2. Mabel

I suppose it all started the day my bedroom ceiling caved in on me, like a rebirth of some sort. Overdramatic much? But yes, story of my life. I'd woken up in bed in my rented flat with foul-smelling liquid dripping on my face like I'd been carted off in my sleep to some dingy, unrecognisable location, to be waterboarded until I spilled everything I knew. Nightmare. It truly had been. With a cherry on top.

I'd panicked, because who in that situation wouldn't have? God only knew what grime was coming through the ceiling, and my Greek neighbours were arguing again while I stood there trying to clean my face. Then the walls had trembled, and suddenly I no longer had a ceiling above my bed. What had once been my comfortable mattress was now drenched in a generous pouring of putrid brown goo. Cue me, ten minutes later, shouting obscenities at our useless landlord slash caretaker slash local drug dealer, a kid with a late-night gaming habit and no idea how to run a small block of flats. I was still in my pyjamas—I got cold at night since the heating here had never worked, not that that was important right now, because I clearly wouldn't be sleeping there tonight, and the fact remained that I needed to get my arse in gear and find a new place to rent.

I couldn't stay, that had been absolutely certain. Not that I had much to show for my life in the bedsit I'd called home for the last couple of years, but what I did own was valuable enough that I'd spent an hour this morning wrapping everything up as well as I could, just in case the entire building collapsed while I was at work.

I had nowhere to go, which again, was my fault. I should have been looking for a better place to live instead of putting up with what I had. This goddamn flat had black mould and a vermin problem, and the walls were paper thin. With a little help from Duolingo, I could probably join in the neighbours' constant slanging matches. I'd have banged on the walls and shouted at them, but it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference. Most nights, I was so exhausted my head barely hit the pillow before I was asleep. Other nights, I stayed up late working on my projects while my headphones drowned out the noise around me.

I wasn't happy. This flat of mine wasn't a home. It was a convenient pitstop on my road to a life where I lived happily ever after. You can all laugh now. Like that would ever happen.

The crux of the matter was I'd ended up being seriously late for work since showering was an absolute necessity, and then I'd had to patch up my face before I rolled into the mid-lunch service to snide remarks and evil stares from my team.

They'd managed fine without me, but I got it. My bad. I hated when people were late, and I was never late, and yes, I hadn't looked my best, not by a mile. My hair was matted and clumsily sprayed into place. I'd shaved and moisturised, but my skin was patchy and my pale eyelashes framed bloodshot eyes. I could have housed a family of four on the bags underneath them. I was also clearly not on the ball, wearing mismatched bright- orange high-waisted trousers with a white long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan that had seen better days. At least I was clean and smelling of roses. Well, perhaps not roses, more like Gucci perfume, but I'd managed to present myself as non-offensively as I could under the circumstances.

On a normal day, I would have done my make-up on the Tube, but that took a certain level of brassy attitude and could invite abuse that my already fragile mind wouldn't be able to deal with today. On a normal day, just being me seemed to make people think I welcomed their comments and stares, their hushed whispers and laughter that I knew were directed at the way I presented myself.

Some days, I would dress predominantly male, wearing sharp shirts and tailored trousers; other days, my head would be in a different space and my legs would crave the flow of fabric, my hips swaying gently to pull off a more feminine look. It never bothered me either way. I just dressed the way I did, and the people who knew me had to learn to live with it. Today, with the added stress of the safety of my belongings, the lack of a bed—there was no way I would ever be able to sleep in that bed again—and the fact that I was now homeless meant I hadn't been paying much attention when I'd dressed this morning.

Told you. Overdramatic. I was fairly sure my meagre home insurance would cover some of the costs, if they ever paid up, and the London property market was full of rat-infested hovels like the one that had caved in on me this morning. I just didn't want it. I didn't want my old life. Didn't want to continue on like this. The sheer thought of the paperwork involved in an insurance claim already brought the taste of bile to my mouth.

I was slightly rattled by my appearance since I rarely came to work looking anything but perfect, even though perfection wasn't an option today. I plonked my arse down on the chair in the restaurant office, the place that felt more like home than the four walls I had left behind, the surroundings that had always brought me calm. I belonged here. I always had. But where my home-sweet-homely relationship with my place of employment had always brought me happiness, this, alongside the rest of my life, seemed to be falling apart at the seams.

