Page 13 of Audacity

Taylor Swift is not just about the music for me, fantastic though it is. She’s a walking, singing example of what we can achieve when we keep our eye on the prize. Her work ethic and her commitment to excellence are second to none. She keeps her head down. She pushes herself. She moves forward. She dreams big. She does what needs to be done, and she does it with boundaries and grace and humility.

So when I’m feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable or apprehensive or my usual drive eludes me, I watch her command tens of thousands of people and I remind myself that star quality might be innate but that hard fucking work gets you what you want and where you want.

This job is a stepping stone.

Thisguyis a stepping stone.

I have a vision, and I’m already so far ahead of the rest of my MBA class in terms of the salary I command and the access I enjoy and the trajectory I have that it’s laughable. After another three or four years of doing this, I’ll have my pick of C-suite jobs and I won’t have to endure years of middle management along the way.

I slide my iPad into my handbag. The car I booked is waiting for me downstairs, and I’m confident the traffic will allow for ample time for me to go over the copious notes I’ve made on Mr Sullivan’s background, the growth and IPO of Sullivan Construction, and the spin-off of the estate into Rath Mor.

One last glance in the mirror confirms all I need to know.

My lipstick is perfect.

And my future is blinding.

There’s always a moment in this job:thatmoment when you catch your first glimpse of him in the flesh.

I’ve seen photos of Mr Sullivan already, obviously, through my research, but it’s always different seeing them in person.

Rath Mor’s offices are located in a beautiful Georgian building on Berkeley Square, right across the square from the infamous members’ club Annabel’s. So far, so much better than Steve Goodall’s offices in Swindon. The interiors are plush and old school. Their thickly padded cream carpets and wood panels and perfectly lit art screamprivate bank,but the overall effect is less stuffy than reassuringly opulent.

I’d put money on that being a real Twombly behind the reception desk. My parents, who are cultural attachés, were pivotal in making his posthumous exhibition at the Centre Pompidou in Paris happen a few years back.

This guy may have been a priest, but he enjoys expensive, alluring things.

Noted.

I see him a second or two before he spots me. He strides out into the reception area from a corridor on the left at a brisk pace, an unasked question on his face as he looks to his receptionist. And in the moment before our eyes meet, my brain downloads him like a 3D scanner.

Taller than I expected.

Lean build.

Good posture.

That’s a custom suit, probably Savile Row, and he wears itwell.

Somehow, his face looks more open, less intense, than that photo I enjoyed so thoroughly of him as a priest.

Still, I’m not the only one who’s tightly wound. I can sense his nervous energy from here.

And finally…

He is seriously fucking hot.

I rise as he turns towards me, preempting him, smoothing the skirt of my dress over my thighs as I do.

‘Ah, Athena,’ he says, clocking me. There’s no way to miss the rapid—and likely involuntary—sweep he does of my body before meeting my eyes. He approaches, hand outstretched, with what I know he intends as a reassuring smile on his face. ‘So good of you to come in. How do you do?’

I know this guy comes from new money, from at least two generations of proudly self-made Irishmen. Perhaps that explains his friendliness, but in this instant the elite education his family wealth has afforded him at Ampleforth and then Durham University is also evident.

Socially assured, but with that Irish charm?

It’s a deadly combination.

We shake. ‘Thank you so much for having me, Mr Sullivan,’ I say, my voice clear and steady. ‘It’s wonderful to meet you.’

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