Page 15 of Sleep

“I appreciate the assumption, but I can assure you, the only thing I crave is the delight of your company and the chance to step away from having to decide what I want on my plate.”

“Perfect,” their very pretty mouth responded, still smiling at me.

I almost had to look away because it was too much, their warmth. My chest must have been glowing underneath my clothes. Mabel Donovan was tall, their thick hair just a shade beyond what people called platinum blonde, perfect brows, their every feature chiselled perfection, and their lips could have been taken straight out of a comic book, a thick, bottom lip cradling a thinner top. I was fully aware I was staring at them and how uncomfortable they were under my gaze.

“I am also very grateful for your staff’s efforts…” I wasn’t used to admitting it out loud. I was still utterly embarrassed by my disability—my body failing me, my own inability to help myself.

“Don’t mention it. It’s the least we can do. To be honest, I enjoy our little encounters. You’re an intriguing man. I’ve taken you under my wing, so you’re now my responsibility, and we need to keep you smiling like that, maybe do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I am, despite my inability to keep any secrets about myself, a good listener, so if there’s anything keeping you up at night, you can offload all that right here. Promise. Anything you tell me will stay close to my chest, and perhaps you can sleep better.”

They still sat there, leaning towards me. Mabel Donovan had that kind of face, like they didn’t need to even try. All they had to do was breathe in my direction, and I felt comfortable. Calm.

“I don’t sleep,” I blurted. “Never have. It’s part of why my doctor insists on all these things—trying to get me into a good routine to aid my rampant insomnia.”

“No alcohol, no caffeine, no sugar, no blue light before bedtime.” They smirked. “I’ve read all the handbooks. I once had a bad time sleeping after a particularly soul-destroying break-up. Didn’t help me either. I went out partying, got drunk, and slept it all off afterwards. Gave myself a stern talking to and swore off men.”

“Men,” I said.

“Men,” they said with conviction. “We all have our likes and dislikes. I have mine.”

“So do I,” I said, and just like that, my shoulders pulled back—slowly—and I morphed into the safety of being Mr Jonathan Templar. I had no idea what I was doing here, spilling my troubles like I knew what I was talking about. I was single for a reason. For ease. The ease of pleasing everyone around me. The ease of simply choosing not to lie.

“Let me bring you your starter,” they said softly, getting up from the table.

I nodded weakly, looking down at my hands.

I didn’t know why I’d even opened my mouth.

8. Mabel

It wasn’t the first time a guest had developed some kind of inappropriate obsession with me, and it was extremely uncomfortable. I was at work. I was professional, there to see to their comfort and culinary needs. I wasn’t there to be treated as, God forbid, a potential hook-up.

I’d sworn off those years ago. It wasn’t worth the hassle of the inevitable shitstorm that would follow. I was too easily swayed; my heart would fall in love, and I’d be smitten, only to be swiftly rejected and discarded, leaving my life completely shattered. Been there. Done that. Had the T-shirt, actually. Mark had bought it for me. It said: Unavailable. Heart permanently offline.

Like Mark knew anything.

Mr Jonathan Templar. Handsome, bright, straight-talking in every possible way. He was also honest and kind and looked at me in a way that made me…inappropriate, calling him out like that when I should have been graceful and discreet. I should have moved away and let another waiter take the table, not engaged.

But I had engaged. Because I wanted to. Because I enjoyed my little encounters with Mr Templar and I…yes. I liked the attention. I liked the smiles. I liked the not-so-subtle flirting, and most of all, I liked…

I couldn’t even pull myself together and stop thinking about him, which would become a problem if I didn’t rein myself in, fast. Nope. Nothing going on there. Nothing at all.

Work was doing my head in, and it was a massive relief to kick off my shoes at the end of this unbearable shift and finally sit down in the back office. Not that I could relax because I had to pull the receipts, back up our system, print tonight’s reports and sort out the bleeding tips.

And not think of the drive home. I could drive. I was a good, competent driver, when I was awake. Tonight, I was so tired I just wanted to curl up on the floor right here and fall asleep in this suit, other than the waistband was cutting into my hip.

Another sign I was getting older. My clothes didn’t fit like they used to. I’d spent far too much time lately altering waistbands and trimming hems, just to look half decent with my clothes on. With no clothes? My skin wasn’t as taut as it used to be. My well-trimmed body hair was getting sparser. My extensive waxing and plucking were becoming obsolete, and I…I didn’t look my best. The stress. The worries. The absolute clusterfuck of being me.

I was also getting lazy and spent most of my time at home lounging around in my pyjamas instead of bouncing around the London suburbs trying to find a landlord who wouldn’t fleece me out of my entire monthly wage or try to sell me a flat that didn’t exist. Or one riddled with mould and vermin like my last one. The London property market was a complete minefield, full of inflated deposits, impossible rents and disgusting scams, and while my father was full of beans, printing out lists of properties I should attempt to view, I couldn’t find the enthusiasm to actually do that.

I also had two orders for dresses that I hadn’t even started, and my parents’ home was too small to even attempt to set up my sewing machine and equipment. On which note, I really needed to make this fitting appointment with Miss Adeline before work.

I was going to be late, again, because public transport wasn’t an option when transporting an enormous ballgown. Hence, I was stuck in traffic with said ballgown stuffed into my father’s Fiat. Crappy as it was, I secretly loved this little car. The seats were worn, the steering wheel had lost its once-pretty stitching and was now a mess of faux-leather straps and scratched plastic, but the engine still ran like a dream and was very economical. Well, apart from another hit of fees for driving her into Central London.

Finally, I made it, and parked on the double yellow lines down the service lane behind London’s finest and most celebrated drag club. That was what the tagline screamed in neon above the doors. All lies. I had to laugh as I kicked the back door open and hollered for someone to come let me in through the security gate that doubled as a stage entrance and all-round rat-infested stinky alleyway where drunk people urinated at night, all while balancing a bright-orange sequinned frock in my arms.

Once through those gates, though, this place was a haven of pink and glitter, a stage dominating the downstairs bar area, with the upstairs full of pretty tables and plastic princess crowns. Pretty Princess still lived up to that tagline, despite the now-scruffy interiors where a young and green Mabel had cut their teeth on the scene.

I’d never been a drag queen. I had worked the door, in your standard security uniform, my face devoid of make-up, a confused twink in black, marvelling at the sea of faces who depended on a flick of my wrist to be allowed access to this…dump.

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