Page 38 of Sleep

“So what do you see happening here?” I asked. “Actually, come, sit down. We only speak the truth on this sofa of yours.”

“Do we now?”

“Well, you started it. Inviting me in and letting me sit here and stew in irrational—”

“If we’re going to do this,” he began. The tie came off.

“Then what?” I pulled my legs up underneath me, dragged the blanket over my chest. Protection, perhaps. I liked this, being here with him, but I never behaved like this, never felt like this, and self-preservation alarms going off everywhere.

“Do you like whisky?” he asked.

“Only over ice,” I purred.

Good grief, Mabel.

15. Jonathan

The anxiety that had been brewing in my chest for days on end seemed to have simply packed up and left, like I’d signed the dotted line, deal sealed.

I knew that wasn’t the truth of the spectacle I was inviting in here. I wasn’t partner material. I didn’t go on dates. The closest thing to partnering I did was when Jenny let me swipe men right and left on her dating profiles for a laugh.

Jenny liked a glass of whisky. We used to share one at the end of each working week, a Friday tradition, but she’d never asked me if I was…gay, not even mentioned anything about my lack of partners and conquests. We’d been two single adults comfortably and somewhat professionally coexisting in a work environment—until Damien-the-super-sperm-prat had entered the equation, impregnated my PA and caused all kinds of errors in our well-functioning routine.

I was good with routine. Less so with my new lack of it.

But this, sitting on the sofa, my arm slung across the backrest, our legs comfortably sharing the space and warmth of my oversized throw…felt right somehow.

A half-drunk bottle of whisky stood on the floor between us, though neither of us was intoxicated in any way. We were just tired and mellow. The way I liked it.

It was not the way I’d planned for this evening to go, but while part of me wanted…I couldn’t even bring myself to think about the things I wanted…the other part of me was cruising along at a perfect speed.

One small moment at a time.

“I’ve got a viewing lined up for a room in a flat share next week,” they said. “Single bed, far too small for me, but I have to start somewhere.”

“There’s no point paying a deposit for somewhere that’s not going to work for you.”

“Not much choice in central London.”

“I hear Newbury is lovely at Christmas.” I didn’t even have to laugh for them to get the joke, though I did when they banged their forehead into the sofa cushion. I shuffled into a more upright position, my mind spinning with ideas. All bad ones, but honest ones. “I have a proposal.”

“Already?”

See why I liked them? This was so easy.

“Cancel the viewing. Come live with me.”

“That’s enough whisky for you, young man.”

“Not so young. And listen, I have a nice big guest room, a huge dining area that I only use to house my collection of dust. It’s extensive, my carefully curated work of dust art. I take it very seriously, but I would consider trying to clean up so you could have some space for your sewing. It’s a good table.”

“Babe.”

Now it was me laughing. Babe?

“Did you just come up with this grand plan right now?”

“Something like that.”

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