32. Jonathan

" I know what it looks like," I said as Francis Donovan laughed in my face.

The past two weeks had been intense and would have been so even if I hadn't swapped my glass tower for a kitchen table in Newbury. One that came with the man sitting in front of me and his wayward child, darling Pickle, who was currently in a meeting somewhere up in Central London, hopefully signing a contract that would change their life.

I had offered to go along. I'd also offered up Jenny, hoping she could keep things on track, should Mabel need a supportive ear.

"I love Mabel," I continued, despite Francis fiddling with his tablet and acting as if I weren't there. "If it makes them happy that I'm here with you, then here I will be. And anyway, you wanted help with the funeral plans."

"Don't change the subject. I'm talking about the two of you still being here, taking up space in my house! I couldn't even get to my toothbrush this morning for all the crap someone had left on that sink."

I opened my mouth, intending to defend my partner, but Francis waved his hand in my face.

"You're grown-ups. Go back up to the city where you belong. Get yourselves together, and let an old man have some peace and quiet."

I was getting used to him and his ways. The sharp tongue. Francis Donovan was a good man, straight-talking and honest, like Mabel—traits I appreciated more than ever. At the same time, I knew how much he loved having them here, irrespective of how often he shooed us out of his way to prove how well he was coping, told me off for leaving my shoes in the hallway, scolded my bad attempts at making tea or passed comment on my flashy ties.

And, like Mabel, Francis Donovan claimed he wasn't much of a hugger, yet he'd hugged me fiercely and told me I was always welcome here, whatever the time of day or night, because here was home, a place to have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit.

The next minute, he'd told us off for not bringing biscuits.

I did love it here. Small and cramped as it was, it was so incredibly different to anywhere I'd lived, but it was so welcoming, warm. It felt like home.

"What can I do to help with the funeral arrangements?" I persisted softly, but Francis shook his head.

"Trudi didn't want a big affair. She'd been stuck in that room for the past ten years, and you know what people are like. At first, her friends would visit. Then they would call. Then…nothing. I didn't blame them. She was unreliable in her temper and struggled to remember who they were. It wasn't a pleasant experience for anyone, and I would hate for people to feel obliged, especially since the memories… No. We will stick to just us. Me and Mabel. And you, if you want to come."

"Of course I want to come. I want to be there. I never met Trudi, but if I can be of any support to the two of you? Mabel adored their mother."

"We both did. She was one of a kind."

"Mothers usually are," I mused with a smile.

"Now, let's go back to this offer of employment," he said, changing the subject himself. "After the practice run you orchestrated yesterday, I hope they nail it. You're good for them, whatever this…is."

Now it was my turn to laugh. We had role-played scenarios, practised interview questions and I'd drilled them in negotiation skills. Lean forward. Don't let your eyes flicker, ever. Hold stern. Nerves of steel. Iron rod up your backside.

Mabel was good. I had no worries about them nailing this. But I was worried that their dad was still suspicious of my intent. A father's prerogative, I supposed.

"I can promise you, Francis, there are no ulterior motives here. Sometimes we just fall in love with who we fall in love with."

"And you fell in love with my Mabel. You're a billionaire with a glass penthouse. We live in a council house."

"Worlds apart," I agreed. "But I if you met my mother, you would perhaps see that we're actually not so different after all. We're both loved. We both have parents who, sometimes unconventionally, love and support us. And at the end of the day, we both turned out pretty well, I think."

"Mabel was very happy after that party you took them to."

"The office Christmas party. It was rather dull, I'm afraid. But I did let them take me to Nando's afterward. I had chicken."

"Then you had heartburn for days."

"Yes. Not the best experience, but it made them happy."

"That's all I ask for, Jonathan. Make my Mabel happy."

"I will do my best, sir."

"Oh, stop with the pompous stuff. Now…" He pushed the tablet towards me. "I'm halfway through this Wordle game." "I need help. I'm completely stuck. Now that I don't have the carers coming in, I have nobody to ask."

"I have a Teams meeting in half an hour that I have to prepare for."

"I'll make you a cup of tea, you can prepare after. You haven't had a break since this morning. I can hear you, you know. Getting up at all hours, wandering around the house. And this big computer is taking up all my table."

"I do apologise."

Francis rolled his eyes. "You need to take my Mabel and move back to that glass tower of yours. I hear you have a Christmas tree coming."

"I have indeed."

"We used to have a tree. I think it may be in the loft. Trudi loved Christmas."

"Then maybe we should get that tree down. See if it's still any good?"

