14. Mabel

" Y ou're an absolute fool," my father said, banging his fist on the tabletop.

I'd received a message from an unknown number and swiftly deleted it. Some creep, no doubt. The wrong number. What did I know?

The stupid thing was that now I was stewing over a weird feeling that it had been Jonny. Yes. I agreed with my father. I was a fool. I hadn't even opened it, just stabbed away at my phone, deleting all the spam that littered my messaging inbox. I didn't do social media. I only used WhatsApp for select family and friends. My phone was usually a black box of static dust, a handy device for communication, nothing else.

"Some nice man looks after you and you don't even ring him back to say thank you? If I were him, I'd be filling you inbox with rude texts night and day. I taught you better, child."

I agreed, and for once, we both nodded. Me smiling guiltily, him picking up a tissue to blow his nose. Anyway, I was just being weird. It had been someone texting the wrong number or a phone scam. No reason for me to feel bad about accidentally being rude to nice people. Nice people who were professional clients from work, and…sometimes I could slap myself.

"You'd better go check on your mother, so I don't give her this dreadful cold."

"Another very good reason why I should stay a few more weeks. Help you so you can rest and get better, instead of sofa surfing around London."

"It's a cold, not a terminal illness, Ma-belle. And you're not staying. You do this every time, hide out here thinking all your problems will just go away. What was it last time? Failing your wine diploma again? That Harry at work getting beaten up, again?"

"Hugo. His name is Hugo, and he never got beaten up again ."

"I hope not. Regardless, you need to get your stuff and move back out into the real world. I have better things to do than sit here watching you mope around."

"What better things?" I got up and flicked the kettle on again. I was still in my pyjamas, despite lunchtime having come and gone, and Mum's carers would be rocking up any minute—the same team that had seen me in this very pyjama set five times a day over the past week. Even I was starting to see the error of my ways.

"My favourite time of day is when my only child rings me in the afternoon to ask what I'm doing. I make notes all day so I have amusing little things to tell you. But you're right here, and I haven't made notes for weeks. Let an old man have his fun."

"You could still make notes."

"Yes. Mabel is still in those filthy pyjamas. They— note this —are starting to smell, and I may be an old age pensioner, but you need to top up the hair dye. I can count at least five different shades of blonde around your roots."

"The shame," I muttered.

"It's awful." Dad was deadly serious. Perhaps a shower was in order. In my parents' dreadful avocado bathroom suite that had originally been built for very small humans. I could barely stand up straight in the shower.

"Ma-belle, Ma-belle, Ma-belle," my father sang. If I thought I was losing it, my father was as nutty as the chocolate spread he was shoving towards me. I'd bought it to cheer myself up. I still hadn't opened the jar. "Take this awful sugary stuff with you when you leave. You said you'd thank that nice man friend of yours? Go see to that and take all the awful food with you. You can borrow the car. Then when he throws you out, you might finally see the light and get yourself back in order."

In order. I sighed. This malfunction was definitely out of order, but I did, reluctantly, have that shower and put on some clothes. I even moisturised my puffy face without looking in the mirror. I couldn't stand the sight of all the grey in my hair, the dark roots and various other signs of shameful neglect. Mark would have been straight on the phone and booked me an appointment with our mutual hairdresser. I would never go there again.

It felt like another divorce, where I suddenly had to consider which of my acquaintances would take Mark's side. Who would take mine? At the end of the day, had we permanently fallen out? Was this the end? Had I misunderstood all his words and been, as I was known to be, overdramatic and weird? I didn't think so.

Dad was right, though. I had to go back, but the whole cutting the apron strings was terrifying. I hated what Mark had made me, or what I'd made me with his help. My hair was a mess. My face was a mess. My clothes were stuffed in bin liners or thrown on the floor. My mother would have had a fit if she saw the state of my room. My bloody life. I was a disgrace.

I actually had several friends I could go visit, all of whom would offer me a sofa for the night and a listening ear for my childish woes. It was just…I'd done that in my twenties. Fully acceptable behaviour in your youth. Sofa-surfing like a loser in your forties wasn't attractive. Malfunctioning or not.

