Page 27 of Sleep

“More prejudice,” I argued. “Single man with numerous health issues who can’t even make his own bed.”

“That part wasn’t in the Time magazine write-up.”

“No. Must have been cut before publication.” I grimaced, as did they, but this being honest thing was rather addictive. Was this how people engaged in casual conversation? Was this why the world admired my mother so?

“My mother is an expert conversationalist,” I thought aloud, wanting so desperately to keep this going. “She dishes out sentences like magic, drawing whoever is in the room into what seems like a private secret space. One moment, her voice is shrill and high-pitched, the next, it shrinks into a whisper, and everyone leans towards her to seek out those small snippets of whatever story she’s sharing. I watch her often, trying to figure out her secret, because I can’t even open my mouth without it being all about construction, business and finances.”

“Probably a good thing,” they said, raising their coffee in a half-toast, “but for the record, not everyone is cut out for the life of a social butterfly.”

“You are. You’re amazing,” I gushed, still hooked on the honesty drug. “You have that same skill. You walk into a room, and people are just mesmerised.”

“I’m a bloke in women’s clothing. Usually does the trick.” They said it in a deep, raspy voice that made me laugh out loud.

“Donovan,” I warned.

“Jonny. Stop with that. Mabel. Mabel.”

“Pickle,” I retaliated. I was enjoying this so, so much, having them in my space, the constant tiny battle of words. The smile was plastered on my face, though I was acutely aware that streaks of destroyed make-up still painted their lovely cheeks.

“Pickle?” they repeated.

“Pickle. You’re sweet, yet there’s a sharp tang to you that I would hate to cross. You’ve mentioned both arson and plain murder this evening. I would be very foolish not to proceed with caution.”

“I’ve never murdered anyone in my life,” they huffed out. “Although I did throw a carafe at Mark earlier.”

“One that missed, I presume. He was still very much alive when you left.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Pickle, it is then.” Oh, listen to me, changing the subject like a pro.

“Do you have a habit of changing everyone’s names?”

“Not at all,” I admitted. “Simply trying it out for size. Donovan is good for keeping things at a professional distance. I call most of my employees by their last name, apart from Jenny, my PA. She would probably seed a virus onto my laptop if I ever called her by her last name.”

“I like her already.”

“I think the two of you would get on well. She’s as sharp as anything but very caring. If not for her, I would have had that heart attack by now.”

“No heart attacks on my shift. I’m a first-aider. Do you own a defibrillator?”

I took a sip of my coffee, if only to let my cheeks rest from all that smiling. “Serious talk, Pickle.”

They snorted. “So you want the life story? Or just Mabel Donovan’s Guide to Unaliving Their Enemies?”

“Got that book already. Gave it a five-star review.”

More smiles. I shuffled into a better position on the sofa.

“Okay.” They took a breath. “This is the short version because the long one includes soul-destroying wailing and trying to throw myself off the balcony. It’s messy on an epic scale.”

“No throwing yourself anywhere. My glass sliding doors are made of toughened glass, they’re locked, and I have the key.”

“Scary. Are you sure I’m free to leave at any time?”

“This isn’t a Netflix thriller, Pickle.”

“It sounds like one. One where we all die at the end.”

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