5. Marlowe
CHAPTER 5
Marlowe
I t’s been five years since I’ve had to brave a job interview.
While I wanted the job at the RA—badly, in fact—the stakes have never been this high.
I’m so close to taking Tabby’s health into my own hands and funding an operation that will change her life.
I even have a potential new boss lined up.
And while I’m nowhere near ready to let myself entertain what the daily reality of being a Seraph EA will entail, I’m damned if I’m going to fail at this final hurdle of getting past the gatekeeper.
Camille.
The worst of it is that, from what Athena’s told me, she’s far more likely to block my way because she perceives me to be ill-equipped to handle the role emotionally rather than due to any inadequacies—professional or aesthetic—on my part.
Which is why this has to be the performance of a lifetime.
On Athena’s instructions, I’ve borrowed a pair of her horrifyingly expensive heels and rented a sleek black shift dress that “shows off the goods” (her words) and makes me feel like an extra from Suits.
She blow-dried my hair into long, sleek waves this morning and made me put on far more eye makeup than I ever would myself.
The result is vampish and, like all good theatrical costumes, it’s doing its job, wrapping around the real Marlowe like the best kind of armour.
I just hope it arms me enough to convince Camille that I am capable of handling the very specific challenges that come with this role.
C amille is everything Athena said she would be: groomed in a glossy, borderline severe kind of way; raven-black hair parted in the centre and scraped back; red lips immaculate.
She’s no-nonsense, with a warmth that’s faint but enough to take the slightest edge off my nerves.
Tabby, Tabby, Tabby, I chant to myself.
Nothing else matters.
I have a job to do.
I will not let my daughter down.
I am willing to do whatever it takes.
And no one, particularly not this woman sitting across from me, will rob me of my opportunity to give Tabby the dazzling, healthy, normal future she so thoroughly deserves.
We start with the business stuff.
Camille asks me about my CV, most notably the fact that my three-year degree took four years.
‘I took a year out when my daughter was born,’ I explain.
‘Kings let me rejoin the course a year later.’
‘I understand. And you’ve been working and single parenting ever since?
’
There’s something shining in her eyes: something, I think, between pity and admiration.
Usually, it would bother me, because Tabby is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
The idea that anyone could think otherwise would make me baulk.
But today, I’ll take whatever emotions my circumstances throw up for her, if only to get her to root for me hard enough to take a chance on me.
We move through my CV, even though my success in this job will depend on a set of skills about which I’m waaay less confident.
After fifteen minutes of shooting work-related questions at me, Camille sits back in her chair in this sleek glass-walled office we’re in and surveys me through eyes that I think are narrowed more in thought and less in judgement.
‘I’ll be honest with you.
Your qualifications are fine.
More than fine—I’m sure you’d do an admirable job.
It’s clear to me that you’re level-headed, efficient and resilient.
And, apropos the requirements of this particular agency, your looks are stellar.
You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, Marlowe.
I could get you a dozen interviews just like that.
’
She pauses to blow out a breath, and it’s the most ruffled I’ve seen her.
‘Here’s the thing, though.
Nothing I’ve seen or heard tells me you’re truly ready—or emotionally equipped—for the rigours this job entails, and that’s a major, major problem for me.
’
Our eyes are locked, and my ability to take anything but the most shallow breaths evades me.
‘Make no mistake about it, Marlowe. This is sex work. High value, high stakes sex work for men who are used to getting whatever the hell they want. You are a classically trained musician who, from what I can tell, has led a reasonably sheltered life. For you to accept a role as a Seraph EA would be like never having climbed before and deciding to tackle the North Face of the Eiger. In a nutshell: foolhardy and dangerous.’
I force another tiny inhale, rubbing my newly clammy palms together in my lap.
My spine pricks with sweat.
Persuading Camille that I’m some secret sex addict for whom this will be child’s play seems pointless, so I take another tack.
‘Believe me, I know how high the stakes are. They’re literally life and death for my daughter.
I promise you I’ve thought this through and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.
’
She says nothing but taps her stylus against her sleek iPad as she continues to survey me.
I clear my throat. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you just worried about my wellbeing, or are you concerned about Seraph’s reputation if you place someone who’s not up to the task?
’
‘Both. The latter only because the owner of this agency depends on me to uphold it. But I’m far more concerned about how irresponsible it would be to let one of our clients loose on you without you having the experience and the toughness to go the distance emotionally.
’
‘I appreciate that. But if Brendan Sullivan hired me… well, Athena has vouched for him,’ I conclude lamely.
She frowns. ‘His application, and my initial checks, tell me he’s far from being an angel.
’
Something of which I’m painfully aware and require no reminder.
The most cursory internet search pours forth an obscene amount of images of him with model-types draped over him.
The good news for me?
It seems he has a thing for long blonde hair.
‘But he’s not a rapist or a psychopathic killer, at least,’ I say with a bravado I do not feel.
‘That bar is far, far too low for my liking. Let me ask you, Marlowe. How many sexual partners have you had in the past?’
It’s time for my other tactic.
The one Athena coached me on extensively in preparation for this particular moment.
Lie through my teeth.
‘I think twelve or thirteen,’ I muse.
‘Or fourteen, maybe?’
She’s not buying it.
‘Really. With a child?’
I shrug.
‘I started young.’ Untrue .
‘And my daughter’s father wasn’t in the picture after he found out I was pregnant.
He was my professor.
’
That has her elegantly raising an eyebrow.
‘Your professor?’
‘I have a thing for older guys. What can I say? I wanted him, so I seduced him.’
Untrue.
‘ I didn’t date much when Tabby was a toddler—I was finishing up my degree, for one—but my parents have been very hands-on.
