11. Jonathan

I had no idea where the words had come from, or these frankly unhinged ideas, but for once, I'd just done what was necessary.

I felt myself smiling as I pushed them through the doors to my building and nodded to tonight's concierge. Oje, his name was.

"Donovan is on my approved list," I told him while Donovan stood beside me, their expression blank. "They can be sent up at any time."

The concierge nodded. Another blank face.

"A couple of other things…" I continued, giving Oje my instructions regarding retrieving Donovan's car and depositing it in my allocated space. He scribbled them down without a word.

I held out my hand, expecting Donovan to hand over their car keys, only to be met with them staring at the wall. I was stumped momentarily, but then I reached into their coat pocket and extracted the keys.

Look at me problem-solving on my own, dealing with real life. No Jenny in sight to anticipate my needs and pave the way for my life to continue on its track.

I didn't socialise. I had no idea how to actually maintain real-life adult friendships. I was awkward and stiff and way off track here, swerving into my very own brand of newness as I pushed Donovan ahead of me into the lift, held them by the shoulders and turned them around.

Their stony silence should perhaps have worried me, but it didn't, and Oje was no doubt thinking I'd picked up someone for the night. I stifled a laugh at the very idea, finally getting a reaction out of Donovan.

"He thinks I'm your seedy hook-up," they mumbled. Ah, good. They were still with me then.

"Not a seedy hook-up," I assured them. "Though it occurred to me too. That Oje would think that, I mean." I wasn't sure they believed me because I knew how this looked, especially as I grabbed their arm and dragged them out of the lift.

"I'm totally out of my comfort zone here," I admitted, pressing my snazzy keycard against the reader on the doorframe. The door swung open like magic. Modern technology. I loved it.

I expected a gasp of awe, but Donovan was unimpressed, and I liked that. I slipped off my hoodie and dropped it casually over one of the many sterile matching chairs placed around the massive glass dining table. Disturbed by the motion, dust danced in the stark light from the ceiling, swirling around Donovan, who remained standing, taking in the panoramic view of the London Skyline, millions of people's lives playing out in front of us as if we were watching them on a giant screen, lights shimmering as far as the eye could see.

"Good God," they muttered. "A bit of a difference from a council house in Newbury."

"Where was your flat?" I asked.

"The one with no ceiling? Osterley, far end of the Piccadilly line. Dodgy backstreet earmarked for redevelopment years ago. The building was condemned but kept getting a reprieve for all kinds of planning permissions to go through. We were supposed to have been moved on over a year ago, but hey. This is how things work."

Didn't I know it.

"I eat planning regulations for breakfast," I sassed. It brought a smile to their face. Goodness. Was I making conversation?

"People like you keep people like me homeless," they snarled back. They weren't wrong.

"This is a three-bed penthouse flat. I live here alone with my collection of coffee cups and dust. I take your point."

"Good," they said wearily. I was tired myself, but a kind of calm-tired.

"Balcony, bathroom, toilet, bedroom, guest room…my office." I waved my arms around like a flight attendant pointing out exits. "Fridge. Random foods. Coffee maker."

"Black, please."

I acknowledged that with a smile and continued. "Sofa. Blanket…"

"You sleep here." Having regained the use of their feet, they pointed to Exhibit A—the pillow and crumpled blanket on the sofa—and walked through the sliding door to my bedroom, then came back.

"Your mattress is still covered in plastic." Exhibit B.

"Correct," I concurred.

"Why?"

Direct. Appreciated.

"Because I see no point in making a bed I will never use. The plastic is handy for throwing my clothes on it. I live on my own. Nobody cares, least of all me."

They looked at me with one eyebrow raised, a zombie no more. Good work, Jonny. My inner voice sounded like my childhood nanny.

"No wonder you don't sleep," they said. "Sleep hygiene is important. Taking care of yourself and creating restful surroundings."

I shrugged in defeat. I knew, and I still did absolutely nothing to help myself. What was the point?

Making coffee was a fine skill I did possess, so I set about doing so, pushing buttons and flicking levers and inserting a clean cup underneath, all without falling flat on my face. It wouldn't have surprised me if I had in the circumstances.

"I must confess, I'm a little out of my comfort zone here. I don't entertain."

"Neither do I." They had slipped out of their coat, revealing that the bright green I'd spotted earlier was a fitted boilersuit. I liked it very much. I liked whatever they wore. I liked their company.

I didn't know them. At all. And this like stuff clouding my brain was rattling me somewhat.

"Is this what you do then? Find people on the street and drag them home to sit on your sofa and drink coffee?"

"Not usually. But you're my friend, Donovan. Friends don't leave friends crying on riverside benches." What did I know? I would have rolled my eyes at myself, but they did it for me.

