Page 67 of Duplicity

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 fromThe Well-Tempered Clavier, the one to which Charles Gounod set hisAve 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’swho 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.

CHAPTER 32

Brendan

My shower is quick and perfunctory. I crank off the torrent of water and towel myself down impatiently before moving through to the dressing room that sits between my bathroom and bedroom. I find any sort of self-processing, from showering to brushing my teeth, boring as hell and a total waste of time.

I’m pulling a t-shirt on over my still-damp torso when I hear it.

To call it merelysingingwould be like calling Mark just adog. It’s soaring and operatic and spectacular, and it’s accompanied by my piano. Unless Katherine Jenkins has surreptitiously entered my home while I was in the shower and set up camp, this sensory heaven must be my assistant singing.

I pull on some clean running shorts and pad out of my room in as much of a trance as a kid bewitched by the Pied Piper. If I’m honest, it feels like the music is pulling me along. I’m a sailor, sucked in by a siren’s call. I stand at the top of the stairs and I take in the sight, the sound, in amazement.

Marlowe is sitting at my Steinway, her back to me. She’s pulled all of that long blonde hair out of its perky ponytail and it cascades down her back in untamed waves. Her back is straight,but she’s swaying. Her fingers are featherlight as they move over the piano keys. She’s singing some version ofAve Maria—not the Schubert one, but I can’t recall which. It’s the one my sister had performed at her wedding, I think. Mark, wise man that he is, is lying on the floor beside her, head resting on his paws, gazing up at her in awe.

Her voice is extraordinary.Extraordinary. Her speaking voice is lovely, sure—feminine and melodic—but her singing voice is rich and pure, with a gravitas I can’t articulate. It packs a serious punch, filling the vast room. As the hymn progresses and the tension builds, I find myself gripping the balustrade. Marlowe sings theSancta Mariapart, her voice soaring, making every note sound as effortless as breathing.

Every Catholic knows the Hail Mary by heart. It’s a hymn we’ve all recited thousands upon thousands of times, most of us without ever thinking about what the words mean. But, even in Latin, Marlowe sounds like she’s praying. Her voice is nothing short of beseeching, the lofty vocals of hernunc et in horadesperate, and I find my eyes pricking with tears. It’s the weirdest feeling, but it’s like I’ve trespassed upon her as she prays hard for something she wants very, very badly.

I stand here and let the music wash over me as I watch the performer below turn my home into a concert hall.

Marlowe is an impressive woman. Of that, there is no doubt, even if I can, in my more introspective moments, admit that I’m guilty of taking her for granted and, worse, objectifying her. Her looks, her presence, have affected me from the first moment I laid eyes on her. Since stepping foot in my office, she’s overachieved. She’s an extremely capable assistant and a great lay.

But this is something else entirely. I may not be a classical music aficionado. I may approach evenings at the opera with the same horror as the prospect of root canal. But I have no doubtthat what I’m bearing witness tois art and alchemy and God-given talent, the splendour of which has my skin breaking out in goose bumps and my breath stalling in my lungs and my heart swelling. There are gifts—and there’s greatness.

I let that finalAmenin her flawless soprano wash over me. I never, ever want this private performance to end. But when her voice fades off, my need for more has me heading for the staircase.

‘Please sing it again,’ I say, practically running down the stairs. ‘Please. That was incredible.’

She turns to me, and I can tell I’ve taken her by surprise. Her eyes are wide, like she’s forgotten where she is, and, as I approach, the tears tracking down her cheeks glimmer in the morning light.

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