13. Jonathan

T he conversation had flowed, which was unusual for someone like me, especially given—as Mabel noted, waving a cushion at me and trying to kick my leg—I was a rich kid from a privileged background and they were a rough, council house mess with a million fancy degrees who had failed at everything they'd ever put their hand to—their words.

I tried to point out how incredibly wrong that generalisation was and how they should stop putting themselves down, all while avoiding being hauled off the sofa. Cue more eye rolls and laughter from us both. I was surprised how much I'd laughed this evening, or how we'd ended comfortably splayed on my oversized sofa. I couldn't remember a time in my life when I'd fallen asleep with another person in my space, but I woke up sometime during the night to find them gone.

The horrific pain in my chest that caused was difficult to explain, and I had to sit there in the darkness for a while recovering. They'd turned off the lights, left me alone with only a faint whiff of them in the air to remind me that I hadn't dreamt the whole thing.

A cup of decaf coffee and a lot of words in the company of another person, and here I was, gasping for breath, wondering if this was my final moment. The one where I went into cardiac arrest and my life switched off, my poor, abused body destined to ride out the rest of the winter rotting away on a strange grey sofa at the top of a building, the glittering lights of London the only witness as I blinked out of existence.

It was just panic speaking, I knew that. They'd only been gone for a moment, and I'd already descended into the doom and gloom of my nighttime frets.

I didn't go back to sleep, instead getting myself in front of my screen, reading proposals, marking comments for Jenny, shooting off a string of emails to my sleeping staff.

I could still see Donovan…Mabel…Pickle—I wasn't yet settled on what I should call them, other than something that felt right. Whatever I was going to call them, I could still see their outline in the sofa cushion and wondered if they'd left a strand of hair, something I could keep to remind me of what was no longer here.

My father had taught me all I knew about running a business. Well, it had been his company until I'd stepped in and taken over the helm. "Son," he would say, "we have the right people in the right places doing our bidding. That is how we tie everything together and get results. As long as we have a plan, those people, and determination of steel."

I had the determination. I had nerves of steel. I had to laugh at myself. In business, yes. In my personal life, my nerves were as malleable and soluble as the jelly baby sweets I had enjoyed as a child. I supposed it was because I had no one to do my bidding. It was just me, and I was helpless and inexperienced and, honestly, painfully lost.

I went over to get myself another coffee, only to be met by the dirty cups in the sink. Last night, with all the drama it had brought, had given me peace, a strange new sensation of being comfortable in the company of another person who wanted nothing from me. What I wanted from them…

I wondered why they hadn't asked me the same questions I had asked them. Perhaps they read me so well that they knew not to.

My mother had once sat by my bedside and told me that I didn't have to share all my secrets. That some things were best kept unspoken. It had been right after another encounter with my father's ideas. Going away on a lads-only trip to some tourist retreat with other boys my age. Sunshine, sangria, and an endless supply of willing totty. My mother had been horrified. Even more horrified than me.

I loved my parents, even though they still had no understanding of my lack of enthusiasm for parties, luncheons, and intimate get-togethers with jazz music and bespoke handcrafted gin.

Shuddering at the mere thought of such an ordeal, I produced another shot of coffee into a rinsed cup, and got back to my work.

It was days later that I emerged into the outside world, blinking awkwardly at the sun. Groceries had been delivered, proposals had gone in on time, and I'd endured another visit from Kopetski and his woes, having been forced to listen to his dramatic retelling of moving Cheryl out and replacing her with Geraldine, who "sucked dick like a Hoover." I wasn't sure I remembered the names right. My mind had been elsewhere, though I had wondered how on earth that was in any way a pleasurable experience. I bet he didn't even know.

I'd had to look away lest I laugh in his face, that ludicrous, horrific specimen of a man. I hadn't, though, because he'd also delivered me the quarter results with a tidy profit and a new site we could acquire before it had hit the market, a sham bid ready to deliver before sunrise.

Just the way I liked conducting my business.

I didn't particularly enjoy my check-ups with my doctor, another quiet gentleman who once again sighed over my blood pressure and lectured me in stern words that slipped in through one ear only to seep out of the other. I'd heard it all before. I was barely alive. A prescription for another brand of sleeping tablets was emailed to Jenny to dispense and deliver. I was on my way back home, enjoying the lunchtime crowds keeping me company, walking across Westminster Bridge with determination in my step. Home. Rest. Finish off reading another site inspection report. Sign off the Ealing build. This afternoon's schedule all planned out.

Instead, my feet took me straight in through the glass entrance to a certain hotel. I had no business being there, and it was too early for dinner. But there was that Mark Quinton, draped dramatically over the pulpit marking the entrance to his fine restaurant. I grimaced, unintentionally displaying my displeasure with his leisurely stance. I couldn't help it.