"True. But usually I'm the numpty who takes care of everyone else. Not used to anyone caring enough to…" They turned away. I didn't like that, but I understood, far too well. I'd dined in that restaurant and watched them often enough, their very presence brightening the place, coaxing those young waiters along with a kind word, gently correcting mistakes, dishing out smiles like confetti.

"You're a ray of sunshine in an otherwise dull world." Now I did blush, for real, and let out a small, strained laugh.

"God, Jonny. You're a piece of work."

"What can I say? I got straight ‘A's in English poetry, my favourite subject, yet I can't put a sentence together to save my life. Explain that, if you will. I craft careful business proposals, and my PA sends them back full of corrections and red markings, just like at school."

"You're flirting so far is legendary."

"Thank you." I gave a little bow, stilted and awkward, but it was worth it for their laughter. Worth every bit of my cringeworthy performance so far.

"Boarding school?" they asked.

"It was all I knew."

"All I know about boarding schools is sex, drugs and bullying."

"Drugs and bullying, yes. Sex?" I cringed.

"Sit," Donovan commanded as I handed them the cup. "I think I'm going to need this."

"It's decaf," I said.

"Good grief."

I had to smile. "Old age and insomnia."

"So you left boarding school at what, eighteen something? And you left a virgin? I'm honestly appalled. All my prejudices have been proved wrong."

"I'm afraid so." I was a little shocked at my honesty. "My father was just as appalled. He offered to pay for a night with a special lady in order to pop that badge of honour on my chest."

"I hope you declined."

"I imagine the look on my face was all that was needed to scrap that very bad idea. My father is old-school. An English gentleman. Belongs to clubs. Wears tweed. Smokes a cigar."

"Good grief," they said again and laughed. "Still, you went on to become a celebrated property magnate with millions in the bank."

"More prejudice," I argued. "Single man with numerous health issues who can't even make his own bed."

"That part wasn't in the Time magazine write-up."

"No. Must have been cut before publication." I grimaced, as did they, but this being honest thing was rather addictive. Was this how people engaged in casual conversation? Was this why the world admired my mother so?

"My mother is an expert conversationalist," I thought aloud, wanting so desperately to keep this going. "She dishes out sentences like magic, drawing whoever is in the room into what seems like a private secret space. One moment, her voice is shrill and high-pitched, the next, it shrinks into a whisper, and everyone leans towards her to seek out those small snippets of whatever story she's sharing. I watch her often, trying to figure out her secret, because I can't even open my mouth without it being all about construction, business and finances."

"Probably a good thing," they said, raising their coffee in a half-toast, "but for the record, not everyone is cut out for the life of a social butterfly."

"You are. You're amazing," I gushed, still hooked on the honesty drug. "You have that same skill. You walk into a room, and people are just mesmerised."

"I'm a bloke in women's clothing. Usually does the trick." They said it in a deep, raspy voice that made me laugh out loud.

"Donovan," I warned.

"Jonny. Stop with that. Mabel. Mabel ."

" Pickle ," I retaliated. I was enjoying this so, so much, having them in my space, the constant tiny battle of words. The smile was plastered on my face, though I was acutely aware that streaks of destroyed make-up still painted their lovely cheeks.

"Pickle?" they repeated.

"Pickle. You're sweet, yet there's a sharp tang to you that I would hate to cross. You've mentioned both arson and plain murder this evening. I would be very foolish not to proceed with caution."

"I've never murdered anyone in my life," they huffed out. "Although I did throw a carafe at Mark earlier."

"One that missed, I presume. He was still very much alive when you left."

"Don't remind me."

"Pickle, it is then." Oh, listen to me, changing the subject like a pro.

"Do you have a habit of changing everyone's names?"

"Not at all," I admitted. "Simply trying it out for size. Donovan is good for keeping things at a professional distance. I call most of my employees by their last name, apart from Jenny, my PA. She would probably seed a virus onto my laptop if I ever called her by her last name."

"I like her already."

"I think the two of you would get on well. She's as sharp as anything but very caring. If not for her, I would have had that heart attack by now."

"No heart attacks on my shift. I'm a first-aider. Do you own a defibrillator?"

I took a sip of my coffee, if only to let my cheeks rest from all that smiling. "Serious talk, Pickle."

They snorted. "So you want the life story? Or just Mabel Donovan's Guide to Unaliving Their Enemies ?"

"Got that book already. Gave it a five-star review."

More smiles. I shuffled into a better position on the sofa.

"Okay." They took a breath. "This is the short version because the long one includes soul-destroying wailing and trying to throw myself off the balcony. It's messy on an epic scale."

"No throwing yourself anywhere. My glass sliding doors are made of toughened glass, they're locked, and I have the key."

"Scary. Are you sure I'm free to leave at any time?"

"This isn't a Netflix thriller, Pickle."

"It sounds like one. One where we all die at the end."

"Ha, no." I grinned. "In this one, we all live happily ever after."