27. Mabel

L ife went on the same way it always had, but somehow completely different. I went back home, sorted out my parents, did the shopping, watched TV with my dad and chatted with the carers. I spent hours sitting with my mother, stroking her fragile skin. Her rattled breathing, once a source of dread, now comforted me. It was a sign that everything was stable. This was as good as it was going to get.

"She's lived a good life," Dad said, shuffling in behind me. "She hasn't got long, you know that. There'll come a day when she stops making these noises, and all three of us know that day will be a blessing—the end of the way things are."

"Don't say that, Dad," I snipped out without meant to, but I hated it when he reminded me of the inevitable.

"They've asked to move her again. Take her to the hospice so she can be more comfortable. She still cries out in pain through the night, and the night carer isn't happy. She should be on a morphine drip."

"I agree," I said, hating those words.

"I didn't want to. I want her to be at home."

"I know you do, Dad," I said, wishing I could reach out and comfort him in his distress.

"You and me. It's up to us. Mum… I wish she could tell us what she wants. Some days, I wonder if this is truly what she wanted. Or if I should…"

"Dad." I knew where his thoughts were heading and wouldn't let him go there. "You've been the best husband. Mum loved you to the moon and back. And see? I've had the most brilliant upbringing. The best life, too, because you and Mum…you didn't always know what you were doing, and dealing with me wasn't easy."

"You? You were so easy, Mabel. Remember?"

"What?" I smiled. I couldn't stop smiling because Dad was smiling.

"When you married the idiot. I was so proud of you. So incredibly proud. Then it all went wrong, and guess what? I was even prouder because I didn't raise an idiot. I raised an incredibly smart child who made good choices. And look at you now. Well…maybe you're still a bit of an idiot because I still don't see a contract for a rental or an offer of employment."

"Dad." I sighed, but he just wiped his eye.

"I'm still proud of you. Of everything you've done. And I know when Mother decides that the time is right, you and I can cope with that. We know what to do, don't we?"

I stroked my mother's hand, holding on to her fragile fingers. "We have a plan. Mum wrote everything down."

"She did. And what else, Mabel?"

"She wants us to be happy. Live. Love. And not be twats."

"Not be twats," Dad agreed. "So we'll do what's best."

"Shall I ring the carers? Say that we agree she should go to the hospice?"

"I think that's for the best," Dad said quietly. "Now go make that call and leave me with Mum so I can talk to her. And while you're at it, make me a cup of tea. And I want soup for lunch. Not the tinned stuff. The stuff in pots."

"Pots," I repeated and slipped out the door.

I was still standing by the cold kettle when the phone rang, an unknown number flashing on my screen like a warning bell. I hated those calls. A small ball of anxiety formed in my stomach, as I still hadn't heard about my resignation or had any contact from HR. I needed to make some calls, get my life in order, figure out exactly where I was going from here.

"Hello?" I mumbled into the receiver, almost rolling my eyes in advance of hanging up on some salesperson.

"Mabel Donovan?" A female voice. Professional sounding.

"Yes?" Smarmy AF.

"Jessica Pravath. I got your number from James Christos. I believe you two have met."

"We have indeed." Oh God. Make this stop. I was not in the mood for whatever this was.

"I was hoping we could meet me for a chat, alongside a few colleagues of mine."

"I'm sorry," I croaked out. "Where are you calling from, Ms Pravath? And what is this concerning?"

My head was spinning. Was this about the hospice? The kettle whistled as I clumsily dropped the box of teabags onto the counter. My head was all over the place lately.

This was what love did to you.

"I run the Cleaver Rooms on Bond Street."

"Fabulous," I muttered. I had heard of the Cleaver Rooms—an invitation-only membership place. Roof terrace possibly?

"We've been working with Smyth and France on an exciting new venture. I don't want to give any details over the phone. We would much rather meet in person so we can…discuss."

"Discuss," I repeated like a muppet as my mind swirled. "Smyth and France. The recruitment firm?"

"Exactly," she purred back.

Very exclusive recruitment firm. The kind that finds CEOs for major companies. Big names. Big contracts. I did read the Financial Times , and I was pretty sure…

Shit.

