Page 2 of Sleep

I had comfortable visitors’ chairs for those occasions when human interaction was unavoidable. The rest of the time, I was more than happy to entertain over video links. That made me happy, the thought of never again having to set foot in what had been our company headquarters, dealing with the constant flow of people and expectations of success and perfection.

My bedroom was on the opposite side of the living space, separated by another set of seemingly floating glass doors. I’d invested in a new, decently sized bed with fresh bedding still sat in its glossy packaging on top of the sumptuous-looking mattress. Another of those things I should have dealt with, but when you didn’t sleep in the way nature intended, then the comfortable sofa in the living room with its thick, wool blanket had served its purpose last night and would likely do so tonight as well. It was funny how all the rules of others had always impacted my life, and I was thrilled with this new quiet existence in which nobody would care where I slept or ate or threw my dirty laundry.

I still needed to eat, and I didn’t need to open my glass-fronted fridge door to know that I owned nothing of any nutritional value, unless my collection of fine whiskies and a random bottle of Japanese rice wine counted.

Hence I went digging in the bedroom wardrobes, with their heavy doors that smelled of fresh wood and clean laundry, and took out a pair of grey joggers and a matching hoodie to cover up my shirt and tie. I scrapped the tie, throwing it carelessly on the bed. The glimpse of my reflection in the mirror was…distasteful. I was no longer the slim, trim young man I had once been. Instead, a middle-aged man with grey in his hair and more stubble than was fashionable stared back at me.

A man who looked frighteningly like my father.

Jonathan, darling. We’re hosting the Prewitts for dinner at Soho House this evening. Will you be making an appearance? Haven’t seen you since the Summer soirée, and Father and I would love to catch up. x

I sent my mother a curt and polite response. I needed to eat, but socialising with my parents and their friends took a certain amount of strength, strength that I needed time to build up. There was nothing embarrassing about being a single, unattached male in your thirties. However, when you were fifty-one, that small fact became harder to dismiss in conversation, and it was always brought up in the company of my parents.

A few years ago, I would have gone in search of an evening meal at one of the clubs I used to frequent, smiled and shaken the hands of people I vaguely knew from my time in Oxford and gladly accepted a fine dinner from the subservient and polite waiters. I’d cut all of that out of my life too, slim-lined and trimmed down everything that caused me stress. I had a long history of ulcers, kidney stones, cholesterol issues and high blood pressure, things that might kill me if I didn’t figure out how to better look after myself. I didn’t need clubs. I needed to de-stress and reorganise my schedules and eat and sleep and function like life intended me to. All things I had failed to accomplish in the past months.

The sight of my bed made me briefly consider a hook-up of some kind, just something to calm my mind—another reason I had chosen this location for what was now my home. I preferred a hotel encounter, faceless and clean with no strings attached, but the thought made me nervous. There was only so much I could handle on a day like this, and the business hotel next door would not be my venue of choice for any future such encounters. Instead, I would venture further afield for such frivolities, ensuring my much-needed total privacy here in my own home because the building with the sharp logo casting a cool glow over my veranda had been the ideal choice of companion for my new life.

The Clouds Hotel would provide business services, should I ever need the space. Conference facilities for larger projects as well as a fine restaurant with Thameside seating for when I needed to entertain. I had sent Jenny to do her research, and she had reported back that everything was of an acceptable standard. I supposed it was time to venture out and inspect it myself, since my stomach was rumbling and my head was running out of coherence. Food. Nap. Back to work. Perhaps even make up the bed if I had enough strength.

For now, I gathered myself up and stepped into the lift to take me down to the entrance of the building I lived in. Pulling the hood over my head to cover my uncharacteristically messy mop of hair, I stood in silence as the doors silently opened onto the starkly bare lobby. The building concierge, a polite young fellow in a sleek uniform, offered a nod of acknowledgement, which I returned before taking up a brisk stride out the door to join the London crowds.

