Page 37 of Duplicity

Three thousand pounds. Oh my… Immediately, I hold the dirt magnet at arm’s length. ‘Did Bren—Mr Sullivan give you a budget?’ I ask weakly, because this is insane. There’s having some fun kitting out your new toy in a few nice dresses, and thenthere’s this. Excess so ludicrous that it’s actually unethical. This dress costs at least twice as much as that consultation I had with Dr Elliott. It costs the same as flying Tabs home in business class from Raleigh-Durham Airport!

It’s out of the question, that’s what it is.

But Terri is shaking her head like my question is distasteful. ‘He made it clear there is no budget.’ She looks behind her, probably wondering where the hell Brendan has got to. Aren’t we all, sister? ‘Let’s try it on,’ she insists. She picks up the pair of shoes sitting right below it. They’re stunning stilettos with narrow heels, and they’re exactly the right shade of ivory—in suede. Those shoes wouldn’t last two minutes in London without getting trashed.

I sigh and make my way over to the changing room corner. There’s no point in being modest, no matter how judgy and hostile these two women seem. I’m under no illusion that they’re here for me. They’re here for the big fat commission they’ll earn when they ring all this stuff up.

With the robe off, I step into the dress that Terri holds out for me. I’ve left my regular underwear on. It’s a new set I bought for the job, and it’s way nicer than anything else I’ve got at home, but it’s just from the high street. I’m not touching the lingerie issue until Brendan turns up.

Terri zips me up, and I step into the shoes. Everything fits perfectly. How the hell do they do that? I turn towards the trio of full-length mirrors angled for a comprehensive view, smoothing the dress over my hips self-consciously. These two definitely aren’t the most comforting audience.

Wow. The woman staring back at me looks glossy and expensive. And, even if she’s a very different kind of glossy and expensive from the version of my reflection that gave me such a sense of dissonance when I dressed up as High Class Hooker Barbie, that same surreal feeling hits me again.

I wonder if this was why Brendan insisted on this appointment. I wonder if he wants his new fuck toy to be a sleek, designer-clad arm candy and not the boho woman he met at the Royal Academy all those weeks ago.

I wonder if he knew that he’d need to step in and polish me all the way up to the standard needed to be a Brendan Sullivan trophy. The thought that he did smarts a little, but I shrug it off. He’s paying a fortune to have me at his beck and call. He’s entitled to shape me into whatever the hell he wants.

Behind me, there’s a stony silence. Terri surveys me and our eyes meet in the mirror.

‘I think it could work,’ she says, nodding at my chest, ‘if you fill it out a bit more. It’s a shame to ruin the line of the dress.’

What the fuck? A single glance at her tells me that the twin tennis balls protruding aggressively from her edgy dress are unlikely to be a part of her God-given, very slight figure.

‘Agreed. I’ve got just the thing,’ Fiona adds. ‘Here. Try these.’

She stoops to a pile of packaged underwear stacked beneath the hanging bras and panties. I watch in my peripheral vision as she approaches with a box. My boobs aren’t letting the dress down—I don’t think so, at least. I may only be a B cup, but they’re in good shape. And Brendan seemed to enjoy them the other night, which is all that counts in this situation.

But Terri already unzipping the top half of my dress as Fiona briskly unpacks two silicone chicken fillets. She hands one to me, and I weigh it in my hands. Ugh, it gives me the creeps. And surely Brendan doesn’t want to undress me and findthesein my bra?

‘Go on.’ Terri nods bossily. ‘Try them. They’ll give you a far less boyish line.’ She slides the dress off my shoulders.

I sigh and pointedly turn my body away from them as I stuff the fillet into my cheap bra, wincing at the cold, slimy feel of it against my skin. I do the same with the other one. They feel tooheavy, too bulky, for the thin, lacy cups of my bra. ‘I don’t know,’ I tell the assistants.

‘Let’s zip you back up again before you decide,’ Fiona says before I can take them out. I’m not sure what happened to the customer knowing best, but I obediently stick my hands back through the armholes and let her zip me up.

I look more… buxom. Curvy, definitely, but it’s not me. The dress is undeniably beautiful, but it’s hard to feel at ease here in this luxurious room with two not-remotely-friendly sales assistants for company.

Before I can put my foot down, the door flies open, and Brendan strides into the room.

Oh myGod.

CHAPTER 18

Marlowe

Ihaven’t seen Brendan since that night in the club. Some parts of the evening are seared onto my brain, obviously, but I’ve been trying to conjure Brendan up in my mind on repeat since then, and it turns out my imagination was sub-par. Because, as I turn around in my all-white outfit to greet him, the sheerphysicalityof him hits me anew like a brick in the face.

Holy crap, he’s big.

And hot.

And… everything.

How can a man have so much swagger just walking through a doorframe?

He grins at me, and it’s slow and dirty and seemingly dripping with every memory of everything we did together a couple of weeks ago. He’s wearing just a pristine white shirt and navy trousers and he looks a million dollars. No tie, no jacket. Men seem to find it so easy to leave the house with absolutely no personal belongings, although I guess if you have a driver, which I’m sure he does, it makes it easier.

‘Mr Sullivan,hiii,’ Terri says breathily, injecting far more enthusiasm into her greeting than she’s shown to me in the past twenty minutes.

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