Page 33 of Duplicity

It hits me that she hasn’t fully processed the implications of her operation, and why should she? She’s eight years old, for crying out loud.

‘Really, sweetie. The doctor I spoke to earlier put it really well, actually. He reminded me that you’re not sick, you’ve just got one little piece of equipment that doesn’t work so well. It’s a bit like a bike that has a punctured tyre. If you change the tyre, it’s all good. So once they swap out your valve for a bigger one that can carry enough blood to your lungs, you should be dandy. No more blue spells. No more feeling faint. No moretrips to A&E. That’s the plan, anyway. He said you’ll be turning cartwheels in no time.’

I give her my brightest, most optimistic smile, and she returns it.

‘Can I start rollerskating?’

‘Rollerskating. Dance lessons. Parkour. Whatever you like.’ I make a mental note to save a few extra grand for my daughter’s fully fledged extracurricular fun.

‘Will your new boss be okay with you taking time off to go to the US so soon after you’ve started?’ Mum wants to know. A worried frown creases her forehead.

Time for the next porky.

‘He’s been really understanding,’ I lie smoothly. ‘He says I can take it as holiday or work remotely. He gets how important this is.’

CHAPTER 16

Brendan

The bad news is that Mum and Dad have come into London for the evening and issued a three-line whip for a family dinner. The good news is that they’re off to the theatre with my sister Mairead and her husband Peter, so dinner is early and I’ll be off the hook by seven.

Apparently, there’s a new hot shot stepping up tonight to play Jean Valjean in their all-time favourite show,Les Mis.Cue endless reminiscing (a euphemism forribbing) about the time when they took us along as kids and I asked at the interval after an endless first half, ‘Which one is Les?’

They’ve never let me live it down.

Because Gabe and Athena are Madly in Love and playing house, they’ve offered to host everyone for a pre-theatre supper, and because my brother knew it would be a hard sell for me, he has a Nobu chef coming to serve everyone up some excellent Japanese. Not that Gabe’s not a decent cook. He is, but after a decade in the priesthood, his style can tend towards the meat-and-two-veg-sad-singleton-meal-for-one, which is not my idea of a fun Saturday night.

Even better, he’s promised me that the meal will be served up grazing style in the kitchen. He pitched it as a chance foreveryone to be able to catch up and mingle, but really he knows there’s no way I’ll acquiesce to a sit-down dinner after a week at my desk.

Anyway, I rock up dutifully at five for early cocktails so we can get some adequate family time in before my parents and sister are spirited away to the West End and I can embark upon the next stage of my Saturday night, AKA the Getting Laid stage. From the way my brother is touching Athena by the wine fridge, it looks like they’re headed for the Getting Laid stage later too.

How my formerly celibate brother managed to land himself the hottest woman in London is a mystery that'll haunt me to my grave. Though I suppose I'm about to level the playing field with Marlowe. Just thinking about the two orgasms I gave her—left-field for her and one hundred per cent predicted on my part—makes me smirk.

That was a lot of fucking fun.

Gabe has a really nice pad, even if it couldn’t be more different from my glass-heavy penthouse in a mixed-use, Sullivan-constructed building overlooking the Thames in Battersea. He took over one of Mum and Dad’s properties—a big Georgian redbrick house in Manchester Square in the middle of town—but his interior designer has done a great job on it. With its warm neutral palette and no-expense-spared finishings, it hits exactly the right notes between the serenity this former priest still values and the opulence he’s probably still adjusting to.

‘They’ll be a few minutes late,’ he tells me, handing me a bottle of Peroni.

‘Not a problem.’ Our parents and Mairead live out near Newmarket, where we were brought up, right in the middle of the horse racing folks. It’s like a really boring version of a Jilly Cooper novel out there. As far as I can tell, all the action happens at my sister’s stud farm.

‘Before they get here, I want a word about Marlowe,’ Athena says, moving closer. Oh, boy. Here we go. She looks like she means business. She’s in a long, green silky dress that has a lot of buttons and does a stellar job of showcasing the curves that corrupted my very willing brother. I find myself thinking that she’s curvier than Marlowe, whose body is more athletic.

‘Does Marlowe like sports?’ I blurt out, and she stops in her tracks.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I dunno.’ I scratch at the corner of my Peroni label with my fingernail. ‘She looks sporty.’

‘She likes running, for some unearthly reason. And she’s bloody brilliant at tennis.’

That perks me up. ‘Really? Huh. Interesting.’ I’m a member of a very high-end racquets club near our office. Maybe I can lure her there for the odd game of tennis or padel.

‘Anyway. I wanted to thank you for giving her the job.’ Her tone is clipped, and there is no doubt in my mind that her thanks is an opener to her main agenda.

‘You’re welcome. She earned it.’

I try to keep my voice neutral, I really do. I want Athena to know that I didn’t do her a favour, that Marlowe got the position on her own—very compelling—merits, but the words sound sleazy as soon as they’re out of my mouth, and she frowns.

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