Audacity: Chapter 45

When Gabe sat down with his family, he did it without me or anyone from Rath Mor. This is their money, and it’s their decision—an enormous one.

Two incredible things happened over the course of the weekend he spent up in Newmarket.

The first was that the Sullivan family, to a person, got behind his proposal of publicly committing to a figure to give away. It seems my audacious suggestion has struck a chord, that the astonishing wealth they’ve amassed weighs heavily on these people who’ve retained their values despise their success.

Apparently his dad, Ronan, commented that if they were at all worried about surviving on five hundred million each for the rest of their lives then that would make them, and I quote, serious fucking eejits.

I concur.

I may be a greedy little thing, but that’s silly money. Gabe said Mairead was all over the concept and will probably pledge an even greater share of her fortune to the foundation. She said she’d rather be “normal rich” than “will-someone-kidnap-my-kids-rich”.

According to Gabe, Brendan was the least amenable, but he came around. He also has a shit-tonne of money—tens of millions at least—tied up in Sullivan Construction stock, too, which isn’t on the Rath Mor books.

I don’t think he’ll starve. I don’t think any of them will.

The second incredible thing that happened was that they all apparently lapped up the idea of installing me as the CEO of the foundation. Gabe tells me I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, I’ve made various pointed comments in the past about how painful it is to watch do-gooders with fuck-all business sense trying to run charities, and he claims his family feels the same way. Seemingly, my radical ideas and my “aggression” (Gabe’s word) around the table at the pitch meeting cast Eleanor’s halfhearted efforts to date in a rather unflattering light, and they’re all up for taking a chance on some fresh blood. I even had a lovely text from his sister claiming I was a breath of fresh air and exactly what her family needed to shake things up.

I knew I liked her.

My background may fall somewhere between the raw hunger Gabe’s father and grandfather’s tough upbringing instilled in them and the aristocratic, inbred passivity of Eleanor Whitmore, but I hope my business drive falls somewhere closer to the former. If my results to date resonate with some members of the family, my educational and cultural pedigree is, according to Gabe, pretty much orgasmic from where his mum’s standing.

There’s no doubt I’m young and green for such a huge job. But this foundation will be a collective effort, an opportunity to draw in leading minds from all over the world. All it needs is an audacious little pit bull like me to pull it all together with my customary tirelessness.

Apparently.

I’m working out my notice period this month. Next month, I will move from being a Seraph contractor to an employee of Rath Mor, under whose umbrella the foundation will sit. Also next month, my salary will drop like a stone. Gabe’s actually been pretty concerned about it. He seems to feel terrible, to the extent that he offered to pay a Seraph-level salary out of his own pocket.

I told him, quite eloquently, exactly where he could shove that idea.

You don’t take money from your boyfriend.

You don’t take a penny from the man you’re infatuated with in order to fuck him.

And you certainly don’t take it from a man who has looked at you and seen your whole self and said yes, you. Who has offered you purpose and opportunity greater than you could ever have imagined. Who has struggled so gravely with his own perceived worthiness of grace and has come from a world of moral absolutes and yet has put the sum total of his faith—a staggering amount—in you.

So I’ll make do with five figures a month instead of six, and I’ll lean into this gift, and I’ll even allow myself to revel, like the callous little bitch that I am, in the lowkey schadenfreude as Gabe tells the entire firm about my new positions: professional and romantic. George is ecstatic, bless him, other individuals less so.

My crowning glory, my anointing as a Sullivan WAG and a power player in the family’s bold philanthropic efforts, will be a charity gala that takes place next week. Its profoundly ironic title, given that it’s being hosted by the ancient Cadogan Estate, is The Future of British Philanthropy. We’ve taken a table for the Sullivan family and Rath Mor team, and Eleanor is positively orgasmic at the prospect.

The only bright spots are that Gabe is giving the keynote speech during dinner, and that he has insisted on treating me to a very fabulous gown for the evening.

