Page 39 of Sleep

“No.” They sat up and leaned towards me, tapping my hand. “Firstly, my sewing machine makes a right racket and would shatter that table within a few rounds of stitching boning tunnels onto corsets. I have a metal stand set on wooden slats to take some of the weight off the floor.”

“The floor here is marble. You’d be fine.”

Perhaps the whisky was helping. I was all warm on the inside. Brave on the outside. I grabbed their hand, held it as they shook their head at me.

“Secondly, you’re a millionaire. My monthly rental budget is just under a grand. That’d leave me a few meagre pennies to eat and survive. I can’t, under any circumstances, afford a rent in this building. So no. Not happening.”

“Do I look like I need rent?”

“Do I look like Julia Roberts?”

“Loved that film. And no. I’m not Richard Gere.”

“So I would live here in return for providing what? Cleaning and blow jobs?”

They had that look again, like they were either testing the water or overstepping the mark and immediately regretting it.

“The whisky has loosened your tongue,” I muttered.

“But you still need to answer,” they insisted.

“I told you. I’m not someone you have to fight for or with. I’m…you know.”

“Easy?” they suggested with a wink. Then they became serious again. “I do know, but we’re not going to move in together, and I won’t make a very good housewife.”

“You would, actually. My mother would be thrilled to take you out for lunch at her club. They do a ladies-of-leisure weekly event, with guest speakers on throwing perfect parties and how to tell if you’re being served Prosecco instead of Champagne at cut-price events.”

“Thrilling.” They smirked. Yeah. I knew.

“You want the truth?” I offered.

“Always.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“I noticed. You look exhausted. All the time.”

“It’s my normal. I’ve been like this for a while. Worked too hard, didn’t look after myself. I was told to take some time off, and instead I took on two new huge projects and moved house.”

“Jonny.”

“Yes, I know. I just can’t. I worked myself to the bone until I hit the wall, and I’m on three different sleeping tablets that don’t make a blind bit of difference. The wall is still there. I try to rest but wake up in a panic if I manage to drift off. I have extreme anxiety from all of this. As soon as the sun starts to go down, I am in an utter state, knowing I have another night ahead of me where I will sit on this sofa in my clothes and panic about the fact that I can’t make anything right. I can’t…”

“You can’t sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“I get that.”

“I’m not asking you to live here as someone who is behaving like a creep.”

“You are behaving like a creep, but go on.”

“I’m comfortable with you. You’re just…Mabel. And you could, maybe, if you stayed with me for a bit, maybe you could…”

“I probably could. I still don’t quite know what you’re asking here. I have a lot of questions.”

“I have no expectations, apart that what I need from you is…accountability. Friendship. Support. Companionship of some kind, which will help me learn how to feel better about all of this. I want you to just be you. Sweet and sharp. Keep me on my toes. Get my life back on track.”

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