Page 81 of Duplicity

There’s another rowdy chorus that apparently sounds to Brendan’s drunken ears like assent, because his hand moves even higher. I clench my thighs together, trapping it. I want to reach down and slap his hand away. I want to run for that door, but I’m frozen to the spot. All I can focus on is the smoothness of the fancy Sullivan pen in my hand and on the ruddy cheeks of the guy sitting closest to Brendan.

I wonder if he knows champagne makes him go red?

Or maybe it’s having his host try to finger his assistant in plain sight that has his colour heightened.

These men are all strangers. All people who have actual business dealings with Brendan. People with whose assistants I’ve probably had email contact. Phone contact. Outside of myspecific arrangement with Brendan, I’ve conducted myself with perfect professionalism these past few weeks. I’m representing both him and his firm at the highest level, after all.

And here he is treating me like a two-bit whore in front of his drunken cronies.

‘Open up, baby,’ he stage-whispers now. His voice sounds so nasty.

‘No.’ Every muscle in my body is tensed so hard that I’ll probably pull them all. I glare down at him, because I cannot look at anyone.

‘Aww, come on, darling,’ someone jeers from the other end of the table.

Brendan edges his fingers further up, working against my locked thighs. ‘Look, there’s no reason to be shy. They all signed NDAs before they got here—they know the score. I’ve told them all about you. We’ve had lunch, but I’ve promised them a little show for dessert. They want to see your tits, and they want to taste your sweet, sweet cunt, and Anthony over there was hoping you’d blow him because it’s his birthday this weekend. So why don’t you do us both a favour and remind yourself exactly what I’m paying you for?’

Every single disgusting word crawls over my skin like a cockroach. I have never in my life felt simultaneously so invisible and so splayed open. I usually love him touching me, but every second that his hands are on my skin feels like a violation of the highest order. His touch has nothing on his words, though.

It’s obvious he’s drunk, butNDAs? He cooked up this entire plan, and I’d bet every fucking pound he’s paid me that it’s because he’s pissed off with me for taking leave. He’s admitted as much. So he’s expecting me to strip off and put out and behave like some party piece, to tolerate a mauling from him and his revolting, drunken, chauvinistic friends? He expects me to get on my knees and put on a show?

I’ve done a lot to save my daughter’s life. I’ve sold myself body and soul, to this man, I’ve jumped so far into the deep end I don’t know if I’ll ever find land again, and I’ve momentarily feared that I was gaining feelings. I’ve sunk to lows I could never have imagined, but these are depths I cannot plumb.

He’s paying me to fuck him. He’s paying me to relieve his stress and his boredom, to fulfil his fantasies. And I know he said he liked to watch, so maybe I should have seen it coming. But nothing is worth this level of shame and humiliation and invasion.

Nothing.

I think about my tiny, sick daughter. About our bags packed and ready. About the operation she’s going to endure. I think about the money, Brendan’s money, sitting in our bank account. We’re good to go for now. I don’t need to endure this. He may, in this moment, be trying to make me feel like I have no agency, but I do. I fucking do. I’ve done enough to save Tabs, but I bloody well won’t do this.

I summon every ounce of that fierce mama bear energy that I can draw on so readily when it’s Tabs I need to advocate for. I throw my notepad and pen on the table and reach behind myself, digging my nails into his wrist and pulling his hand out from between my legs.

‘Stop,’ I spit at him.My safeword.The word I haven’t even had in reserve for the past few weeks, except for one brief moment with Ethan Kingsley. I look down at his brattish, entitled face and feel only contempt. Disgust. ‘Stop, stop, stop. You can blow the birthday boy yourself for all I care, you sick fuck. I’m out.’

CHAPTER 39

Marlowe

Tabby’s hospital gown is pale blue and dotted with Peppa Pig and George Pig’s heads. She outgrew Peppa years ago, but I suspect these little piggies represent a safe space for her. She’s tired and a little faint after a long morning of the obligatory fasting, but she’s in good spirits.

For the millionth time, I am in awe of her resilience and her courage. I’ve hoped and prayed for this procedure for so many years. More than that, I’ve fought and sacrificed and gambled my own wellbeing on taking back our power from the NHS and pulling this operation off on our terms. I’ve fixated on pretty much nothing else for the past three years.

And now the moment is upon us, and our medical team is a veritable who’s who of paediatric medical qualifications, and I am utterly terrified. I’ve been shaken up since I gathered my stuff up at the speed of light on Friday and stalked out of the office, reassuring a very concerned Elaine that I’d handled the situation and was okay. And when we got on that plane, much as I was glad to put space between myself and Brendan, I couldn’t help feeling that I was leading Tabby to her certain death like a lamb to the slaughter.

I know I’m being irrational. I know too well that emotions like that are intrusive thoughts, nothing more. I know she’s in great hands and that this operation is a lifeline and not a death sentence. Still, I can’t quash the relentless anxiety. It doesn’t help that I’m jet lagged and exhausted—spending last night on a plastic pull-out couch in Tabby’s hospital room wasn’t conducive to a restorative night’s sleep.

And it definitely doesn’t help that I’m all alone over here, the sole adult in charge of a terrifyingly fragile little girl. In hindsight, it was stupid not to cobble together the thousands of pounds needed to bring Mum and Dad over with us and put them up somewhere cheap nearby. I’m kicking myself, because I hadn’t realised how desperately I’d want another adult here to holdmeand parentmeand tellmeeverything was going to be okay.

The only thing keeping me together, to be honest, is the unwavering determination I have to be a brave, reassuring face for my daughter. She’s the vulnerable one here. She’s the one who’s about to endure a serious operation in a strange place, thousands of miles from home, and she deserves the support of a mother who isn’t falling apart herself.

I stroke her hair as she lies on the gurney. A woman with a wide, friendly smile and the most beautiful dark eyes approaches. The anaesthetist, I guess, judging from the big badge on her scrubs that features a sleeping cloud emitting a stream of Zs.

‘Hi, Tabby!’ she says in a perky voice. I have to hand it to the Americans; they’re way more effusive and cheery than us Brits, and right now Tabs and I will take all the peppiness we can get. She keeps talking. ‘I’m Dr Martinez, and I’ll be your sleep doctor today. Do you know what that is?’

‘You make me go to sleep?’ Tabby whispers, so shyly it’s almost inaudible. I stroke her hair again.

‘Exactly! My job is to help you fall into a special sleep during your heart operation and make sure you don't feel anything. When you wake up afterward, your heart will be working better! Have you ever fallen asleep for a doctor before?’

Tabs cranes her neck to look up at me. ‘Have I, Mummy?’

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