I stayed well beyond my scheduled working hours, trying to make up for my late arrival and sort out the mess left behind from our lunch service to hopefully land myself in the good books of the evening shift. Well, mostly with Mark. Because Mark…oh, and yes. Here he was, stomping into the small office we shared looking like thunder personified.

I'd read somewhere that you could read people's faces, see right into their souls by just staring into their eyes. I was staring all right, but the guy in front of me…

Ugh.

"The fuck, Mabs?"

Mark Quinton. Restauranteur extraordinaire according to his latest business card. Award-winning in his trade. Hair swept into a perfectly messy quiff, albeit shorter than I would have liked, face covered in neatly trimmed scruff and a stern scowl that made me shrink back. Not that I had any say in his appearance. Not anymore. Mark was handsome and sleek and today poured into some kind of shiny floral suit combo that made my eyes sting.

"Things happened. At least I'm here," I hissed, staring at him with what felt like fire in my eyes.

There had once been a time when I would have laid my life on the line for the man who pulled up a stool and sat himself in front of me, reaching out to grab my hand from the desk. I pulled away. I had no interest in getting dragged into one of Mark's pity parties of guilt. I might once have been hopelessly besotted with him, but his charms no longer worked on me.

"Mabs, you look a mess. Dishevelled."

"No shit, babe," I gritted out through clenched teeth.

I wasn't sure what was wrong with me. I was never normally like this. I was always happy and jolly and running this freak show like the well-oiled circus it was. And yes, you can positively laugh now. I had spent the last decade catering to Mark Quinton's every whim, and that had made me happy.

But it didn't make me happy anymore, and that little realisation had made me more irritable and bitchier than I'd ever been. I snapped at his every word. I ignored his calls. I turned up late for work, albeit with good reason. I refused to stand in for him when he missed a shift and had left the monthly accountancy spreadsheet well alone. It was still on this desk, and I was not going to cover for him. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

I had been enthralled with Mark Quinton for most of my adult life, and I had no idea why suddenly I wasn't, but as he sat there staring at me, all I wanted to do was scream.

"As I told you in that longwinded, detailed text I sent to your phone earlier, my ceiling caved in this morning. My belongings—no— my life , Mark, is covered in sewage, and I no longer have a home. No roof over my head. Kind of major. So don't give me those the fuck, Mabs lines. It was a couple of hours, and we had a duty manager here anyway. Nothing they shouldn't have been able to handle."

"We were fully booked," he hissed. I almost laughed.

"You haven't taken in a word I just said, have you?"

"There is always drama with you, Mabs. You know, you could have just come over. You are always welcome to stay at ours."

"Ours? Yeah. Thanks, mate. Like I would want to come stay on your sofa and spend every night listening to you fuck my ex-husband. I'd rather stick needles in my eyeballs, thank you very much."

I was being a bitch.

Mark sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. "You are such a child."

"And you always have to take a stab…" I couldn't continue. This was ludicrous. As always. "And you never listen to what I'm actually saying."

"Sorry. I know I'm hard work."

I couldn't tell you how many times we'd had this conversation.

"I can't do this anymore, Mark. I'm wrung out and exhausted. I have nothing left here. Nothing to give, nothing to gain. Tell me. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"I know," he said quietly, and for a moment, my heart bled for him. Because he did this every time. Looked at me with so much kindness that I just wanted to hug him.

All part of his usual charade of guilt tripping me into adoring his spoilt, childish arse again.

I snapped out of it pretty damn fast, impressing myself with sitting up straight.

"Don't you dare pull that one on me today. I have enough going on at home."

"Bullshit, Mabs. Have you suddenly forgotten that I know you better than I know myself? You're pissed off with me, and I have no idea what I've done. You've been moping around here like the world is against you for weeks now, and when I try to take you out to cheer you up, you bloody ignore me and give me some pathetic excuse about staying in and washing your hair or something. Whatever I say to you, you snap at me. Nobody can get through to you, and it's starting to piss me off."

