Audacity (Seraph)

The process of laicisation, whereby a priest becomes a layperson again, can be painfully protracted. The wheels of bureaucracy move slowly at the Vatican.

That is, of course, unless you have something with which to grease them.

Happily for impatient bastards like me, hard cash is as much of a lubricant to the machinations of the Church today as it was five centuries ago, when reformers such as Luther grew pissed off with the practice of indulgences—in that case, greasing the wheels of the journey to heaven for you or your loved ones.

Heaven is, I assume, no longer an option for me, but in the end I was laicised relatively quickly: six months, to be exact. In fact, the most excruciating part of the entire process was having to write a letter to my boss’s boss’s boss—His Holiness the Pope—requesting that I be released from my ecclesiastical duties for good.

As far as resignation letters go, it was a brutal one to pen.

With wheels and palms greased accordingly, I was free relatively soon to sink my selfish bones deep into the swamp of moral corruption, and, appropriately enough, I celebrated the news that I was a layperson with my first fuck in a decade, finding some beautiful woman in a bar in Mayfair when I was out with my reprobate brother.

I did not acquit myself with honours that night. I barely had enough time to wedge myself inside her before I was filling my condom like a spotty teenager. The past few months, I’ve honed my craft—stamina, precision, kinkiness—refining it principally at Alchemy, restoring the lustre after my years-long dry spell had rusted it. My then-new mate, Anton Wolff, whom I’d met at a high-level mixer held by one of the big consultancy firms, told me about this club his wife ran, a club I’d been meaning to try.

A club that could solve all my problems.

It solved most of my problems, except for the obvious one. Complete fucking exhaustion.

So here I am, making my way to the eighth floor of a discreet modern building near the Bank of England to see if I can’t shoehorn my personal needs into my working day and procure for myself the layperson’s Holy Trinity of sleep, sex and sanity.

Seraph’s offices are heavy on excellent views and premium square footage and light on actual personnel. I imagine their commissions are chunky as hell and that little manpower is needed at the management level. The space is almost entirely creamy white marble and glass, and when the unthreateningly attractive receptionist shows me into a meeting room, the vista of the City of London on this cold, crisp morning is simply breathtaking.

There’s nowhere like the City, with its heady mix of history and architecture and power and wealth, and to be back in its beating heart awakens something in me. It’s so gloriously, unapologetically secular. This most ancient part of London was built on the greed and ambition of centuries of men—and I do mean men.

It’s probably intentional on Seraph’s part, but simply being here has me morphing into an entirely different type of man from the type I purported to be in my shabby parish in Willesden, North West London. As I stand with my hands in my pockets, gazing out at the very top of the Royal Exchange’s famous facade, I observe that this lofty position serves to make one feel entitled.

And if there’s anything more entitled than using one’s grotesque wealth to purchase the sexual services of a beautiful woman, I don’t know what it is.

There’s a voice behind me, saying my name in an assured tone, and I turn.

‘Camille St John,’ she says, offering her hand. She’s tall and well-dressed, but somehow austere-looking, with her slicked-back dark hair and black suit. She pronounces her surname in that inexplicably contracted way we Brits traditionally do: Sinjun.

I step forward and shake the hand she’s extending, feeling a flush of relief that she, like this entire setup, looks professional to a fault and not in the slightest bit seedy. There is absolutely nothing about Camille St John or these lavishly appointed, perfectly situated offices that scream brothel.

Just like Anton promised me, this is a classy outfit without the merest suspicion of sex in the air.

Once my flat white has been procured and we’ve seated ourselves at the small round conference table at one end of the room, Camille clicks on a small remote control, rendering the glass windows completely opaque. It’s the first reminder that what we’re about to discuss is of a delicate nature.

‘Thank you for filling out the questionnaire,’ she says.

‘Of course.’

The questionnaire was… comprehensive. It covered not only my and my business’ professional needs, but my personal needs, too. My car-crash of a sexual history, with its gaping hole. My appetites. My kinks. My expectations of what a Seraph executive assistant could provide. But apparently, I got the abridged version, coming to the agency as I was as a personal friend of Anton’s.

