17. Marlowe
CHAPTER 17
Marlowe
I can confirm that those first-day-of-school nerves have nothing on the nerves you get on your first day in a new job where you know you’ll be shagging your boss from the outset.
I’m in absolute pieces, and it doesn’t help when I emerge from Bond Street station to find a text coming through from Brendan.
Running 15 mins late.
Stuck in traffic. See you in there.
Third floor.
Tell them I’m your boyfriend.
Otherwise it’ll seem too weird if I’m picking out your lingerie
Um, that’s because it is weird to most normal people that my boss is picking out my lingerie.
Jesus.
I’m slightly early.
I stand and wait by one of the main sets of doors with a handful of other people until a doorman unlocks and opens them on the dot of ten o’clock.
The shop floor is still empty of customers.
The fanciful displays in the Dior and Hermès and Chanel handbag concessions are immaculate, as are the sales assistants in their chic all-black outfits.
I make my way up to the still-deserted second floor, winding through rail after rail of clothes that look more like hanging works of art than things you would wear when going about your daily life.
The personal shopping department announces itself with a huge arch above which hang the letters in the store’s distinctive font: LADIES’ PERSONAL SHOPPING.
Here goes. I peer through the arch, my heart dropping when I see the young woman at the reception desk.
I’ve made an effort for my first day, obviously, but I haven’t bought anything new.
I was working under the assumption that Brendan would want me to wear one of the dresses he’d picked out, so I’m in a grey pre-loved shift dress.
It’s from Vinted and originally came from one of the higher-end brands on the high street.
It’s smart and work-appropriate, but it doesn’t scream money , and a single raised eyebrow from this woman tells me she’s got my number.
‘Good morning,’ she says coolly, not rising from the desk.
‘Can I help you.’ It’s as if she can’t even be bothered to make it a question.
Her impeccable but dramatic makeup suggests she moonlights as someone who gives contouring and lip-lining tutorials on TikTok, and the long dark ponytail draped over one shoulder gives new meaning to the term sleek.
She looks me up and down like the judgiest and most world-weary X-ray machine.
‘Morning.’ I’m instantly intimidated, flustered.
I had a fantasy of walking in here with serious moral support in the form of Brendan, but that’s clearly been shot to hell.
I’m not used to places like this.
I never even go into places like this.
Zara is a stretch for me.
‘Um—I think we have an appointment under my boss’s name—Brendan Sullivan?
’ There’s no way I can say my boyfriend.
Brendan may be able to bullshit like that, but I know that if I said it, my entire face would go red.
I’d be as obvious as Pinocchio.
Her entire demeanour changes.
She shoots up out of her chair and cranes her neck, her gaze going behind me.
‘Of course. Is Mr Sullivan not joining?’ The last sentence is said with a distinct squeak of panic.
‘He’s, um, running a few minutes late.
He said we should start without him.
’
She visibly relaxes.
‘Okay. Great. Let’s take you through.
Coffee?’ She’s already marching ahead of me down a wide corridor that’s all rosy lighting and flawless cream carpets.
The red soles of her spiky-heeled dominatrix boots flash as she walks.
She’s in some super edgy, asymmetrical, zip-heavy black dress that looks a million dollars on her.
If she’s the one styling me, I really hope she goes with a more classic look.
Scratch that. If I have to undress in front of this woman, I’ve got bigger problems on my hands.
‘Can I get a tea with oat milk, please?’ I squeak out.
‘Sure.’ She stops in front of a door and holds out her hand to usher me through.
Holy crap. In front of me is a stunning and surprisingly large room.
It’s cream, just like the reception area, with accents of brass and a wonderful scent of flowers.
One corner has a big brass rail tracking around it, the heavy cream velvet curtain pushed all the way to the side, while beside it stand two rails on wheels.
One is absolutely stacked with clothes, the other with underwear, while pairs of beautiful, scary shoes sit below each item.
To my left, there’s an ivory-coloured sofa and, in front of it, a coffee table bearing an array of white flowers professionally arranged across a selection of vases and bud holders.
It’s all glorious, and it’s all intimidating as hell .
‘I’m Terri,’ the fearsome brunette says without offering her hand.
‘Fiona will be assisting us today. You can put your bag there.’ She gestures to a little upholstered footstool next to the sofa, which is probably meant for bearing Birkins rather than my Coach-from-TK-Maxx handbag.
‘I’ll fetch your tea.
Take off your dress and put on that robe if you like, while we talk you through the clothes.
’ She points to a silky robe hanging in the changing corner.
With a swish of her ponytail, she strides off, shutting the door behind her and leaving me alone.
I sink onto the sofa and blow out a slow breath.
Holy fuck, what am I getting myself into?
‘ M r Sullivan suggested a palette of blush and neutral tones,’ Terri colleague Fiona tells me as I sip my tea from a china teacup and hold my robe closed over my boobs.
Fiona is equally polished and terrifying, only with a platinum bob so perfectly styled that not a hair is out of place.
‘The descriptors he gave us were professional, feminine with both softer and sleeker elements, and sexy.’ She gives me some side-eye, which seems not unwarranted, because a boss requesting sexy for his assistant’s office wardrobe is definitely dodgy as hell.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I murmur, eyeing the rail and refusing to rise.
I edge closer to the beautiful pieces.
From what I can see, they’re a gorgeous concoction of silk and cashmere, of frothy blouses and elegant dresses and—oh my God, is that a pale pink leather skirt?
It looks so soft.
Athena would die for this stuff.
It’s far more her kind of taste than mine.
I love big prints and florals and bright colours.
This is so refined, so sophisticated.
But then the Marlowe who will be wearing these clothes only to let Brendan Sullivan undress her is not me.
