Page 46 of Duplicity

I make myself come out with it. ‘I’m a bit sore. I might need to… be careful tomorrow.’ Ugh, I hate saying it. He’s bought a new toy, and he’s played with it precisely once, and it’s already defective. ‘Let’s just see,’ I add hurriedly. ‘I might be fine. I’m out of practice, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.’

He’s shaking his head. ‘No, no way. If you’re sore, you’re sore. You’re not a blow-up doll, love. I don’t expect you to just put up and shut up, okay? Like I said, we’re both new to this. And for it to work, we both have to be happy.’ A dirty smile spreads across his face. ‘For the record, you did great today. I went hard on you.’

‘Okay,’ I whisper. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you.’

Our eyes are locked. He really is indecently attractive, but I’m still trying to figure him out. He clearly has a heart of gold,but, from the sounds of it, my early instincts about this being a nannying job may also be right.

I wonder what a Monday evening for Mr Brendan Sullivan looks like.

‘Do you have any plans for this evening?’ I blurt out.

He looks for a moment like a deer in the headlights. His fingers flex on my neck. ‘I’ve got a… dinner. In Chelsea.’

I nod brightly.A dinner.It’s none of my business. Our sordid little arrangement ends at six each night, and that goes for Brendan as well as for me.

‘Have a lovely time,’ I say cheerily.

I’m pretty sure his eyes stay on my bum as I walk out of his office.

That bike ride definitely didn’t help my swollen undercarriage. When I walk gingerly into my building, it’s weird on so many levels. I feel like a weary traveller who’s seen another world and can’t unsee it.

Tabs and I live in New Cross, just south of the Docklands in South East London. It’s an area that can optimistically be described as “up and coming”, but there are still far too many grotty parts. Its only positive, really, is that it’s close to my new place of work—around a fifteen-minute bike ride if I pedal quickly.

Our flat is in a sprawling estate which is a mix of government-owned council flats and those which have been sold to private owners or landlords. Ours is one of the latter—we rent it from a rental company—but it looks and feels every bitas depressing as a council flat, and don’t get me started on the communal areas.

I punch in the code for the outside door and creep past a gang of youths in the concrete hallway. Even in the summer, it feels damp in here. They’re all in black hoodies, faces barely visible, the stench of weed thick in the air. They’re swearing loudly, and they’re intimidating as fuck. They’re blocking the mailboxes, and I quickly decide I won’t be checking my post today. I hate that my parents and Tabs have to make the journey through this area to get upstairs to my flat, and it’s a miracle that Athena ever braves this place at all.

Not that any gang would dare mess with Athena.

As I climb the stairs and leave the fog of weed behind me, the smell turns to piss. Yes, my neighbours piss in the stairwell from time to time. Can they be any more revolting? It’s such a world away from the huge flower arrangements and gorgeous windows and soaring architectural details of Brendan’s offices. This place is a roof over our heads and not much more.

I’m sweating and out of breath as I reach the fourth floor. There are lifts, but they’re often out of order and I use them as little as I can. I don’t like the idea of Tabby and I being trapped in a smelly metal box if some of our less salubrious neighbours decide to join us. It’s always a relief when I can lock the door of our little home behind us, because it means we’ve reached our sanctuary safely.

But here’s where my return gets more surreal. When I shut the door and drop my rucksack behind me, I’m met with a vignette of domestic bliss in this basic little shoebox, and it hits me like a blow to my stomach.

Tabs and my parents are sitting at the small kitchen table, dirty plates stacked neatly to one side and an array of playing cards between them. The evening sunlight streams through the kitchen windows, bathing the room and its occupants in agolden glow while also drawing attention to the urgent need for an updated paint job in this living area.

But while the white paint is greying and peeling, especially in the corner that was damp all winter, the vibe of our home is cosy and safe. It smells deliciously of Dad’s cooking—his carbonara, if I’m correct—and it’s spotlessly clean. My parents are as protective of me as they are of Tabby, and it looks like some serious housework has gone down while I’ve been out.

I’m scrupulously tidy myself—if we’re going to live in a little box in a dodgy building in a dodgy neighbourhood, then I’m damn well going to make sure it’s immaculate—but I know it’ll only be a matter of time before the housework starts to pile up, given the intensity of this job.

My parents may not know exactly what my new gig entails, but they know it’s a step up from my last role, and they also know it’s a necessary part of the funding for Tabby’s op. They can sense I’ll need extra support, even if I don’t ask for it.

And, on day one, they’re already stepping up.

All of it should make me happy: the clean kitchen; the card game; the delicious food that awaits me; the contented faces. I should be ecstatic as Tabby launches herself out of her chair and flings her little body against me. Mum’s religious about her changing out of her uniform after school, so she’s in white daisy print shorts and a lemon-yellow T-shirt with a huge daisy appliqué on the front.

And I am ecstatic; I am. I hug her back and pepper the top of her blonde head with effusive kisses. I’m delighted to see her, delighted to be home.

But it’s as if I’m viewing my daughter and my parents through a veil of sorts. Because while they’ve been carrying on with their wholesome, innocent days of learning and childcare, of housework and family time, I’ve been permitting a man I barely know to buy me tens and tens of thousands of pounds’worth of clothes. I’ve allowed him to get me on my knees, to order me about, to put his dick in my mouth and in my pussy in the aggressive splendour of his office, and in return I’ve taken his money.Gladly.

So forgive me if knowing that the three people I love most in the world are ignorant of the depths I’ve plumbed in the name of money is horrifying rather than reassuring.

Don’t get me wrong. They can never know.

I just wish I didn’t have to sell my soul quite so comprehensively to ensure my daughter’s future.

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