23. Jonathan

S ome days, I wished I had my office team back—days like this when meetings just rolled one into the next, I had too many notes on the table and not enough spoons to deal with everything being thrown my way.

I couldn't even offload on Jenny, because she was knee-deep in dealing with council officials on my behalf and untangling a site accident claim with some lowlife insurance official who looked like he should still have been in nappies and had the literacy of a preschooler.

I'd had enough, yet I soldiered on. The more work I got done and the busier I kept myself, the less time I had to sit and gaze into space, worrying whether I'd get any sleep tonight and pining for my Mabel.

We'd had sex last night, and I should have been preening, showing off this new me—the man who had fulfilling sexual encounters with other human beings.

Did it show on my face?

Had it been good for them? Fulfilling? Or was I being delusional again?

It wasn't something I could ask Jenny…well… I could. Maybe there were some things I should keep private and locked away because this was mine. All mine. Nobody else need be involved.

I made it until just before lunch before my front door opened. Glass walls were a blessing. Electronic keycards and concierges who didn't buzz me to let me know I had a visitor, however, were not.

I was sure I'd told them to do that.

Or had I?

I could smell her even before she'd yanked my office door open and wafted in, in all her elegant glory. My mother, garbed in a smooth, cream-coloured suit with so many pink accessories she resembled a marshmallowy flower arrangement.

What can I say? Mother had a certain…style.

"I'm taking you for lunch," she declared loudly.

Yes, Mother, your son is half-deaf, but I could hear voices at a normal pitch in a quiet environment like this room, where I had curtains and a rug and the sound muted on my computer.

"I'm in the middle of three different meetings and have Jenny on the phone," I said, getting up to air kiss my birth giver.

"And still not wearing trousers, Jonathan? I despair."

My mother despaired a lot.

She patted her carefully coiffed hair, as if my trouser-less state had made it stand on end. "I'll give you half an hour to get spruced up, then I'm leaving, with or without you."

"I'm running a company, Mother. I can't just take lunch on a whim."

"Excuses, excuses. Come on, darling. It's Thursday. French cuisine at the club. You love French cuisine."

Did I? The French themes usually involved bouillabaisse, and I did quite enjoy that, though that was probably another dish I wasn't supposed to eat. I could take or leave the accompanying Champagne.

"Thirty minutes," my mother threatened as she waltzed off to no doubt undertake her usual inspection of my living quarters, which would give her enough conversation topics to see us through lunch, my inability to clean, the state of the bedroom, my clothes on the floor, and the empty fridge usually being top of her list. I was dreading it already.

I retreated back to my office and was midway through trying to rein in my tasks for the day and reschedule my twelve o'clock call with Kopetski when the front door opened again. I was going to kill that doorman. Or perhaps not because here was my Pickle, carrying an enormous armful of bright-orange glittery fabric. They kicked the door shut behind them and arrived in the living area at the same time as my mother exited the bedroom.

Standoff. Much as I was delighted to see Mabel at any time, the fear in my stomach was crippling, but there was also some other feeling threatening to overwhelm me, and for a moment I couldn't define what it was. Then I realised it was happiness, pure and unfettered, coursing through my entire being.

Mabel could hold their own, I was sure, but my mother was terrifying. Walking slowly on her stiletto heels, which for an almost seventy-year-old woman was no mean feat, her mouth in a straight line under that bright-red lipstick. Her fingers, adorned with enough jewellery to buy a small estate, she circled Mabel like they were prey. If I'd been on the receiving end, I'd have turned around and left forever, but not Mabel. No, they kept their shoulders back and tracked my mother's movements with their eyes, the prey turned predator.

I hung up on Jenny, stood up and straightened my shirt, which, since I had no trousers to tuck it into, was ridiculous, as was I. As was this situation.

"I assume you're the person who has been sharing my son's bed," my mother stated.

"Mother!"

She rolled her eyes at me. "Well, it's obvious, Jonathan, and since you don't tell me anything, I have to ask." She returned her attention to Mabel.

They smiled warmly and held out their free hand. "Mabel Donovan."