"I…" He put his hands on the table, visibly trying to compose himself. "I haven't been up in the loft for years. It was always…you know. Trudi who did things. Got things down. Put things away. And Mabel? They have their own life. I never wanted to burden them."

"If you'd like, I could go take a look. Do you think Trudi would mind?"

They all spoke like Mabel's mum was still right here in the house, called out her name and made each other laugh. It was all part of some long-standing joke that if they didn't, she'd haunt them.

I loved Mabel. I also had great affection for their dad.

And that's how Mabel found us—both sitting on the floor and crying with laughter as we opened boxes and tried, very clumsily and badly, to decorate a Christmas tree.

"We put up the tree," Francis said, holding up a dusty bauble. "For Mum."

"For Mum," Mabel repeated, as stunning as always in their sharp suit with a yellow vintage scarf tied in their hair while I was wearing their pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt I'd found in a bag. It had a picture of some nimble American songstress holding a guitar on the front, was creased to high heaven and far too big for me, not to mention covered in dust, no doubt as was the rest of me. That loft had been a mess.

"Your mum loved Christmas," I offered weakly in defence because we'd brought the mess down with me, and Mabel had vacuumed only yesterday.

"This is very surreal," they said, sitting down in the armchair. Francis got up on his knees to place another bauble on a plastic branch, while I continued to stare at Mabel, hoping they would talk. The tension was pouring off them, because of their interview or the present scenario, it was hard to tell.

"I hope I haven't overstepped," I said.

They smiled and shook their head. "Not at all. Mum and I bought that tree at some garden centre sale, in the middle of summer. It was, like, five pounds or something—ex-display—and it was the most beautiful tree we'd ever seen. I still remember because we brought it home and put it up, just to check that everything was in the box. All the baubles came with it. A total bargain."

"It's still pretty," I said.

"Just a little dusty."

"You'll have to get the hoover out," Francis pitched in, giving them a sideways glance that told me we were thinking the same thing.

Talk, Mabel. Please.

"So," they said.

"Whatever decision you made, you made the right one." Francis.

I wasn't kidding when I said I held great affection for him.

"I think that I am no longer unemployed." They smiled with unease. "Still not sure what I've done, but I signed a lot of paperwork, negotiated a four-day working week with flexible remote working when needed. I also get to oversee recruitment of my staff, and the budget is insane."

"Well done." I finally breathed out. "Good job."

"I still don't understand why they want me. I mean? I'm—"

"Shush," I said, perhaps a little too brusquely, but I hated when they put themselves down. "They chose you because you have all the knowledge, all the skills and a nose for the perfect glass of Shiraz. Trust me. I know these things."

"Speaking from experience?" Francis gruffed. "Never understood these wines. Give me a nice pale ale, and I'm a happy man. Better still, a cup of tea."

"Has Jonny not made you a tea, Dad?"

"Need to get the carers back in, Mabel. Not only does he make a weak tea, he's completely useless at Wordle. Not sure how I'll cope when you two leave."

He grimaced. I smiled.

"I booked the flowers," he continued. "Crematorium, two o'clock on Friday. All good. And afterwards, we come back here and have fish and chips. That's the deal."

"That's perfect."

I liked the way the Donovans dealt with everything. Nothing over the top, no worries, and no stress. Not even when the medical team had come to remove Mrs Donovan's hospital bed, nor when Mabel had cleared out the last of their mother's clothes and packed them neatly away for disposal. There was nothing left they wanted to keep, apart from a few dresses that they'd carefully put aside and a box of jewellery.

A whole life. Yet there was so little left.

"I've decided to bring the ashes back here, just for a while. I don't think I'm ready to let go yet. Is that all right with everyone?"

Like I was now part of this.

"She'd be fine with that, Dad. Being back home with you again. Do whatever you think is best." Mabel raised an eyebrow at me, to see what I thought.

Incredible. I'd always been alone. Now I wasn't. I didn't even feel alone when I was on my own anymore, because I'd realised a few things recently, the most important being that my life wasn't as narrow as I'd believed it to be. These days, I was kicking down walls. Letting things in. Letting people in. Jumping off cliffs.

It felt…fantastic.

"You look tired," I said later, when we were standing in the kitchen, just the two of us, me trying to wash dust off my hands, Mabel dunking teabags into cups. I never drank tea. Apart from in Newbury apparently, where sleek espresso machines didn't exist and mismatched old teacups did.

"I'll sleep tonight. With you."

Sleep. What a peculiar concept that was. I'd spent the last weeks sharing a single bed with a human being with impossibly long legs, and I'd slept like a tot.

How life worked was a mystery to me.