"Are you offering me a job?" I blurted out. So rude.

"Donovan." More purring. I also quite liked the ‘Donovan', and she hadn't misgendered me or asked. It suggested she'd done her research. Impressive. "As I said, I'd rather discuss things in person, but I can tell you this. We've had you on our hit list for a while, but you are notoriously hard to reach. We even sent a team down to dine at your establishment in the hope of enabling a point of contact, but so far, we have failed."

"I see." Good grief. Mabel. Get it together. My professionalism had obviously flown the nest. A few weeks out of a job and I had completely forgotten how to talk to people. "So you would like to meet?"

"Very much."

"And you got my number from?"

"James Christos. The Hawthorne."

"Oh." She'd already said that, hadn't she? "When and where?"

"The Smyth and France head office, Sloane Square, four o'clock."

"Today," I stated. I had meant to question it. Madness.

"Today. We look forward to meeting you, Donovan."

That was it. The line went dead.

James Christos. The day after lunch with Mrs Templar, I'd shot off a message to thank him for the delightful meal and experience at his club, colleague to colleague, because I did actually know how to be polite and professional.

What had she said about sending diners to the Clouds? I had no idea what was going on.

"Have you rung the carers?" my dad called from the hallway. "Mum's in pain again. I think they should come."

"Okay." I stomped around in a circle. It was just gone midday, I hadn't washed my hair, I was still in my pyjamas, and I needed to ring the carers. Now.

"Where's my tea?" And here was my dad, staring at me with the iPad in his hand. "I asked for tea."

I finally got around to making his tea, then I picked up my phone and, as per some insane instinct, rang Mark, because my brain seemed to have missed the memo that we were no longer friends, that this was another big, messy divorce I was handling with quiet dignity and…FUUUUUCK!

"Mabs?" His voice rang through the receiver.

"You need to ring the carers!" my dad once again reminded me, as I plonked a cup in front of him and fled into the living room.

"Mark," I said. "I just had a phone call from Smyth and France."

"Shit!" he hissed.

"Yes, shit." We didn't need more words than that; we both knew the drill here.

"I suppose that means that…I actually have to let you resign."

"I resigned days ago. The fuck, Mark?"

"I never handed it in. You're on unpaid leave. Health issues," he admitted. "Your mum, not you."

"Mark…"

"I was secretly hoping you'd come to your senses and come back."

"Still playing games."

"No, Mabs. Still having your back. Always. Because I really, really wanted you back here. We've always had each other. Always worked together, and this sucks! SUCKS!" He was shouting. Nothing new there. Mark was Mark. I was me.

"Tell me about Smyth and France. Level with me here."

"Mega-exclusive recruitment. Always huge money. Have you got any idea what they're offering?"

"Not a clue." I breathed out in relief that we were actually talking. That he'd taken my call. I needed this. Desperately. Just to hear his voice and relieve some of this awful tension I still carried around. "I still hate you, by the way. Just so you know."

"Of course you do, and I don't blame you. I do engage in some self-reflection, you know. I don't expect miracles. And I honestly, deep down know I've lost you, and that I'll have to live with that. I'm also more than a bit jealous of whatever is next for you. Anyway, Smyth and France is led by Carl France. American-born, wildly successful, married to a woman, past issue with party drugs. Gets exactly what he wants. Has a team of diehard recruiters who will shut down a restaurant in order to get the head chef."

"Oh! They took out Grand Piazza?"

"And Francesca's. Both went down on hygiene issues, to swiftly grab the people they wanted. And now they want you. I would definitely do your research on whatever they're offering, but trust me, they only deal with top-end companies in the hospitality field. Rarely on the catering side. This is unexpected, but…"

"Yes?"

"You already hate me."

"I do."

"You also love me."

I rolled my eyes. "Mark, we're friends. We will always…fucked-uppedly enough, be friends. But what?"

"I'm kind of scared. They've tried to get you before. Twice. Really sneakily tried to get a foot in the door to get you on your own. HR was fuming because they just wouldn't give up trying to get hold of you."

