Page 19 of Sleep

“Don’t be a tragedy, Mabel. You know what happened to Steps.”

I rolled my eyes again for effect, but I still smiled.

Was still smiling when I arrived at the hotel for my shift.

And there was Mark.

Mark, who hadn’t been in all weekend and left me with double shifts and chaos.

Mark, who never apologised for dumping me with his workload.

Mark, who still looked as handsome as the first day he’d turned up at that club and talked to me with that voice, made me feel like I was the centre of his world.

The same Mark who looked at me now with guilt written all over his face, his hand shaking as he motioned for me to step into the back office as if I was in trouble.

If anyone was in trouble, it was him, because there was a rage brewing inside me, a hot, awful rage that hurt like the flames were real, licking my insides with sharp heat as he sat in the chair and left me standing in the doorway like the absolute idiot I still was.

“Mabs,” he said.

The shivers down my spine were like being stabbed with a million sharp knives.

“I need to tell you something, and I think…you’re going to be upset.”

No shit, Mark. No shit.

9. Jonathan

I’d avoided going for dinner for almost a week, unable to muster up the courage to face Donovan again. Not for any reason other than that I was a fool.

I’d done things like this before—befriended random people whom I thought could become part of my life—and I hadn’t learned a single lesson during my fifty-one years. I was letting too many truths slip out, and I wasn’t comfortable with that—letting people in, knowing my business.

I wasn’t built for other people. I didn’t really have friends. I wasn’t social or thrilled to meet people. I was stern, cold and sometimes ill-tempered. The only thing that kept me going was running a company that paid me lots of money I had no idea what to do with. I had no outgoings. No life. Nothing.

My existence was like the coffee cup in front of me—bland, cold and empty. But at least the cup had been designed to be warm and comforting, giving people pleasure and hope.

I snorted at that last thought. I kept thinking of arranging some kind of tryst but had no intention of following through. My past encounters had been both embarrassingly awkward and unfulfilling. Despite being a fully grown, successful professional, I was painfully aware of my shortcomings as a human being. Pleasure? I didn’t even have the pleasure of a good night’s sleep and instead spent every night on my sofa, with a blanket over my restless body.

I would close my eyes and try to switch off my thoughts, but they never switched off. They wandered into darkness and made me fret. I really needed to start seeing a therapist because the horrible reality was, I was so utterly alone in all this. I had nobody to confide in, that my pathetic fear of other people was getting the better of me. I was so frightened—of life, of a future that would never get better, that one day, I would be sitting on this very sofa and have a massive heart attack and leave this world with no legacy apart from newspaper headlines when some poor soul found my decomposing body months later.

I had no doubt about that, just as I never doubted all the other facts stored in my nighttime panics.

Like the fact that I couldn’t even acknowledge to myself where my attractions lay.

Just thinking that thought made me shiver and sent a blush spreading across my cheeks.

I’d been alone here for days, my workflow only interrupted by the concierge downstairs offering to bring up my deliveries. I’d figured out how to get groceries at the tap of a handy app. Most of them still sat on top of the marble kitchen island—a pile of ripped-open bags that I would casually graze from, biting into random things, then leaving them half-eaten on the side as I paced the floor with my phone pressed to my ear.

I was wanted on site for a visit. I’d refused and sent Jasper instead. My head wasn’t in the right place to perform in front of people—not those kinds of people. I was itching for something else, and I couldn’t even fully explain to Jenny why I refused to put myself in that situation when I was perfectly safe right here. She once again reassured me she’d always be by my side, writing down numbers on her notepad in full view—names—ensuring I didn’t mishear anything important, covering for my stumbles when I responded with the wrong answer to a question I’d misheard.

Instead of fulfilling my work duties, I ran on the treadmill, put myself through another session with Inez, the personal trainer, showered all the sweat off my body and dressed in a random selection from the items still hanging in my wardrobe. Most of my clothes were on the floor. I really needed to send out to have them cleaned. Or perhaps throw things in the washing machine. I was sure there was one somewhere in the kitchen, hidden behind one of those panels.

Another job for another day. I pulled myself together and made my way downstairs. A brisk walk through the evening crowd. Greeting the regular hotel doorman with a swift flick of my hand. A nod to the concierge on the floor, alongside the same dismissive stare. They knew me by now. And here was Tabitha. A familiar sigh of relief.

“Mr Templar,” she said nervously, ensuring she caught my eyes. “I’m going to place you over by the window today. Away from the…fracas.”

I was about to sternly protest, but the sound of raised voices coming from the back of the room made me stop, and I willingly let myself be led to a small table overlooking the terrace. Tabitha was on edge, pretending to smile as she looked over her shoulder.

And then another raised voice, a door slamming. She jumped. I did too. I wasn’t deaf.

---