"Mr Templar!" A delighted smile, not returned.

"Mr Quinton. May I have a word out of sight, please."

Oh. He'd not expected that. The stance changed, and he offered a gesture that I should follow him. I sensed his discomfort growing through the way he walked. Was he afraid of me? I doubted it. But maybe he should be.

"Here, please. Take a seat." A back office, small and cramped. The prefabricated walls wobbled disturbingly as he closed the door behind us, taking a seat on a stool that had seen better days. "What can I do for you, Mr Templar? I hope your recent meals have been to your full satisfaction."

He did look scared. Well, I could complain about Kurt being boring. Milliee's skills could be worked on. I'd quite enjoyed Aimee's many tattoos; perhaps I could demand her reinstatement as an employee? The mind boggled. I could compliment Tabitha. Whatever the chef was called, he made good food. The presentation was decent. The wine list was excellent.

Mabel Donovan had crept out of my flat in the middle of the night. Not left a note. Nothing since. I didn't have their number. All I knew was a name and that they currently resided somewhere near Newbury.

Their choice entirely. They'd made no promises or assurances. I had demanded none in return. I knew where the line was drawn, and I was about to irrevocably cross it. Which one of the many lines I was talking about was slightly uncertain in my head, but here went nothing.

A firm stare.

"I would like a contact number for Mabel Donovan," I demanded. No please. None required here.

"Mr Templar, our staff are protected by employment laws. Their personal details are confidential, and we take our employee security seriously at the Clouds. I can't provide you with any kind of contact details."

Well played , I thought in my head. At least he was protecting them, albeit out of legal obligation.

"And Donovan, are they currently working?" I hadn't spotted them, but that was not unusual. I just assumed they'd done what they'd alluded to and walked away never to return.

"Mabel Donovan is currently taking some time off," he said. His eyes flickered slightly. Ah. Not quite the truth.

"Some time off," I repeated sternly. I wanted to cross my arms, but that would have been a step too far, so I leaned slightly forwards. He mimicked it.

Standoff.

Impressive. He wasn't scared of me at all, which meant we were on even ground. I liked that.

"Mabel Donovan is a friend. If you can please leave a message for them to contact me, that would be appreciated."

Easy. Simple. Vague.

"And what is this about?"

Ha-ha. And what business of his was it to know? Maybe I'd offered Mabel Donovan a job. Maybe there was something brewing that he didn't like. I'd had good people headhunted from right under my feet before. I knew how easily someone could be swayed. Not that I had any intention of offering Mabel a job.

I knew what I wanted to offer them. Something no money in the world could compensate for.

I wanted that feeling back. The easy conversation. Laughter. A stroke of their cheek.

I squirmed at my own thoughts.

He was squirming too. Perhaps it was the way I'd drifted off, my eyes still pinning him like the complete bastard I pretended to be. For the record, I was no bastard, and I was skating on thin ice with no actual ability to skate.

But he didn't need to know that either.

"I can try leaving them a message," he said quietly. "Off the record? I think they might appreciate a friendly face."

"Is that so?"

"Did you speak to them?"

Ah, so he was still stewing, and Mabel was no doubt still hurting. Hiding out somewhere. And I…

I never swore, though I often felt like doing so, and I was certainly not going to spill out some grand admission of wanting to check on someone I…

I liked them. Very much.

My mouth was moving, trying to find words when I had no idea what to say. Eventually, I fished a business card out of my pocket and threw it carelessly onto the desk.

"Get them to call me," I said. Then I walked out.

I barely acknowledged my building's concierge, someone I didn't recognise, trying to wave me down with an envelope before I snatched it out of his hand, letting the lift doors shut in my face. I was tired, irritable, and a little—I hated to admit it—heartbroken. Perhaps a handwritten note thanking me for my hospitality. I pooh-poohed that notion as I ripped open the envelope. Another contract to sign. I shoved it into my pocket as my mind went elsewhere. Mabel was not my mother, and I certainly wasn't anything like my mother. So why was I so disappointed that it had not been a handwritten note?

I stepped into the hallway and paused. The door to my flat was wide open—something that could have been disturbing but wasn't at all, because the large pram propping the door open was familiar, as were the two toddlers jumping up and down on my sofa. I almost shrieked in distress that the pillows had been moved, disturbing my shrine to a person who was evidently ignoring me. I should know better. In Mabel's words, Move the-fuck-on.

"J-honny!" Two small humans advanced at speed and clung to my legs, snotting down my trousers. Children. I picked one up for a saliva-filled smear on my cheek while the other one ran off.

"Hey." Jenny kissed my other, still dry cheek and offered a warm smile. "Seeing you with the kids makes me wish you were my baby daddy. The easy life I would have…" Jenny rolled her eyes. I laughed.

