29. Mabel

I n the end, we ordered a takeaway. To hell with eating healthily, and even more to hell with admitting that I was completely out of funds. Broke and irresponsibly pursuing a romance with a man so out of my league it wasn't funny.

I was forty-three and still had zero sense, but…I'd also been offered a criminally lucrative job offer, so lucrative, in fact, that I'd have thought it was a wind-up, but the group of loons I'd met with had made it sound plausible, like they were dealing with someone who one hundred percent wasn't me. I told Jonny all of this over the world's greasiest Chinese meal, eaten out of recyclable paper boxes. We used bamboo sticks that hurt my teeth with every mouthful. I felt sick—sick to my bones with everything that was going on.

"Whoa," he said calmly, in the middle of one of my rants. "Firstly, darling Pickle, let's break this all down. I think…" He put his food down, reached over, and took my hands. "Should you really be here? Should you not be at your mother's bedside?"

"No," I said firmly. "My dad sent me away. We've talked about this for years. He doesn't think I should be there, and he wants to be the one to sit with her. I understand his reasoning, and he's promised to call me. Anyway, the hospice staff are keeping me updated."

"I don't wish to be morbid…" He wasn't. He was actually making me want to cry. I'd never had this—someone who looked after me the way Jonny did. "But I don't want you to have any regrets."

"Trust me, there are none. Dad and I will be fine. We have everything sorted for when the end comes. Mum is never going to get better. She's been gone for years already. We've done our grieving, and when that time comes, we'll celebrate the woman she once was and be glad that she's no longer suffering in a medical bed. Does that sound cruel?"

"No," he said softly. "Not at all. I understand. But if you need to go, if you want me to take you home, stay with you—whatever I can do for you, I will do it. Just say the word. I have my driver on standby to take you anywhere you need to go."

"I have the car." Shit.

"So, next on my agenda…"

He was so lovely, in all his silly ways, wriggling on the sofa and reaching down to pick up his glass of water—the only healthy thing we'd managed to consume so far—I couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, Mr Templar?" I said with a wink because someone had to lift the mood. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear myself.

"You need to accept this job."

"That is a job for someone else. Someone who isn't me. The person they think I am doesn't even exist."

"Smyth and France are the top recruitment firm in the city. Highly reputable and known to use very effective and, dare I say, unconventional methods to get their way. My mother has used them, as have I, and my HR team…well, I'm sure they've already contracted them to find me a new financial controller."

"Was that who you sacked?"

"I know you're changing the subject, but yes, I did. If Smyth and France are offering you a position, you can add a good chunk to their remuneration figure and start negotiating. If there's one thing I know, there will be plenty of wiggle room within that contract. What have they offered in terms of numbers?"

"An insane amount," I whispered. "And while we're talking numbers…"

"Mabel. I will not let you pay rent. Good God, do you honestly think I care? Have you any idea how much you've done for me in the past couple of weeks? It's almost Christmas, the wind is howling outside, I should be struggling through an absolute nervous breakdown by now and waiting for that heart attack my doctor keeps threatening me with, but instead…"

He leaned over and kissed me, and kept kissing me, touching me.

I wasn't a hugger. Ha bloody ha. I was right there, in his arms, my face in his shirt.

"I feel so alive, Pickle, that it's actually hard to deal with. Did I tell you I came out to a client today? Just said it while he was talking about his family, and I had to wonder—who am I, and what have you done with the old Jonathan Templar?"

I smiled into the cotton fabric, a button digging into my cheek and no doubt leaving an imprint as I pressed myself harder against him. It felt right, being here like this, his hands in my hair, his lips against the top of my head.

"I know what you mean," I said. "I've never felt like myself around people I've dated. I've always tried to be who they want me to be. It's exhausting enough at work, having to constantly cater to what other people need, never mind having to do that in private too, become someone I'm not. But from the first time I met you, you saw me for me. I appreciate that, and here I am. I feel like myself—truly like myself. Like I've broken free of something and now I'm Mabel Donovan and…okay. Confession time. I have the grand total of fifty-eight pence in my bank account, and I can't even pay the ULEZ charge for the car that's parked downstairs. I'll get a fine, and I can't pay that either. And now those idiots want to pay me more money than I've ever seen for a job that I am in no way—"

"Shush. You are. Do you know what my mother said when I told her about you?"

"Is this her doing?"

"God no. If there's anything my mother detests, it's undeserving people being given things they haven't fought for. Not that she thinks you're undeserving, but she would rather kick the ladder from underneath you than give you a hand up. People should work for their successes, she's always said, and let me tell you, I had to work for mine. I wasn't just handed this job on a silver platter. So no, this has nothing to do with her, but she did get her people to do some digging on you."

"Her people."

"My mother runs fourteen charitable foundations, sits on the Olympic Committee, the British Athletic Association's board and several other organisations. She's incredibly well-connected and likes to know who she's dealing with. But, to return to my point—do you know what she said about you?"

"No?"

"She said you were working well below your qualifications, and whoever was holding you ransom down at that insignificant restaurant needed a kick up the backside. She fully approves of you, by the way. That, my Pickle, should tell you a lot, because Mother does not dish out compliments unless they're deserved."

