16. Brendan
CHAPTER 16
Brendan
T he bad news is that Mum and Dad have come into London for the evening and issued a three-line whip for a family dinner.
The good news is that they’re off to the theatre with my sister Mairead and her husband Peter, so dinner is early and I’ll be off the hook by seven.
Apparently, there’s a new hot shot stepping up tonight to play Jean Valjean in their all-time favourite show, Les Mis.
Cue endless reminiscing (a euphemism for ribbing ) about the time when they took us along as kids and I asked at the interval after an endless first half, ‘Which one is Les?’
They’ve never let me live it down.
Because Gabe and Athena are Madly in Love and playing house, they’ve offered to host everyone for a pre-theatre supper, and because my brother knew it would be a hard sell for me, he has a Nobu chef coming to serve everyone up some excellent Japanese.
Not that Gabe’s not a decent cook.
He is, but after a decade in the priesthood, his style can tend towards the meat-and-two-veg-sad-singleton-meal-for-one, which is not my idea of a fun Saturday night.
Even better, he’s promised me that the meal will be served up grazing style in the kitchen.
He pitched it as a chance for everyone to be able to catch up and mingle, but really he knows there’s no way I’ll acquiesce to a sit-down dinner after a week at my desk.
Anyway, I rock up dutifully at five for early cocktails so we can get some adequate family time in before my parents and sister are spirited away to the West End and I can embark upon the next stage of my Saturday night, AKA the Getting Laid stage.
From the way my brother is touching Athena by the wine fridge, it looks like they’re headed for the Getting Laid stage later too.
How my formerly celibate brother managed to land himself the hottest woman in London is a mystery that'll haunt me to my grave. Though I suppose I'm about to level the playing field with Marlowe.
Just thinking about the two orgasms I gave her—left-field for her and one hundred per cent predicted on my part—makes me smirk.
That was a lot of fucking fun.
Gabe has a really nice pad, even if it couldn’t be more different from my glass-heavy penthouse in a mixed-use, Sullivan-constructed building overlooking the Thames in Battersea.
He took over one of Mum and Dad’s properties—a big Georgian redbrick house in Manchester Square in the middle of town—but his interior designer has done a great job on it.
With its warm neutral palette and no-expense-spared finishings, it hits exactly the right notes between the serenity this former priest still values and the opulence he’s probably still adjusting to.
‘They’ll be a few minutes late,’ he tells me, handing me a bottle of Peroni.
‘Not a problem.’ Our parents and Mairead live out near Newmarket, where we were brought up, right in the middle of the horse racing folks.
It’s like a really boring version of a Jilly Cooper novel out there.
As far as I can tell, all the action happens at my sister’s stud farm.
‘Before they get here, I want a word about Marlowe,’ Athena says, moving closer.
Oh, boy. Here we go.
She looks like she means business.
She’s in a long, green silky dress that has a lot of buttons and does a stellar job of showcasing the curves that corrupted my very willing brother.
I find myself thinking that she’s curvier than Marlowe, whose body is more athletic.
‘Does Marlowe like sports?’ I blurt out, and she stops in her tracks.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I dunno.’ I scratch at the corner of my Peroni label with my fingernail.
‘She looks sporty.’
‘She likes running, for some unearthly reason. And she’s bloody brilliant at tennis.
’
That perks me up.
‘Really? Huh. Interesting.’ I’m a member of a very high-end racquets club near our office.
Maybe I can lure her there for the odd game of tennis or padel.
‘Anyway. I wanted to thank you for giving her the job.’ Her tone is clipped, and there is no doubt in my mind that her thanks is an opener to her main agenda.
‘You’re welcome. She earned it.
’
I try to keep my voice neutral, I really do.
I want Athena to know that I didn’t do her a favour, that Marlowe got the position on her own—very compelling—merits, but the words sound sleazy as soon as they’re out of my mouth, and she frowns.
‘I don’t want to know.
’ She leans in and lowers her voice.
‘Just remember. She’s your employee, not your toy.
She’s a human being.
Treat her with respect.
’
‘Jesus. I’m not a total prick.
I know all that. She’s lovely, and I’m not about to fuck her up.
That said, I’m paying her a fuck-load of money for this job, and we’re both adults.
Maybe give us both the chance to work our relationship out for ourselves?
’
She surveys me for a moment with her lips pressed together.
She really is terrifying.
Kudos to my brother for being able to handle her.
‘Good,’ she says finally.
‘And you’re right, it’s between the two of you.
