Audacity: Chapter 46

The great and good of British philanthropy have gathered in the ballroom of The Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane. The agenda? Pretending to care about the future of giving while they get stuck into the twin attractions of free-flowing champagne and mutual back-slapping.

While I’m not particularly looking forward to the event, I’m very much looking forward to a night on the arm of Gabriel Sullivan, Esquire. He made his first foray into my flat tonight when he came to pick me up, resplendent in a Tom Ford tuxedo (George finally got his way on that front).

I’m just glad his aspirations don’t run to acting, because the James Bond casting team would kill for this man. This evening, he looks like Sean Connery in his heyday, his dark hair combed back off his face and the snowy white of his dress shirt as good a foil for the olive in his skin tone as it is for the black satin lapels of his dinner jacket.

It seems he was just as blown away by the sight of me as I was by him, because when he saw me in my green mermaid dress, with apricot-coloured lips and the sleekest eyeliner and huge, Hollywood curls, he went quiet, and his face went soft, and he just stared. He stared like he was a man lost in the desert and I was an electrolyte drink.

And then he said, ‘You’re always beautiful, but this is something else entirely,’ and the reverence in his tone and on his face was almost enough to fell me.

I enter the ballroom on the arm of whom I already know to be the handsomest, most decent man in the room. In what is presumably a nod to the theme of environmental sustainability, the entire space is rich with moss-covered plinths and live trees, the latter nested in huge pots and sitting amongst the big round tables. Ivy hangs from the chandeliers, its tendrils swaying as guests waft by. The organisers have opted for table centrepieces in the form of huge silver bowls filled with living orchids and ferns.

And while the overall feel is one of timeless luxury—Edith Wharton and her contemporaries would have swooned over the plethora of ferns—there are modern touches, too. I spot a living wall behind the raised dais from which the dinner speeches will be made, and we pass a gilt-framed digital screen showing the event’s sustainability metrics in real time.

‘The new head of my foundation is easily the most beautiful woman in the room,’ Gabe murmurs in my direction as we saunter between the tables on our trip to the bar.

‘I’ll bet she’s also the easiest,’ I observe, my gaze fixed straight ahead. In my peripheral vision, I see him crease up.

‘In my book, that’s a truly excellent combination.’

If I’m thrilled to be here in my upcoming capacity as the new CEO of the Rath Mor Foundation, then I’m positively ecstatic to be here as Gabe’s romantic partner. I could burst with happiness and pride at the way that this man sees me. There’s rose-tinted, and then there’s Gabe-tinted: that hue tinged with all the goodness and faith in human nature that he possesses so intrinsically.

I will never, ever let his faith in me be in vain. While there’s no way on earth my grubby little soul is worthy of his shining one, I can only hope that, with time, even a little of his virtue rubs off on me.

Dame Sarah Blackwood, Director of the Centre for Complex Systems and Societal Change at Oxford, is a force to be reckoned with, and I love her. She wears her white hair short and, if the strong red lip she’s sporting is any indication, she’s as much of a pro with a lip pencil as she is with driving change. She’s in a beautifully cut black tuxedo, but on her feet? A to-die-for pair of Manolo Blahnik Hangisi satin pumps in royal blue satin: utterly stunning and easily a grand a pop.

Maybe philanthropists don’t have to be totally boring and worthy.

The five minutes Gabe and I spend chatting with her at the bar is more than enough to give me that intellectual boner I get when I talk to truly dynamic people—especially women. Our conversation is Seraphim-level inspiring, without any of the inappropriate subject matter. And when she lets slip that she consulted on Brooklyn’s Industry City, I positively swoon.

‘You can always call me,’ she says crisply, pressing a thick business card into my hand. ‘God knows, I love an excuse for a day trip to London. The shoe shops in Oxford are godawful.’ She looks me up and down. ‘Good luck to you, Athena. I have a funny feeling you’ll be a tonic for us all.’

‘I’m getting excited now,’ I confess to Gabe after she’s bid us a good evening. ‘I’ve been looking forward to the work, but I hadn’t really thought through just how many amazing people I might cross paths with, doing this.’

‘With the foundation behind you, you should be able to get a direct line into almost anyone on this side of the pond. I know intelligence is like crack to you—you’ll be happy as a pig in shit, I should think. And speaking of farm animals, you ready to go see my family?’

We finish our drinks and make our way across the room to where the Sullivan table is. As we weave between the tables, our fellow guests stop us at regular intervals to greet Gabe. Each time, he introduces me as his girlfriend, and, each time, the light of pride and affection in his eyes as he looks at me makes my innards melt.

The Sullivan table is towards the front of the room, right in front of the living wall. Perfect. I’ll be able to ogle my man from up close when he’s giving his speech. Most of the family is already seated—apparently Gabe’s parents prefer to get settled with their drinks and have people come to them than work the room. It’s not a bad game plan.

I spotted his mum earlier. She’s in an ornate purple lace gown that I’m pretty sure is Reem Acra, and she looks beautiful. A quick scan of the table reveals Ronan, Mairead next to a man who must be her husband, Peter, Brendan—on his own, shock horror—and Eleanor. Torty’s on Brendan’s left, and I allow myself a moment to wonder idly if she’ll set her sights on him now that Gabe and I have gone public. And on his right is⁠—

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

There isn’t even time for me to react, except to clasp Gabe’s hand more tightly in what I wish was a warning but which he’ll just see as a sign of affection or nerves. As my gaze darts frantically around the table, some part of me registers Mairead’s smile and Torty’s eyes widening as she takes in our clasped hands. But that’s not the threat here.

She’s not the threat.

The man sitting next to a bored-looking Brendan, swilling champagne as he recounts some tale, is the threat, because Giles Harrington not only knows exactly who I am.

He also knows exactly what my career of choice is.