3. Jonathan

" J ust water, thanks."

The restaurant was unremarkable. Fairly comfortable chairs, tables adorned with standard white tablecloths, funky-looking but functional cutlery and bright table lamps that gave the space a pleasant glow now that the sun had almost set behind the buildings on the riverbank. The place was slowly filling up with early diners, a large group being seated close by, which made the space noisier than I'd have preferred.

The young waiter serving me smiled politely and once again filled my glass with water. He was smartly kitted out in a standard uniform, name badge on his chest, and mumbled something with a smile, then scooted off somewhere, leaving me to sip my water and peruse the menu in front of me. Not quite Michelin-standard fare, but hearty, comforting meals that made my stomach grumble, nonetheless.

The head waiter or owner of some sort, whoever they were, I couldn't quite make it out as they were wearing orange trousers as opposed to the usual wait staff black-and-white attire, was cruising the floor, greeting customers with a blinding smile. They were male, I assumed from the bulging crotch, but with a face that could have graced Hollywood screens on any side of the spectrum, and they were certainly stealing all the limelight. At every table, they paused to chat with the patrons, their words followed by delighted laughter, more smiles and flirtatious winks.

It made me jealous. Here I was stuck with a perfectly satisfactory waiter called Kurt, who was back demanding to take my order, but I didn't want Kurt. I wanted Orange Trouser person because they were far more fascinating, and I was used to getting the best service at every turn. Sitting here in a corner with only Kurt for company, I felt like a poor relative stuck in economy whilst everyone else was getting the first-class treatment.

Spoilt , my mother would have said, but then she was a four-time-gold-medal-winning Olympic athlete before marrying my father, who had swept her off her feet. Literally. She'd been negotiating a sponsorship contract with his new Latvian stadium venture, and he had fallen off a chair in the boardroom, taking her with him in a disgraceful fall. She told the story at dinner parties, every time adding a few more hysterical details. My father would smile smugly in the corner as my mother enthralled and delighted the guests. She may not always have been wealthy, but she was truly rich now, My father still worshipped the ground she walked on, even after a good fifty-odd years of marriage.

Orange Trousers reminded me of her, sharing her graceful skills in a room full of strangers, the warm smile that reeled everyone in and won people over. My mother had never been spoiled, yet I had grown up being exactly that. And I may have been fifty-one, but I still wanted to stomp my feet and demand to be served by the waiter of my choice, which was ridiculous. Still, I was capable of controlling my temper and merely mumbled something about needing a few more minutes to an impatient Kurt.

I was hoping that was the correct response. Unfortunately, and embarrassingly so, my hearing wasn't reliable. Neither were my lipreading skills. A trait of old age, people would have thought, but I was far too young for my hearing to have declined this much this fast.

It was funny how I'd once managed boardrooms full of investors, tricky clients with egos that needed careful massaging, and I hadn't even blinked. Now, in a simple restaurant, I felt fragile, my attire definitely underdressed, my once-strong confidence having packed off and left. In a business suit, I could give off a power vibe—a strength that wasn't really me, not anymore. I had burned myself out, had more health scares than decent meals lately, and lost my ability to function.

I was a fool, thinking I could so easily morph into a man of leisure when I couldn't even make out what the waiter was saying. Once, I'd been strong and in control. These days, I had no idea how to behave or what I wanted or, God help me, what I needed. And here was Orange Trousers, taking one look at me and seemingly reading me like a book.

"What's the matter here then?"

The words could have been patronising, meant unkindly, but there was no smirk or laughter to accompany my sighed response. I was lost, utterly lost, and no penthouse apartment would ever fix all the issues boiling in my head.

I said nothing.

"Ah, one of those days? Well, I hope Kurt has offered you a drink, because by God, you look like you need one. So. Level with me. I'm Mabel. I run this show with that fine specimen of a man over there. That's Mark. Some days, I adore him, other days, I want to throw him into the Thames. I'm sure you know what I mean."

I gulped. What did you reply to an introduction like that? Hi? My name is Jonathan Templar and I was once on the cover of Time magazine, hailed as a genius in the property market, now I'm a wreck, nice to meet you too?

I didn't say that, of course. I just sat there and stared because not only did this Mabel have a good, strong voice, they also made the effort to look at me when talking and shaped their words perfectly. My relief at being able to understand them was immense. On top of that, they were even more interesting close up, so…I stared. Perhaps my eyes even begged. I almost cried in relief when Mabel gently took a seat next to me.

"Templar. Jonathan Templar." I reached out to shake the hand extended to me. A firm handshake that again surprised me. "Mabel. Is that Eastern European?" I continued because I still had some manners, some sense left in that brain of mine. Small talk I could do. Gentle introductions while I got my head together.

"No. Mabel was a personal choice. I love it. My mother agrees that it suits me far better than the name she carelessly scribbled on my birth certificate. But that's a whole different story. You are The Mr Templar, I presume? The one with the big block booking of our conference facilities for the next year, which means I am supposed to treat you like royalty. Just to let you know—Mabel doesn't work like that."

I sighed. Mabel did too.

