12. Mabel

" O kay, here goes." I put my cup down on the floor. What was it with this place? Not a basic piece of furniture in sight—like a handy small occasional table where one could place a discarded cup.

Well, who was I to talk? My now-destroyed former abode had contained a massive amount of storage boxes, which I had effectively used as tables, chairs, footrests, but no functional furniture. I dreamed of a home where I could brandish my imaginary interior design talents, but such things went hand in hand with spare money—something I didn't currently possess. Whinge, whinge, whinge. I was getting tired of myself and my whingeing but was too raw to start to pull myself together.

I was in a stranger's penthouse. Well, in Jonny Templar's penthouse. Yes, I may have read up on him and googled and done all the basic homework I did on most of our regular guests, prepared myself so I could pull up suitable topics of conversation and gauge the level of service required. But that didn't mean I was comfortable with his rescue efforts and having to endure conversation over coffee on his snazzy sofa.

I really liked this sofa.

Fuck. Now he was staring at me, expecting me to spill all my worldly secrets into his lap. Which, of course, I would. I was me, and there was no way I wouldn't indulge him because I talked far too much with anyone who would listen. No wonder I'd ended up here, humiliated to the bloody bones.

"Born to parents who thought they would be childless. Much loved. Had the best upbringing." I counted off the facts on my fingers like I was giving a presentation. "Mum and Dad met at college on an advanced tailoring course. They ended up opening a wedding dress shop, a small high-street outfit where they made gowns and altered off-the-rack creations to fit. Small sideline in accessories. Deals with local florists." I paused, the memories flooding into my mind. Smiled. "They did really, really well for a while. I used to spend every afternoon and weekend there, helping out and learning things. I loved it. I know people grow up resenting things like that, but that shop was my haven, you know? It was full of kind people and frills and sparkles and no, before you ask…" I looked at him pointedly. "It didn't make me gay."

"Who is full of prejudice here? Not me. I went to boarding school."

"And came out a virgin," I reminded him.

He was still blushing at that, but I hadn't said it to be malicious. He may have been the guy with the multimillion-grossing construction business, but I was a master wall builder. I could also break them down in a millisecond.

"I have many superpowers," I whispered.

"Indeed," he said. "You're just like my mother, thrilling the listener. Theatrical."

"Hence you and me will never be a thing. Good grief. Listen. First rule of first dates: do not mention your mother. In fact, don't ever tell a date that they remind you of your mother."

He should have died of shame, being called out like that. Instead, Jonny Templar relaxed further into the sofa.

"Are you saying this is a date? I believe we already established where those professional boundaries lie. This is not a date. Go on."

"Where was I?"

"Wedding shop. And that you're gay?"

Fancy him picking up on that one.

"I'm gay. Always was, always will be. Queer. Bent. Whatever you want to call it. And I always hoped I'd grow up in a world where I didn't have to explain myself to everyone and everything, but unfortunately, being me is not something people understand."

"You must get a lot of questions."

Here we went.

"Do you want to ask them, or shall I just vomit out all the answers?"

Please. Bitchy? Me? But he waved his hand like he was waiting for me to do just that.

"I'm not trans. I have no desire to alter my body in any shape or form. I just like how I feel. Sometimes I feel different from other times. I float aimlessly between genders, and that is who I am. Sometimes I have a need to present myself in one way, other days I wake up and I crave a suit and tie, slicked-back hair, a sterner way of holding myself. Then halfway through the day, the tie comes off, and I find myself wearing lipstick with a smile on my face. I can't explain it, but it's something people never quite understand."

"People like firm boxes. Easy-to-understand explanations."

I nodded. That was a good response, like he actually understood. What did I know?

"True." I swallowed. I'd been ready to defend something and was thrown by not needing to. Surprising. "I'm me, but with that comes the fact that I'm not quite the ideal partner for anyone. I've never had any desire to have a girlfriend. It's always been about men."

"And what is your type?"

I liked the honest direction this conversation was going in. Like Jonny Templar had a genuine desire to get to know me.

"You're a surprising man." I had to smile a little.

"Your type?" He wasn't going to let me get away from that one, was he?

"Mark Quinton," I admitted. "And my ex-husband. Nobody has ever compared. But I can see now that Finley was wrong for me. He and I were kids both with an extreme need to be the one in control. Our relationship could never have ended in any other way than it did."

"In a Shakespearean tragedy," he filled in.

"But nobody died."

"Yet."

He made me laugh. There was a glimmer of something in the air between us.

"This life story does not contain any gruesome deaths…yet," I agreed. "But stop interrupting, Jonny."

"I do like it when you call me Jonny."

I put my finger over my lips, shushed him. I was talking. Controlling? Me?

