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 find these in 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 too heavy, 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 my God.

CHAPTER 18

Marlowe