9. Jonathan

I 'd avoided going for dinner for almost a week, unable to muster up the courage to face Donovan again. Not for any reason other than that I was a fool.

I'd done things like this before—befriended random people whom I thought could become part of my life—and I hadn't learned a single lesson during my fifty-one years. I was letting too many truths slip out, and I wasn't comfortable with that—letting people in, knowing my business.

I wasn't built for other people. I didn't really have friends. I wasn't social or thrilled to meet people. I was stern, cold and sometimes ill-tempered. The only thing that kept me going was running a company that paid me lots of money I had no idea what to do with. I had no outgoings. No life. Nothing.

My existence was like the coffee cup in front of me—bland, cold and empty. But at least the cup had been designed to be warm and comforting, giving people pleasure and hope.

I snorted at that last thought. I kept thinking of arranging some kind of tryst but had no intention of following through. My past encounters had been both embarrassingly awkward and unfulfilling. Despite being a fully grown, successful professional, I was painfully aware of my shortcomings as a human being. Pleasure? I didn't even have the pleasure of a good night's sleep and instead spent every night on my sofa, with a blanket over my restless body.

I would close my eyes and try to switch off my thoughts, but they never switched off. They wandered into darkness and made me fret. I really needed to start seeing a therapist because the horrible reality was, I was so utterly alone in all this. I had nobody to confide in, that my pathetic fear of other people was getting the better of me. I was so frightened—of life, of a future that would never get better, that one day, I would be sitting on this very sofa and have a massive heart attack and leave this world with no legacy apart from newspaper headlines when some poor soul found my decomposing body months later.

I had no doubt about that, just as I never doubted all the other facts stored in my nighttime panics.

Like the fact that I couldn't even acknowledge to myself where my attractions lay.

Just thinking that thought made me shiver and sent a blush spreading across my cheeks.

I'd been alone here for days, my workflow only interrupted by the concierge downstairs offering to bring up my deliveries. I'd figured out how to get groceries at the tap of a handy app. Most of them still sat on top of the marble kitchen island—a pile of ripped-open bags that I would casually graze from, biting into random things, then leaving them half-eaten on the side as I paced the floor with my phone pressed to my ear.

I was wanted on site for a visit. I'd refused and sent Jasper instead. My head wasn't in the right place to perform in front of people—not those kinds of people. I was itching for something else, and I couldn't even fully explain to Jenny why I refused to put myself in that situation when I was perfectly safe right here. She once again reassured me she'd always be by my side, writing down numbers on her notepad in full view—names—ensuring I didn't mishear anything important, covering for my stumbles when I responded with the wrong answer to a question I'd misheard.

Instead of fulfilling my work duties, I ran on the treadmill, put myself through another session with Inez, the personal trainer, showered all the sweat off my body and dressed in a random selection from the items still hanging in my wardrobe. Most of my clothes were on the floor. I really needed to send out to have them cleaned. Or perhaps throw things in the washing machine. I was sure there was one somewhere in the kitchen, hidden behind one of those panels.

Another job for another day. I pulled myself together and made my way downstairs. A brisk walk through the evening crowd. Greeting the regular hotel doorman with a swift flick of my hand. A nod to the concierge on the floor, alongside the same dismissive stare. They knew me by now. And here was Tabitha. A familiar sigh of relief.

"Mr Templar," she said nervously, ensuring she caught my eyes. "I'm going to place you over by the window today. Away from the…fracas."

I was about to sternly protest, but the sound of raised voices coming from the back of the room made me stop, and I willingly let myself be led to a small table overlooking the terrace. Tabitha was on edge, pretending to smile as she looked over her shoulder.

And then another raised voice, a door slamming. She jumped. I did too. I wasn't deaf.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what's going on, but I assure you, I will make it stop."

She rushed off, and I looked around the room. Every table was occupied, and there was Milliee giving me a little wave, and here was Kurt.

My least-favourite waiter.

"Bit of drama today," he said curtly, pouring me a glass of water. Then he repeated the sentence in a loud voice. "Bit of drama today, Mr Templar."

"I can hear that," I replied, trying to look around the back of him as a door slammed again.

"I think…our restaurant manager may have been an absolute dick."

"Okay." I had to smile. I loved this place, the absolute lack of professionalism mixed with the perfect silver service as Kurt neatly rearranged my table into a perfectly aligned single set-up. A polished glass…and a crash from the back of the restaurant. Kurt didn't even react.

"Another day in paradise. Now, I doubt I can get Mabel out here at the moment, but I'm going to get you a bottle of red and something to eat and perhaps…can I offer you some earplugs?"

I had to laugh at that, joining Kurt in staring at the ruckus now taking place right here in the restaurant. Another waiter ran towards the lobby with a radio in their hand.

Kurt casually turned to the next table to take their order, and…here was Donovan.

