8. Mabel

I t wasn't the first time a guest had developed some kind of inappropriate obsession with me, and it was extremely uncomfortable. I was at work. I was professional, there to see to their comfort and culinary needs. I wasn't there to be treated as, God forbid, a potential hook-up.

I'd sworn off those years ago. It wasn't worth the hassle of the inevitable shitstorm that would follow. I was too easily swayed; my heart would fall in love, and I'd be smitten, only to be swiftly rejected and discarded, leaving my life completely shattered. Been there. Done that. Had the T-shirt, actually. Mark had bought it for me. It said: Unavailable. Heart permanently offline .

Like Mark knew anything.

Mr Jonathan Templar. Handsome, bright, straight-talking in every possible way. He was also honest and kind and looked at me in a way that made me…inappropriate, calling him out like that when I should have been graceful and discreet. I should have moved away and let another waiter take the table, not engaged.

But I had engaged. Because I wanted to. Because I enjoyed my little encounters with Mr Templar and I…yes. I liked the attention. I liked the smiles. I liked the not-so-subtle flirting, and most of all, I liked…

I couldn't even pull myself together and stop thinking about him, which would become a problem if I didn't rein myself in, fast. Nope. Nothing going on there. Nothing at all.

Work was doing my head in, and it was a massive relief to kick off my shoes at the end of this unbearable shift and finally sit down in the back office. Not that I could relax because I had to pull the receipts, back up our system, print tonight's reports and sort out the bleeding tips.

And not think of the drive home. I could drive. I was a good, competent driver, when I was awake. Tonight, I was so tired I just wanted to curl up on the floor right here and fall asleep in this suit, other than the waistband was cutting into my hip.

Another sign I was getting older. My clothes didn't fit like they used to. I'd spent far too much time lately altering waistbands and trimming hems, just to look half decent with my clothes on. With no clothes? My skin wasn't as taut as it used to be. My well-trimmed body hair was getting sparser. My extensive waxing and plucking were becoming obsolete, and I…I didn't look my best. The stress. The worries. The absolute clusterfuck of being me.

I was also getting lazy and spent most of my time at home lounging around in my pyjamas instead of bouncing around the London suburbs trying to find a landlord who wouldn't fleece me out of my entire monthly wage or try to sell me a flat that didn't exist. Or one riddled with mould and vermin like my last one. The London property market was a complete minefield, full of inflated deposits, impossible rents and disgusting scams, and while my father was full of beans, printing out lists of properties I should attempt to view, I couldn't find the enthusiasm to actually do that.

I also had two orders for dresses that I hadn't even started, and my parents' home was too small to even attempt to set up my sewing machine and equipment. On which note, I really needed to make this fitting appointment with Miss Adeline before work.

I was going to be late, again, because public transport wasn't an option when transporting an enormous ballgown. Hence, I was stuck in traffic with said ballgown stuffed into my father's Fiat. Crappy as it was, I secretly loved this little car. The seats were worn, the steering wheel had lost its once-pretty stitching and was now a mess of faux-leather straps and scratched plastic, but the engine still ran like a dream and was very economical. Well, apart from another hit of fees for driving her into Central London.

Finally, I made it, and parked on the double yellow lines down the service lane behind London's finest and most celebrated drag club . That was what the tagline screamed in neon above the doors. All lies. I had to laugh as I kicked the back door open and hollered for someone to come let me in through the security gate that doubled as a stage entrance and all-round rat-infested stinky alleyway where drunk people urinated at night, all while balancing a bright-orange sequinned frock in my arms.

Once through those gates, though, this place was a haven of pink and glitter, a stage dominating the downstairs bar area, with the upstairs full of pretty tables and plastic princess crowns. Pretty Princess still lived up to that tagline, despite the now-scruffy interiors where a young and green Mabel had cut their teeth on the scene.

I'd never been a drag queen. I had worked the door, in your standard security uniform, my face devoid of make-up, a confused twink in black, marvelling at the sea of faces who depended on a flick of my wrist to be allowed access to this…dump.

I got it, though. I learned the trade, worked the crowds, and became as much a part of this place as the furniture during my misguided university years. Then Miss Adeline discovered my hidden talents with a needle and thread and there was no going back. She'd had a major wardrobe malfunction as she was due on stage, which was a normal catastrophe around here, and who was I to let a queen cry in the back alley? Nope, I'd pretty much frogmarched her back into the dressing rooms, where I was normally not allowed, but this was a crisis. I'd demanded she take the dress off and then I'd sat at the resident sewing machine, which had seen better days and was still missing some essential parts, but anyway.

Mabel had skills, and my studies briefly took a back seat as I masqueraded as an emergency dressmaker to the queens. I still made the odd dress for select clients. Very select clients. I even had it on my business card. A royal crest with a fake embossed logo announcing me as By Royal appointment. The Queen's favourite. No dress too loud. Invitation only.

