8. Marlowe
CHAPTER 8
Marlowe
‘ I think I’m loving High Class Hooker Barbie even more than Sexy Secretary Barbie,’ Athena muses from somewhere near my knee as she rubs moisturiser with a hint of light-reflecting highlighter into my legs.
Apparently, the trick is to use enough leg makeup to be alluring but not so much that it comes off on the bed in revolting pinky streaks.
On the bed.
Oh my sweet Jesus.
I’m at her palatial flat getting ready for Interview Round Two, AKA The Audition, AKA I Need To Actually Put Out For The First Time in Eight Years.
It’s a relief in a whole host of ways.
Not only is my “date” with Brendan over this side of town, but I definitely need Athena’s particular brand of moral support right now, and I didn’t want Tabs to see me getting tarted up.
I’ve left her with a sitter she loves—a young woman called Hattie from a specialist babysitting agency that only takes on paediatric nurses.
There was no way I was leaving her with my parents, who’d smell a hell of a rat if I went out on a “date”, nor would I risk leaving her with a random sixteen-year-old who wouldn’t know how to call nine-nine-nine if anything happened.
Paediatric nurses as sitters don’t come cheap, but God knows no one would begrudge them making a few extra quid on the side of their relentless and underpaid day job.
Besides, a cool twenty-five grand from Brendan is currently sitting in Seraph’s corporate bank account and will become mine tomorrow, as long as I put out tonight.
The first thing I’ll do with my leisure time—after calling Athena to give her a lengthy and probably graphic debrief—will be to contact Duke Children’s Hospital and request an initial consultation.
The enormity of the sum sends actual shivers down my spine.
Even without the challenge of the months that lie ahead if I land this job, that money represents the single biggest stride I’ve made in years towards securing Tabby’s health for the future.
Years.
I already know that I won’t lie back and think of England tonight, when this sexy, scary man is doing untold things to my body.
I’ll lie back and think of that particular corner of North Carolina.
I just hope he’s into it enough not to notice when I go into full dissociation mode.
Guys are pretty basic when it comes to sex, aren’t they?
I’m fully aware that my success in this role—and this “audition”—will come down to more than spreading my legs for him.
I’ll have to feign enthusiasm and arousal and all the other shit.
I’ll have to feed his ego, persuade him that the power of his mighty dick has shattered me into a million pieces.
The performance of a lifetime awaits, because I promised him in yesterday’s interview that I’d fulfil all his needs.
I really hope he buys it.
At least I won’t have to fake the whole inexperienced almost-virgin thing I know he likes so much.
‘High Class Hooker Barbie had better not be all talk and no trousers,’ I mutter, more to myself than to her.
There’s a very large part of me that worries I’ll totally freeze when Brendan gets his hands on me later.
That I won’t be able to come up with the goods, or worse, that I’ll completely freak out and run for the door.
‘She won’t be,’ Athena assures me, rising elegantly to her feet so she can shoot me what should be a trademarked Athena Davenport Glare.
‘I know you, Marls. You’ll do anything for that little girl.
Besides.’ She drops the glare and winks.
‘Don’t underestimate the mind-melting power of a good fuck.
God knows, you need it.
And Brendan may be the billionaire equivalent of a basic bitch, but you can’t deny he’s attractive.
’ She sighs. ‘Those Sullivan boys have seriously excellent Irish genes. If they were studs, Mairead would breed the hell out of them and make a fortune.’
I giggle.
Mairead is Gabe and Brendan’s sister and, by all accounts, not to be messed with.
Apparently, she runs the stud farm attached to their parents’ stables.
‘Well, I will definitely not be breeding him. I love my daughter dearly, but a little Sullivan baby is not part of the plan.’ I cough meaningfully and give my friend a look.
‘For me, anyway.’
She rolls her eyes, which is an excellent sign that I’ve flustered the unflappable ice queen.
I know my friend, and she so wants Gabe’s little dark-haired, blue-eyed babies it’s not even funny.
‘You are attracted to him, correct?’ she demands instead of gracing my little jibe with a reply.
‘He’s gorgeous, obviously.
I mean, it’s not like he’s an acquired taste.
I’m sure he’s everybody’s type.
But that doesn’t mean I want to just show up and shag him.
I’m terrified,’ I add softly, and she sighs and folds me into a hug.
‘I know you are, sweetie. I hope you know how proud I am of you. This is an amazing, amazing thing you’re doing for Tabs.
Remember that. Now, let’s look at you.
’
She gives me one last squeeze and releases me before turning me around to face the full-length freestanding mirror in the corner of her beautiful, neutral bedroom.
This is undoubtedly a more uplifting and glamorous location to prep for my weird rendezvous.
There isn’t room to swing a cat in my bedroom.
I gave Tabby the big room, so mine just about fits a double bed, even if I can’t open the wardrobe doors next to it a full ninety degrees.
I force myself to take in my reflection: the finished product.
The woman looking back at me is not an exhausted single mother, nor is she the usual boho, shabby-chic working version of me who favours air-dried hair and long, cheapo sundresses in the summer or fleece-lined yoga pants made from crappy petroleum-based fabrics in the winter.
Nope. I can confirm that this woman is categorically neither of those things.
Instead, she looks like the kind of person I might see on Instagram, if I’m honest. The kind of person I have never, ever presumed to be.