It’s just—’ She hesitates, looking uncharacteristically lost for words.
‘Don’t judge people by their roles, Brendan, okay?
Yes, you’re paying her for sex, but she’s not just some whore.
She seems really strong, and she is, but she’s also more vulnerable than she looks.
Just—do me a favour and look after her, okay?
She’s worth it.’
There’s something about the intensity in her voice and her face that’s sobering.
It’s almost like she’s trying to warn me.
But Athena’s super protective of Marlowe; I know that much.
So maybe she’s just looking out for her friend.
‘I will,’ I say quietly.
‘I know she is.’
M y mother and sister can mainline chardonnay like nobody’s business, so I’m making myself useful opening another bottle of Meursault when the folks show up.
Mum enters in a cloud of that pungent eighties Dolce and Gabbana perfume she always wears.
I swear you can practically see the leopard print and big hair wafting off that stuff.
‘Look at my gorgeous, strapping son,’ she says proudly, as she always does.
It’s as if my gym-honed body is the modern-day equivalent of being a well-built farmer’s lad.
I dunno. I won’t attempt to guess what goes on inside that brain of hers, opting instead to pour her a generous glass of her favourite wine.
She’s all excited because they’ve taken a box for the night.
I honestly don’t get the appeal of boxes.
They’re all the way on the side of the theatre and they face the wrong fucking way.
Seriously, they’re like the theatrical equivalent of the Emperor’s new clothes.
Who wants to sit through three hours of Les fucking Mis only to emerge with a crick in their neck?
Not me.
Mum releases me to go fawn over Athena.
I won’t lie; things got pretty hairy there a few weeks ago when a former board member of mine—total wanker—outed her as a hooker in front of the entire family at a fancy charity gala.
Never has the fear of having to perform CPR on my parents felt so real.
Honestly, I thought they’d pass out from the shame of it.
It made Gabe leaving the priesthood seem as innocuous as missing Mass on a Sunday.
But in a move far more legendary than I’ll ever admit, my mild-mannered brother finally located his balls and gave Mum and Dad a giant bollocking.
They’ve subsequently agreed to accept Athena as the CEO of our family foundation—the newly named Audacity Foundation—and Mum seems to have forgiven her for being a shameless little hussy (Mum’s words) remarkably quickly.
I suspect it’s that the likelihood of Athena popping out mini Angel Gabriels ramps up with every passing day.
I have to say, though, even if we’ve put that particular episode of the Sullivan Family Soap Opera to bed, it’s a timely reminder that Mum can never, ever find out the full scope of Marlowe’s new role.
Dad comes over and gives me a hug that involves backslaps hearty enough to displace my lungs.
He’s wearing a navy suit with pinstripes so wide they call for a cigar.
Unlike Gabe, Mairead and me, who have only ever known extreme privilege, Dad grew up on the Dublin docks before emigrating to the UK with his father to make fortunes beyond their wildest dreams. As a consequence, Ronan Sullivan is a bon viveur, a man whose wealth and status are still novel enough for him to simultaneously struggle with them and enjoy the fuck out of them.
Or so it seems from my vantage point, anyway.
Finally, he releases me, gripping me by the shoulder tightly enough to remind me that he’s still the boss, even if he’s passed the reins of his businesses onto the next generation now.
‘How’s my boy? Behaving yourself, Bren?
’
It’s a loaded question that probably has two desired responses: a reassuring absolutely regarding our behemoth of a construction firm and a cheeky fuck, no for the women in my life.
‘Only in the ways you’d want me to,’ I tell him with a wink, and he laughs right on cue.
‘Good man, good man. Glad to hear it. I can’t persuade you to come along tonight?
There’s a seat going spare in the box, and it would mean the world to your mam.
Sure, we could look for Les.
’ He nudges me forcefully with his elbow.
And there it is. The ribbing and the guilt trip, all rolled into one tidy package.
‘I can’t, Dad. I’m catching up with some friends later.
And you know I don’t take my meds on the weekends.
I’d be a liability.’
If reminding my father of the time when surviving a trip to the theatre with me was his worst nightmare is the easiest way to get out of thespian jail guilt-free, then I’ll happily throw myself under the bus.
A therapist once explained to me that a family system is like a play.
Everyone has their role to perform, and if you choose to reject your role and reinvent it, it does not go down well, because it throws everyone else’s role into disarray.
If I wasn’t the disruptive troublemaker, Gabe wouldn’t have been the academic saint, and Mairead wouldn’t have been the dutiful little mother.
Never mind that I run a company with an equity market capitalisation of eleven billion pounds.