"I married Finley on a whim, then cheated on him a few weeks later. The two years we were together were a constant push and pull, disaster looming around every corner. Then when we finally broke, I was devastated. Truly so, but that's when I met Mark, and he was so different from everyone else. Where Finley was stern and handsome and cool to the bone, a straight line from A to B, Mark was like this, I don't know, shiny, sparkly glittering whirlwind, and everyone loved him and wanted to be with him, and I was right there in the crowd drawn in by whatever shitty drugs he was spreading in his wake."

"Drugs?"

"You said it yourself. Like your mother. Everyone was mesmerised by him. He just had to stand there, and people would be clinging to him. Like a bloody religious experience, it was. Only problem was… he liked me. He liked me enough that we actually became friends, and I always thought that our friendship was all good. Yes, I loved him, desired him, and I thought if I could just look after him and nurture him and love him, then one day he would realise that he couldn't live without me."

"Normal."

"Not normal. Pathetic."

"Human. I've read all the classics. I was addicted to Greek tragedies for a while. Wrote my dissertation on old German folklore. Things never change. Human nature is hard to discard. Hence, normal."

"And you work in construction."

"I pretend I work in construction. I sit at a desk and have an army of people who manipulate other people to give me what I want."

"And what do you want?"

"Results. Big shiny buildings. Money in the bank."

"You have all that."

"I know."

"But you're still deeply unhappy."

Snort.

"Jonny, you live alone in a glass penthouse. I feel I should somehow rescue you, climb up a rope and haul you over that balcony rail."

"Alas, I have no Rapunzel hair to throw you, though I think that may be your department, given that I've already rescued you. I found you crying on a bench, remember?"

"Arsehole. Stealing my thunder."

"I'm the prince in this fairy tale."

Now I snorted. What were we like?

"This is my life story. You asked for it, so stop interrupting."

"I'm terribly sorry." He didn't sound it.

"So," I continued, "Mark discovered Mabel working in some grotty drag club—that's where we met. Pretty Princess in Soho. It's still there, and I still know all the queens. It's where I tend to get most of my clients from."

"Clients?" Now he looked worried.

"I sew. I went from wedding frocks to drag frocks. Big flashy dresses, and I'm good at it. I also have a few select clients who are like me. Humans with male bodies who have clothes in need of alteration to fit them properly. I know what I'm doing, since I can't afford all the tailored things for myself. I buy a lot of my clothes online, and then I have to completely take them apart so I can structure them to fit the body I'm in, create the illusion of curves that are not there."

"That makes sense. I have my suits made to measure. It's a very skilled profession."

"Thank you. But it's not profitable. I make no money from it."

"A passion project."

"Don't. My dad calls it a stupid hobby. He keeps saying that I should pull myself together and start up properly and sew full-time. Like that would be a help."

"You should."

"Only, I don't have the time or spoons to do it full-time, and where I am sharp as fuck in the restaurant trade—Mark's fault because he's scatty as anything and would have gone bankrupt within weeks if I didn't hold his budget ransom—when it comes to making my frock-obsessed clients happy?" I shook my head. "They're my friends, and I feel terrible taking a profit. Often I go into the red once a project is finished and delivered, and I struggle to demand payment, especially from performers who are underpaid and struggling."

"Okay," Jonny said, nodding as if he was taking it all in. I'd expected him to berate me for being such a terrible businessperson, because I was pretty hopeless. My dad told me every time we sat down to do my tax return. It was part of our regular marmalade argument.

"Have you got any formal training in tailoring?" he asked.

"I have a degree in mechanical engineering, another one in psychology, I'm a fucking certified trauma therapist, and I'm a fully trained Master of Wine, but I failed the final exam three times. There are only around four hundred qualified Masters of Wine in the world. Turns out I don't have the palate. How soul-destroying do you think that was?"

"I can imagine." Surprising. Again. "We have a Master of Wine contracted at my parents' country club. She's very sought after. Quite amazing to listen to."

"You like wine."

"I do like wine. I especially like the Shiraz you've been serving me. But again, my doctor keeps saying to ditch the wine. Completely."

"What a spoilsport."

"Indeed. So. You met Mark. Fell in love. He didn't fall in love back."

"That's about the size of it, and it's toxic. More than toxic. Unbalanced. I thought I was supporting everyone, being friends with my abusive, controlling ex-husband, and with my manipulative bastard best friend. I thought I was being the better person, who'd swallowed my past like the big bitter pill it was. I was even churning out lies in therapy, how I'd turned my life around through kindness and forgiveness. I had forgiven myself and others. Turns out that behind my back, I was being hoisted as a total weirdo with issues. I've been in therapy for years, and here I am. I bought a dress for a wedding that everyone was trying to figure out how to uninvite me to."

"Ouch," he said.

Ouch wasn't even the start of it.