You always assume you either are or aren’t a certain type of person, and I’ve always assumed that I’m not the woman who treats making her oat milk matcha latte as a “sacred ritual” or goes out on the town looking like she’s about to step onto a red carpet or would ever insert a hashtag before the word blessed .
There may not be any ceremonial-grade matcha in sight, but, to my shock, High Class Hooker Barbie looks a lot like a red-carpet-walking, Instagram-posting socialite.
I’m wearing a dress that I would deem downright slutty but which my socialite Insta-woman would probably class as normal night-out attire.
Like the dresses for my interviews with both Camille and Brendan, I’ve rented this designer dress for the evening, giving me a thousand-pound dress for just over a hundred pounds.
Unlike my interview dresses, this one is made from stretchy pale gold lamé, stops at mid-thigh, clings everywhere , and has tiny straps and some sort of clever mesh architecture that serves my boobs up on a platter.
One of the benefits of having a kid pretty young is that my boobs held up nicely in the face of breastfeeding and my figure reappeared relatively easily, something I didn’t care much about until now, because I’ve borne and birthed a child is absolutely not the message I want to lead with this evening.
I smooth my hands over my hips, appreciating the luxurious drape of the fabric as well as the crazily flattering cut.
I just hope no dodgy bodily fluids get spilt on this dress.
I have a sudden flashback to that eternally cringey dry-cleaners scene in the movie The Sweetest Thing.
I’m even wearing a very tiny, sexily pointless lace thong that Athena made me buy from Harrods.
Between the thong and the dress length, I scream easy access.
Once again, I’ve borrowed her shoes—strappy gold Jimmy Choos this time.
They make my legs look endless.
I jiggle my left foot to admire the faint sheen of highlighter and the radiant effect it gives my leg.
The biggest transformation, though, has to be my hair and makeup.
I’m a bit-of-cream-blush kind of girl, but Athena has worked her magic with flawless makeup, including some sort of bold and smoky eye makeup that accentuates my brown eyes.
My hair hangs over my shoulders in beachy waves that look effortless rather than “done”, and I decide I wouldn’t mind having my hair like this every single day.
I look like a magical, sexy creature.
When I twist my mouth, a nervous tic I’m well used to seeing in the mirror, I have the most surreal out-of-body experience—a flash of dissonance that feels like someone’s just walked over my grave.
Because that’s me in there, under this glossy shell of expensive, attention-grabbing clothes and perfect hair and makeup that looks like the end of a YouTube tutorial.
It’s me… but it’s not.
Even if I can catch glimpses of myself behind the veneer, I definitely don’t feel like myself.
Maybe that’s a good thing—a protective measure.
Maybe it’s a way of reeling Brendan in and snagging this job and compartmentalising the woman who then has to deliver on this job.
Maybe it’s apt that the Marlowe who will shortly walk out of this bedroom and put herself into a cab to go and intentionally seduce a rich, powerful, gorgeous man for her own ends doesn’t look or feel familiar at all.
I’m the woman who dresses up out of obligation, for family celebrations or when Athena drags me out for girls’ drinks.
I used to dress up back at uni, when lectures were few and far between and I had so much spare time on my hands that I could spend hours trying dupes of designer face masks or giving myself a mani-pedi.
I even dressed up for lectures and tutorials, because every class with Joe was essentially foreplay and every foray into the Music Department was a chance to bump into him.
I was young and romantic and na?ve as fuck .
I just wish the reminder of how deluded I was would make me feel less cynical and more righteous about my reasons for dressing up to the nines tonight.
But it doesn’t. It just makes me feel sad.
‘God,’ I whisper. ‘I feel like I’m tricking him, or something.
This isn’t me.’
It’s a relief when she meets my eyes in the mirror and whispers, ‘This is you. It’s just a particularly glamorous, seductive part of you that doesn’t get to come out and play very often because you’re so busy being an amazing mother and taking care of Tabs.
’
I nod, only partially convinced, and she ploughs on.
‘Just remember, he’s a big boy.
You may be scared shitless, and this may all feel really fucking weird, but you’re going to do what you need to do, and Brendan will love every minute of it.
Don’t feel remotely bad taking his money.
’ She leans in and whispers in my ear.
‘I promise you, he’s going to think you’re worth every penny.
’
‘You’re good,’ I tell her, nudging her with my bare shoulder.
‘That was almost as good as the sexy pep talk Nick gives Kat in The Wedding Date. ’ I shoot her a smile that’s far brighter and braver than how I’m feeling.
She shrugs in her cute, French-chic way.
‘I know. But also—do me a favour and just take a look at yourself. Forget what you know. If you saw this woman on the street, you would be wowed . There’s no question.
You’re a fucking knockout, and it’s a travesty that you’ve been celibate for so long.
Go let Brendan clean out those vaginal cobwebs with his big Sullivan dick and remember to have fun.
’
I take a deep breath and study the girl in the mirror again.
This time, I allow myself to stare objectively.
She may not look or feel quite like me, but my friend is right.
She looks fantastic.
Maybe it won’t kill me to cut loose and let the old, fun Marlowe out from her daily grind.
Because, while my life is full of love, it’s also pretty heavy on the drudgery and worry and that relentless grind of putting one foot in front of the other.
I force a smile at myself.
Looks like Cinders is going to the ball.
I just hope Prince Charming behaves himself.