They moved to London so they could help me with childcare, and it’s meant I’ve been able to have a pretty active dating life.
’
One truth, one lie.
I hope she buys it.
‘So how would you rate your level of sexual expertise?’
‘As you know, I’m not a professional.
But I’d like to think I’m pretty experienced.
’
She doesn’t answer.
I’m getting desperate now.
‘How about this?’ I propose as nonchalantly as possible.
‘Let me interview with Brendan. If he doesn’t offer me the job, then we can recalibrate.
’
‘How about this ?’ she counters.
‘You take a look at his questionnaire and then we’ll see if you feel ready to consider this role.
If you do, I’ll set up the interview.
’
‘Perfect,’ I say with far more bravado than I feel.
This is the crunch point: the first chance I have to see inside this guy’s brain.
To know what terrors may await me.
Camille hits something that has her iPad streaming to the large screen in front of us in the middle of the table.
The questionnaire is topped with the distinctive angel wings that comprise the Seraph logo.
I see brENDAN SULLIVAN typed in large letters across the top of the form, and I swear the pinpricks of sweat along my spine multiply.
In my lap, I dig the nails of one hand into the palm of the other, a reminder to hold myself the fuck together.
She scrolls through the initial information—Brendan is thirty-seven—ten years older than me, has never been married, and identifies as a heterosexual male.
So far, so manageable.
He cites his main reasons for signing up to Seraph as in-office entertainment, convenience and stress relief, in that order.
Breathe, Marlowe. None of this is remotely salacious.
But it’s about to be.
He’s looking to have sex every day, at least once a day.
Not a huge surprise, given the amount of money he’d be forking out for the pleasure, but the thought of having actual sex with an actual man every single workday when I haven’t had it at all in nine years makes me want to laugh in a totally humourless way.
‘What happens when I’m on my period?
’ I ask Camille.
‘Depends on the guy,’ she says.
‘Some guys like it, and some of our seraphim are happy to have sex on their periods. Some opt to run their pills together to avoid the issue altogether, and others just get creative. You have three working holes, after all,’ she adds drily.
Oh. My. God.
I swear my body thinks I’ve just dropped ten storeys in a lift, and what little breakfast I got down before I came here threatens to make a reappearance.
Giving head I can handle, but?—
Camille must notice something’s up because her expression softens.
‘This is precisely why you get to submit a questionnaire, too. This isn’t a one-way street.
Like any kind of working or sexual relationship, there’s compromise.
Just because a client has expressed certain preferences, it absolutely does not mean you have to roll over and say yes to everything.
Quite the contrary. And you can always negotiate and renegotiate terms depending on what you’re comfortable with.
’
Because sitting down with some billionaire and calmly discussing whether he can put his dick in my arse is something I have the wherewithal to endure.
Nevertheless, her qualification is reassuring, I suppose.
His favourite position is doggy-style.
This should be music to my ears, because every mafia boss in every dark romance I read has a penchant for getting his girl on all fours.
When I’m on my sofa under a soft blanket, I’m so onboard it’s not funny, but if I imagine myself as the doggy in some oversexed guy’s office, I could honestly vomit from nerves.
Brendan, it seems, is a big fan of oral sex, both ways.
‘It’s usually a good sign when they’re into cunnilingus,’ Camille confides.
‘Makes it more likely they’re a considerate lover.
’
There is not one single thing about that statement I can handle processing right now, so I squeak mmm hmm and attempt, unsuccessfully, to arrest the tide of red I know is creeping up my neck at the images of Brendan’s handsome face dipping between my legs.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
I’ll die of mortification and terror.
Is a vulnerability-driven stroke a thing?
I want to push back my chair and bolt for that door, but the sensation only lasts a second, replaced with the heart-splitting image of Tabby’s face when she’s having a blue spell.
I have to do this.
I’ll deal with it when it comes to it.
‘Ready to see his kinks?’ Camille asks, then, ‘Breathe, Marlowe.’
I suck in a breath and read what he’s written.
I love it when they pretend to be inexperienced .
Gets me every time. It really, really turns me on to imagine that I’m the one teaching them how good it can be.
There’s a sudden slackening of the tension in my chest. Well, that won’t be a problem.
He should be careful what he wishes for.
I imagine I’ll excel at seeming experienced.
I recall the takeaways from my three-or-four-minute interaction with him.
Hot. Looked like a playboy.
Was weirdly tongue-tied.
That I’m now browsing his sexual proclivities is surreal, and that any of this may pertain to me is off-the-charts bizarre.
We read on.
I like to have fun.
I like to mix it up.
I fucking LOVE to watch, so I’ll make her fuck and suck off other guys while I sit back and enjoy the show.
She has to remember that she’s my fuck toy.
She’s there to entertain, and to take what we give her.
I won’t go easy on her.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
My face is aflame, my entire body so taut I could puke from the tension.
It’s nearly impossible for me to equate the filthy, depraved things he’s saying with the concept that he could be talking about me.
He could be doing those things to me.
But beneath it all, beneath the blushing and the nausea and the tension and the ringing in my ears is the oddest pulse between my legs.
It’s the kind of cavalier, fatalistic thrill you get when you strap yourself into a death-defying rollercoaster.
The kind of thrill parachutists must feel in that moment as they stare at the earth thousands of feet below, right before they throw themselves out of a plane door.
It’s some kind of fucked-up life force that welcomes existential threats, that thinks bring it on .
And it’s the only thing that saves me from running from this room and the prospect of putting myself in this man’s hands.
Because, God knows, this is the mother of all rollercoasters.
And if I’m going to survive a day in this role then I’ll have to buckle the hell up.