31. Marlowe
CHAPTER 31
Marlowe
M y and Tabby’s plans for our US trip are seriously building momentum.
I was up late last night and early this morning completing the endless rounds of paperwork that Duke requires before we travel.
Next Friday, Tabs and my parents will head to Great Ormond Street for a final round of check-ups to ensure she’s flight-fit and to gauge her current cardio-pulmonary levels for the team over at Duke.
I hate more than anything that I’m not going, but my job here is to earn the money that will get us onto that flight and into that operating theatre.
Speaking of which, next Friday is my July payday, and then we’ll be out of here.
It’s really, really happening.
Today, Brendan is working from home and I’m going to base myself from there, too.
Things between us may have reverted to normal after his little hissy fit over jury duty, but that insight into his personality definitely firmed up my resolve not to trust him with anything that’s going on in my life.
As Athena said, he’s a man-child.
A gorgeous, successful, filthy-rich man-child who’s spoilt rotten.
He hasn’t earned the privilege of gaining the confidence of the grown-ups.
I’ve got to say, I’m a little nervous about being all alone with him, in a residential setting and without the buffer of our colleagues a few metres away.
Still, I’m curious to see his pad.
Elaine told me it was indecently palatial but a little on the Kardashian side, which made me laugh.
I cycle the six miles from my flat to Brendan’s penthouse in the fancy complex surrounding the restored Battersea Power Station.
The final part of the ride, along the south bank of the Thames, is stunning.
I take my time, not wanting to arrive a sweaty mess, although Brendan has—quite pervily, I think—demanded that I stay in my cycling gear all day.
He really likes my cycling gear.
So much so that he ordered me a new blush-pink outfit from Alo the other day.
I’m wearing it now, and I’m convinced it makes me look naked from a distance.
Maybe that was his point.
I cycle up to the covered drop-off area outside his building, where a burly doorman stands, dressed in a black top hat and tails.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?
’
‘Hi,’ I say a little breathlessly.
‘I’m here to see Brendan Sullivan?
I’m his assistant,’ I add hastily.
‘Ms Winters? Welcome. We’ll park your bicycle securely.
’ He clicks his fingers and one of his minions appears, right on cue.
‘Oh. Thank you!’ I dismount, and off the minion trundles, wheeling my crusty old bike.
I cringe inwardly as the clicky wheel does its thing every time it revolves past a certain point.
It’s the chain; I know it’s the chain.
I just need to find the time and money to get it sorted.
As if he’s a mind reader, the doorman frowns in the bike’s direction and clicks his fingers again.
‘Paul.’
The minion halts and looks back at us.
‘Would you like us to have that clicking attended to while you’re with us today, Ms Winters?
’
‘Oh, no, I—’ I begin, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s no bother. We have a bicycle expert on hand.
He can replace the chain or whatever needs doing.
It’s all part of the service we offer to residents and their guests, ma’am,’ he adds.
He can probably see my how much will this cost Brendan frown.
I brighten. ‘In that case, yes please. That would be amazing!’
‘Very good, ma’am.
This way, please.’
I follow this new fairy godfather of crapped-out bikes through the glass doors and into a cavernous lobby: ultra-modern; gleaming white marble; ostentatious displays of flowers everywhere in vases that stand taller than Tabby.
You get the picture.
I mentally compare it to the concrete urine-scented box that is the lobby of my building, complete with its resident gangs, and shudder.
Brendan wouldn’t last five minutes in my building if this is what he’s used to.
Then again, if you have the money, why not?
Athena told me that Brendan is deeply unsure about his family’s pledge of most of its billions to the Audacity Foundation.
My personal take is that losing his billionaire status would mean a serious identity crisis for him—even if they’ll still be revoltingly rich by most people’s standards.
So he’s spending money like it’s going out of fashion.
Exhibit one—the catamaran he’s ordered, the admin around which Elaine is having to deal with.
The doorman deposits me in a vast glass lift and swipes his security card before pressing the button marked PH.
Penthouse , I assume.
‘Enjoy your morning, ma’am.
’
‘Thank you.’ I swivel as the lift starts to rise.
This building can only be ten or so storeys tall, but the glass walls still offer me a stunning view of the Thames, blue and hazy on this stunning morning.
Before I know it, the lift is sliding smoothly to a halt and the doors part for me.
Oh holy crap.
This place is outrageous.