"You…" I really, really did hate him. So bloody much. "You made me change my number?!"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice either full of laughter…or worse…guilt. "I didn't want to lose you."

I was honestly out of words. Totally out of words.

"Then suddenly we had random inspections, and I was crapping myself. Luckily, I once shagged a girl on the inspection board, and we were up to scratch anyway, but Ben almost had a heart attack."

Yes. I remembered it well.

"Mabel? Go to that meeting. Dress to the nines. Give them hell. And whatever they're offering, demand double. Play hardball. You're worth it, Mabel. You are so bloody worth it. There's nobody in this world who deserves it more. Remember that."

I hung up on him. Mid-sentence of whatever, my hands shaking as I rang the carers. I spoke to some woman who tried to give me more information than I could process.

Then I threw myself in the shower, washed my hair, and prayed. I wasn't religious, but if my life had spectacularly fallen apart before, I now felt like I was free-falling into a chasm, no parachute in sight.

Hours later, I had somehow managed to accompany my mother in an ambulance to the hospice, sit through an admission meeting, and then plaster on a face full of make-up in the hospice public toilet. I donned a clean suit and a dark tie to match my heavy eyeliner. My hair was coiffed into a neat, voluminous bob. Red lipstick. I had no idea who I was today, and it showed, so I ripped the tie off and unbuttoned the collar halfway down my chest before tying a shocking pink scarf around my neck. I let the loose ends flow over my shoulder as I parked my car in a shockingly expensive multistorey car park that drained the very last of my funds.

My mind was swirling as I tried to focus, think about interview questions. Was this even an interview? What the hell was I playing at? And what were they playing at?

I was on time, small mercies and all that, as my stiletto heels took the steps up to the plush wooden doors and I tapped the intercom for Smyth and France, Executive Recruitments. Bah.

I was buzzed in, only to break a nail on the door handle. I couldn't even be bothered to add that small disaster to my already crap day, so I plastered a smile on my face as I was led into a boardroom, feeling like I was walking up to the gallows to be hung out to dry in front of an audience.

Overdramatic? Me?

"Donovan." Oh yes, I recognised Jessica Pravath. Society papers. Party photos from openings. Hello! Magazine. A vision of bouncy curls and glamour. Impressive.

"Ms Pravath." I gave her a firm handshake before I was introduced around the room. More handshakes. Names. I was good with names, but half of these people's names I instantly forgot. I hadn't had a job interview for what…twenty-odd years?

"Donovan," one of the men spoke. "We are thrilled to finally have you in the room."

He sounded like this was some kind of Mafia meeting. Thick accent. Big vibes. Next, I'd be forced to marry his daughter or be shot dead on the spot.

"Jane Carter. Mayfair Ltd." The lady had a warm smile as she spoke. "I will start by saying that we have kept an eye on you for a while, following your cellar choices with interest. You have built quite the enviable collection down at the Clouds over the years, and our clients talk. Everyone in this room is trying to compete, and we still seem to have been outsmarted by some of your choices. You buying that entire shipment of Langvoit 2008 Merlot threw us for a loop."

"It was a gamble," I admitted. "But one I couldn't resist. The Merlot, even young, was irresistible."

That bloody Merlot had also scooped all the prizes, and a year later, we'd been flogging it at ￡700 a bottle. The restaurant's profits had gone through the roof. But then, you won some, you lost some. I'd also bought crates of wine that had been a total loss.

"I expect you would like to hear our proposal and what we hope you'll consider."

Someone else. A man in a smart suit. One that looked slightly uncomfortable. Also, red blush on his cheeks. I was making him uncomfortable, and I wasn't sure if it was because I crossed my legs, planting my stiletto heel in his line of sight, or because I leaned over so he could look down my shirt. I wasn't even sure if I was giving him a boner or rampant nausea.

I still milked it, because I was me, and I was winging it.

"Everyone in this room is the owner of a private club. We all have the same issue. We're struggling to compete in the current market. Wine. The bespoke spirits. The non-alcoholic drinks that will wow our clients. Nobody here is interested in serving up Diet Coke, ice and a slice. Are you following me?"