"Okay," I said quietly. That was a lot to take in.

"As for that Mark of yours…"

"He's a dick."

"Yes. Probably. But he's also your friend."

"I still need to figure that one out."

"I think you already have."

I had to kiss him. I'd really needed this pep talk.

"So, I was thinking," he continued, "your income flow is temporarily at a halt, so I can fill that gap for you. I propose that I give you a small amount of money weekly so you can pay your way, fill up your car. Then, once you get your first paycheck, you pay me back. We'll set it all down on paper, a formal arrangement. Would that be agreeable?"

"A loan."

"A loan, Pickle. One you need right now."

"Absolutely not. I'll have to figure something out." I would. I had to.

"Darling, do you have any idea how much money I've shelled out on sleep therapy and private physicians and holistic treatments just so I can function? It didn't help. Not one bit. Then you swan into my life, and I suddenly feel like a different person. A new person. I think I can safely pay you some money and not lose any sleep over it. Pun intended."

"Jonny." Laughter. I loved that.

"And anyway, you have enough on your mind. You're in the middle of moving house, so to speak, and you need your car so you can go support your father. You also have your group to run tomorrow night, and you said something about a fitting? There's no time for you to go figure anything out. Trust me. I understand these things, and so do you."

Fuck. He was right. I had all that. And I still needed to ring Mark back and give him more grief. Ask the right questions. The ones I'd never known to ask before now.

"We should go through this contract of yours at some point too," Jonny added. "I'd like to give you a crash course in contract negotiation in case you haven't done this before."

"That's above and beyond—"

"No, it's not. I have your back, Mabel. Just like you've had mine. You always have my back."

"Okay," I said weakly. "I hate it, but I have no choice. However right you are, I don't want you to spend money on me. Not like that."

"A loan . An official one. Then you keep moving your stuff in here, and we take every day as it comes. By the way, I have my office Christmas party next week, and I'd really like you to be there. Just an hour of your time so I can show you off. Please. I really want to. And while we're on the subject of Christmas, we're going to Jenny's for lunch on Boxing Day—"

"Bossy much?"

"Or should I say, I am going to Jenny's for lunch on Boxing Day because that's what I always do. I bring dessert."

"In that case, we bring dessert, but don't think I didn't notice you changing the subject."

"So much to discuss," he said airily. "My parents want us to eat at the club on Christmas Day. I hate that club, so I said no, and…I was wondering if we could have them over here, perhaps invite your dad?"

"You want to put Emilija Templar in the same room as Francis Donovan and have Christmas dinner?" I wanted to shriek, WTF, Jonny? But I kept my cool.

"Yes." He grinned. "Why not? I'm sure it would be totally catastrophic, but hey, it's Christmas. I've never had a Christmas where I wasn't miserable and alone, so I want this. I want a tree, decorations, turkey with all the trimmings." He lifted my face, smiling warmly as he looked me in the eyes. "I want this life. The one we're building here."

"I want that too." I didn't even have to think about that one. "That's a lot of stuff to sort out. Do you even own decorations? And food shopping, present shopping…"

"Jenny has all the gifts in hand, including her own. She has a budget for that. All she'll need from you is…"

"What?"

He smiled, letting his finger tap against my nose. "That you continue to make me happy. Leave the rest to her. You don't have to worry about a thing."

"I'm not sure I can do that."

"Then get her a bottle of wine or something."

"With your money?"

"With your loan. I'll get Jenny to pick up something for your dad too. Family is everything. I've never really had much of one, but this year, I have people to care for. My very own family."

I didn't know what to say to that. He looked so happy, so excited, like a small child discovering a magic gift. I suppose that was what was happening here because I felt it too. A warmth in my stomach. A new kind of calm.

I was a therapist. I'd spent my entire adulthood giving others life advice. Yet it had taken me until now to figure out what made me happy. Where I needed to be. I was broke. Jobless. My mother was losing her fight to live. I should have been distraught, yet I wasn't. I was strong. Defiant.

The happiest I'd ever been.

"Are you still with me, Pickle?"

"Yes?"

"Enough serious talk. We've eaten. I need a shower. And after that, do you think you could…try out some of that…stuff…on me?"

"You want me to…" I had to shake myself out of the weird place where I'd mentally landed. Rolling back my shoulders, I let my voice slide down to a drawling whisper. "Play with your arse, baby?"

He just stared me down, something that made me…

Oh God. The things he made me feel.

"No, Mabel. I want you to fuck me. Hard. Push me, don't let me chicken out. I want you to do all those things to me—the ones you told me turned you on. And I want to want it. Beg for it. I need it. Fuck me, Mabel. Properly."

"Well, fuck me, Mr Templar. Where did all that come from?"

"As I said, we have enough on our minds, and we need to de-stress. Relax. You and me. I want it all, so let's jump off another cliff."

"A cliff."

"Yes. Together."

"Okay."

"Good. Then get in the shower, Mabel."

Well. Who was I to argue with that?