The space before me is so big it must surely take up this entire floor.
It’s vast . There are huge floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides.
In front of me: a massive terrace facing the Thames.
To my left: the majesty of the restored power station, now a major shopping destination.
It must look so cool when the entire thing is lit up at night.
It’s simply incredible.
And sure, I could imagine Kim or Khloe hanging out here—something about all the neutral tones and that cream and coffee chequered Hermès blanket laid across the arm of the massive sofa—but honestly, it’s like something out of a dream.
The apartment is open plan, with most of what I can see given over to a very fancy, cohesively decorated living area.
The ceilings are double-height, a shallow cantilevered staircase to one side leading up to a mezzanine from which I assume you access the bedrooms. Beyond it, the kitchen area is an expanse of glossy white marble with chunky taupe veins: masculine and opulent in equal measure.
It’s a kitchen to be seen, admired—to show off in.
If Brendan actually cooks for himself, which is a big if , it makes total sense that he’d want a spectacular backdrop against which to perform.
I bet it’s full of the toys he loves so much.
I’m just clocking the heavenly sight that is a glossy black grand piano over by the terrace when I hear my name and the man himself appears at the top of the staircase.
Well that grabs my attention.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of bright blue running shorts and a heart rate monitor strapped around his chest, upper body bare and tanned and so shiny with sweat that it has the effect of his having covered himself in baby oil.
Thick white sports socks accentuate the hairy muscularity of his legs.
He has a towel in his hand, and the damp mess of his dark hair suggests he’s been towelling it.
Mark shoots down the stairs ahead of him and bounds over to me.
‘Morning,’ I say, feeling suddenly shy, which is ridiculous.
Still, working for the guy in his offices is one thing.
Showing up here to his penthouse pad to find its master half naked is quite another.
I bend to greet Mark, who’s rubbing his wide head over my calves as if he can’t believe I’m here, in his home.
I suppose that’s fair.
It’s not like I’ve ever been here before.
As far as he knows, I’m firmly an office fixture.
Brendan trots lightly down the steps and comes to stand in front of me.
He’s still out of breath from whatever he’s been doing.
I look up from Mark and take in the chunky globes of his biceps, the expanse of slick, flat stomach, the dark, dampened hair covering his pecs, and make a mental note to coax him out of the office more often so I can get him fully naked.
Suddenly, the at-work trysts where he stays mostly clothed feel like a bum deal for me.
Because this man is spectacular.
‘I was on the Peloton, doing my FTP test,’ he explains.
‘I’m sweaty as fuck.
’
‘FTP?’
‘Functional Threshold Power.’ He grins at me, his eyes roving over my cycling gear.
Clearly I’m not the only one enjoying our working-from-home dress code.
‘How fun,’ I deadpan.
I have no clue what that means, but it sounds horrifying.
He laughs. ‘Give me five minutes to have a shower, yeah? Make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee on the counter.
’
Sure enough, there’s a glass French press standing on the huge marble island.
I shamelessly watch his arse as he skips lightly back upstairs.
As soon as he’s gone, I move over to the grand piano as if bewitched.
Coffee has nothing on the allure of this baby.
Holy shit, it’s a Steinway, and it’s their Model D—their concert grand piano—in the glossiest black.
If it’s not tuned I think I might cry, and I’ll definitely never be able to speak to Brendan again.
Gingerly, I take a seat and lift the lid, letting my fingers brush over the keys before I attempt a couple of chords.
It’s tuned. Holy hell, is it tuned.
I’ve died and gone to heaven, it seems. I hope Brendan doesn’t have much work for me today, because he’ll have to physically tear me away from this thing.
I let my eyes flutter closed, and I play Bach’s beautiful prelude from The Well-Tempered Clavier , the one to which Charles Gounod set his Ave Maria .
It’s one of my all-time favourite pieces of music.
I may not have had my hands on a piano for a few years, but this is less muscle memory than a melody scored deep into my DNA.
It’s who I am . My aura is probably made up of musical notes instead of colours.
My love of music is at the very essence of me, yet it’s been subjugated so much these past few years since graduating.
It’s been squashed down in favour of other, more important passions like keeping my daughter alive.
But it’s never far from the surface, and there’s nothing like a Steinway and an empty room the size of a concert hall to coax it out, to allow it to stream from me.
Eyes still closed, I begin to sing.