Page 35 of Sleep

In order. I sighed. This malfunction was definitely out of order, but I did, reluctantly, have that shower and put on some clothes. I even moisturised my puffy face without looking in the mirror. I couldn’t stand the sight of all the grey in my hair, the dark roots and various other signs of shameful neglect. Mark would have been straight on the phone and booked me an appointment with our mutual hairdresser. I would never go there again.

It felt like another divorce, where I suddenly had to consider which of my acquaintances would take Mark’s side. Who would take mine? At the end of the day, had we permanently fallen out? Was this the end? Had I misunderstood all his words and been, as I was known to be, overdramatic and weird? I didn’t think so.

Dad was right, though. I had to go back, but the whole cutting the apron strings was terrifying. I hated what Mark had made me, or what I’d made me with his help. My hair was a mess. My face was a mess. My clothes were stuffed in bin liners or thrown on the floor. My mother would have had a fit if she saw the state of my room. My bloody life. I was a disgrace.

I actually had several friends I could go visit, all of whom would offer me a sofa for the night and a listening ear for my childish woes. It was just…I’d done that in my twenties. Fully acceptable behaviour in your youth. Sofa-surfing like a loser in your forties wasn’t attractive. Malfunctioning or not.

More awkward thoughts pooled in my head. I was tired of feeling sorry for myself, with constantly being a loser. Because I was. I had no idea how to win at life. Get an education? Check. Still hadn’t found a better job. Spend all your savings on a different education so you can earn more money? Check. But nobody in their right mind would give the lowlife head waiter a raise, despite Mark’s constant promises, and don’t even get me started on the living situation.

I was still churning things over as I kissed my mother goodnight and let my dad shut the front door in my face. I’d brought a few things in a bag, with no exact plan for my evening. Again, a younger me might have gone out clubbing, got comfortably drunk and laid. No longer an option. I wasn’t a pretty princess twink anymore, and the last time I’d found myself a bed for the night through my weird flirtatious ways…

He’d been a course tutor with a wandering eye and a wife at home—a web of tangled deception that had been the perfect trap for someone like me. I’d fallen for it. Yes, because apparently, it took nothing more than a few words of kindness to get me into bed and…yeah. It wasn’t a one-off, and you’d think I’d learnt my lesson, yet here I was again, parking my car and paying for a couple of hours in central London. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, spending money like this, but I felt too fragile to deal with public transport, having all this stuff stewing in my head in public. I’d even splashed out on a bunch of flowers at the petrol station under some ludicrous delusion that I could just rock up and apologise for my horrific behaviour.

There was a solution to all that, of course. Not an easy one, but…no. I was not going back to work. Not happening. I’d cut the ties. There’d been no friendly call from HR inviting me in for tea and biscuits to discuss my disciplinary-worthy little stunt. Nor had I received an email demanding my presence to return my ID and uniform and collect my P45.

Had I heard from Mark? Or Finn? Nope, nor anyone else for that matter. Everyone was too busy living out their happily-ever-afters, laughing at poor, deluded Mabel tottering around in heels that were far too high for a middle-aged person to negotiate. For the record, I was wearing sensible loafers, coupled with one of my jumpsuits. The flowing fabric around my legs was complemented by a fitted cardigan under my coat.

Clothes made me feel better about myself. I wondered if that part was another delusion.

I stuck to skulking alongside the walls of the buildings, hoping I could avoid running into anyone I knew, and took the long way around so I didn’t pass the staff entrance before I slunk inside Jonny’s building, still holding my breath. At least something was going right today, as the guy manning the concierge desk was the same guy as the other night.

“Good evening, Mr Donovan,” he said politely. I didn’t even bother to correct him. I honestly wasn’t in the mood, and the guy was genuinely smiling. “You can go right up. Mr Templar should be in residence.”

“Thank you.”

My outfit might’ve been well assembled, but I had no idea what I was actually doing here, apart from bringing an end to a guilt trip by thanking the man who’d cheered me up when I’d needed it the most. That would’ve been fine if it had been my idea, but I was here because my dad had told me to come. Jonny would probably laugh in my face and dismiss me, and I’d feel like a complete idiot. Again.

“Hey,” I called as I stepped out of the lift. The door to his flat was already open like he’d expected me. I supposed there were all sorts of cameras and systems in place in a posh place like this. Automatic entry systems. Not a proper keyhole in sight.

“I’m sorry to barge in. I just wanted to stop by and say…you know. Thank you. For…” I waved my arms, and flower petals took off, swirling in the air. A cheap, half-dead bouquet. Classy. And here he was, looking sharp in his dark business suit. I’d only ever seen him in leisure gear.

“You brought me flowers.”

“I did.”

“Lovely.”

“You can’t go wrong with flowers.” It sounded like something Mark would’ve said, and I squirmed inside, trying to figure out how to excuse my sudden appearance and rocked on my non-existent heels.

“Are you back at work, then?” He stepped aside and motioned for me to come in.

“No.” Great conversation starter.

I glanced around the apartment. Nothing had changed. It still looked smart and expensive—if you could overlook the tornado of mess covering the floor and sofa—clothes, plastic wrapping, shopping bags, a half-empty yoghurt pot.

“I love what you’ve done to the place.” I circled the dining table.

“If you’re looking for a vase, I don’t think I own one, but I do own a fine-looking carafe.”

“I wouldn’t trust me around a carafe.”

“I suppose.” He was smiling. So was I, standing in the middle of the room, still holding onto my silly flowers. “I tried to leave you a voicemail, but I chickened out.”

“I got your text. I think. Didn’t recognise the number. Didn’t want to assume. I think I deleted it by mistake.”

I was rambling. I wanted to shake myself back into who I knew I could be. Smart, sassy, confidence oozing out of my pores. In control. Why was I still standing there with my pathetic petrol station flowers in my hand? He walked off into his office, returning with his phone. as he walked into his office. A second later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

“You have my number now. And I have yours.”

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