"So, Mr Templar. You need to eat, because you're paler than Snow White, and that is saying a lot. Any dietary restrictions we, as your new dining venue of choice, should be aware of? Likes or dislikes? Because you've been sat here staring at that menu for longer than I like to see. So. Which one is it? You're extremely picky with your diet and need to ask me a million questions about our ingredients, or—and I bet you I'm right—you're famished and need me to bring you nutrition, preferably the intravenous kind. Not that we provide that kind of service, but I can tell you this. I can have a fresh roll with butter and a bowl of soup on this table within seconds. Which you are most welcome to inhale in a manner of your choice."

Now Mabel laughed, like they thought they were funny, which they kind of were, and during their little rant I had even clocked the name badge. Mabel Donovan. Pronouns They/Them.

"You are right." My voice sounded low and stern, perhaps a bit sterner than I would have liked, but I had a feeling Mabel was my kind of person. Someone I could be straight and frank with. "I'm about to pass out with hunger, but I'm also supposed to be looking after myself better. All I can think of is the largest burger you can produce with all the trimmings, but if I ate that, my cardiologist would stab me with his pen at my appointment next week. I should be watching my cholesterol and eating small, sensible meals. I'm also supposed to stay away from sugar and caffeine."

Okay. Too much information, and now I was coming across as even more of a fool in front of this person that I barely knew. I suspected they weren't supposed to sit at the table with a paying guest, but Mabel Donovan didn't look like a person who played by the book.

"Wild guess here, again, but instead of following those fine, sensible rules, you have spent the day shooting espressos and eating junk?"

"Truth right there." I actually managed to laugh. "The junk was an entire packet of digestive biscuits. Perhaps not a wise choice. I'm sorry, I'm being terribly forward and rude here, but Mabel, please get me fed with something that won't put me in an early grave, and I could kill for a glass of Shiraz."

"Something meaty in a glass to take the edge off those hunger pangs?" They winked. I should have blushed, but I liked this Mabel person.

"Bring it," I said, feeling a little more in control.

"Right back," they said, getting up as smoothly as they had sat down, leaving nothing but a faint smile on my lips.

I was out of my comfort zone, but at the same time, I was rather proud of myself. I liked to think I was a good judge of character; after all, those fine individuals in my leadership team were all handpicked, people I could trust. That was what had saved me in the long run. Where I'd once taken risks and egged my staff on to take even bigger ones, I now surrounded myself with good people who kept me steady and sane. That was the plan, anyway.

Those words in my head made me smile, because here I was, wearing clothing fit for a gym, getting the waiter to order my dinner on a whim instead of ordering like a normal person. I was out, alone, dining in a restaurant. How the mighty had fallen. I didn't miss the life I'd once lived, not at all, but this was a rather silly idea, an overkill in proving to myself that I didn't have to live by all those restrictive rules anymore. It was, in this day and age, perfectly acceptable to portray yourself in any manner.

Of course, my father would have been distressed at the state of me, but he was easily shocked. Detested all the modern age and had once tried to have one of his advisors fired after noticing the man had tattoos. I had luckily caught a whiff of that lawsuit-waiting-to-happen and given my father a stern lecture on diversity in the workplace. As I told him, if an employee had elaborate tattoos, it meant they not only planned ahead but also stuck to a schedule and followed through with projects, however painful those may be. Not at all bad qualities to look for in an employee. He had shaken my hand, agreeing with a smile on his face. That had been back in the time when I had been fierce. These days?

Mabel was back, plates stacked in one hand and a glass of what looked positively mouthwatering carefully balanced between their fingers.

"I didn't bother to bring the bottle, but this particular South African Shiraz will blow your mind. Won three gold awards, and we managed to secure a crate. Now, take a sip and tell me how much you already love me."

It was funny how I was laughing, taking the glass from them with a wink. Ripe fruit scents filled my nostrils as I swirled the wine and watched the trails of liquid run down the inside of the glass before I took a small, careful sip. All those complex flavours hit my tongue, followed by a mellowing at the back of my mouth and a gentle burn.

"Gorgeous," I murmured. "Good choice."

"So, do you love me?" Mabel almost whispered, causing another smile to burst onto my lips. "Trust me," they continued, purring like an oversized kitten, "with me looking after you, we'll have that heart of yours behaving in no time. Our head chef is making you a small starter of pan-fried duck on a bed of early leek and winter apples. It's fresh and tasty, and I think you may find it complements the Shiraz. Ben—he'll come out and meet you later, brilliant bloke, by the way—suggested he make you that burger, but on a light wholegrain roll with smashed avocado and chili relish."

"God." I meant to say good, but I had taken a large gulp of the wine during that speech and was having a small orgasm in my mouth. "Good God, that's lovely."

"No, My name is Mabel, darling. But Good God will do for now. Enjoy your starter, I'll come back and check on you in a minute. Need to go flirt with the rest of this evening's dinner crowd, otherwise they'll get jealous of me giving you all my attention."

I almost expected to be blown a kiss, but instead all I got was a little wave as I picked up the napkin left on the side plate. It would have been placed in my lap at a finer establishment, but I cast aside my lofty expectations in favour of being pleasantly surprised. More than pleasantly surprised as I tucked into the plate in front of me, letting the flavours calm my growling stomach as I ate, not even taking in what was on the plate.