Page 86 of Duplicity

CHAPTER 41

Brendan

The Bach accompaniment to Gounod’s version of Ave Maria is pretty straightforward, actually. I’ve steered away from classical music as long as I’ve played the piano, but I downloaded the sheet music for this after hearing Marlowe sing it here a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been practising it ever since. The melody is flowing and arpeggiated and creates a serene foundation for the soaring vocals.

When I was first learning it, it made me feel happy. Connected to Marlowe.

Now it just makes me feel sad. And, honestly, it’s not as enjoyable without her here to sing along.

Eventually, I abandon the piano and pace around the room. The summit is tomorrow, and I really need to practise my speech. The problem is that my speech is boring as fuck, which means practising it is also boring as fuck. At this time of day, my study buddies have worn off, meaning I’m in total ADHD paralysis. My therapist has explained that this happens when my sympathetic and dorsal nervous system states collide and oppose each other at full force. Whatever. All I know is that I’m full of pent-up energy and frustration and unable to channel it into something meaningful and productive.

Like practising my fucking speech.

I should probably record myself delivering it on my iPad. At least if I play it back it’ll put me straight the fuck to sleep.

With a frustrated sigh, I pick up my phone and see a message from Plain Elaine. She’s sent me a link to a research report one of the big investment banks has put out today ahead of the summit. Her message says that their estimates for our industry’s projected carbon emission reductions over the next decade are way more pessimistic than mine and suggests that I arm myself with more hard data to back up my numbers in case anyone challenges it during the Q&A.

Well, that’s very fucking helpful, thanks Elaine. Marlowe put those stats together for me. She worked with the strategy team to pare them down to the ones that would paint the clearest picture.

Jesus Christ. I have no interest in dealing with this, or any last-minute curveballs for that matter. I’m tired and cranky and nervous and sexually frustrated. My Beth Dutton tit wank fantasy didn’t cut it in the shower this morning, and I was forced—forced—to succumb to the memory of spreading Marlowe out on my desk and eating her sometime last week in order to get myself over the edge.

It was humiliating, and it wasn’t enough.

I glance at my watch. 7pm. Marlowe should be done with jury duty for the day, shouldn’t she? Courtrooms usually finish up pretty early. I’ll just call her quickly. I’ll keep it polite and professional and brief. I’ll explain the situation and ask her to send over more of the context for the stats she gave me. Then we can bid each other farewell like adults.

Yeah. I’ll do that. No big deal. I’m a billionaire wheeler-dealer in a bespoke suit. I pull off eight- and nine-figure deals without breaking a sweat. I can sure as hell speak to my assistant without pissing my pants.

I bring up her number and hit the speaker button. There’s a pause before it starts ringing. Weird. That doesn’t sound like a UK dialling tone. I’m frowning at my screen in confusion when the call connects.

Here goes.

I brace myself, unsure why my heart rate has picked up, but it’s not Marlowe who answers. Instead, a perky woman with an American accent says, ‘Ms Winters’ phone! How may I help you?’

Who the actual fuck is this? ‘Um. I need to speak to Marlowe.’

‘I’m afraid she’s not available right now, sir. She’s in the ICU. May I take a message?’

ICU? I rack my brains. Is that—‘You don’t mean intensive care?’ I ask. My heart is now hammering. No no no. Why the fuck would she be in intensive care? Has she had an accident?

‘I do, sir. But I can take a message.’

‘Why the—what’s wrong with her?! Is she okay?’ Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

‘I’m afraid I can’t share any client information, sir. But I’ll have Ms Winters call you back just as soon as she can, unless you’d like me to take a message?’

I look up from my phone. This room feels alien, as if I don’t even recognise it. ‘Hang on. I don’t—who is this? And where the hell are you?’

If she thinks I’m insane, she doesn’t say so. ‘My name is Norma, sir. I’m one of the duty nurses in the Paediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit here at Duke Children’s Hospital, North Carolina.’

Paediatric.

Duke Children’s Hospital.

My head is spinning. I can’t—does that mean Marlowe’s not in the ICU herself? Why the fuck would she be in a children’s hospital inNorth Carolina?

There’s only one reason that I can think of. Only one reason she would have lied to me to get this time off.

Marlowe has a child, and that child is ill, and my assistant is not on jury duty as I thought but instead holding some kind of bedside vigil in intensive fucking care in North fucking Carolina, and I can barely breathe, I can barely function as my overwrought brain attempts to absorb and compile and process this information. I do the first thing I can think of and pull up Athena’s number.

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