Dad reacts exactly as predicted, rearing back with a laugh as if he’s dodged a bullet.
‘Damn, you’re right, son.
You go and blow off some steam or you won’t be of any use to anyone on Monday.
’
He still has a way of making me feel like my position at Sullivan Construction is a tenuous one, contingent solely on the blind luck of my circumstances and not the hard graft I’ve put in ever since I graduated from uni.
Sometimes, it seems as though he sees me as the pesky but charming mailroom guy who would do well to tamp down his personality so as not to ruffle any feathers, rather than a CEO who has repeatedly proven his mettle.
But there’s no point in saying anything.
Not to Dad. So I nod without a comment and wave him off as he heads over to join Mum and Athena.
My sister zeroes in on me, and I hastily pour a glass of wine for her.
‘If it isn't my favourite stallion wrangler,’ I say, kissing Mairead's cheek. ‘How are the horny beasts doing?
’
‘The four-legged ones are fine,’ she shoots back, looking me up and down.
‘But you didn’t put that porno black shirt on for us.
So I suspect the two-legged ones will be going on the prowl later.
’
‘Ha fucking ha. Sour grapes aren’t a good look on you, sis.
’ I jerk my head in the direction of her long-suffering husband.
‘When’s the last time you let Peter near you without a riding crop?
’
She smirks, sipping her Meursault with irritating sang-froid .
‘Quality over quantity, dickhead. I'd rather have one thoroughbred than a stable of ponies. Speaking of which, heard you've got a new filly starting Monday.’
I look over my shoulder at Mum.
It’s not a secret, but the last thing I need is my eagle-eyed sister dropping any unwarranted speculation.
‘News travels fast.’
‘Athena mentioned it. Said she's gorgeous, smart, and way too good for you.’
I narrow my eyes at her. Women. Why do they always have to have an angle? I don’t know for certain what her angle is, just that there is one and it probably involves tripping her brother up with her devious conversational skills just as effectively as she used to with her skipping rope.
‘She seems smart and highly qualified,’ I say, hoping my tone sounds as sniffy as I feel. ‘And the job pays well, so I don’t see why she’d be too good for it.’
I ignore her point about Marlowe being gorgeous. I’m not touching that with a bargepole, no matter how true it is, because her looks shouldn’t be relevant to her role as far as anyone else is concerned.
I’m aware my sister’s trying to get a rise out of me, but Athena’s comment has pissed me off. I did her a favour, for fuck’s sake, gave her friend a job. I’m a big deal. Just take a look at Tatler or GQ or The Financial Times . I’m not some bum who’s punching above his weight. On the contrary, I’m one of London’s most eligible bachelors, and my extended family would do well to cut me some fucking slack every now and again.
None of that is to detract from the truth that Marlowe is gorgeous, and that, even on a Saturday night when my mind should be squarely on what mischief I can make later, I’m growing increasingly impatient for Monday morning.
I’ve had Plain Elaine, who is vocally happy about the prospect of having the EA portion of her admittedly onerous job taken off her plate, block out the morning in my diary for Marlowe’s onboarding. Fuck, that sounds dirty when I consider that it will most likely involve bending her over my desk.
But first, I’ve told her we have an appointment with the personal shopping team at Selfridges. I’ll meet her in town first thing so we can get her kitted out in precisely the way I want. Camille at Seraph has assured me it’s not necessary—that with the salary these women command, their work wardrobe is their problem.
It’s not about what’s necessary for me, though. It’s about having the maximum amount of fun with my new favourite toy. It’ll make the pleasure of showing up for work even more intense, knowing that this woman will be waiting for me in the sexiest looks, her exquisite body showcased in the finest lingerie money can buy.
We’ll grab more items along the lines of the pink dress she wore for her interview while veering into Sexy Miss Moneypenny territory as firmly as I can get away with.
That’s my new favourite fantasy.
Marlowe, swathed in an ivory silk blouse and tight pencil skirt, all that long, golden hair pinned primly up, with knockout lace right below the surface. It’ll make plundering her or showing her off or ordering her to her knees all the sweeter.
Shopping for this stuff will be a damn sight more engaging than picking out linen swatches for my fucking catamaran, that’s for sure.
In fact, it’ll feel like extended foreplay.
Jesus Christ. Maybe I shouldn’t go out later. Maybe I should just head home and spend my evening erupting all over my shower tiles as I imagine all the ways I’m going to onboard my delectable new plaything.
Looks like Monday morning is the new Saturday night.