Page 66 of Duplicity

I cycle up to the covered drop-off area outside his building, where a burly doorman stands, dressed in a black top hat and tails.

‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

‘Hi,’ I say a little breathlessly. ‘I’m here to see Brendan Sullivan? I’m his assistant,’ I add hastily.

‘Ms Winters? Welcome. We’ll park your bicycle securely.’ He clicks his fingers and one of his minions appears, right on cue.

‘Oh. Thank you!’ I dismount, and off the minion trundles, wheeling my crusty old bike. I cringe inwardly as the clicky wheel does its thing every time it revolves past a certain point. It’s the chain; I know it’s the chain. I just need to find the time and money to get it sorted.

As if he’s a mind reader, the doorman frowns in the bike’s direction and clicks his fingers again. ‘Paul.’

The minion halts and looks back at us.

‘Would you like us to have that clicking attended to while you’re with us today, Ms Winters?’

‘Oh, no, I—’ I begin, but he cuts me off.

‘It’s no bother. We have a bicycle expert on hand. He can replace the chain or whatever needs doing. It’s all part of the service we offer to residents and their guests, ma’am,’ he adds. He can probably see myhow much will this cost Brendanfrown.

I brighten. ‘In that case, yes please. That would be amazing!’

‘Very good, ma’am. This way, please.’

I follow this new fairy godfather of crapped-out bikes through the glass doors and into a cavernous lobby: ultra-modern; gleaming white marble; ostentatious displays of flowers everywhere in vases that stand taller than Tabby. You get the picture. I mentally compare it to the concrete urine-scented box that is the lobby of my building, complete with its resident gangs, and shudder. Brendan wouldn’t last five minutes in my building if this is what he’s used to.

Then again, if you have the money, why not? Athena told me that Brendan is deeply unsure about his family’s pledge of most of its billions to the Audacity Foundation. My personal take is that losing his billionaire status would mean a serious identity crisis for him—even if they’ll still be revoltingly rich by most people’s standards. So he’s spending money like it’s going out of fashion.

Exhibit one—the catamaran he’s ordered, the admin around which Elaine is having to deal with.

The doorman deposits me in a vast glass lift and swipes his security card before pressing the button marked PH.Penthouse, I assume.

‘Enjoy your morning, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’ I swivel as the lift starts to rise. This building can only be ten or so storeys tall, but the glass walls still offer me a stunning view of the Thames, blue and hazy on this stunningmorning. Before I know it, the lift is sliding smoothly to a halt and the doors part for me.

Oh holy crap.

This place is outrageous.

The space before me is so big it must surely take up this entire floor. It’svast. There are huge floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides. In front of me: a massive terrace facing the Thames. To my left: the majesty of the restored power station, now a major shopping destination. It must look so cool when the entire thing is lit up at night.

It’s simply incredible.

And sure, I could imagine Kim or Khloe hanging out here—something about all the neutral tones and that cream and coffee chequered Hermès blanket laid across the arm of the massive sofa—but honestly, it’s like something out of a dream.

The apartment is open plan, with most of what I can see given over to a very fancy, cohesively decorated living area. The ceilings are double-height, a shallow cantilevered staircase to one side leading up to a mezzanine from which I assume you access the bedrooms. Beyond it, the kitchen area is an expanse of glossy white marble with chunky taupe veins: masculine and opulent in equal measure. It’s a kitchen to be seen, admired—to show off in.

If Brendan actually cooks for himself, which is a bigif, it makes total sense that he’d want a spectacular backdrop against which to perform.

I bet it’s full of the toys he loves so much.

I’m just clocking the heavenly sight that is a glossy black grand piano over by the terrace when I hear my name and the man himself appears at the top of the staircase.

Well that grabs my attention.

He’s wearing nothing but a pair of bright blue running shorts and a heart rate monitor strapped around his chest, upper bodybare and tanned and so shiny with sweat that it has the effect of his having covered himself in baby oil. Thick white sports socks accentuate the hairy muscularity of his legs. He has a towel in his hand, and the damp mess of his dark hair suggests he’s been towelling it. Mark shoots down the stairs ahead of him and bounds over to me.

‘Morning,’ I say, feeling suddenly shy, which is ridiculous. Still, working for the guy in his offices is one thing. Showing up here to his penthouse pad to find its master half naked is quite another. I bend to greet Mark, who’s rubbing his wide head over my calves as if he can’t believe I’m here, in his home.

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