Page 102 of Sleep

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.

33. Mabel

This had been the right decision. The late-afternoon sun beamed through the glass as I unlatched the patio doors, marvelling at the effortless slide of the highly engineered metalwork as the cool air hit my skin. The laughter spilling from my mouth was a welcome relief, my bare toes clenching against the cold wooden slats as I stepped out onto the rooftop veranda.

This. Exactly this.

I felt so free, standing there in just a shirt and trunks. The wind bit into every inch of exposed skin, waking up all my senses. A year ago, I had been down on the ground below, alone, feeling like my world was crumbling. Now, a year later…

“You’re going to catch your death standing out here.”

“So will you,” I teased. We matched—bare legs and feet, shirts flapping in the wind, ties hanging loosely around our necks, though mine was yellow, his was green.

“No, Pickle. It’s good for me. Makes me feel alive.”

“Makes me feel like I’m about to get frostbite. But, well, the view is still stunning. I like looking out over the world.”

“I used to think this was my kingdom. I was on top of it, and I could just stand here, safe from the rest of the world, looking down on people living while I was just existing up here in my glass tower.”

“No existing these days,” I said. We were both busy, busier than I’d ever been, but also happy. Challenged, often exhausted and overwhelmed, but truly happy.

“You finished for the day?” he asked.

“Not quite. Need to shoot off another email, but I want to sit down and do some stitching on that green dress. More therapy than work.” A chance for my mind to rest.

“It makes me nervous watching you with that needle.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I said, leaning against him, relishing the warmth of his around my waist, a soft kiss on the back of my neck. “And you worry too much.”

“I only worry about you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be drinking bad wine and eating takeaways.”

“Instead, I drink early harvest sample crates and eat takeaways.”

“Only because we’re busy. And they’re not bad takeaways. I wouldn’t let you eat junk food.”

“You and my mother are in cahoots. I know what you talk about, and no, I don’t want to join her fancy club so I can have dinners delivered.”

I loved how he laughed about these things. Jonathan Templar a year ago had been grey. Grey tracksuit. Grey skin. Grey hair. The man freezing his socks off in front of me was full of life. Still with grey hair. I loved his grey hair.

“I have already approved your membership. It’s a good deal, especially if we’re not on top of the shopping, and at least I know you’ll eat when I’m away.”

“I eat!” he protested.

“Hmm.” I bumped back against him, earning myself another kiss. “Anyway, enough waking up your senses or whatever. Get back inside and in the shower. Warm up.”

“Okay,” he agreed, letting me lead him back into the room, the door closing effortlessly behind me.

“I need to go to Cape Town in two weeks. Meetings with the vineyard in Stellenbosch, and I also want to visit that new small producer I talked about yesterday. You coming?”

“Of course!” He grinned. “I can work from anywhere, and I work especially well on a balcony overlooking the sea. With you.”

“And you get fresh air and walks in the mountains.”

“I get to spend time with you.”

“See? Worth it. Carolyn probably booked you in already.” My PA knew how we rolled.

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