"I, myself, love a Diet Coke on occasion," I drawled, changing my stance to a more upright one. "But I am fully aware of the narrowing luxury market and the need to create an ever-changing option for our discerning guests. We need to surprise and delight from every angle. Our clients are not fools, though. The people who drink good wine?"

I paused as someone else continued my train of thought. "They usually know more about the wines than we do."

"Agreed," I said, changing the way I was sitting. "I am listening."

I was, actually. This was an interesting conversation, one I was honestly thrilled to be a part of. Mark and I talked about things like this all the time, usually over a bottle of wine and our usual wine merchant's list of new offerings.

"Mabel. May I call you Mabel?" Jessica asked. I liked her. Good strong no-bullshit vibes all around her.

"Absolutely." I nodded, crossing my legs the other way. I really wanted to stand up and walk around the table so I could think better, but I remained in place.

"We're starting a new venture. It's been a long time coming, and the building is almost fully renovated. It's a smaller club but will be incredibly exclusive. We're talking about the ultra-rich, ultra-discerning and ultra-discreet. Royalty. Politicians. The top rich list. Also, we will focus on exclusive wines and spirits. Incredible non-alcoholic options. If there will be an exclusive, coveted venue in the British Isles, it will be the Exchange. No address needed. People will aim for one of our memberships, which will be capped at five hundred. Any guests will be strictly vetted by our team."

"Interesting." I'd heard rumours. Years' worth of rumours. I'd never thought it was a viable option. But hey.

"Our investors agreed from the start that we would need a fresh, bold connoisseur to curate our cellar and oversee our investments. Your name was the first to be mentioned."

"Hang on," I interrupted. "I'm a ma?tre d' down at the Clouds. I have no formal qualifications. Are you sure?"

"Here at Smyth and France, we don't do anything on a whim. Mabel, you've been on our books for the past ten years, and this is the first time we've managed to actually meet face-to-face. Your management has kept you tightly guarded and unavailable to us for. Mark Quinton is not a man to be messed with."

Okay. So Jessica was scared of Mark. Interesting. There was a story there.

"What exactly are you offering me?"

"We're aware of your educational history." That was Jane again. I didn't recognise her, but then, my brain could be a black hole. "Which is frankly, impressive. A wide range of skills that make for a well-rounded and highly adaptable individual. I have experienced you in action."

"I'm afraid I can't recall. I meet over a thousand people a week, and—"

"I am fully aware of that, Donovan. I was with my family. Don't worry. As Ms Pravath explained, we have had you fully vetted. Referenced. Background searches completed. We're a very thorough firm and do not make hasty decisions. But this is not just an offer of employment. This deal, if acceptable to you, will come with shareholdings and a very generous remuneration package, complete with travel benefits."

Shit. Again.

"You will be expected to have at least one hundred away-days and purchase directly from your vineyards, building exclusive connections with crates made just for us. We want to be ahead of the game, have our harvests secured in advance. And that work will start now. We're aiming to be fully open in four months and need our cellar stocked…yesterday."

"Months? That's not much time." I was a head waiter with silly hobbies, and now they were asking me to travel the world and secure exclusive deals from vineyard owners? They were nuts. All of them.

"You expect high-end wine producers to allow me—" I started, but Jessica jumped in again.

"Yes, you. You are someone people don't forget in the first place. You will be the main face of the Exchange. The head of our cellars and part of the leadership team. We all have a lot to learn from you. Twenty years of creating one of the most impressive wine lists London has ever seen, working in a chain hotel? It's time to move on, Donovan."

All that fear of jumping, and here I was, about to skydive off the bloody moon.

I could barely breathe as I left the building, getting completely lost in an unfamiliar part of London before finding my car and draining my debit card into the parking machine. I couldn't function. Not at all. I needed Jonny.

My hands were shaking as I got in the car and fished my phone out of my pocket, dialling his number as I tried to get myself under control. I needed to eat. Had I eaten? God. I was as bad as Jonny.

"Hey," he said, making me take another deep, shaky breath.

"Can…" I started. "I'm coming back now. Is that okay?"

"You live here, Pickle," he said quietly. "I love you."

"Okay," I said, hanging up.

Then I burst into tears.