I get it, obviously. This is serious stuff, not to be messed with. Still, it’s unsettling to know that this stranger knows as much about my sex life as I knew about that of my more communicative parishioners, once upon a time.

‘You have an EA currently, I understand?’ she asks, glancing up from her laptop.

‘Yes, but she’s transitioning out. She’s been my father’s EA for years, and she’s decided to take the opportunity to cut back on her workload, so she’ll be his PA for this next phase.’ I stifle a smile. Dad’s ancient EA, Gladys, is pretty much the antithesis of everything I hope to get from my Seraph EA. If a dinosaur could also be a dragon, you’d have Gladys. I’ve tried to make it work for a good nine months now, but really she’s a glorified PA, better suited to booking plane tickets than trying her hand at anything remotely strategic.

‘Understood. And can I ask if you see this as a transition opportunity for Rath Mor, too?’

Rath Mór. Great Success. My father dropped the fada over the o but retained the rest of the phrase to encapsulate the Midas touch that he and my grandfather have had over the decades.

‘Most definitely.’ I cross my legs. ‘My father’s way of doing business was old school. Our entire estate management system needs an urgent overhaul, not to mention the hundreds of projects we need to get off the ground.’ Projects that keep me awake at night (when I’m not passed out in a sex club, that is). Archive digitisation and sustainability initiatives and real-time occupancy rate tracking and centralised databases and maintenance predictions and upgraded procurement systems.

The vastness, the complexity, of what needs to be done hovers at the edge of my consciousness day and night, singeing my brain with its impossible, overwhelming immensity.

She nods briskly, as though what I’ve said is something she can easily accommodate. ‘One of the main advantages of hiring your EA through Seraph is that they all have MBAs from the top schools. These women aren’t just there to book flights—the kinds of projects you’ve described are their jam. Some of the work they do is more akin to what you can expect from a COO or a chief of staff, and if you have those positions in-house, you can absolutely have your EA work with them, too, if that’s what you want. In fact, we find that many of our clients end up hiring PAs or other assistants to take some of the more administrative work off their EAs’ hands so they can make optimal use of them.’

She’s talking purely about her EAs’ day jobs, but I can’t help a small frisson at the unintentional reminder that there will be other ways in which I’ll want to optimise my EA’s time.

‘That sounds amazing. My father employed some great people, but I’ll want to build my own team, too.’

‘Of course you will.’

I’m already drawn to her unflappable air of competence. If nothing else, I bet any of the women on her books can whip Rath Mor into shape with ease.

‘If I were to ask you,’ she says next, ‘on a scale of one to ten, how confident you feel running this business you’ve inherited as things stand today, what would you say?’

‘Six,’ I say after a small hesitation. ‘I have a business degree, but it’s very rusty. I’ve really only been dealing with parish finances for the past few years. The only reason that number’s not lower is because I obviously still have the team my dad built, so to some extent the business can trundle on like it’s been doing while I take stock. And I have my dad and my brother around, too, if I really need help. It’s a family business. I’ve grown up around it, so it’s familiar to me at a high level, but getting to grips with the nuts and bolts of it is a different ballgame.’

After probably twenty more minutes of working through my business needs, my character and my preferred working methods in broad brushstrokes, Camille taps a nail on the polished walnut of the table and gives me a little smile.

‘So, I understand you’re particularly interested in interviewing Athena Davenport?’

I instantly feel self-conscious, like I’m some slimy fuck who’s trying to backchannel his way into a woman’s knickers.

‘Well, I mean—I don’t know her at all, personally. It’s just that she came very highly… recommended by Anton. And by Max Hunter.’ My voice sounds strangled even to me. It’s unbelievably weird to be sitting here, opposite a total stranger, discussing in polite, professional terms my interest in hiring a woman who we’re both painfully aware will be paid to suck my dick in between setting up charitable foundations and automating reporting systems.

It seems Camille can read my discomfort, and a part of me hopes it furthers my case if I don’t come across as some slick sexual predator.