She’s a facet of me that I’ve invented solely for the purpose of paying Tabby’s medical bills, and it’s actually a good thing that her vibe is completely different from that of the real Marlowe.
‘What is it you do for Mr Sullivan, exactly?’ Terri asks, not even bothering to hide her curiosity.
‘I’m his executive assistant.
Today’s my first day.
’
They exchange a look that strikes me as loaded with subtext.
‘I see. He also requested a significant amount of underwear…’
She trails off, and I assume she’s hoping for clarification.
‘Great!’ I say brightly.
‘So, should I start trying this stuff on?’
‘Of course,’ Fiona says coolly.
She pulls out an off-white sleeveless shift dress with a chunky exposed zip running the whole way down the back.
The phrase easy access immediately pops into my brain, and I stifle a smile.
These ladies are onto my dirty boss, it seems.
‘What’s it made of?
’ I ask her. It’s hanging on a crazily wide hanger, and even I can tell that the tailoring in this thing would inspire those in the know to whisper awed prayers of gratitude for its perfection.
‘It’s wool crepe. It’s one of Dior’s signature fabrics.
’
Oh, shit. It’s Dior, and it’s the kind of colour that would get dirty if I stepped foot inside a tube station.
This is not good. I set my teacup down and hold out my hand for it.
‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
She hands it over, and I rummage inside the neck for the price tag.
Three thousand pounds.
Oh my… Immediately, I hold the dirt magnet at arm’s length.
‘Did Bren—Mr Sullivan give you a budget?’ I ask weakly, because this is insane.
There’s having some fun kitting out your new toy in a few nice dresses, and then there’s this.
Excess so ludicrous that it’s actually unethical.
This dress costs at least twice as much as that consultation I had with Dr Elliott.
It costs the same as flying Tabs home in business class from Raleigh-Durham Airport!
It’s out of the question, that’s what it is.
But Terri is shaking her head like my question is distasteful.
‘He made it clear there is no budget.’ She looks behind her, probably wondering where the hell Brendan has got to.
Aren’t we all, sister?
‘Let’s try it on,’ she insists.
She picks up the pair of shoes sitting right below it.
They’re stunning stilettos with narrow heels, and they’re exactly the right shade of ivory—in suede.
Those shoes wouldn’t last two minutes in London without getting trashed.
I sigh and make my way over to the changing room corner.
There’s no point in being modest, no matter how judgy and hostile these two women seem.
I’m under no illusion that they’re here for me.
They’re here for the big fat commission they’ll earn when they ring all this stuff up.
With the robe off, I step into the dress that Terri holds out for me.
I’ve left my regular underwear on.
It’s a new set I bought for the job, and it’s way nicer than anything else I’ve got at home, but it’s just from the high street.
I’m not touching the lingerie issue until Brendan turns up.
Terri zips me up, and I step into the shoes.
Everything fits perfectly.
How the hell do they do that?
I turn towards the trio of full-length mirrors angled for a comprehensive view, smoothing the dress over my hips self-consciously.
These two definitely aren’t the most comforting audience.
Wow. The woman staring back at me looks glossy and expensive.
And, even if she’s a very different kind of glossy and expensive from the version of my reflection that gave me such a sense of dissonance when I dressed up as High Class Hooker Barbie, that same surreal feeling hits me again.
I wonder if this was why Brendan insisted on this appointment.
I wonder if he wants his new fuck toy to be a sleek, designer-clad arm candy and not the boho woman he met at the Royal Academy all those weeks ago.
I wonder if he knew that he’d need to step in and polish me all the way up to the standard needed to be a Brendan Sullivan trophy.
The thought that he did smarts a little, but I shrug it off.
He’s paying a fortune to have me at his beck and call.
He’s entitled to shape me into whatever the hell he wants.
Behind me, there’s a stony silence.
Terri surveys me and our eyes meet in the mirror.
‘I think it could work,’ she says, nodding at my chest, ‘if you fill it out a bit more. It’s a shame to ruin the line of the dress.
’
What the fuck? A single glance at her tells me that the twin tennis balls protruding aggressively from her edgy dress are unlikely to be a part of her God-given, very slight figure.
‘Agreed. I’ve got just the thing,’ Fiona adds.
‘Here. Try these.’
She stoops to a pile of packaged underwear stacked beneath the hanging bras and panties.
I watch in my peripheral vision as she approaches with a box.
My boobs aren’t letting the dress down—I don’t think so, at least. I may only be a B cup, but they’re in good shape.
And Brendan seemed to enjoy them the other night, which is all that counts in this situation.
But Terri already unzipping the top half of my dress as Fiona briskly unpacks two silicone chicken fillets.
She hands one to me, and I weigh it in my hands.
Ugh, it gives me the creeps.
And surely Brendan doesn’t want to undress me and find these in my bra?
‘Go on.’ Terri nods bossily.
‘Try them. They’ll give you a far less boyish line.
’ She slides the dress off my shoulders.
I sigh and pointedly turn my body away from them as I stuff the fillet into my cheap bra, wincing at the cold, slimy feel of it against my skin.
I do the same with the other one.
They feel too heavy, too bulky, for the thin, lacy cups of my bra.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell the assistants.
‘Let’s zip you back up again before you decide,’ Fiona says before I can take them out.
I’m not sure what happened to the customer knowing best, but I obediently stick my hands back through the armholes and let her zip me up.
I look more… buxom. Curvy, definitely, but it’s not me.
The dress is undeniably beautiful, but it’s hard to feel at ease here in this luxurious room with two not-remotely-friendly sales assistants for company.
Before I can put my foot down, the door flies open, and Brendan strides into the room. Oh my God .