Page 3 of Sleep

They’d managed fine without me, but I got it. My bad. I hated when people were late, and I was never late, and yes, I hadn’t looked my best, not by a mile. My hair was matted and clumsily sprayed into place. I’d shaved and moisturised, but my skin was patchy and my pale eyelashes framed bloodshot eyes. I could have housed a family of four on the bags underneath them. I was also clearly not on the ball, wearing mismatched bright-orange high-waisted trousers with a white long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan that had seen better days. At least I was clean and smelling of roses. Well, perhaps not roses, more like Gucci perfume, but I’d managed to present myself as non-offensively as I could under the circumstances.

On a normal day, I would have done my make-up on the Tube, but that took a certain level of brassy attitude and could invite abuse that my already fragile mind wouldn’t be able to deal with today. On a normal day, just being me seemed to make people think I welcomed their comments and stares, their hushed whispers and laughter that I knew were directed at the way I presented myself.

Some days, I would dress predominantly male, wearing sharp shirts and tailored trousers; other days, my head would be in a different space and my legs would crave the flow of fabric, my hips swaying gently to pull off a more feminine look. It never bothered me either way. I just dressed the way I did, and the people who knew me had to learn to live with it. Today, with the added stress of the safety of my belongings, the lack of a bed—there was no way I would ever be able to sleep in that bed again—and the fact that I was now homeless meant I hadn’t been paying much attention when I’d dressed this morning.

Told you. Overdramatic. I was fairly sure my meagre home insurance would cover some of the costs, if they ever paid up, and the London property market was full of rat-infested hovels like the one that had caved in on me this morning. I just didn’t want it. I didn’t want my old life. Didn’t want to continue on like this. The sheer thought of the paperwork involved in an insurance claim already brought the taste of bile to my mouth.

I was slightly rattled by my appearance since I rarely came to work looking anything but perfect, even though perfection wasn’t an option today. I plonked my arse down on the chair in the restaurant office, the place that felt more like home than the four walls I had left behind, the surroundings that had always brought me calm. I belonged here. I always had. But where my home-sweet-homely relationship with my place of employment had always brought me happiness, this, alongside the rest of my life, seemed to be falling apart at the seams.

I stayed well beyond my scheduled working hours, trying to make up for my late arrival and sort out the mess left behind from our lunch service to hopefully land myself in the good books of the evening shift. Well, mostly with Mark. Because Mark…oh, and yes. Here he was, stomping into the small office we shared looking like thunder personified.

I’d read somewhere that you could read people’s faces, see right into their souls by just staring into their eyes. I was staring all right, but the guy in front of me…

Ugh.

“The fuck, Mabs?”

Mark Quinton. Restauranteur extraordinaire according to his latest business card. Award-winning in his trade. Hair swept into a perfectly messy quiff, albeit shorter than I would have liked, face covered in neatly trimmed scruff and a stern scowl that made me shrink back. Not that I had any say in his appearance. Not anymore. Mark was handsome and sleek and today poured into some kind of shiny floral suit combo that made my eyes sting.

“Things happened. At least I’m here,” I hissed, staring at him with what felt like fire in my eyes.

There had once been a time when I would have laid my life on the line for the man who pulled up a stool and sat himself in front of me, reaching out to grab my hand from the desk. I pulled away. I had no interest in getting dragged into one of Mark’s pity parties of guilt. I might once have been hopelessly besotted with him, but his charms no longer worked on me.

“Mabs, you look a mess. Dishevelled.”

“No shit, babe,” I gritted out through clenched teeth.

I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me. I was never normally like this. I was always happy and jolly and running this freak show like the well-oiled circus it was. And yes, you can positively laugh now. I had spent the last decade catering to Mark Quinton’s every whim, and that had made me happy.

But it didn’t make me happy anymore, and that little realisation had made me more irritable and bitchier than I’d ever been. I snapped at his every word. I ignored his calls. I turned up late for work, albeit with good reason. I refused to stand in for him when he missed a shift and had left the monthly accountancy spreadsheet well alone. It was still on this desk, and I was not going to cover for him. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

I had been enthralled with Mark Quinton for most of my adult life, and I had no idea why suddenly I wasn’t, but as he sat there staring at me, all I wanted to do was scream.

“As I told you in that longwinded, detailed text I sent to your phone earlier, my ceiling caved in this morning. My belongings—no—my life, Mark, is covered in sewage, and I no longer have a home. No roof over my head. Kind of major. So don’t give me those the fuck, Mabs lines. It was a couple of hours, and we had a duty manager here anyway. Nothing they shouldn’t have been able to handle.”

“We were fully booked,” he hissed. I almost laughed.

“You haven’t taken in a word I just said, have you?”

“There is always drama with you, Mabs. You know, you could have just come over. You are always welcome to stay at ours.”

“Ours? Yeah. Thanks, mate. Like I would want to come stay on your sofa and spend every night listening to you fuck my ex-husband. I’d rather stick needles in my eyeballs, thank you very much.”

I was being a bitch.

Mark sighed loudly and rolled his eyes. “You are such a child.”

“And you always have to take a stab…” I couldn’t continue. This was ludicrous. As always. “And you never listen to what I’m actually saying.”

“Sorry. I know I’m hard work.”

I couldn’t tell you how many times we’d had this conversation.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mark. I’m wrung out and exhausted. I have nothing left here. Nothing to give, nothing to gain. Tell me. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“I know,” he said quietly, and for a moment, my heart bled for him. Because he did this every time. Looked at me with so much kindness that I just wanted to hug him.

All part of his usual charade of guilt tripping me into adoring his spoilt, childish arse again.

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