Page 34 of Duplicity

‘I don’t want to know.’ She leans in and lowers her voice. ‘Just remember. She’s your employee, not your toy. She’s a human being. Treat her with respect.’

‘Jesus. I’m not a total prick. I know all that. She’s lovely, and I’m not about to fuck her up. That said, I’m paying her a fuck-load of money for this job, and we’re both adults. Maybe give us both the chance to work our relationship out for ourselves?’

She surveys me for a moment with her lips pressed together. She really is terrifying. Kudos to my brother for being able to handle her.

‘Good,’ she says finally. ‘And you’re right, it’s between the two of you. It’s just—’ She hesitates, looking uncharacteristically lost for words. ‘Don’t judge people by their roles, Brendan, okay? Yes, you’re paying her for sex, but she’s not just some whore. She seems really strong, and she is, but she’s also more vulnerable than she looks. Just—do me a favour and look after her, okay? She’s worth it.’

There’s something about the intensity in her voice and her face that’s sobering. It’s almost like she’s trying to warn me. But Athena’s super protective of Marlowe; I know that much. So maybe she’s just looking out for her friend.

‘I will,’ I say quietly. ‘I know she is.’

My mother and sister can mainline chardonnay like nobody’s business, so I’m making myself useful opening another bottle of Meursault when the folks show up. Mum enters in a cloud of that pungent eighties Dolce and Gabbana perfume she always wears. I swear you can practically see the leopard print and big hair wafting off that stuff.

‘Look at my gorgeous, strapping son,’ she says proudly, as she always does. It’s as if my gym-honed body is the modern-day equivalent of being a well-built farmer’s lad. I dunno. I won’t attempt to guess what goes on inside that brain of hers, opting instead to pour her a generous glass of her favourite wine.

She’s all excited because they’ve taken a box for the night. I honestly don’t get the appeal of boxes. They’re all the way on the side of the theatre and they face the wrong fucking way. Seriously, they’re like the theatrical equivalent of the Emperor’s new clothes. Who wants to sit through three hours ofLesfuckingMisonly to emerge with a crick in their neck?

Not me.

Mum releases me to go fawn over Athena. I won’t lie; things got pretty hairy there a few weeks ago when a former board member of mine—total wanker—outed her as a hooker in front of the entire family at a fancy charity gala. Never has the fear of having to perform CPR on my parents felt so real. Honestly, I thought they’d pass out from the shame of it. It made Gabe leaving the priesthood seem as innocuous as missing Mass on a Sunday.

But in a move far more legendary than I’ll ever admit, my mild-mannered brother finally located his balls and gave Mum and Dad a giant bollocking. They’ve subsequently agreed to accept Athena as the CEO of our family foundation—the newly named Audacity Foundation—and Mum seems to have forgiven her for being ashameless little hussy(Mum’s words) remarkably quickly. I suspect it’s that the likelihood of Athena popping out mini Angel Gabriels ramps up with every passing day.

I have to say, though, even if we’ve put that particular episode of the Sullivan Family Soap Opera to bed, it’s a timely reminder that Mum can never,everfind out the full scope of Marlowe’s new role.

Dad comes over and gives me a hug that involves backslaps hearty enough to displace my lungs. He’s wearing a navy suit with pinstripes so wide they call for a cigar. Unlike Gabe, Mairead and me, who have only ever known extreme privilege, Dad grew up on the Dublin docks before emigrating to the UK with his father to make fortunes beyond their wildestdreams. As a consequence, Ronan Sullivan is a bon viveur, a man whose wealth and status are still novel enough for him to simultaneously struggle with them and enjoy the fuck out of them.

Or so it seems from my vantage point, anyway.

Finally, he releases me, gripping me by the shoulder tightly enough to remind me that he’s still the boss, even if he’s passed the reins of his businesses onto the next generation now. ‘How’s my boy? Behaving yourself, Bren?’

It’s a loaded question that probably has two desired responses: a reassuringabsolutelyregarding our behemoth of a construction firm and a cheekyfuck, nofor the women in my life.

‘Only in the ways you’d want me to,’ I tell him with a wink, and he laughs right on cue.

‘Good man, good man. Glad to hear it. I can’t persuade you to come along tonight? There’s a seat going spare in the box, and it would mean the world to your mam. Sure, we could look for Les.’ He nudges me forcefully with his elbow.

And there it is. The ribbing and the guilt trip, all rolled into one tidy package.

‘I can’t, Dad. I’m catching up with some friends later. And you know I don’t take my meds on the weekends. I’d be a liability.’

If reminding my father of the time when surviving a trip to the theatre with me was his worst nightmare is the easiest way to get out of thespian jail guilt-free, then I’ll happily throw myself under the bus.

A therapist once explained to me that a family system is like a play. Everyone has their role to perform, and if you choose to reject your role and reinvent it, it does not go down well, because it throws everyone else’s role into disarray. If I wasn’t the disruptive troublemaker, Gabe wouldn’t have beenthe academic saint, and Mairead wouldn’t have been the dutiful little mother. Never mind that I run a company with an equity market capitalisation of eleven billion pounds.

Dad reacts exactly as predicted, rearing back with a laugh as if he’s dodged a bullet. ‘Damn, you’re right, son. You go and blow off some steam or you won’t be of any use to anyone on Monday.’

He still has a way of making me feel like my position at Sullivan Construction is a tenuous one, contingent solely on the blind luck of my circumstances and not the hard graft I’ve put in ever since I graduated from uni. Sometimes, it seems as though he sees me as the pesky but charming mailroom guy who would do well to tamp down his personality so as not to ruffle any feathers, rather than a CEO who has repeatedly proven his mettle.

But there’s no point in saying anything. Not to Dad. So I nod without a comment and wave him off as he heads over to join Mum and Athena.

My sister zeroes in on me, and I hastily pour a glass of wine for her.

‘If it isn't my favourite stallion wrangler,’ I say, kissing Mairead's cheek. ‘How are the horny beasts doing?’

‘The four-legged ones are fine,’ she shoots back, looking me up and down. ‘But you didn’t put that porno black shirt on for us. So I suspect the two-legged ones will be going on the prowl later.’

‘Ha fucking ha. Sour grapes aren’t a good look on you, sis.’ I jerk my head in the direction of her long-suffering husband. ‘When’s the last time you let Peter near you without a riding crop?’

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