My mother, always graceful, shook it. "Emilija Templar. How rude of me. I should have introduced myself properly."

"Delighted." This was why I loved them. All that grace and warmth, even towards the sometimes stone-cold specimen of my mother.

"Mabel—a classic name. I like it," she said softly, letting her Eastern European accent shine through. My mother spoke perfect BBC English, but she used her traits to her advantage, intimidation being her forte. "Do put that fabric down—ghastly colour, but I suppose that's what you young people like these days—and let me look at you. Hmm-hmm…very elegant daywear. Pearls, that's what it needs. I have far too many sets—not quite my style, but remind me to bring a selection when I next see you."

I saw Mabel swallow and glance over at me. Help . I could read that, loud and clear, but there was nothing I could do. My mother was unstoppable.

"A blouse like this should never be worn without pearls, and you have just the neck for them."

"I've never been much of a pearl person," they challenged softly. "My budget will often only stretch to hand-me-down costume replicas, but my mother owns some beautiful bracelets. She has good taste."

"Yes, I can see she taught you well. That skirt suits you."

"Thank you."

"Hugs those hips in a flattering way."

"Do you think so?" There was a smile there.

"I do." Trust my mother to use her charms for good. It wouldn't last, though.

"And you and Jonathan?"

Mabel looked to me for guidance on how to respond, but I was utterly useless at this.

"Mother," I whined.

"Jonathan. I spent almost ten years in women's athletics. There is nothing here I haven't come up against before, and you should know me better than to think I have any kind of prejudices. I'm your mother. You need to face up to facts and properly introduce me to your partner."

"Partner?" I hiccupped out in what felt like the start of a panic attack.

"Partner. This lovely…my apologies." She smiled demurely at Mabel. "Pronouns?"

My mother was woke. Always had been. Her worst nightmare was to be thought of as backward and old. She was neither.

"They/them," Mabel replied.

"Thought so. Charming. I like you already. I do hope you're good for my Jonathan. What do you do for a living?"

"Mother, please. Don't you have a lunch to go to?"

"I did, but since my own son can't even put on a pair of trousers, I've changed my mind. Mabel, how do you feel about Champagne?"

No wonder my father played so much golf. My mother was a piece of work.

"A delightful drink for any occasion," Mabel replied coyly, at which my mother howled with laughter.

"Grand Siècle or Noble?"

"Is this a test?" they asked with a slightly mischievous smile. I had to smile too. My mother had no idea who she was playing with.

"I don't rate Lanson as a producer," Mabel continued, "and would choose Laurent Perrier. But I have sampled the Noble, and I must say I was impressed."

"Right answer!" My mother winked, linking her arm with Mabel's. "Jonathan, it seems I've found my lunch date, so go back to work. I will return this delightful, elegant person to your care before dinner. And Jonathan?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Put on some trousers."

And with that, they were both gone, and I was alone again, but not for long.

"One is supposed to be the master of one's own life," my mother was wont to say, but mine felt more like a circus, one in which I was most certainly not the ringmaster. Was it any wonder the concierge team was struggling when I could barely keep track myself? Nevertheless, I was sure I'd been clear about who could be admitted straight to the lift and who should be announced beforehand.

"Jonathan." Kopetski burst in and immediately covered his eyes with his hand. "I almost brought Thomas Wu up. I just met him for a drink to try to change his mind on the architect. I don't like what he's doing, and neither do you."

Seeing as I'd rescheduled our phone meeting, Kopetski had no idea whether I liked what the architect was doing or not.

"Get dressed, Jonathan. I hope you have coffee."

"When do I not have coffee? You know where the machine is."

"This is why we have staff," Kopetski smarmed. "A nice bit of totty to look at and we don't have to make our own drinks. I haven't got much time. Need signatures, and for God's sake, Jonathan, can you ring that Pravish at Lloyds Bank?"

"Jasper. Take a seat," I demanded. Trousers or not, I was done. I'd already spent an hour on the phone with Lloyds this morning, and I actually liked Thomas Wu's choice of architect and the futuristic design of his new headquarters. An exciting project.