"God. You'd hate me. The divorce would be messy."

"I would be rich."

"You're already rich with all the money I pay you."

"Well, you are the kids' godfather."

"And the baby daddy?" I teased.

Jenny grinned evilly. We were a good team, she and I; there was nothing off-limits here. Not even the fact that her scumbag baby-daddy had left her halfway through the pregnancy, declaring his newfound dislike of impending fatherhood.

"How did the doctor's go?" she asked.

"I'm still naughty. I half expected him to bend me over the treatment bed and give me a good spanking."

"You should have taken him up on it."

"Jenny!" I gasped, trying to cover the ears of the child in my arms, missing completely and instead getting a palmful of snot. I wiped it down my trouser leg—it made little difference by this point—while Jenny moved back to the laptop she had set up on the kitchen island.

"I threw away your mouldy food, incidentally."

"Thanks."

"Hummus needs to be stored in the fridge. It was still in a bag on top. Since last week! All rotten."

"Oops!" I put the toddler down—Frazer or Felicia, I could never tell them apart, dressed in identical rompers and matching haircuts.

"So," Jenny said.

"Yes?"

"Contracts on the side. Fridge cleared out and restocked. Prescription will be delivered before ten tonight, and I sorted out that HR proposal for the Lambeth site. Kizzy will cover the Ealing site visit on Thursday with Jasper, and Brendan and Dylan Scotland and his team want to move that meeting next week. Anything else I can do for you?"

"No." I shook my head. Perfect. All good. I still felt a little ashamed about the fridge situation. I was better than this. "Jen?"

"Yup?" She was still tapping into her keyboard.

"Can you find someone's number for me?"

"Who?"

"A Mabel Donovan who lives in Newbury."

"Okay." A curious glance. I didn't blame her.

"Not much to go on there. A business contact? Or is this personal?"

"Personal," I admitted, feeling my face start to heat up. Breathe, for heaven's sake. "Jenny, Mabel is a friend, and I want to check in on them."

"Okay…have you googled them? Social media? LinkedIn?"

I grimaced. Jenny sighed and took a seat, dragging her laptop closer. One of the twins claimed a place on her lap. The other one…was chewing my knee. Our weekly face-to-face was playing out the same as usual, exactly how I liked it.

"There's a Mabel Donovan working for Royal Mail in Belfast."

"No."

"Aged seventy from County Down? Just had a birthday?"

"Mabel is around forty and works…" Damn it. I didn't want a therapy session, just a number, but there was no getting around it. "Next door."

"Oh." Jenny's face was a picture, only for a second, though, before she fished her phone out of her pocket and pushed it up to her ear. "You could have said that from the start. I can't mind-read, but I can perform miracles." She winked as the call connected. "Amelia, yes, hi. Jennifer Foster… Yes, brilliant… Look, I have a favour…Yes, I know… No, absolutely no problem. Love that for you. Now, I have a VIP client and need to have a discreet conversation with your Mabel downstairs. Any chance you can give me a number?… Yes, no problem. Fully understood… Yes? Great. You're a star. Brilliant… Absolutely. Bye."

She hung up. Then her phone pinged. She smiled. I knew that smile. And then my phone pinged as well.

"I deserve that raise."

"You do," I agreed, warmth spreading through my body, coupled with fear.

"Do I want to know what this is about?"

"No," I said, fairly certain my face betrayed me.

"It's good to see you smile, Jonny."

I wasn't so sure but deflected by picking up the toddler who was currently untying my shoelaces and smooching an awkward kiss on their head while I shot off a quick text message before I lost my nerve.

Please drop by. Any time. I mean it. Jonny.

"In return for that small favour, I'm going to ask you to babysit next week," Jenny said. "I wouldn't, but yes, I am that desperate."

"You know I never mind. What's the desperation this time?"

"I want to have a glass of wine in a bar on my own. In peace and quiet. Then I want to see Con Telford's new play. I have a friend who will slip me a free ticket. Connections are good, Jonny. You should go out and see a show sometime."

"No, thank you. I much prefer staying right here, in the safety of my home, babysitting your offspring."

"I know you do, which is why I break every professional rule to make you happy."

"I like your rules. And I like babysitting."

"Despite your home being a death trap."

"I barely own anything dangerous. Apart from rotting hummus."

She laughed, and that made me very happy indeed.

"What day?" I asked.

"Thursday I'll drop them at five, fed and ready for bed. You just need to somehow make them fall asleep somewhere, and I'll pick them back up in the morning. Usual thing."

"How many PAs get their insomniac boss to babysit their precious children?" I pretend-grumbled.

"None. But you're just not my boss. You masquerade as a friend after hours—a friend I much appreciate."

It was nice to hear. Sometimes I needed that.