Page 5 of Audacity

Before it stands a Victorian leather-cushionedprie-dieu, or kneeler.

I shut the door behind me with a soft click and approach the table with reverence. I already feel the softening, the easing of friction and exhaustion and guilt. This is my baptism. It will purify me in the same way that immersing my naked body in the River Jordan would cleanse me of this grimy layer of sin I carry.

It will, in a small way, expunge the lingering memory of the past twelve hours and help to ground me in what is good and true and pure.

It’s close enough to nine o’clock.Hora Tertia.The hour when the Holy Spirit descended on the feast of Pentecost. The Office of Terce offers guidance and strength from the Holy Spirit for the remainder of the day that lies ahead.

Next to the glass case sits a metal pitcher and matching metal bowl. I filled the pitcher earlier this morning and now I pour the water into the bowl, admiring the shallow, gleaming arc of liquid the jug’s generous lip provides. As I prepare to wash my hands before handling the contents of the glass box, I muse at the irony of keeping Terce far more regularly in my new life as a billionaire CEO than I ever did when I was an anointed servant of God.

You join the priesthood for a sacred life, a life of service. And while the sacred remains, the service aspect takes front and centre. Of all the eight Hours I learnt at the seminary, the only ones I kept were the morning and evening ones of Lauds and Vespers respectively. At nine o’clock most weekday mornings, I was mucking in at our parish soup kitchen or wrangling donors for fundraisers.

I was categorically not in a position to keep the Hours in the company of a seven-million-pound Book of Hours from the Italian Renaissance.

But now, here I am, this surreally corporate world allowing me the space for structured contemplation that my actual role as a priest simply did not. While it’s by no means a daily habit—I’m a businessman, not a Trappist monk—I find myself nipping in here for the occasional Terce before board meetings, for noontime Sext prayers devoted to peace and strength (often neededaftersaidboard meetings) or for the perspective on sacrifice that the three o’clock None offers—often before stuffing my face non-ironically with afternoon tea and biscuits.

This ritualistic washing of hands that I insist on adopting may, at face value, be the smart thing to do before touching a priceless artefact, but it doesn’t escape my notice that it’s grounded in the muscle memory of the Lavabo ritual I undertook every day at Mass before I handled the Eucharist.

I may not be a priest anymore.

I may no longer have the right to perform sacraments.

But this silent, ceremonial handwashing tethers me to this moment. This moment where I’ve chosen to stay in stillness and humility and prayer. To seek out God’s grace, even as the poor, miserable sinner I am.

Hands washed and dried, I don my nitrile gloves and raise the lid of the display case. My previous role required the handling of precious items—none so precious as the Lord’s body and blood—but this is the most expensive and creatively impressive masterpiece I’ve ever owned.

An Italian Book of Hours.

A stunningly intricate book dedicated to the glory of God, its provenance almost as fascinating as its visual riches. It was originally commissioned by the Tornabuoni family, who were major patrons of the arts during the Italian Renaissance, and its still-vivid illumination is a celebration of Florentine flamboyance, with accents of richest vermillion and ultramarine and malachite overlaid with burnished gold leaf.

The conservationists at Sotheby’s held my hand throughout the entire process of my taking stewardship of this priceless piece. They arranged for its storage in my office and educated me thoroughly on how to care for and handle it. The expert who led the process told me I was the first buyer she’d ever met who actually intended to use it for the purpose for which it was originally created.

I can’t imagine many Sotheby’s clients keep the Hours.

The book lies open within this humidity-controlled display case, its spine supported at the requisite one-hundred-and-twenty degrees. I take a moment to marvel at the intricacy of thebianchi girari—the white vine scroll work—in the marginsas I begin to intone the words that introduce all the Hours.

Deus, in adiutorium meum intende.

Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

O God, come to my assistance.

O Lord, make haste to help me.

How many people’s gazes have fallen upon these pages? How many people have beseeched God with these words to help them, to bring them strength, in times of distress and fear that we, with the blessings of modern medicine, can’t begin to fathom?

I pick up the fine bone handle with which I turn the pages of this ancient book. It’s only then that I note the page it’s currently open at.

Compline.

The bedtime prayer for protection and peaceful rest.

I pulled a late one at the office last night, trying to make a dent in the infinite void of Things About This Industry I Do Not Know, before ending my working day with Compline.

That was about an hour before my mate Adam Wright called me and dragged me out to Alchemy for drinks.

My prayers to God for a peaceful rest fell on deaf—and almost certainly disapproving—ears last night.

CHAPTER 2

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