I made huge, wonderful, flamboyant dresses. I also dabbled in tailoring, and with my father's expert help, I had produced some snazzy menswear too. Well, Dad and I had. Mum had once been part of that team, and I still brought any piece I worked on back to my mother's bedside, talked through the stitching, fabrics and plans. Just in case. If she was still there, she would have marvelled and pointed and suggested. Now her eyes flickered at my voice and remained closed. I still talked.

Dad did the same, which was another reason why we got on so well, despite the petty arguing. If I brought home a roll of silk and a box of sequins, he'd have his sticky fingers in that stuff before I had a chance to demand he wash his hands and put on gloves.

My dad was the superior tailor. I just messed around with pins, boning strips and pretty threads. Not that it put off my clients, as Miss Adeline appeared, smothering me in air kisses and gentle pats on my shoulders.

"My darling, come in, come in. Haven't seen your pretty face for ages, well overdue coming to see me. Well, not only have I missed you, but I am desperate for this frock to be done!"

"No complaining, Miss Adeline. Greatness cannot be rushed!"

Miss Adeline. She was almost seventy, if you looked carefully at the numerous awards lining her dressing room. Perfect skin. Bald as a coot, if you removed her permanent wig.

Underneath all of that was a man named Bruce, who I absolutely adored. Bruce lived on top of the club with a pooch called Ted. Ted was actually Ted the third, but nobody paid any attention to that. And here Ted was, right on cue, lazily tottering around my feet for a sniff before retreating to his basket in the corner.

"Darling," Bruce drawled and promptly swapped to a thick London accent. "You need a cuppa? Or shall we just get on with this?"

"Got work, sweetie," I replied, unfolding the sparkling folds of fabric in my arms. I gestured for Bruce to strip down so I could get him dressed and then get on with adjusting the fit around his hips.

Dressmaking for women was one thing. For humans with zero curves to build a boned outline around, or like with Bruce, curves in all those unexpected places, getting the fit right was absolutely essential. I also needed to fit padded hips and make space for Bruce's ample fake bosom, which always made these fittings exciting. I loved a challenge, and Bruce always delivered on that part.

"Which boobs are we using with this?"

"The Betty's," he responded, standing naked before me. Nothing I hadn't seen before, and Bruce was all about being comfortable in his old skin. He traced his fingertips along the shelf that displayed his chest plates—an almost grotesque display of female forms made from the finest latex.

"The Dolly's are my favourite, but for this, I think you should consider the Lottie's," I suggested, knowing he would disagree with me.

"Not the Kate's?" He turned to me, pointing at another pair of boobs.

"Hate the Kate's. They're really not you. You need a higher fit, with proper side lift. The Lottie's," I insisted, getting a little frustrated with the lack of progress here.

"The Naomi's it is, then." Bruce sighed, giving me a resigned eye roll, back in his drawling voice.

"Good stuff, mate," I teased as his laughter rang through the air.

I grabbed his shoulders and adjusted the Naomi's over his chest, positioning his arms like a mannequin, and he finally got in the game, did exactly as he was told, standing perfectly still as I lowered layers of chiffon fabric and silk over his head.

"I love it already," he gushed. "The colour is great."

"Isn't it just?" I mumbled around the pins between my lips.

"No ring on your finger yet?" Bruce always did this. Asked all the questions. Starting with the one that left me cold.

"You know it. Not doing that again. Ever."

"That's ridiculous, Mabs. You were made to be someone's princess. There's a lonely man out there just waiting to find you and make you the happiest girl alive."

"Happiest human alive," I corrected. But I smiled.

"Princess," Bruce scolded. "I don't care what you call yourself, you were a princess-twink the minute you stepped over my threshold. I dreamed of making you a queen, but instead, I got the modiste of my dreams. I wouldn't swap you for the world, but within these walls, you're a princess. Deal with it."

I did. Bruce always made me happy, despite his nonsense. Continuing my methodical pinning of fabric, I worked my way around his waist, making voice notes on my phone as I went along to remind myself the next time I got the chance to sit down in front of a machine.

"There's no rush with this one," he said.

No stress," I agreed.

"No stress? I can feel it radiating off you in waves!"

I ignored that. "I should have this one done in a couple of weeks. The Christmas season will be the perfect time to showcase this fabulous orange. Let me put a little bit of boning across the back here. Do you want a pocket for the mic box on the left upper back or hanging off the hip?"

"Off the hip. I'm thinking of adding a boa element to this number and don't want to risk another malfunction."

"Malfunction." I laughed.

"I was not expecting my mic to fly across the crowd like that! Luckily, it hit a very handsome man flat in the chest, and he blew me in the back afterwards by way of apology."

"Bruce!"

"Yes, Mother. I did. I was a slut and I don't regret it."

"Language."

We did this, gentle teasing and scolding. It was a comfortable place to exist, just letting my hands do the work while Bruce nattered on telling stories of people I vaguely knew, stories of people I didn't, his gentle laughter matching mine.

"I'm going to find you a nice man. Someone with billions in the bank, who will treat you the way you deserve. Because you are a lovely person, my darling."