‘Athena is a very special woman,’ she tells me now. ‘She really is. She’s one of the most articulate, intellectually nimble and generally competent human beings I’ve had the privilege of working with. And she’s always interested in getting to know new sectors, so what I sense feels like a bit of a mess from where you’re sitting, if that’s not an overstep, would be a dream come true for her.’

I let out a breath. ‘You had me at competent,’ I joke lamely. ‘Is she… available?’

‘She’s employed currently, but I understand Mr Wolff put a call in to her himself, and she’s happy to meet with you.’

Good. That’s good.

‘Is it helpful if I run through how our process works?’ she asks.

‘Please,’ I say, because this “process” has been shrouded in mystery from the moment Anton set up this meeting, and I find myself totally out of my depth. All I know is that I’ve already paid six figures to get myself on Seraph’s books and that if Athena or one of her colleagues agrees to work for me I will find myself in some kind of professional and sexual nirvana with nary a headache again.

‘Of course. In a moment, I’ll leave you to peruse Athena’s files online.’ She nods to the end of the room, where there’s a white leather swivel chair and a desk with a large iMac. ‘These will include her CV, which I can of course email to you, as well as anonymous references from her previous Seraph clients and a series of photographs of her, including some of an intimate nature.’

The heat rises to my neck at the mere thought of it.

Holy fuck.

‘It’s our policy not to share any photographs of our candidates digitally, to ensure their complete protection, but you should take as much time as you like in here, and there are tissues’—she nods delicately towards the desk—‘should you need them. I’ve also taken the liberty of pulling two other candidates’ files should you not feel as though Athena is the right fit for you or your business at this stage, and you’re welcome to access those, too, from the home screen.’

‘Thank you,’ I say weakly.

‘Should you wish to proceed,’ she continues, ‘we have a strictly prescribed hiring process. At the first stage, you would invite the candidate to your offices, where you can conduct your interview according to your hiring policies. At this point, you are also welcome to have her sit down with other members of your team.

‘Of course, this stage is not just a chance to find you the perfect executive assistant but a preliminary opportunity for you to assess the extent of your sexual attraction to the candidate in the flesh. We would ask, though, that all your questions at this point pertain only to her ability to execute her role as executive assistant.’

I nod my understanding. Got it.

‘You’ll understand, Mr Sullivan, that everything we do is geared towards the safety and wellbeing of our candidates. Therefore, whomever you’ve met with is welcome to walk away at this stage, or indeed any stage.

‘If, however, you’re both happy to proceed, then the next round of the hiring process is a dinner where you can both discuss the more intimate parts of your proposed contract. Frank communication between the two of you is strongly encouraged at this point to set expectations and establish boundaries. The candidate will be interviewing you just as much as you are interviewing her, and it’s my experience that she is far more likely to walk away from this stage than you are.’

‘Yeah.’ I clear my throat. ‘Yes. That’s fine, of course.’

‘Good. We usually hold these dinners in a private spot in a selection of trusted hotels, and we reserve a suite in the same hotel for your use. Directly after supper, if you’re both happy to proceed based on your conversation, you and she can make use of the suite to explore the sexual side of the interview.’

I begin to gape and quickly clamp my jaw shut. Anton mentioned something about this in passing, but still. It’s all so… transactional. I mean, of course it is. But the idea of sitting across from a woman at dinner when I haven’t been on a proper date in donkey’s years and spelling out for her all the things I want to do to her before taking her upstairs for a fucking test drive is confronting. It really is.

It’s also, for some reason, incredibly arousing.

I have to force myself to ask the next question.

‘Is there a prescribed format for that part, too?’

A tiny smile. ‘No. That’s down to you. We ask that she establish a safeword and that you honour it.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’ve already paid your retainer, for which I thank you. You may see and interview as many candidates as you like, but for every candidate you take to the second round, there is a twenty-five thousand pound fee that goes straight to her. This is to ensure that none of our clients take gratuitous liberties with our candidates.’

It makes sense, and I like that they have this measure in place. Ugh. I imagine some dirty bastards would work their way through every woman on Seraph’s books otherwise.

‘That sounds reasonable,’ I say.

‘Excellent.’ She pushes her chair back. ‘Now, unless you have any other questions, I’ll pull up Athena’s details for you and leave you to it.’