15. Jonathan

T he anxiety that had been brewing in my chest for days on end seemed to have simply packed up and left, like I'd signed the dotted line, deal sealed.

I knew that wasn't the truth of the spectacle I was inviting in here. I wasn't partner material. I didn't go on dates. The closest thing to partnering I did was when Jenny let me swipe men right and left on her dating profiles for a laugh.

Jenny liked a glass of whisky. We used to share one at the end of each working week, a Friday tradition, but she'd never asked me if I was…gay, not even mentioned anything about my lack of partners and conquests. We'd been two single adults comfortably and somewhat professionally coexisting in a work environment—until Damien-the-super-sperm-prat had entered the equation, impregnated my PA and caused all kinds of errors in our well-functioning routine.

I was good with routine. Less so with my new lack of it.

But this, sitting on the sofa, my arm slung across the backrest, our legs comfortably sharing the space and warmth of my oversized throw…felt right somehow.

A half-drunk bottle of whisky stood on the floor between us, though neither of us was intoxicated in any way. We were just tired and mellow. The way I liked it.

It was not the way I'd planned for this evening to go, but while part of me wanted…I couldn't even bring myself to think about the things I wanted…the other part of me was cruising along at a perfect speed.

One small moment at a time.

"I've got a viewing lined up for a room in a flat share next week," they said. "Single bed, far too small for me, but I have to start somewhere."

"There's no point paying a deposit for somewhere that's not going to work for you."

"Not much choice in central London."

"I hear Newbury is lovely at Christmas." I didn't even have to laugh for them to get the joke, though I did when they banged their forehead into the sofa cushion. I shuffled into a more upright position, my mind spinning with ideas. All bad ones, but honest ones. "I have a proposal."

"Already?"

See why I liked them? This was so easy.

"Cancel the viewing. Come live with me."

"That's enough whisky for you, young man."

"Not so young. And listen, I have a nice big guest room, a huge dining area that I only use to house my collection of dust. It's extensive, my carefully curated work of dust art. I take it very seriously, but I would consider trying to clean up so you could have some space for your sewing. It's a good table."

"Babe."

Now it was me laughing. Babe ?

"Did you just come up with this grand plan right now?"

"Something like that."

"No." They sat up and leaned towards me, tapping my hand. "Firstly, my sewing machine makes a right racket and would shatter that table within a few rounds of stitching boning tunnels onto corsets. I have a metal stand set on wooden slats to take some of the weight off the floor."

"The floor here is marble. You'd be fine."

Perhaps the whisky was helping. I was all warm on the inside. Brave on the outside. I grabbed their hand, held it as they shook their head at me.

"Secondly, you're a millionaire. My monthly rental budget is just under a grand. That'd leave me a few meagre pennies to eat and survive. I can't, under any circumstances, afford a rent in this building. So no. Not happening."

"Do I look like I need rent?"

"Do I look like Julia Roberts?"

"Loved that film. And no. I'm not Richard Gere."

"So I would live here in return for providing what? Cleaning and blow jobs?"

They had that look again, like they were either testing the water or overstepping the mark and immediately regretting it.

"The whisky has loosened your tongue," I muttered.

"But you still need to answer," they insisted.

"I told you. I'm not someone you have to fight for or with. I'm…you know."

"Easy?" they suggested with a wink. Then they became serious again. "I do know, but we're not going to move in together, and I won't make a very good housewife."

"You would, actually. My mother would be thrilled to take you out for lunch at her club. They do a ladies-of-leisure weekly event, with guest speakers on throwing perfect parties and how to tell if you're being served Prosecco instead of Champagne at cut-price events."

"Thrilling." They smirked. Yeah. I knew.

"You want the truth?" I offered.

"Always."

"I don't sleep."

"I noticed. You look exhausted. All the time."

"It's my normal. I've been like this for a while. Worked too hard, didn't look after myself. I was told to take some time off, and instead I took on two new huge projects and moved house."

"Jonny."

"Yes, I know. I just can't. I worked myself to the bone until I hit the wall, and I'm on three different sleeping tablets that don't make a blind bit of difference. The wall is still there. I try to rest but wake up in a panic if I manage to drift off. I have extreme anxiety from all of this. As soon as the sun starts to go down, I am in an utter state, knowing I have another night ahead of me where I will sit on this sofa in my clothes and panic about the fact that I can't make anything right. I can't…"

"You can't sleep."

