Jesus Christ. Maybe I shouldn’t go out later. Maybe I should just head home and spend my evening erupting all over my shower tiles as I imagine all the ways I’m going to onboard my delectable new plaything.

Looks like Monday morning is the new Saturday night.

CHAPTER 17

Marlowe

Ican confirm that those first-day-of-school nerves have nothing on the nerves you get on your first day in a new job where you know you’ll be shagging your boss from the outset. I’m in absolute pieces, and it doesn’t help when I emerge from Bond Street station to find a text coming through from Brendan.

Running 15 mins late. Stuck in traffic. See you in there. Third floor.

Tell them I’m your boyfriend. Otherwise it’ll seem too weird if I’m picking out your lingerie

Um, that’s because it is weird to most normal people that my boss is picking out my lingerie.

Jesus.

I’m slightly early. I stand and wait by one of the main sets of doors with a handful of other people until a doorman unlocks and opens them on the dot of ten o’clock. The shop floor is still empty of customers. The fanciful displays in the Dior and Hermès and Chanel handbag concessions are immaculate, as are the sales assistants in their chic all-black outfits.

I make my way up to the still-deserted second floor, winding through rail after rail of clothes that look more like hanging works of art than things you would wear when going about your daily life. The personal shopping department announces itself with a huge arch above which hang the letters in the store’s distinctive font: LADIES’ PERSONAL SHOPPING.

Here goes. I peer through the arch, my heart dropping when I see the young woman at the reception desk. I’ve made an effort for my first day, obviously, but I haven’t bought anything new. I was working under the assumption that Brendan would want me to wear one of the dresses he’d picked out, so I’m in a grey pre-loved shift dress. It’s from Vinted and originally came from one of the higher-end brands on the high street. It’s smart and work-appropriate, but it doesn’t scream money, and a single raised eyebrow from this woman tells me she’s got my number.

‘Good morning,’ she says coolly, not rising from the desk. ‘Can I help you.’ It’s as if she can’t even be bothered to make it a question. Her impeccable but dramatic makeup suggests she moonlights as someone who gives contouring and lip-lining tutorials on TikTok, and the long dark ponytail draped over one shoulder gives new meaning to the term sleek. She looks me up and down like the judgiest and most world-weary X-ray machine.