.”
“Erm. Yes. Exactly.”
He looked back at Roscoe. “Bit of traffic on the South Circular. Thought it best to leave slightly early.”
“Right,” said Roscoe, nodding. “Yes. Of course. That’s…um…good thinking.” He turned to Poppy, apology in his eyes—for Aubrey, this moment, this goodbye, last night. Everything. “Thank you for the files… I’ll…see you on Tuesday.”
She nodded. “Yes. Great. Goodbye.” She inclined her head at Aubrey. “Bye.”
“Bye, Poppy. Have a good Sunday.”
She walked away, head down. Luckily it wasn’t far to Roscoe’s flat, but the fifteen-minute walk of shame felt far longer.
THIRTY-TWO
“Go on, then,” saidRoscoe, head tipped back against the aeroplane seat’s headrest. “Say it.”
Other than a long, measuring look as they got in the car, Aubrey hadn’t mentioned Poppy at all. He had talked to Roscoe about football, cricket, a restaurant he’d been to, a weekend getaway with his whole family that he was dreading, and work. But he hadn’t once mentioned finding Poppy Fields leaving his flat.
Waiting for the inevitable telling off was fraying Roscoe’s nerves. As was the look of dismay on Poppy’s face when Aubrey had spotted her.
And so was saying goodbye—saying goodbye this morning after all that had passed between them and no time to talk about any of it. He squeezed his eyes shut, let out a long breath, an all-too familiar feeling of pressure squeezing his chest.
There was never any fuckingtime.
“What am I meant to say that you don’t already know? You’re sleeping with your secretary. And that is…not what I would have expected of you.”
“Executive Assistant. And I’m not sleeping with her.”
“Just a sleepover, then? She came round, you braided each other’s hair, told ghost stories?”
“Things…happened. But I’m not sleeping with her.”