Friday came, and we were picked up by the undertaker's and driven to a small crematorium. No flowers other than a bouquet of pale yellow roses clutched in Mabel's clenched fist.

"You okay?" I whispered, knowing they weren't. Where they'd started the morning in a black suit, they were now dressed in a flowing yellow dress. I fully approved. This was not a day for a suit, and I was starting to read their moods. Indeed, I could almost tell what they would be wearing before they picked it out. The yellow dress was gorgeous on them, contrasting with black boots to insulate against the cold: it was mid-afternoon, yet a thin layer of frost clung to the ground.

As we turned up towards the building, we were blocked in by cars, people, everywhere, which gave me a taste of the old Jonathan, getting out of the car and demanding answers. We had a funeral to attend, and…

"Mr Templar?" The funeral director approached me, a young woman with a nervous handshake. "I'm so sorry. It seems we have attracted a bit of a crowd. I know Mabel said it was only the immediate family, but there was a Facebook post, and then it got mentioned on the local radio. People were asked to ring in and tell stories, share memories. Turns out a lot of people had their wedding dresses made by Trudi Donovan and…"

"What's all this about?" Francis arrived beside me, looking frazzled.

"These are all people who had their wedding dresses made by Mum?" Mabel gasped, grasping on to my arm.

"Apparently so," the funeral director said. "It was a lovely section of the show, people remembering sharing how their weddings made them feel, wearing those dresses. There were mentions of you as well, Francis."

This was all becoming a bit much, even for me.

"Jonathan!"

My mother, dressed to the nines, was heading straight for us. Air kisses. A small tap on Mabel's shoulder.

"What a terrible commotion, but your mother must have been much loved."

"Mother," I warned.

"Oh, shush. I'm here for Mabel, not you. And I'm sure Mrs Donovan would appreciate a good send-off. Father is just parking the car. You would think with all the space out here, they would plan better."

Mabel looked pale. Poor Francis swallowed loudly.

"And anyway, we're family now. I hear you're coming for Christmas dinner, Francis? I'm Emilija. A pleasure."

I wasn't sure Francis found it a pleasure, but we could confer later, as we were being ushered inside, me grasping on to Mabel as hard as they grasped on to me.

A group of people were already in there and greeted Mabel warmly. Kisses. Hugs. Not a hugger, eh? How things had changed. I loved this Mabel, though. Warmth. Tears. Love.

We found our seats, and someone, who introduced himself as Bruce but looked remarkably like my mother, took a seat next to Francis, grasped his hand, passed him a tissue.

Love. Friendship. Family. So much of it I could barely breathe.

As Trudi had wanted, it was only a short service, yet it was packed with people there to honour the woman who had made hundreds of women feel their best on the most important day of their lives.

I wondered if it was another awakening.

I held it together, but it was a struggle. Too many emotions. And the rain. Everything was wet and cold, yet there was so much warmth around me—the way other families worked, the way mine did. Different, but the outcome was the same. My parents were not perfect. But they were there because they loved me.

In the evening, we sat around an old-fashioned kitchen table, in a house that was far too small, but we were all there. Me with Mabel's hand in mine, them leaning their head against my shoulder.

"You know," they said. "It was unexpected, but when I sat there, surrounded by all those people, I thought…maybe Mum deserved this. All those people who remembered who she'd once been. It felt right to celebrate that."

Rickety mismatched chairs, odd cups filled with tea, my parents seemingly fully at ease, even my father, who would no doubt have received a stern brief from my mother beforehand. He'd even kissed Mabel's cheek, taken their hand, offered polite and gentle condolences.

"She was amazing with customers, my Trudi," Francis said. "Always made them feel at ease, complimenting them and doing all that talk, the same as Mabel does. They learned from their mother. It's a real skill, making people feel comfortable and special."

"She was brilliant," Mabel said. "I'm so happy that this day is over. It hurt, awfully so, but I'm glad about how things turned out. Glad we didn't do this on our own, Dad."

"Like we would have let you do this on your own. Mabel, darling," my mother said. "We're all family now, and we look after one another, especially in times like this."

"It's been a nice distraction," Francis said, always bluntly frank, and raised his teacup to my mother. "To new friends."

"It's Mrs Donovan's day. We toast in tea," my mother said gently, not missing a beat.

"A whisky would have been the thing," my father chipped in.

I sighed.

"I have a bottle of Teacher's stashed somewhere," Francis said and promptly got up and found a bottle. They were ridiculous. We all were.

And in a strange moment of clarity, I realised none of it mattered, because happiness comes in many shapes and forms. I'd just been late to the party.