Page 13 of Sleep

“You already have a life,” Mark said as he stood up, draining his cup in one go while mine was still too hot to sip. Did I mention Mark was cute? Funny. Quirky. Annoying.

“Oh yeah, meant to say. The wedding?”

And a massive shit.

“I have a dress. Don’t you dare change the colour scheme,” I warned. “And I have a deposit down for that Airbnb. You promised. No more changes.”

“Well, I think Finn and I may have done a little U-turn on the theme. We were going to settle for the beach wedding in Cornwall, but I’ve thought of something else now. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Oh, fuck off, Mark.”

I couldn’t take it, the bullshit coming out of his mouth. The wedding planning, the inability to see the enormous shitstorm that always trailed in his wake.

“You love me, Mabs. Cancel the Airbnb. You won’t need it. But babes? Don’t get mad at me, whatever happens. Promise?”

I gave him my most evil eye roll. Seriously?

“And go sort out Mr Templar. If I have to deal with him eye-fucking you across the room one more time, I might have to go give him a proper talking to.”

I’d always loved Mark. Now I was starting to think I might have confused myself. Because the more I thought about it, the more I hated him.

7. Jonathan

For the past couple of days, I’d started looking forward to dinner time, only to be wildly disappointed by the absence of the correct waiter. Not that I wanted to call Donovan a waiter, but they were the only reason I still put on my trousers, made my way downstairs and endured the humiliation of being seated alone in a busy restaurant. Today, some youngster with eyelashes so oversized they must surely have obscured her vision was manhandling me. She smiled sweetly and offered me a menu, only to rush back, babbling apologies because apparently, I wasn’t supposed to be given a menu.

At least, I think that’s what she was saying. People with too much filler in their lips don’t form their words properly, and this girl was impossible to understand. She asked me something, and I replied with, “Water,” which received a grimace that told me I’d misheard her question, but instead of asking again, she rolled her eyes.

Typical. Nobody had any patience for the guy in the corner, in a tracksuit, bringing the vibe of the place down with his bizarre answers to their simple questions.

I wasn’t deaf. I was just hard of hearing and embarrassed as hell about it.

So, I sat there like a fool until that man—Mark, I recalled—came and dumped my usual glass of Shiraz down with a flurry of ramblings that I struggled to make any sense of. I’d asked for Donovan yesterday and the day before, and I didn’t dare ask again. Yet this Mark lingered, staring at me expectantly as if waiting for me to ask and then answered anyway.

“Mabel is on their break, so unfortunately, you’re stuck with me and Milliee for now. Would you like me to put your order in? Can I tempt you with our baked scallop starter? Succulent scallops on a delicate foam reduction with caramelised shallots and tender smoked-bacon-infused croutons.”

“With the Shiraz?” I remarked loftily, at which Mark blushed. Ah yes, I’d caught him off guard. I knew his type. He thought I was an easy customer, someone he could manipulate and charm into submission. For the record, I could be just that—submissive and bland, especially when pushed into a corner and slightly out of my comfort zone.

I sighed.

“The scallops sound lovely,” I replied, hoping I’d got that right, then retreated awkwardly, pushing my back into the seat. I just wanted to eat, get back to my penthouse and twiddle my thumbs. Pretend I was resting until the sun rose over the horizon and another day began.

“I apologise, and I agree,” Mark oozed. “You need our award-winning Chilean Sauvignon Blanc to go with the scallops. I would be delighted to bring you a glass.”

“Would you now.” He was getting on my nerves, and…I was doing it again—being impossible and more than a little rude.

“I will send Mabel over to speak to you as soon as they’re back on duty.”

But he was learning fast.

“Jolly good,” I replied, then pretended to be engrossed in my phone until he got the message and went away.

It felt like weeks since I’d moved into the penthouse next door, but I still hadn’t achieved anything noteworthy. I’d nailed several deals and started an ambitious new project. Jenny was keeping me in the loop with frequent updates interspersed with demands that I switch off and take a break. She’d started sending me lunches. I hadn’t asked; she’d merely figured out that I was exactly as hopeless as she expected me to be.

I’d thrown most of those lunches away—not out of spite, but because I’d forgotten to open the bags and found them late at night, still sitting on my kitchen counter.

I was awful. Useless. I could barely look after myself. The truth was, I didn’t care. I was lazy and disinterested in my own well-being. Was I depressed? I hated that word. My mother whispered it behind my back in hushed tones. A truth I didn’t want to deal with.

Despite my laziness, I’d had another session with my new personal trainer, running on the treadmill in the private gym I’d had installed in the apartment. Running was good for me. Not only did it keep my heart beating, but it kept my doctor off my back. This personal trainer had said the same—Inez, her name was. She’d told me I needed to feed my muscles and offered to overhaul my diet. I’d laughed—an evil cackling laugh. She’d kept her mouth shut after that. My diet was fine. Numerous decaf espressos filled my day, followed by a three-course meal, eaten while stewing in my loneliness in the vacuum of a busy restaurant.

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