Page 10 of Duplicity

Camille is everything Athena said she would be: groomed in a glossy, borderline severe kind of way; raven-black hair parted in the centre and scraped back; red lips immaculate. She’s no-nonsense, with a warmth that’s faint but enough to take the slightest edge off my nerves.

Tabby, Tabby, Tabby,I chant to myself.

Nothing else matters.

I have a job to do.

I will not let my daughter down.

I am willing to do whatever it takes.

And no one, particularly not this woman sitting across from me, will rob me of my opportunity to give Tabby the dazzling, healthy,normalfuture she so thoroughly deserves.

We start with the business stuff. Camille asks me about my CV, most notably the fact that my three-year degree took four years.

‘I took a year out when my daughter was born,’ I explain. ‘Kings let me rejoin the course a year later.’

‘I understand. And you’ve been working and single parenting ever since?’

There’s something shining in her eyes: something, I think, between pity and admiration. Usually, it would bother me,because Tabby is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The idea that anyone could think otherwise would make me baulk. But today, I’ll take whatever emotions my circumstances throw up for her, if only to get her to root for me hard enough to take a chance on me.

We move through my CV, even though my success in this job will depend on a set of skills about which I’m waaay less confident. After fifteen minutes of shooting work-related questions at me, Camille sits back in her chair in this sleek glass-walled office we’re in and surveys me through eyes that I think are narrowed more in thought and less in judgement.

‘I’ll be honest with you. Your qualifications are fine. More than fine—I’m sure you’d do an admirable job. It’s clear to me that you’re level-headed, efficient and resilient. And, apropos the requirements of this particular agency, your looks are stellar. You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, Marlowe. I could get you a dozen interviews just like that.’

She pauses to blow out a breath, and it’s the most ruffled I’ve seen her. ‘Here’s the thing, though. Nothing I’ve seen or heard tells me you’re truly ready—or emotionally equipped—for the rigours this job entails, and that’s a major, major problem for me.’

Our eyes are locked, and my ability to take anything but the most shallow breaths evades me.

‘Make no mistake about it, Marlowe. This is sex work. High value, high stakes sex work for men who are used to getting whatever the hell they want. You are a classically trained musician who, from what I can tell, has led a reasonably sheltered life. For you to accept a role as a Seraph EA would be like never having climbed before and deciding to tackle the North Face of the Eiger. In a nutshell: foolhardy and dangerous.’

I force another tiny inhale, rubbing my newly clammy palms together in my lap. My spine pricks with sweat. PersuadingCamille that I’m some secret sex addict for whom this will be child’s play seems pointless, so I take another tack.

‘Believe me, I know how high the stakes are. They’re literally life and death for my daughter. I promise you I’ve thought this through and I’m willing to do whatever it takes.’

She says nothing but taps her stylus against her sleek iPad as she continues to survey me.

I clear my throat. ‘May I ask you a question?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you just worried about my wellbeing, or are you concerned about Seraph’s reputation if you place someone who’s not up to the task?’

‘Both. The latter only because the owner of this agency depends on me to uphold it. But I’m far more concerned about how irresponsible it would be to let one of our clients loose on you without you having the experience and the toughness to go the distance emotionally.’

‘I appreciate that. But if Brendan Sullivan hired me… well, Athena has vouched for him,’ I conclude lamely.

She frowns. ‘His application, and my initial checks, tell me he’s far from being an angel.’

Something of which I’m painfully aware and require no reminder. The most cursory internet search pours forth an obscene amount of images of him with model-types draped over him.

The good news for me? It seems he has a thing for long blonde hair.

‘But he’s not a rapist or a psychopathic killer, at least,’ I say with a bravado I do not feel.

‘That bar is far, far too low for my liking. Let me ask you, Marlowe. How many sexual partners have you had in the past?’

It’s time for my other tactic. The one Athena coached me on extensively in preparation for this particular moment.

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