"I can't."

"I get that."

"I'm not asking you to live here as someone who is behaving like a creep."

"You are behaving like a creep, but go on."

"I'm comfortable with you. You're just…Mabel. And you could, maybe, if you stayed with me for a bit, maybe you could…"

"I probably could. I still don't quite know what you're asking here. I have a lot of questions."

"I have no expectations, apart that what I need from you is…accountability. Friendship. Support. Companionship of some kind, which will help me learn how to feel better about all of this. I want you to just be you. Sweet and sharp. Keep me on my toes. Get my life back on track."

"So this is one of those Netflix series."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, the fake dating one where they make a deal and then everything goes wrong and someone dies."

"Sounds exhausting."

"I think it might be."

I took a deep breath. I was an honest man, a gentleman, and I stood by my word.

"Confession time," I said. "I don't have Netflix. I don't actually have a TV. Jenny gives me a weekly lowdown on popular shows and films so I can make small talk with clients, pretend I live a normal life when I don't."

"Kind of like a life briefing?" They nodded. "I do that with my staff as well. Give them world topics to pitch or avoid and things to bring up in gentle conversation. I do my homework, like I did with you."

"What did you learn?" I leaned down for the whisky and refilled our glasses.

"If I summarised the Google searches, you come across as a ruthless businessman with far too much money."

"Sounds about right." We clinked our glasses. "I would like to be a little more than that. Much more than that. But this is not…" I had to smile. "A Netflix drama. This is me in a lonely penthouse that I thought would make me happy, begging you to stay so I can see if having someone here would make a difference. If it would make me relax knowing you were here."

"In the guest room?"

"In the guest room. For a couple of weeks. See if it helps. It would be doing me a tremendous favour, and in return, it will at the very least give you a brief reprieve from flat-hunting while we figure out if we're cut out for what this could become, perhaps a more permanent solution if it seems a good long-term arrangement."

"That's a lot of offers. Threats? Promises?"

"A little bit of everything. I'm grumpy, exhausted and done."

"Not done , I hope."

"I haven't attempted to throw myself off the balcony, not yet."

"Good."

There was that look again. The cheeky one, when I knew there was something coming that would once again throw this discussion off course.

"I need some questions answered. A few assurances. I have a couple of stipulations of my own."

"Acceptable terms that I will consider. I'm all ears."

"We're back to where this conversation started, because that's where we need to start if this has any chance of taking off."

"Okay."

"Jonny? Do you in any way identify somewhere on the queer spectrum?"

This time I laughed. It felt surprisingly good to do so.

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "But I think there could be some truth in those hunches of yours."

"Then why me?"

"Because…" Golly, this whisky was good stuff. "I'm not in the habit of connection with people. But…"

"Yes?"

"The more I went for dinner downstairs, the more I was coming for the chance of seeing you rather than for the food. The food's okay."

"Bah. Don't let Chef Ben hear you talk like that. We've won awards, I'll have you know."

"The company was better. Apart from Kurt."

"Kurt is sweet."

"Hmm. Though I do like Tabitha."

"Everyone likes Tabitha. She's great. Very capable."

"Not like you."

"She'll slip into my shoes with ease. People won't even notice I'm gone."

"Don't put yourself down, Pickle."

"Pickle," they muttered.

"I'm still confused about where we're going with this," I said. "I mean, most of the time, things move quickly, don't they? People meet, have a whisky, and wham bam, full-blown sex."

"Then sneak out in the morning," they added.

"Something like that. This feels different. Like we're actually getting somewhere."

"Friendship. Connection. It's nice, isn't it?"

"Is that how you see it?"

"In a way. I don't know where we're going either, and I'm not sure know what I want, but—"

"That hug earlier was lovely," I interrupted.

"Hugs," they said in low seductive voice, "are freely available. I may not be good at them, but if you need them, they're yours."

"Thank you."

This was so nice. And maybe, just maybe…

"Would you please stay the night?"

"In the guest room?"

"Where else would you like to sleep?"

"Well, if I'm going to turn this around, I suggest we start simply."

"With?"

"The bedroom. That plastic comes off the mattress, and we make the bed. Easy first steps. That okay with you?"

I suddenly wasn't so sure.