More awkward thoughts pooled in my head. I was tired of feeling sorry for myself, with constantly being a loser. Because I was. I had no idea how to win at life. Get an education? Check. Still hadn't found a better job. Spend all your savings on a different education so you can earn more money? Check. But nobody in their right mind would give the lowlife head waiter a raise, despite Mark's constant promises, and don't even get me started on the living situation.

I was still churning things over as I kissed my mother goodnight and let my dad shut the front door in my face. I'd brought a few things in a bag, with no exact plan for my evening. Again, a younger me might have gone out clubbing, got comfortably drunk and laid. No longer an option. I wasn't a pretty princess twink anymore, and the last time I'd found myself a bed for the night through my weird flirtatious ways…

He'd been a course tutor with a wandering eye and a wife at home—a web of tangled deception that had been the perfect trap for someone like me. I'd fallen for it. Yes, because apparently, it took nothing more than a few words of kindness to get me into bed and…yeah. It wasn't a one-off, and you'd think I'd learnt my lesson, yet here I was again, parking my car and paying for a couple of hours in central London. I didn't know what was wrong with me, spending money like this, but I felt too fragile to deal with public transport, having all this stuff stewing in my head in public. I'd even splashed out on a bunch of flowers at the petrol station under some ludicrous delusion that I could just rock up and apologise for my horrific behaviour.

There was a solution to all that, of course. Not an easy one, but…no. I was not going back to work. Not happening. I'd cut the ties. There'd been no friendly call from HR inviting me in for tea and biscuits to discuss my disciplinary-worthy little stunt. Nor had I received an email demanding my presence to return my ID and uniform and collect my P45.

Had I heard from Mark? Or Finn? Nope, nor anyone else for that matter. Everyone was too busy living out their happily-ever-afters, laughing at poor, deluded Mabel tottering around in heels that were far too high for a middle-aged person to negotiate. For the record, I was wearing sensible loafers, coupled with one of my jumpsuits. The flowing fabric around my legs was complemented by a fitted cardigan under my coat.

Clothes made me feel better about myself. I wondered if that part was another delusion.

I stuck to skulking alongside the walls of the buildings, hoping I could avoid running into anyone I knew, and took the long way around so I didn't pass the staff entrance before I slunk inside Jonny's building, still holding my breath. At least something was going right today, as the guy manning the concierge desk was the same guy as the other night.

"Good evening, Mr Donovan," he said politely. I didn't even bother to correct him. I honestly wasn't in the mood, and the guy was genuinely smiling. "You can go right up. Mr Templar should be in residence."

"Thank you."

My outfit might've been well assembled, but I had no idea what I was actually doing here, apart from bringing an end to a guilt trip by thanking the man who'd cheered me up when I'd needed it the most. That would've been fine if it had been my idea, but I was here because my dad had told me to come. Jonny would probably laugh in my face and dismiss me, and I'd feel like a complete idiot. Again.

"Hey," I called as I stepped out of the lift. The door to his flat was already open like he'd expected me. I supposed there were all sorts of cameras and systems in place in a posh place like this. Automatic entry systems. Not a proper keyhole in sight.

"I'm sorry to barge in. I just wanted to stop by and say…you know. Thank you. For…" I waved my arms, and flower petals took off, swirling in the air. A cheap, half-dead bouquet. Classy. And here he was, looking sharp in his dark business suit. I'd only ever seen him in leisure gear.

"You brought me flowers."

"I did."

"Lovely."

"You can't go wrong with flowers." It sounded like something Mark would've said, and I squirmed inside, trying to figure out how to excuse my sudden appearance and rocked on my non-existent heels.

"Are you back at work, then?" He stepped aside and motioned for me to come in.

"No." Great conversation starter.

I glanced around the apartment. Nothing had changed. It still looked smart and expensive—if you could overlook the tornado of mess covering the floor and sofa—clothes, plastic wrapping, shopping bags, a half-empty yoghurt pot.