The sheer number of people enjoying the cold evening along the south bank forced me to navigate closer to the buildings and away from the waterfront. It was still not quite winter, but I was glad to escape the chilly breeze blowing straight through my clothes and enter the warmth of the Clouds Hotel lobby. There was soft piano music coming from somewhere, and the expected noise of human interaction filled the high ceiling space. Briefly considering fleeing and settling for the easier option of a quick McDonald’s from the other side of the bridge, I straightened myself up. There was no dress code here; all I needed was a table for one and to be left alone to have a half-decent meal in peace and quiet so I could settle the hunger and get some rest.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Ah. A helpful employee. Oliver, his name badge read. He was a portly chap around my own age, although the look on his face registered disgust and a wish to expel me from the building.

“Ah, Oliver. Good evening. I’m hoping to get a quick dinner from your in-house establishment. I hear it’s rather good.”

I hated the posh tone of my voice. It made me feel just as uncomfortable as wearing a suit.

“Are you staying at the hotel, sir?” Oliver asked, still unconvinced by my unconventional dinner attire and unshaven face.

“I’ve just moved into the apartment complex next door, and my PA assured me there was no dress code as such. Jonathan Templar.” I reached out, shaking his hand with a firm grip as his face turned from dismissive to smarmy. Yes, I could read him like a book. He was also clearly interested in the state of my backside from the look he gave me as I turned and attempted to walk away.

“Of course, of course. Let me introduce you to Mark Quinton, our celebrated restauranteur,” Oliver exclaimed.

I was beginning to regret ever venturing out of my flat. I should have ordered in. I didn’t give a rat’s arse who this Mark whatever was, but these were the rules of the game, and if I had to play them to get fed, then so be it.

I was immediately shown to a table overlooking the half-empty restaurant which only heightened my discomfort, sitting there like a fool on display, as the waiter came over to pour me a tall glass of water and hand me a menu.

“Sir, how are you this very fine evening?” The waiter shot me a cheerful smile. “I trust you’re hungry, and I hope we can provide you with exactly what you need.”

What I need? I didn’t even know that myself.

2. Mabel

Isuppose it all started the day my bedroom ceiling caved in on me, like a rebirth of some sort. Overdramatic much? But yes, story of my life. I’d woken up in bed in my rented flat with foul-smelling liquid dripping on my face like I’d been carted off in my sleep to some dingy, unrecognisable location, to be waterboarded until I spilled everything I knew. Nightmare. It truly had been. With a cherry on top.

I’d panicked, because who in that situation wouldn’t have? God only knew what grime was coming through the ceiling, and my Greek neighbours were arguing again while I stood there trying to clean my face. Then the walls had trembled, and suddenly I no longer had a ceiling above my bed. What had once been my comfortable mattress was now drenched in a generous pouring of putrid brown goo. Cue me, ten minutes later, shouting obscenities at our useless landlord slash caretaker slash local drug dealer, a kid with a late-night gaming habit and no idea how to run a small block of flats. I was still in my pyjamas—I got cold at night since the heating here had never worked, not that that was important right now, because I clearly wouldn’t be sleeping there tonight, and the fact remained that I needed to get my arse in gear and find a new place to rent.

I couldn’t stay, that had been absolutely certain. Not that I had much to show for my life in the bedsit I’d called home for the last couple of years, but what I did own was valuable enough that I’d spent an hour this morning wrapping everything up as well as I could, just in case the entire building collapsed while I was at work.

I had nowhere to go, which again, was my fault. I should have been looking for a better place to live instead of putting up with what I had. This goddamn flat had black mould and a vermin problem, and the walls were paper thin. With a little help from Duolingo, I could probably join in the neighbours’ constant slanging matches. I’d have banged on the walls and shouted at them, but it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. Most nights, I was so exhausted my head barely hit the pillow before I was asleep. Other nights, I stayed up late working on my projects while my headphones drowned out the noise around me.

I wasn’t happy. This flat of mine wasn’t a home. It was a convenient pitstop on my road to a life where I lived happily ever after. You can all laugh now. Like that would ever happen.

The crux of the matter was I’d ended up being seriously late for work since showering was an absolute necessity, and then I’d had to patch up my face before I rolled into the mid-lunch service to snide remarks and evil stares from my team.

---