Page 31 of Sleep

I had the determination. I had nerves of steel. I had to laugh at myself. In business, yes. In my personal life, my nerves were as malleable and soluble as the jelly baby sweets I had enjoyed as a child. I supposed it was because I had no one to do my bidding. It was just me, and I was helpless and inexperienced and, honestly, painfully lost.

I went over to get myself another coffee, only to be met by the dirty cups in the sink. Last night, with all the drama it had brought, had given me peace, a strange new sensation of being comfortable in the company of another person who wanted nothing from me. What I wanted from them…

I wondered why they hadn’t asked me the same questions I had asked them. Perhaps they read me so well that they knew not to.

My mother had once sat by my bedside and told me that I didn’t have to share all my secrets. That some things were best kept unspoken. It had been right after another encounter with my father’s ideas. Going away on a lads-only trip to some tourist retreat with other boys my age. Sunshine, sangria, and an endless supply of willing totty. My mother had been horrified. Even more horrified than me.

I loved my parents, even though they still had no understanding of my lack of enthusiasm for parties, luncheons, and intimate get-togethers with jazz music and bespoke handcrafted gin.

Shuddering at the mere thought of such an ordeal, I produced another shot of coffee into a rinsed cup, and got back to my work.

It was days later that I emerged into the outside world, blinking awkwardly at the sun. Groceries had been delivered, proposals had gone in on time, and I’d endured another visit from Kopetski and his woes, having been forced to listen to his dramatic retelling of moving Cheryl out and replacing her with Geraldine, who "sucked dick like a Hoover." I wasn’t sure I remembered the names right. My mind had been elsewhere, though I had wondered how on earth that was in any way a pleasurable experience. I bet he didn’t even know.

I’d had to look away lest I laugh in his face, that ludicrous, horrific specimen of a man. I hadn’t, though, because he’d also delivered me the quarter results with a tidy profit and a new site we could acquire before it had hit the market, a sham bid ready to deliver before sunrise.

Just the way I liked conducting my business.

I didn’t particularly enjoy my check-ups with my doctor, another quiet gentleman who once again sighed over my blood pressure and lectured me in stern words that slipped in through one ear only to seep out of the other. I’d heard it all before. I was barely alive. A prescription for another brand of sleeping tablets was emailed to Jenny to dispense and deliver. I was on my way back home, enjoying the lunchtime crowds keeping me company, walking across Westminster Bridge with determination in my step. Home. Rest. Finish off reading another site inspection report. Sign off the Ealing build. This afternoon’s schedule all planned out.

Instead, my feet took me straight in through the glass entrance to a certain hotel. I had no business being there, and it was too early for dinner. But there was that Mark Quinton, draped dramatically over the pulpit marking the entrance to his fine restaurant. I grimaced, unintentionally displaying my displeasure with his leisurely stance. I couldn’t help it.

“Mr Templar!” A delighted smile, not returned.

“Mr Quinton. May I have a word out of sight, please.”

Oh. He’d not expected that. The stance changed, and he offered a gesture that I should follow him. I sensed his discomfort growing through the way he walked. Was he afraid of me? I doubted it. But maybe he should be.

“Here, please. Take a seat.” A back office, small and cramped. The prefabricated walls wobbled disturbingly as he closed the door behind us, taking a seat on a stool that had seen better days. “What can I do for you, Mr Templar? I hope your recent meals have been to your full satisfaction.”

He did look scared. Well, I could complain about Kurt being boring. Milliee’s skills could be worked on. I’d quite enjoyed Aimee’s many tattoos; perhaps I could demand her reinstatement as an employee? The mind boggled. I could compliment Tabitha. Whatever the chef was called, he made good food. The presentation was decent. The wine list was excellent.

Mabel Donovan had crept out of my flat in the middle of the night. Not left a note. Nothing since. I didn’t have their number. All I knew was a name and that they currently resided somewhere near Newbury.

Their choice entirely. They’d made no promises or assurances. I had demanded none in return. I knew where the line was drawn, and I was about to irrevocably cross it. Which one of the many lines I was talking about was slightly uncertain in my head, but here went nothing.

A firm stare.

“I would like a contact number for Mabel Donovan,” I demanded. No please. None required here.

“Mr Templar, our staff are protected by employment laws. Their personal details are confidential, and we take our employee security seriously at the Clouds. I can’t provide you with any kind of contact details.”

Well played, I thought in my head. At least he was protecting them, albeit out of legal obligation.

“And Donovan, are they currently working?” I hadn’t spotted them, but that was not unusual. I just assumed they’d done what they’d alluded to and walked away never to return.

“Mabel Donovan is currently taking some time off,” he said. His eyes flickered slightly. Ah. Not quite the truth.

“Some time off,” I repeated sternly. I wanted to cross my arms, but that would have been a step too far, so I leaned slightly forwards. He mimicked it.

Standoff.

Impressive. He wasn’t scared of me at all, which meant we were on even ground. I liked that.

“Mabel Donovan is a friend. If you can please leave a message for them to contact me, that would be appreciated.”

Easy. Simple. Vague.

“And what is this about?”

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