Thus I find myself one lunchtime outside the headquarters of demi-couture brand, Gossamer. I know the brand, of course—I followed it on Instagram long before it was folded into the Wright Holdings stable of luxury brands—but I’ve never owned a Gossamer piece. Having a designer dress habit is one thing, but demi-couture, with its incredible workmanship, is a whole other ballgame. That said, when your new and extremely generous boyfriend hooks you up with the Creative Director of such a brand, it would be rude to say no.

I know Natalie Bennett’s romantic partner and principal investor, the outrageously hot billionaire Adam Wright, is a good friend of Gabe’s. It seems I have him to thank for the suggestion that Gabe should give Seraph a spin, in fact. It was he who brought it up one night at Alchemy, prompting Anton and Max to hit my now boyfriend with The Great Athena Pitch.

Clearly, I owe Mr Wright a drink or two. What’s less clear is if Natalie, who is hosting me at her studio today, knows the true nature of my and Gabe’s working relationship to date.

Whatever she knows, she’s delightful. She comes down to the gigantic lobby of Wright Holdings to greet me, a svelte figure in a beautifully tailored black jumpsuit. Her makeup is perfect, the diamonds in her ears and around her wrist absolutely enormous, and her smile is wide.

‘Congratulations on the acquisition,’ I tell her as we enter the lift. I followed the news on her social media as well as in the financial press. With Gossamer now an official part of Wright’s empire, I imagine the sky is the limit.

‘Thanks. It helps to sleep with the boss, am I right? Though he insists he bought Gossamer on its merits.’

I throw back my head and laugh, her candour taking me by surprise. I like her instantly. ‘I know something about that.’

‘I bet you do.’ She winks at me, and I know for a fact that she knows. ‘I hear congratulations are in order for you, too. The foundation?’

‘Thank you. And yes, I apparently got the promotion on my own merits, but who really knows?’

‘I’m pretty confident they’ve fallen for our business minds,’ she tells me as we trot out into a huge, light-filled room that must stretch the entire width of the building. ‘But if they’re enamoured of our other attributes too, who are we to argue?’

The studio is incredible. My knowledge of fashion is limited to avid consumption, so it’s fascinating to see the banks of desks, and the enormous white tables piled high with rolls of fabric, and the stylish, quirky people who populate the space, each bringing their own brand of cool. It couldn’t be more different from most of the places I’ve worked.

Dotted around the space are mannequins in various states of undress. We pass one that’s nothing but a canvas torso on whose décolletage is pinned the most sublime array of pearl beading and tulle.

I could play in this place for hours.

The client area is at the end of the room, set away from the main space.

‘Oh, dear Lord,’ I murmur as I come face to face with rows and rows of what can only be called frothy paradise. ‘This is heaven.’ Gabe may have his faith, but I could worship at the altar of Gossamer for hours. If it’s a cult Natalie’s running here, I’ll sign my freedom over without a second thought.

‘It really is,’ Natalie agrees. ‘I’m still not used to it. We’ve only been in a couple of months, and you should have seen the place we were in before Adam swept in and played fairy godfather. It was a tiny little shithole, there’s no other way to describe it.’

Fairy godfather.

Sounds like Gabe.

Although maybe, given the man he is, patron saint feels more apt.

‘Well, you’ve certainly put down roots. It feels very established.’

‘It still feels like a dream. He brought me to these offices for the first time one Saturday. When I saw Omar Vega’s studio downstairs, I could have sat down on that floor and wept. It was so far beyond anything I could have dreamed of.’ She smiles, and it’s fabulous and victorious and powerful. ‘But ours is nicer.’

‘Ha! I love that.’ I really do. I fucking love it when women exude their natural goddess energy, and Natalie has it going on in spades. ‘It’s so sumptuous.’

I cast my eyes over the racks and racks of dresses: silk and tulle and lace and feathers arranged in a celestial pastel rainbow. I’m positively itching to get my hands on them.

‘So this is for a gala.’ She clasps her hands in front of her. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?’