I stood up because this was not the Donovan I knew, and… Hell. They were crying, their arms wrapped around their chest, clutching a coat and heading for the lobby, where, before I could even react, they disappeared out the double doors into the crowd. A second later, Mark ran out after them, while I seemed to be frozen in place.

Not my business.

Absolutely not my business.

Kurt turned back and stared out the window. Looking out, I could see Donovan's back, moving east along the river, the crowds seeming to part to let them through. No sign of Mark, though, and it soon became clear why, as he arrived back in the hotel, his face distorted in fury, and banged his fist on the pulpit.

Madness. What on earth was going on here?

Wrong question, Jonathan. Because yes, this was me, on my feet and almost taking out poor Tabitha carrying a tray of glasses in my haste, heading straight out of the building.

I was wearing trainers. Hence, I ran, taking long, perfect strides, like the world was my treadmill. I didn't stand out, just another evening jogger alongside the Thames riverside in central London, but I was focused on the crowd, searching for that exact shade of blonde. I couldn't even remember what they were wearing. Green? Red? A black coat?

I felt like a villain in a Hollywood movie. Perhaps I was. Perhaps this was entirely the wrong thing to do, but my heart was beating steadily, and my mind was surprisingly clear.

There. Good. A human form sat on a bench, bent over with their head in their hands. I'd been right. Black coat, with vibrant shade of green underneath. All that beautiful hair.

I couldn't bear it. Couldn't face the thought of them…

I wasn't a creep. I wasn't after anything.

The need for them to be okay was all I could think of. The awful reality of someone being upset. Or maybe I was being foolishly selfish here, going after someone who clearly wanted to be left alone.

I hated when people were intrusive.

God knows what had been going on back there. I'd heard things. Never this bad, though. Working in an office, I'd had to call the police on some staff members fighting once. Well, not me personally, shielded from reality by Jenny, as always.

My thoughts were swirling around in my head, making me dizzy.

I'm sharp. Composed. Clean cut. In control. Breathe.

What the hell was I playing at?

I'd slowed to a stop, treading carefully towards where they were sitting. Someone shouted and shoved me as I cut them off right there on the pavement. I wanted to apologise but I couldn't find the words. My whole sense of being was stuck in some kind of frozen state as I leaned down and sat on the bench next to them.

Tried to breathe.

They were safe. I was fine. The crowds moved along, a carnival of sorts. People paused to take selfies, landmarks and buildings creating the perfect backdrop to their perfect smiles.

Calm. Breathe. All is well.

"You don't have to do this," they said in a voice thick with something that made me want to cry. I never cried. Well, only when nobody could see me.

"I do," I replied honestly. It had worked before and was what I was going with here.

Silence. I liked the silence. I liked being here.

"We're in public," I said. "Away from any kind of professional setting. No boundaries are being crossed."

"Great pick-up line." Trust them to turn it into something that made me smile.

"Not a pick-up line." I didn't dare look at them, my gaze still fixed on the crowds. The horizon. The last light from the sky gently fading in front of our eyes. The nighttime air was chilly, but I didn't feel the cold after that brief run.

"Mr Templar," they started, then wrung their hands. "Sorry, I should look at you when I speak. You probably didn't catch any of that."

"Jonny," I said and offered them my hand to shake. They took it and held onto it. "I did. I'm not deaf. I can hear fine when it's not too noisy. There are certain frequencies of sound I can't hear at all, which makes it easy for me to mishear words, and I struggle with certain voices, heavy accents. And, of course, when I can't complement my hearing with reading lips."

"Okay," they said softly. "So you can understand me fine here?"

"You have a good voice, Donovan. Clear. And you always make an effort to look at me when you speak, so we're all good."

"Then stop with the Donovan stuff. I haven't been Donovan since school."

"It makes it…less personal." I tried to defend myself.

"I think we've crossed that line already."

"Nah." I had to smile but still couldn't look them in the eye, so I focused on their lips.

I was trying to figure this out, what it was with Mabel Donovan. Why I behaved like this as soon as they were near. Why I lost my nerve at the same time as all my walls fell down. I couldn't even stop them, and it rattled me into some kind of state where I didn't know who I was anymore or why I was sitting here with their hand in mine as a gust of wind almost took my breath away. In a week or two, the Christmas decorations would be up, and the city would take on its wintry robe for a mere few weeks until the new year blew in and life would just be as before. Again and again.

They were still holding my hand as I finally took the chance and looked up and met their eyes. Their cheeks were blotchy, wetness still lingering on their skin, streaks of dark make-up running in lines over their cheekbones. I reached out and carefully wiped one off, then on the other side, keeping my eyes steadily on theirs.

"I didn't want you to be on your own."

"I'm fine on my own."

Exactly the response I would have given had I been in their shoes. But I wasn't, and even though my stomach was churning, I felt in some kind of control, like I could still steer this situation home, dock it gently in a place where I could walk away unscathed.