"I am," I agreed with a wink. "And this lovely person is now going to remove this dress before I turn you into a human voodoo doll. You know the drill. Cover your face and do not move."

"Yes, Mother."

"Shut up, Bruce. Then can you do a quick tuck so I can grab the measurements for that miniskirt you asked for?"

"Oh, now we're talking!" He grinned.

"Don't need your tackle in my face this time."

"You love my tackle in your face."

"Bruce." I sighed. Ted yapped in agreement.

"Oh shush, you terrible creature," Bruce huffed.

"Actually…" I began.

"Are you going to declare your undying love for me? I mean, you are on your knees."

"I am," I admitted, rolling my eyes from my position on the floor. My face was a little too close to where Bruce was strapping his tackle into a neat tuck. "But no. I'm not secretly harbouring The-Giant-Bruce-Crush."

"Such a tragedy. We would have made a gorgeous couple."

"I'm too young for you."

"I could be your Daddy."

"This old twink is not in need of any Daddying."

"So what were you going to tell me? It sounded juicy. I could tell from how you smiled."

"Not that juicy. Got this guest at the moment. Nice guy. Frightfully rich. Awfully straight."

"Oh. Those are the best ones. There's nothing better than breaking the straights."

"Bruce," I warned again. He may have been as old as my dad, but blimey, he was hard work sometimes. "I'm not going to break any straights. Anyway. I have a feeling he's one of these bi-curious blokes with a fetish for a fantasy that will crash and burn the minute he realises what's under the dress."

"Been there, done that," Bruce muttered.

"Although he insisted he was aware of…what did he call it? My ‘sizeable package'."

"Oh. Nice touch, wording it like that. Very flattering."

"Not really. Kind of…weird."

"They always are, the straights."

"No slut-shaming the straights. They can't help it."

"Mabel!"

Yeah, I could talk Bruce as well as the real Bruce.

"Miss Adeline would have had a ball with this guy. And I'm absolutely not going to introduce you because this guy would break. Miss Adeline is a force. One too strong for my poor diner."

"Your poor diner. Who's slut-shaming who now, eh? I'm starting to suspect my Mabel may hold a torch for this…diner."

"No torch. And Miss Adeline needs to hold her tongue."

"You're always going to be my princess, my darling Mabel. I know I tease, and my apologies, but you are, and always will be, exactly who you are. And this was indeed a juicy morsel of the finest gossip. Miss Adeline is most pleased. A crush on a diner. My poor heart!"

"Oh, shut up, Bruce." It wasn't like that. Honestly. Well. Maybe.

Jonathan Templar was…a friend. I liked him. Liked how he looked at me. It was different. Warm. A handsome man who paid me attention.

And there I went again. Good grief, Mabel!

"Serious talk, though," Bruce interrupted. "For once, listen."

"What?" I already dreaded what would come out of his mouth next.

"How's Mark?"

"Mark's fine. Being a bitch as usual."

"Mabel?"

I stopped what I was doing and let my hands fall onto my lap. Deep breath. Bruce never called me Mabel. Apart from when he was telling me the hard truth. Truth I refused to take in.

"That boy was trouble from the first moment he stepped over the threshold. Too handsome for his own good. Too troubled. Too much for anyone to handle. I told you back then, and I am telling you now. How many years has it been?"

"Twenty. Give or take a few," I mumbled in defeat.

"Twenty. And here we still are. The same words coming out of an old man's mouth. And you still won't listen or take my advice."

"I know," I said. "I do know."

"Then maybe for once, put yourself first. Find your own happiness away from the guy who's draining it all from your very soul."

"That's far too dramatic. He's a mate. A colleague. My friend."

"The guy you have loved, with every inch of who you are, for years, Mabel. Years! It's tragic. And you know how much I hate a tragedy."

"I'm not a tragedy."

"You are, my dear. A terrible tragedy. So perhaps this time, listen to good old Bruce. Get the fuck out of Mark's way and let the world in. Because if you just tried letting him go, then I think—"

"None of your business." My usual comeback. Bruce tutted.

"Don't be a tragedy, Mabel. You know what happened to Steps."

I rolled my eyes again for effect, but I still smiled.

Was still smiling when I arrived at the hotel for my shift.

And there was Mark.

Mark, who hadn't been in all weekend and left me with double shifts and chaos.

Mark, who never apologised for dumping me with his workload.

Mark, who still looked as handsome as the first day he'd turned up at that club and talked to me with that voice, made me feel like I was the centre of his world.

The same Mark who looked at me now with guilt written all over his face, his hand shaking as he motioned for me to step into the back office as if I was in trouble.

If anyone was in trouble, it was him, because there was a rage brewing inside me, a hot, awful rage that hurt like the flames were real, licking my insides with sharp heat as he sat in the chair and left me standing in the doorway like the absolute idiot I still was.

"Mabs," he said.

The shivers down my spine were like being stabbed with a million sharp knives.

"I need to tell you something, and I think…you're going to be upset."

No shit, Mark. No shit.