‘Tasteful but fabulous. I’d like a showstopper, but it can’t say I let men fuck me for money. It needs to say something like I’m fully capable of managing one of the biggest foundations in the country but don’t for a second think I’ll look frumpy doing it.’

She snorts. ‘Gotcha. And I suspect no one could ever accuse you of looking frumpy. You know, if you ever need to borrow something for a big event once you’re in the new seat, we’d be happy to oblige. We do it a lot for high profile women.’

High profile women.

I’ve spent the past four years since Camille recruited me being the soul of discretion, putting on a show only for the men lucky enough to afford me and actively blending in on a wider basis.

That’s all about to change.

‘Thank you,’ I tell her now. ‘I could get used to wearing only demi-couture.’

‘It’s a dangerous precedent to set. I should know. Why do you think I force my team to make every sample in my size?’ She jerks her head over to a mannequin standing by the window wearing a frothy black concoction. ‘See her? She’s literally called Natalie. We got Stockman, the mannequin company, to make her in my exact dimensions.’

I shake my head with a rueful grin. Lucky cow. ‘That’s genius.’

‘Isn’t it? Right, we know you need a showstopper. How about something channelling Old Hollywood? With some sleek curls, you could definitely channel a siren of the silver screen.’

‘I love that idea,’ I admit.

‘Do you have any colours in mind?’

There’s something about the careful politeness with which she says it that tells me she already has a strong view.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

She grins. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. We have a dress in this green that’s somewhere between mint and pistachio, and I think you’d look amazing in it.’

‘I love green. Show me.’ It’s true. Green tends to complement my hair and eyes, no matter what shade I wear, but I don’t often gravitate towards the shade she’s described. It’s not the most practical colour for everyday wear.

She sashays along the rainbow of dresses and stops where blue becomes aqua and then green. The way she presses her lips together in excitement as she carefully lifts a hanger off the rail tells me she has seriously strong feelings about this dress.

She holds it aloft.

Holy fucking shit.

My face must be a picture, because she bursts out laughing. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

‘It’s incredible.’

It’s so beautiful that I want to hang it on my wall and gaze at it for ever more, or eat it like a cake, or wear it every single day. It’s perfect.

‘Try it on,’ she urges. ‘We can adjust it where needed.’

I require no further encouragement. I step into the large changing area, which is softly lit and surrounded by heavy velvet curtains. Once Natalie has drawn them around us, I strip down to my thong and heels. This dress doesn’t require a bra. I slip it on with her help, and she zips up the back.

‘There.’ Her tone is soft and reverent. ‘You look like you’re going to the Oscars. I could cry—it’s as if we made it just for you.’

I gaze at my reflection in the three full-length mirrors. Even in my black heels and workday makeup, she’s not wrong.

This gown is exquisite.

It’s full-length in the palest green, and it shimmers from top to tail whenever I move. While the tiny straps and the bra cups are crafted from satin, the rest consists of tier after tier of silk tassels, impeccably cut to form chevrons. The waist is fitted, the skirt slim with a slit all the way up one side. From the knee to the floor, the chevrons ebb away into hundreds of tiny, ethereal ostrich feathers in the same shade of green that flutter and tremble.

The result, especially with my hair colour, is The Little Mermaid meets old-school, full-wattage glamour. It’s classy and sexy and impossibly expensive looking, which is pretty much my personal brand.

It was made for me.

‘It fits really well on the breasts and hips, but we can take it in a tiny bit around the waist,’ Natalie says, pinching the fabric there slightly. I can see instantly that it improves the silhouette, making it even more streamlined. ‘And if you want to buy some ivory satin heels, we can probably get them dyed to match in time for the gala.’

I nod, assessing. Analysing. She releases me, and I turn this way and that, admiring the delicate sway of the tassels and feathers as I do.

As I study myself in the mirror, I can’t help but imagine Gabe’s reaction when he sees me in this.

I hope he finds it as worthy of its price tag as I’ve been.