Page 6 of Duplicity

In the arse end of the London Docklands lies a jewel: an absolutely massive former aircraft hangar that’s now a showroom for Lagoon, one of the world’s highest-end brands of catamaran.

Others may favour yachts, but I don’t have the patience for sailing. Why the fuck would I want to fanny around with the wind when I can rely on sheer horsepower instead? And, given that I’m low-key claustrophobic and not mad about the concept of spending millions to sleep in a glorified bunk room, I’m partial to the twin-hull design and extra space a catamaran affords me.

After my last two-week holiday in the Maldives, I swore I’d never base myself in one vacation spot again. I nearly died of boredom. The same view, every day. By day three I wanted to bang my head against a palm tree, over and over. I’d far rather take one of these babies to the Greek Islands or BVIs and island hop whenever I get itchy feet.

I know in my bones that the Lagoon SEVENTY 8 is the one. She’s fucking gorgeous—a seventy-eight-foot masterclass in nautical design with lightweight carbon fibre hulls and an owner’s suite so luxurious I swear it gives me a semi. While mymates increasingly choose to spend their time swapping their fuck-me cologne for regurgitated breast milk, I’ll be cruising around the Caribbean with my on-deck jacuzzi and rainfall shower, living the dream with a different woman in every island harbour.

Commissioning my very own SEVENTY 8 is a straightforward decision made even easier now that my brother has persuaded our family to appoint his indecently hot new girlfriend as the head of our foundation. She, in turn, has us pledging to reduce our joint wealth by seventy-five per cent over the next two decades.

That’s around six billion pounds, a sum so vast it makes me want to curl up into a ball and weep like a baby when I think about it. While none of us will ever find ourselves near the breadline, collecting shiny toys like this may become less of a no-brainer going forward. I may as well go crazy with the toy acquisitions while the golden times are still upon us.

Besides, if Gabe can spend millions on afive-hundred-year-old prayer bookfrom Sotheby’s—I kid you not—I can sure as fuck spend the same on an honest-to-God piece of kit.

The icing on the cake is Vanessa, the leggy honey-blonde salesperson currently doing a stellar job of looking after me. She’s even valiantly pretending not to be repulsed by my dog, Mark. He may be my favourite sentient creature on this planet, but, God bless him, with his mismatched eyes and weirdly short legs, his looks won’t be flooding anyone’s Instagram feed in the near future. Vanessa’s commission on a sale like this must be eye-watering, but I’d like to think that’s real attraction in her big blue eyes.

Attraction to me, that is.

Not Mark.

She’s just as sleek and pretty and, I bet, high maintenance, as my glorious carbon fibre buddy here. Mark, however, is havingnone of it. He shunned her attempt at petting him by trundling pointedly off to lie in front of the reception desk.

‘Let’s get you a cold beer while we go over your bespoke specifications,’ she purrs, batting her long eyelashes at me. ‘There’s a lot to go through.’

I shoot her the playboy grin I know she’s expecting before surreptitiously glancing at my watch. My research ahead of this showroom visit was a rabbit hole of feverish hyper-focus, but the biochemical thrill of deciding on such a sizeable purchase is already dissipating at the prospect of being cornered with pages and pages of questions around leather finish and carpet colour and cabin layouts.

Kill me now.

My fingers seek out the fidget toy on the keychain in my pocket, rolling the little spinner thingy around and around. I don’t usually take my Ritalin on the weekends, but I should have known better than to embark on a project like this without my study buddies. I wonder if I can get my interior designer to take on the kit-out. She has a great eye and I frankly don’t give a fuck which shade of ivory my on-deck sun loungers end up. Mark’s bored too; he just does a worse job of showing it. He’s still sprawled out near the reception desk, head on his paws and eyes doleful.

Once Vanessa and her pert little arse have disappeared around the corner in search of beer, I go to him and hike up the legs of my jeans so I can squat and pet his broad head, which is a legacy of the twenty-eight per cent American Staffy in his lineage. The DNA test I commissioned after I rescued him also showed six other breeds, all clues to his bizarrely perfect appearance.

As I stroke Mark’s sleek fur, I become aware of the woman behind the desk lowering her voice as she speaks on the phone. She’s probably a decade older than me, and I’ve seen her sneakat least two dog biscuits to Mark from the glass jar on the desk. I assume she’s responsible for the bowl of water that’s appeared beside him, too.

‘No, Will, I can’t—how am I supposed to get there?’ Her voice is a low hiss. ‘You’ll have to see if your mum can grab him. I don’t know—can she take a bus over there and Uber him to the doctor’s?’

I keep my head discreetly bent until she hangs up with a whisperedkeep me posted.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask, getting to my feet. My quads complain as I rise, thanks to a punishing weights session yesterday with my PT, Si the Sadist.

‘I’m so sorry about that.’ She blushes. I’ve flustered her on top of everything else.

‘I’m the one who should apologise for eavesdropping,’ I say easily. ‘Terrible habit. But it sounds like you’ve got a bit of an emergency going on there.’

‘My son’s twisted his ankle at football,’ she admits. ‘The coach called my husband, but he’s in the middle of a shift. He can’t leave, and he’s got the car. He dropped me here on his way earlier. I’ll have to sneak out and find a bus, I think.’

The words are out before I can take them back, though, for once, my impulsivity feels justified. ‘Sorry to hear that. My driver’s sitting outside, twiddling his thumbs. He can take you to pick up your son and drop you at a walk-in centre or something?’

She stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. ‘I can’t do that! You’re very, very kind but it’s not an option. I’ll get the bus.’

‘Where’s the football pitch?’ I ask her in my CEO Voice.

‘Um, Poplar.’

This hangar is in the middle of fucking nowhere. There’s no way she’s going to find an easy bus route to Poplar. ‘Yeah, the bus thing isn’t going to happen. Let Yan drive you. Honestly. Call your husband back.’ I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.‘Vanessa has made it very clear that I have hours of decision-making in my near future. Mark and I are good here for the afternoon.’

I brush off her effusive, teary thanks as I escort her out to my Defender.

Back inside, Vanessa's leaning against the twin of my soon-to-be catamaran, a cold Peroni in her hand and her skirt hiked just enough to make me forget about the receptionist's problem almost instantly. Here's hoping she'll make the next couple of hours worthwhile... and I'm not talking about linen swatches.

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