"I love what you've done to the place." I circled the dining table.

"If you're looking for a vase, I don't think I own one, but I do own a fine-looking carafe."

"I wouldn't trust me around a carafe."

"I suppose." He was smiling. So was I, standing in the middle of the room, still holding onto my silly flowers. "I tried to leave you a voicemail, but I chickened out."

"I got your text. I think. Didn't recognise the number. Didn't want to assume. I think I deleted it by mistake."

I was rambling. I wanted to shake myself back into who I knew I could be. Smart, sassy, confidence oozing out of my pores. In control. Why was I still standing there with my pathetic petrol station flowers in my hand? He walked off into his office, returning with his phone. as he walked into his office. A second later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

"You have my number now. And I have yours."

"I don't even want to know how you got my number."

It was slightly unhinged how much I enjoyed our banter, the way he motioned for me to resume my place on the sofa, where he joined me shortly after with his now familiar repertoire of coffee in small white cups. He'd also lost the jacket, loosened his tie.

It didn't take long for me to be splayed out like I lived here, having even made myself cosy with the blanket back over my knees. I loved it up here. It was like having my very own London rooftop bar but with comfier seats and less noise. I said so out loud.

"That was my intention when we took on this building project. Having all those things embedded into a place I'd designed to fit my needs, where I could enjoy the city without any of the hassle of having to socialise with other people."

I nodded. He'd mentioned it before, and I got it. I was actually very much the same. I enjoyed the interaction at work, but I preferred peace and quiet at home. Maybe I was just old. Maybe I was still not quite myself. Whoever I was supposed to be.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

I smiled. "This is not a therapy session, but thank you for asking."

"Not a therapy session. So what are we doing here?"

I loved this. The way he didn't play any games. So I decided not to either.

"Jonny, are you queer?"

Seeing a grown man squirm was not a comfortable experience, especially since my words were the cause of him suddenly getting up from the sofa, spilling the dregs of his coffee over his leg as he muttered something under his breath.

"Okay," I said softly. I had training for these kinds of things, and I'd obviously read the room completely wrong. "My apologies. I may have been grasping at straws there."

Silence, other than the light thuds of him pacing up and down, refusing to look at me, then heavy breaths as he leaned on kitchen island worktop, shoulders stooped, eyes closed. Crap. What can of therapy-needing-bullshit had I opened here? I wasn't a psychologist. I was a hobby therapist with a few courses under my belt, licensed to run group sessions.

I got up and walked over, put my hands firmly on his shoulders and turned him around. He'd asked for a hug once, and I'd told him I wasn't a hugger. I did air kisses and friendly slaps on backs. Handshakes. Smiles. I was all about consent when it came to touching other people, the same thing that I appreciated in my own personal space. Had never been an affectionate child.

But he looked so lost, his whole body shaking despite my grip on his arms.

"Jonny? I'm going to hug the shit out of you right now. And to continue this stream of honesty that you and I have going on, I'm not sure why, but I just…" Good grief. Where had all that training gone? Consent or not, I put my arms around his back and pressed my chest against his. That's how you did this, wasn't it? Hugging? Friendly support?

"I'm not much of a hugger either," he mumbled. "Wasn't a requirement at university."

This wasn't a hug. It was some kind of awkward, we're-leaning-against-each-other moment. At least he was talking. So was I.

"I'm not very good at this," I admitted.

"Have you seen me?" I liked that his voice was a little stronger. "I can't even…say it out loud."

"I hear you." I leaned back, putting a little space between us and placed my palms on his chest, the way the heroine did in those movies. Stupid, but it felt right. "I hear you even if you don't say anything. But sometimes it's good to know these things so we don't say the wrong words, insult or offend when we don't mean to."

"I know."

"You don't have to hide with me. I mean, look at me. You know what Mabel is about."

"I barely know you," he said, finally looking at me. Properly.

God, those ice-blue eyes. I had to give myself a good old internal shake again. What the hell was I doing? Jonathan Templar was old enough to be my father. Well, a very young father, maybe.