"Here?" Kopetski swiped a finger across my incredibly dusty dining table and wiped it on his jacket sleeve. "You need a cleaner, mate," he said, trying to remove the resulting streak of grey dust from his dark suit.

"I'll wipe down the table later. I want to lay out the new site plan for the Brighton project. There are some adjustments we need to discuss, but first…" I gestured for him to sit, and he did so. I took the seat opposite and crossed my bare hairy legs, dangling my socked foot in front of him. I didn't care. I think I'd stopped caring a while back.

My home. My rules.

"Jasper? You're contemptible. You need to take a long, hard look at how you speak to people and the incredibly insensitive things that come out of your mouth on occasion. We don't have totty . For goodness' sake, you're younger than me. Even my father, who has a habit of dropping gaffes like you won't believe, has learned to never, ever use that word. My mother would kill him. Had she still been here, she'd have sacked you in an instant."

"Your mother—" Jasper started, but I held up my hand.

"My mother is still the main shareholder in this company, followed by my father. I may be the CEO, but that's not worth a jot if the shareholders kick up a fuss. You are aware of this, aren't you?"

"Of course." He looked a little flushed. Good.

"Watch your mouth. Treat people with the utmost respect. You represent the company, twenty-four seven."

"I can push that card straight back at you. Get dressed in the morning, Jonny."

"Perhaps I will." I leaned back in my chair, letting my legs spread, mimicking Jasper's way of sitting. Lazy, untidy yet intimidating in a way I really didn't like, but he needed a dose of his own medicine. "It's no business of yours either way. Nor does it impact on others. Your attitude, however—"

He scoffed. "I don't like all these modern ridiculous woke ideas. It's not something a man like me can just take on board, all this queer song and dance. Pronouns. Words you can't even speak out loud for fear of being cancelled. Totty. Girls. Whatever you want to call them, we need to have them at hand."

"A man like you?" I said, keeping my voice low and level. "You're a prejudiced, backward man filled with misogyny and fear, and I'm not doing myself any favours by attempting to educate you, so by all means, go ahead and speak up. See how long it takes for you to get the clap back from others, lose your position in society, your position here. You've already lost all of my respect."

"Bullshit," he barked. "You feel the same, you just don't voice it out loud."

"Jasper, I'm a gay man. I have a partner." I was surprised at the words coming out of my mouth, how naturally they had rolled off my tongue, the anger in me that was quietly distant as I sat up straighter. "And if my bare legs threaten you so much, then perhaps this is long overdue."

His face was now almost fully red with suppressed anger and the urge to retaliate, but I think he was also frightened, and so he should be. I should have done this years ago, but my own fear had held me back.

"Your… difficulty in taking on ‘all this queer song and dance' is irrelevant. I'm telling you that your behaviour is completely unacceptable. Not only towards me, but towards every single person in this company, our clients and our service partners. There are only so many warnings I can place on your file, Jasper, and we have more than filled your quota."

"Has that Kizzy been blabbering again? She should learn to shut her—"

"This is your formal notice that your contract with this company is about to be cancelled, terminating your employment with us."

"You think you can just chuck me out like that? I have the law on my side, Templar. You will be hearing from my solicitor."

"I look forward to conversing with them, because this is the end of the line. Please see yourself out, and before you go, hand me back that keycard."

"Have it!" he yelled and threw the card on the table. A moment later, my front door slammed shut.

Deep breath.

I picked up the keycard, spinning it between my finger and thumb. Funny. I couldn't recall having given it to him and had only said it on a whim.

I suppose I needed to call our law firm, give HR a friendly heads-up. Decide what to do about lunch?

My hands were shaking, but my head, surprisingly still attached, was held high.

I rolled my shoulders, releasing pent-up tension, and looked out over London. A slow rainfall was leaving trails of droplets on the windows, but beyond them, my city was still there, still the same. It was December, almost the end of another year and then the beginning of a new one.

Fresh starts.

I was a gay man. I'd said it out loud now, no going back, and it wasn't as terrifying as I had always felt it would be. In fact, it felt…fantastic.