The problem was, I didn't think I wanted to walk away unscathed. I wanted to hurt and bleed and heal and scream and—

"Mr Templar… Jonny." They let go of my hand, leaving me with it hanging in the air, once again not knowing how to control my body. Grappling in their coat pocket, they produced a crumpled tissue, which they loudly blew their nose into. "Sorry," they continued, offering me a strange smirk. "It's been a shit day."

"I can see that." I wanted to grab their hand back but settled for making myself comfortable on the bench, signalling loud and clear that I wasn't going anywhere. I hoped they could read me as well as I surprisingly read them. All their thorns out, hoping I would go away or evaporate into thin air so they could compose themselves and pretend nothing at all had happened.

"Do you want to tell me what that was all about?" I asked quietly.

I could almost feel the daggers they were shooting out of their eyes.

"You don't know me. I don't know you. Apart from your Wikipedia entry, which was rather unfulfilling, and I did read a few articles from the Financial Times ."

"The Time cover story is quite complimentary." I sounded like a deranged celebrity freak, and it hit home as they laughed softly.

"No shame there then?"

"None whatsoever. The lady who wrote it was very thorough. Still misspelled my mother's maiden name and got her wins wrong. She took four Olympic Golds, not three."

"I hope you sued," they snarked. I liked that and couldn't help but smile.

"It's not important. My mother didn't even notice. I doubt she actually read it."

"Mark," they said, then blew their nose again. "We've known each other for decades. So many years. It's a friendship I thought would last forever. It's always been there. Easy. Floating in the background like a safety blanket. I have no idea how we've come to this. To a place where he hurts me and knows it. Deliberately. Just…" They made stabbing movements. Kicked their leg out in distress. Wrapped their arms around themselves again, shivering as another gust of wind hit. I welcomed it. I needed it to stay sharp. To think. To—

"Why am I so angry?"

I shrugged. "Anger can be good. Feelings are good. When you become hard and cold, your life becomes the same." I spoke like I knew what I was talking about, and my thoughts were once again drawing outlines in the air, wondering if it was madness speaking or if I was finally figuring something out.

I would have bet on madness. So would Mabel, judging by the state of them—staring at me like I was about to throw them over that wall straight into the fast-flowing murky river. For the record, no. It wasn't murder on my mind. It was something else.

"Everything I do seems like a fruitless battle. Like whatever I try my hand at, I fail. Every relationship I've been in, I've destroyed. And my friendships… I have to fight so hard, and then people just…"

I got that. I truly did. My early career had been marred by irresponsible actions and failures. But I also knew the excitement, how my body felt teetering on that sharp edge. When the finances didn't quite add up to the tax offset and we were on the verge of considering failure as an option. The thrill of seeing the solution form, right there in front of us, the numbers moving on the page like magic. Those were battles I could fight and win. This one here was a different animal, but I understood it too, more than Mabel Donovan would ever know.

There was no magic here. Just the air and the wind on my face and another human being who was the warmth to my chills.

"Do you want to tell me what Mark did to cause this…upset?"

"Not upset. Just a realisation of my mistakes. He called me out, and I shouted at him, told me I had to learn to live with myself and actually function. I think I swore at him and threw that back in his face. Asked him how I was supposed to function when my entire life was one giant technical mal function. Every part of me is broken, Jonny. Every little shitty part. Function? How the hell is someone like me supposed to function?"

"Someone like you?"

"Someone like me." Another snort.

"Who are you? Tell me about Mabel Donovan." An opening. A choice. An easy answer or the right one.

"So cold," they muttered, pulling the coat around them.

The easy option then. Cleverly deflecting.

"What's the plan, Donovan?" I used the name on purpose to get a reaction.

They rolled their eyes. "My car is in the garage on a day ticket. Need to move it before ten or I get a fine. Can't really afford another fine." They rubbed their nose.

"A fine is not the end of the world."

"I may have a fancy name badge and look the part, but my wage barely covers the clothes on my back. Not all of us are millionaires, you know."

Good comeback.

"I may have a fancy Wikipedia entry and a Time magazine cover. Doesn't mean anything in the grander scheme of things."

"I get that," they said. Their voice had softened, the redness under their eyes now more of a bright pink. The cold wind still bit hard, though.

"Are you going back to work?" I asked. If I was starting to feel the cold, they must've been frozen to the bone.

"Nah. I resigned…I think. I shouted a lot, I can't even remember what. And once our general manager gets wind of the whole catfight in the restaurant situation, I have no doubt I will be sent home on gardening leave while HR gets their heads together to figure out how to let me go without too much fuss. We have a reputation to uphold. No need for public fights and slanging matches in front of our regular customers."

"I'm a regular customer. I saw nothing." I crossed my arms.

They laughed. I loved that they did.

God, I was pathetic. Pathetic and love-struck. Even in the biting cold, with a thick coat and frostbitten cheeks, and a line of snot running from their perfectly formed nose, Mabel Donovan made me happy.

Shame I couldn't figure out my next move because I needed one, right now, but when they smiled, I couldn't even think straight.