"How old are you, Jonny?"

"Fifty-one." His hand had found its way to my side and was gently resting somewhere between my shoulder and my neck—a comfortable weight. "Is the age difference a problem?"

"Problem for what?" We were talking in bloody riddles again. "No games, just tell me what you think is happening here."

"Ehhr…" He laughed self-consciously. "I think you asked me if I'd figured out who I am, and in return, I had to admit that I'm over halfway through my life, and no, I still have no idea who I am or what I want."

"There's no time limit on finding out what you need."

"Agreed."

"Age is only a number. And it's not that big an age gap."

"A few years."

"I have friends who are way older. And some much younger."

"Friends."

Either I was reading far too much into this or not following him at all.

We weren't friends. We were traumatised idiots.

"Jonny. Are you after anything other than friendship here? Because if you are, you're doing a fine job of reeling me in. Your flirting is on point."

He let his head fall hard against my shoulder. God, I liked that. I also liked that I was getting to know him…slowly. Direct questioning was great but wouldn't work here. Instead, I laughed. It sounded a little desperate, though I mostly felt calm. Finally, he settled into my awkward embrace.

Maybe not so awkward. It felt okay. Comforting others was one of my better skills, less so comforting myself, but I felt comforted right now, and I had no idea why.

"It's a horrible feeling when you realise you don't fit in with everyone's expectations," he admitted. I nodded against his shoulder. "I never did. I wasn't a popular child, didn't make friends easily. Most of my peers were interested in things I couldn't get a grasp on. Like girls. I never understood it. As I got older, I started to, in a different way. I…" He coughed and lifted his head, meeting my gaze, his hand now at the back of my neck, lightly stroking my skin.

This was when I would normally put an end to the lack of consent issue, open up a wider and more comfortable zone of personal space, because I was Mabel Donovan, and I had rules for these kinds of things. Rules that Jonny Templar was breaking faster than I could recite them. He was still looking at me, at my mouth, a thumb brushing my cheek.

He must have noticed my sudden weariness because he gasped and let go of me completely, stepping sideways away from me. My empty arms fell to my sides.

"Last time we met, you told me that you were a battle I didn't have to fight. What did you mean by that?"

"I don't know," he whispered, shaking his head. "I don't meet many people I want to be close to. But from the moment I saw you, I wanted to know you. I wanted you to smile at me the way you did at everyone else and mean it."

"I do have my charms."

"Mabel, don't turn everything into a joke."

"Then be honest with me."

Incredible. We'd not even finished with our drinks, and we were on the verge of an argument.

"I've had sexual contact with women."

The effort it must have taken to get those words out in the open was no match to the next sentence, which felt as if he'd had to climb down his own throat and yank it out.

"Also limited experience with men. I…preferred the ones I had with males."

"Thank you for sharing that with me."

"In an ideal world…"

"Yes?"

"I would be so much better at this."

I chuckled, and he seemed to relax again, though he was tugging at his loose tie like a schoolboy desperate to get home and out of his uniform.

"I wish I could just be like everyone else," he confessed. "Flirt and talk and get exactly what I want. I can get people to accept multimillion-pound deals that will most probably bankrupt them. I can make a pile of dirt seem like the most attractive investment. But I can't even tell someone that I really like them."

"Oh, Jonny." I sighed. "I know you like me. It's kind of obvious. And before you churn in angst over that little remark, I really like you back. Can't help it. You're charming and cute."

"Cute." He almost rolled his eyes, and it made me grin.

"So what do you see happening here?" I asked. "Actually, come, sit down. We only speak the truth on this sofa of yours."

"Do we now?"

"Well, you started it. Inviting me in and letting me sit here and stew in irrational—"

"If we're going to do this," he began. The tie came off.

"Then what?" I pulled my legs up underneath me, dragged the blanket over my chest. Protection, perhaps. I liked this, being here with him, but I never behaved like this, never felt like this, and self-preservation alarms going off everywhere.

"Do you like whisky?" he asked.

"Only over ice," I purred.

Good grief, Mabel.