Page 18 of Duplicity

When that Camille person told me it was customary to kick the next round of the interview process off over dinner, I was likeyep, nope.

Hard fucking pass.

Sit-down meals are still my least favourite thing in the world. For years and years before my diagnosis—which didn’t happen until I was fifteen—family dinner was an excruciating hour where I had to exert unbelievable mental effort to glue my arse to my chair when my entire nervous system was literallyscreamingat me to spring up and jump around the room.

I can still remember how scratchy the seat of the chairs at our dining table felt in the summer or after games when I was wearing shorts.

If mealtimes were excruciating for me, they were equally painful for my parents, who were constantly stressed out by my inability to sit still. I inevitably caved to my impulses to get rid of all that nervous energy and jumped up, so I could spin or walk around and around and around the table or—the thing that pissed my parents off the most—bent myself over the backs of whatever fucking Chippendale chairs they had so I could lift my feet off and swing back and forth.

And, just as inevitably, Mum and Dad would go fucking nuclear. I’ll admit that, twenty years or more on from my diagnosis, I’m still smug AF that they had to eat humble pie after the psychiatrist explained to them that forcing me to resist my body’s impulse to move and expend energy was both unhealthy and cruel. They felt terrible about it, of course, but I still haven’t quite forgiven them for the yelling and the shaming and the punishments when I couldn’t “behave” at the dinner table like my brother and sister.

So no, I’m not partial to sit-down meals these days, funnily enough. No amount of meds can get me over that lifelong trauma. I have enough work dinners to attend, thanks very much. I have no intention of ruining a perfectly good evening of sexy negotiations by sticking my arse down at a dinner table, no matter how attractive the view across from me.

Instead, I hook myself and Marlowe up with a private space at a new lounge bar and nightclub located, conveniently, in the basement of a hotel in Knightsbridge. The hotel is the brand-new baby of one of my nemeses, Sovereign Structures, who are guilty of more than just wanky alliteration. I don’t like them, and I’ve been dying for a hate-snoop. This way, I can check them outandcheck Marlowe out before we move upstairs later.

If we move upstairs, that is. The private room may be up to the job if it has a working lock and a sturdy sofa.

I make sure I get to the bar half an hour early. I have to admit, it’s fucking gorgeous, with a black-and-bronze colour palette and plenty of marble and onyx. The finish is impeccable, and they certainly haven’t skimped on the materials. The layout is cool too. They’ve dug out a double basement, allowing for a double-height main bar and club area with the VIP spaces dotted around on a mezzanine reachable via a show-stopping circular staircase. These range from open-plan areas with couches and stools to more luxurious suites separated from the dance floorand main bar by a one-way mirror. Their inhabitants get a clear view of the action below while being concealed from sight.

It is my intention to makefulluse of the fact that no one can see into our suite this evening.

When the time approaches for Marlowe to show up, I’m pacing like a caged tiger, all edgy anticipation and raging sex hormones, and trying to make my very long G&T last while I watch the bar below us fill up. It’s a Thursday night, and plenty of finance bros are making their way over from the City so they can live it up tonight and nurse their hangovers on company time tomorrow. Where the finance bros go, the hot gold-diggers follow. The eye candy is excellent, the champagne corks are popping, and the DJ is cutting loose on sexy, sundowner-style beats.

None of those douchebags down there have as high a chance of scoring tonight as I do. If I don’t fuck it up and scare her off, that is.

Apparently, the hiring process for her is unusual by Seraph’s standards. My brother admitted to me over drinks recently that he viewed someverysalacious photos of Athena at the agency’s offices before he moved forward with her. As Marlowe is brand new to the agency, I haven’t had that luxury. Camille has explained that she hasn’t had her photo shoot yet, but that I’m welcome to view other candidates’ “portfolios” if I decide not to hire her.

Whatever. I don’t need some porno photos to tell me what I already know. Between what I’ve seen of Marlowe so far and the helpful assistance of my overactive imagination to fill in the gaps, I’m in no doubt as to the quality of what I’m buying.

Bang on time, a server ushers Marlowe into the suite, and holy fucking shit.

The woman is aknockout.

It seems even my imagination has its limits, because I’ve filled the spank bank this week with fantasies of taking that little pink work dress off her, but here she is, already half naked. She’s my type on steroids.

Or maybe it’s that she’s my type with a bit of soul. She has all the admittedly pretty stereotypical physical attributes I love—long blonde hair, perky tits, fantastic legs—but she’s classy. Soulful. Interesting. It’s in her delicate bone structure and her big brown eyes, and?—

She makes her way towards me, and my brain short-circuits. While she doesn’t seem to be a natural on heels that high, the way that little gold dress clings to her willowy frame is spectacular. I can feel the grin spreading across my face.

My evening just got a thousand times better.

‘Hi,’ she says, slightly breathlessly.

‘Evening.’ I flash that grin at her one more time as I stoop to kiss her on both cheeks. She smells incredible—something floral and feminine, which suits her. Her fragrant hair tickles my nose as I kiss her, and her skin is soft where I’ve laid my palm against her upper arm as we greet each other.

The hovering server takes our drink orders—a glass of Chablis for her and another long G&T for me.

‘Actually,’ I tell her. ‘Bring a bottle of Chablis and one of gin. I want ice buckets and tonic, too. Some still water, and a big mezze platter. That should do us.’

While I have no intention of drinking anywhere near a bottle of gin, I don’t want to give the server any reason to disturb us again. I’m hoping Marlowe isn’t a flight risk, but I don’t want her getting skittish, either during what could (for her) be a sensitive conversation or once I finally get my hands on her.

Particularly the latter.

I stick my spare hand in my pocket, my fingers reaching out of habit for the spinner on my fidget toy. ‘I’m glad you said yes.’

I really am. I thought the work-oriented interview went well, but Camille had previously made it very clear that if the candidate didn’t feel adequate chemistry, she was under no obligation to proceed to the next round. As it turned out, she called me the following morning with a big fat yes from Marlowe, and I wasted no time setting up tonight’s rendezvous.

That gets me a smile. ‘Of course,’ she says, then blows out a shuddery breath that strikes me as involuntary.

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