Page 119 of Duplicity

It feels so different being up here, so atmospheric, with the stage lights and the sublime jazz band and all the eyes on me. I look down and see Brendan leaning forward, his expression rapt, phone held up to record this historical moment. He’s gunning for me one hundred per cent, and it gives me the shot of confidence I need. I glance back at Santi, who raises his eyebrows.You ready?I nod.Ready as I’ll ever be.

And then the gorgeous jazz intro kicks in, and we go for it. I don’t know if it’s the orchestra, or that I’m playing to a crowd, but this performance is far more charged than it was back inthe dressing room. We riff off each other, but I get the sense that he’s holding back, maintaining the melody so I can shine. I act on instinct, embracing the improv nature of jazz as much as the uniqueness of this opportunity, my body producing trills and flourishes in real time from seemingly nowhere. I go a little crazy on the final notes, and when I still, the crowd and Santi are on their feet, clapping and stamping and yelling and wolf-whistling.

It’s the most astonishing hit of adrenaline. The performer in me, deliberately dormant for so long, is still there. She loves this. She thrives on it. It’s what makes her feel alive.

And that’s dangerous.

CHAPTER 56

Brendan

Marlowe can’t stop smiling all the way home.

Neither can I.

I’ve held this broken, exhausted mother in my arms as she emotionally collapsed in the safe confines of a shower. That image is indelibly printed onto my brain. So seeing her like this, vibrant and grinning and still high from her epic performance does things to my heart that I can’t articulate.

Iknew that Marlowe was inside her.

But whethersheknew is another matter.

The best bit? Santi dropped by our table for a drink after his set and slipped Marlowe his business card, telling her to give him a call if she ever wanted to pursue a recording career. He’s a good guy, but not that good. He wouldn’t have made that offer if he didn’t think she had serious potential.

‘I still can’t believe you pulled a stunt like that,’ she says, shaking her head and beaming at me.

‘It was a gamble,’ I admit, taking her hand. She lets me. ‘Not because I thought you’d fuck it up—I knew you wouldn’t—but because I thought you might actually strangle me for putting you on the spot like that.’

‘I was tempted to. But it was also the most incredible thing anyone’s ever done for me. So thank you.’ She looks down at our hands. ‘It means the world to me that you have that much faith in my singing abilities.’

‘I may be besotted with you, love,’ I tell her, ‘but I’m not stupid. I know talent when I see it, and your talent basically punched me in the face. You looked like a star up there. You held your own on stage with a global megastar—that should tell you how much fucking potential you have. All you have to decide is whether you’re going to call him.’

She gives me anoh, pleaselook. ‘I have a job. And a daughter who needs me.’

‘I’ll happily fire you,’ I retort. ‘And you have a daughter who’s going back to school next week and is now perfectly capable of leading a normal life.’

What I don’t spell out is that, if I win her over and she becomes my girlfriend, she’ll never have to work a day in her life to pay the bills. Instead, she’ll be free to follow her dreams. I want that for her so badly. I want to be able to give her that freedom she deserves after years and years of thankless fucking toil, but I can’t say that.

Because she’ll accuse me of buying her right as I’m trying to set her free.

I’ve insisted on dropping Marlowe home. She’s tried so hard to dissuade me that I suspect this goes way beyond her dislike of inconveniencing others. I have a feeling she doesn’t want me to see where she lives.

Well, tough shit, sweetheart.

Yan eventually turns into a large, shitty housing estate and immediately my hackles go up.

‘Is this where you live?’ I ask her.

‘Yeah.’ Her voice is quiet.

‘Is it a council estate?’

‘Some of it, but quite a bit of it is privately owned now. Our landlord’s a rental agency.’

I inwardly grimace as we drive by a wall of graffiti. That might be, but nothing about this estate screamssecure environment for a child and her single mother.

‘Did you ever think about living with your parents?’ I ask in a neutral tone, my thumb stroking her knuckles.

‘Not really. It would have been the practical option, but they need their space and so do I. I’m twenty-seven. I chose to bring up my daughter on my own, so at some point I was just better off standing on my own two feet and getting on with it, you know?’

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