Page 36 of Duplicity

Her entire demeanour changes. She shoots up out of her chair and cranes her neck, her gaze going behind me. ‘Of course. Is Mr Sullivan not joining?’ The last sentence is said with a distinct squeak of panic.

‘He’s, um, running a few minutes late. He said we should start without him.’

She visibly relaxes. ‘Okay. Great. Let’s take you through. Coffee?’ She’s already marching ahead of me down a wide corridor that’s all rosy lighting and flawless cream carpets. The red soles of her spiky-heeled dominatrix boots flash as she walks. She’s in some super edgy, asymmetrical, zip-heavy black dress that looks a million dollars on her. If she’s the one styling me, I really hope she goes with a more classic look.

Scratch that. If I have to undress in front of this woman, I’ve got bigger problems on my hands.

‘Can I get a tea with oat milk, please?’ I squeak out.

‘Sure.’ She stops in front of a door and holds out her hand to usher me through.

Holy crap. In front of me is a stunning and surprisingly large room. It’s cream, just like the reception area, with accents of brass and a wonderful scent of flowers. One corner has a big brass rail tracking around it, the heavy cream velvet curtain pushed all the way to the side, while beside it stand two rails on wheels. One is absolutelystackedwith clothes, the other with underwear, while pairs of beautiful, scary shoes sit below each item.

To my left, there’s an ivory-coloured sofa and, in front of it, a coffee table bearing an array of white flowers professionally arranged across a selection of vases and bud holders.

It’s all glorious, and it’s all intimidating ashell.

‘I’m Terri,’ the fearsome brunette says without offering her hand. ‘Fiona will be assisting us today. You can put your bag there.’ She gestures to a little upholstered footstool next to thesofa, which is probably meant for bearing Birkins rather than my Coach-from-TK-Maxx handbag. ‘I’ll fetch your tea. Take off your dress and put on that robe if you like, while we talk you through the clothes.’ She points to a silky robe hanging in the changing corner.

With a swish of her ponytail, she strides off, shutting the door behind her and leaving me alone.

I sink onto the sofa and blow out a slow breath.

Holy fuck, what am I getting myself into?

‘Mr Sullivan suggested a palette of blush and neutral tones,’ Terri colleague Fiona tells me as I sip my tea from a china teacup and hold my robe closed over my boobs.

Fiona is equally polished and terrifying, only with a platinum bob so perfectly styled that not a hair is out of place. ‘The descriptors he gave us were professional, feminine with both softer and sleeker elements, and sexy.’ She gives me some side-eye, which seems not unwarranted, because a boss requestingsexyfor his assistant’s office wardrobe is definitely dodgy as hell.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ I murmur, eyeing the rail and refusing to rise. I edge closer to the beautiful pieces. From what I can see, they’re a gorgeous concoction of silk and cashmere, of frothy blouses and elegant dresses and—oh my God, is that a pale pink leather skirt? It looks so soft.

Athena would die for this stuff. It’s far more her kind of taste than mine. I love big prints and florals and bright colours. This is so refined, so sophisticated.

But then the Marlowe who will be wearing these clothes only to let Brendan Sullivan undress her is not me. She’s a facet of me that I’ve invented solely for the purpose of paying Tabby’s medical bills, and it’s actually a good thing that her vibe is completely different from that of the real Marlowe.

‘What is it you do for Mr Sullivan, exactly?’ Terri asks, not even bothering to hide her curiosity.

‘I’m his executive assistant. Today’s my first day.’

They exchange a look that strikes me as loaded with subtext.

‘I see. He also requested a significant amount of underwear…’

She trails off, and I assume she’s hoping for clarification.

‘Great!’ I say brightly. ‘So, should I start trying this stuff on?’

‘Of course,’ Fiona says coolly. She pulls out an off-white sleeveless shift dress with a chunky exposed zip running the whole way down the back. The phraseeasy accessimmediately pops into my brain, and I stifle a smile. These ladies are onto my dirty boss, it seems.

‘What’s it made of?’ I ask her. It’s hanging on a crazily wide hanger, and even I can tell that the tailoring in this thing would inspire those in the know to whisper awed prayers of gratitude for its perfection.

‘It’s wool crepe. It’s one of Dior’s signature fabrics.’

Oh, shit. It’s Dior, and it’s the kind of colour that would get dirty if I stepped foot inside a tube station. This is not good. I set my teacup down and hold out my hand for it. ‘May I?’

‘Of course.’

She hands it over, and I rummage inside the neck for the price tag.

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