No shit, Sherlock. I couldn't even get through to myself. I had no idea what had become of me and all my grand ideas, because I was hitting forty-three in a couple of months' time, and Mark was right about one thing. I wanted to set the world on fire and watch it burn because my life had turned out nothing like the grandiose plans of my youth, all of which had conveniently included Mark, and now I wanted nothing more than for him to get out of my sight. Which was tricky since we shared this small back office and still had to work together.

"I need you to work tonight. That new Roz girl just called in sick. Since you were four hours late this morning—four hours!—covering the dinner service should be no issue for you."

He was such an arsehole.

"Mark, my bedroom is currently missing a ceiling! I have better things to do than cover for your new employees just so you can smooch around the front desk and stare at your husband-to-be."

I was being mean, but mean was what I felt. Mark glared at me furiously and said nothing.

I backpedalled in disgust at my own rudeness.

"Sorry, babe. I can't deal right now. Too much going on. I have to find a new place to live and figure out what to do with my life. I'm too old for all this."

I sank into the office chair with a sigh.

"I don't blame you," he said, surprisingly calm, but that was what friendship did to you. We could fire off at each other, one minute shooting bullets of anger without a second thought, only to sit back and laugh at ourselves the next minute. "If I had to put up with me like you do, I would be checking myself into rehab on a weekly basis. You know I love you. Always."

"That's the problem." I gave a small, nervous giggle. We didn't like talking about it and danced a constant, careful minuet around the elephant in the room. This was nothing new. He knew. I knew. There would never be a happy ending.

"You should take some time off. We could find someone to cover for you."

"Mark, we barely have enough staff as it is, and the ones we employ call in sick the next shift. You wouldn't survive a day without me whipping your arse and running around putting out all your stupid fires."

I was trying to make it into a joke, but it was falling flatter than the flatbreads cooking in the kitchen. I could smell them. It was Tuesday, and there was always a wrap special on our menu on a Tuesday. Predictable and dull despite the restaurant concept we were trying to sell. At least, I was trying to sell it. Mark was bending over backwards at any suggestion of change these days. His mind was elsewhere, and I didn't blame him. Actually, I did. I forced the feeling back down, though, and instead tried to figure out where on earth I was supposed to go from here.

Let me backtrack, fill you in with all the finer details of the pathetic life of Mabel Donovan, aged 42⒈／⒉ (and a bit more). Pronouns they/them. Divorcee, now happily single and unattached.

Lies. All Lies. I was narrating my life in my head like some deranged Bridget Jones. I didn't drink, smoke or do drugs. I ate well. Looked after the body I'd been given. I was no gym bunny, but working in the insane restaurant world had me on my feet twenty-four seven, running around solving small catastrophes like they were mere ripples in the sand. Also? My ex-husband was marrying my best friend.

I rewound my little narration in my head as Mark stared at his hands. That sentence about me taking time off? He didn't mean it. Mark needed me like a fish needs water. Not in a good way. Mark was a praise-vampire whose ego needed constant feeding, and that had always been my job, a job that I had done so well that he was now trembling at the sheer thought of me taking some time off and leaving him to run this place on his own even though he'd suggested it.

"Babe, I haven't had a holiday in years. Perhaps I should go to the south of France. Sit on a beach and drink Champagne. I might even meet some rich man who would treat me like royalty."

The words stung, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Whoever you meet will be the luckiest man on earth. You should go."

Well, that was unexpected. These kinds of outbursts were usually followed by him begging me not to leave him alone.

"I might. Take a couple of months away from all this and try to figure out what I want to do with my life. I was looking at university courses the other day. I might go back and finish another degree. I mean, some of my qualifications are probably outdated by now, but it would be fun. Finally do my master's?"

"Like, leave permanently?"

That was the Mark I knew and loved, a tiny tremble in his voice and a panic-stricken look in his eyes. We played each other like finely tuned violins, and in my head I'd always seen it as a healthy, balanced relationship. But it wasn't. Not anymore. Probably never had been.

"I better go get those dinner menus printed then, seeing as I have four hours to make up." I huffed, flicking my hair with what I hoped came across as nonchalance. I'd already given in to his demands because I always did. I was weak and stupid. Always and forever under his spell.

And I hated myself for giving in so easily, letting him get his way once again. I wondered how I had sunk this low. Because I didn't want this. I never had.