Page 6 of Sleep

Mabel was back, plates stacked in one hand and a glass of what looked positively mouthwatering carefully balanced between their fingers.

“I didn’t bother to bring the bottle, but this particular South African Shiraz will blow your mind. Won three gold awards, and we managed to secure a crate. Now, take a sip and tell me how much you already love me.”

It was funny how I was laughing, taking the glass from them with a wink. Ripe fruit scents filled my nostrils as I swirled the wine and watched the trails of liquid run down the inside of the glass before I took a small, careful sip. All those complex flavours hit my tongue, followed by a mellowing at the back of my mouth and a gentle burn.

“Gorgeous,” I murmured. “Good choice.”

“So, do you love me?” Mabel almost whispered, causing another smile to burst onto my lips. “Trust me,” they continued, purring like an oversized kitten, “with me looking after you, we’ll have that heart of yours behaving in no time. Our head chef is making you a small starter of pan-fried duck on a bed of early leek and winter apples. It’s fresh and tasty, and I think you may find it complements the Shiraz. Ben—he’ll come out and meet you later, brilliant bloke, by the way—suggested he make you that burger, but on a light wholegrain roll with smashed avocado and chili relish.”

“God.” I meant to say good, but I had taken a large gulp of the wine during that speech and was having a small orgasm in my mouth. “Good God, that’s lovely.”

“No, My name is Mabel, darling. But Good God will do for now. Enjoy your starter, I’ll come back and check on you in a minute. Need to go flirt with the rest of this evening’s dinner crowd, otherwise they’ll get jealous of me giving you all my attention.”

I almost expected to be blown a kiss, but instead all I got was a little wave as I picked up the napkin left on the side plate. It would have been placed in my lap at a finer establishment, but I cast aside my lofty expectations in favour of being pleasantly surprised. More than pleasantly surprised as I tucked into the plate in front of me, letting the flavours calm my growling stomach as I ate, not even taking in what was on the plate.

4. Mabel

My favourite breakfast foods were, according to my father, posh ridiculous ones. Like poached eggs and smashed avocado on grainy toast. While I had grown up on shop-bought white bread and discount supermarket marmalade, the years had gifted me a more refined palate, and as I stared into my parents’ bare fridge, I once again sighed loud enough that my father stomped his feet.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with his tablet, staring angrily at me from his usual throne, also known as the one rickety kitchen chair that still had a padded seat.

“We don’t have any fancy food, you know this,” he grunted before taking a loud slurp from his no doubt stone-cold cup of tea.

He wasn’t angry at me, not even for sneaking in and borrowing the car, then running around the house like a headless chicken for the past week. He hadn’t even grumped at the fact that I had discreetly moved myself back into my childhood room and filled the hallway with all my belongings.

But I was angry at myself, because I should have known better than to put myself in this situation in the first place, and my mother making noises through the night had kept me awake, adjusting her pillows and talking to her, hoping she would settle down and for once let my father have a good night’s sleep.

None of us slept. Because that was life with the Donovans.

My mother was completely lost to dementia and illness, bedridden with a team of carers who came in to tend to her needs. Dad did everything else, and I did what I could, always feeling inadequate and overwhelmed.

“Thanks for letting me rest,” came from the kitchen table, a nice acknowledgement of my pottering around through the night.

“You know I don’t mind helping,” I said quietly. “She’s my mum too.”

“She doesn’t react to any of us. Sometimes I think she does. I sit there and hold her hand for a bit and look for…I know there’s nothing there anymore. But what else can I do?”

It hurt my heart to hear him speak like that, but there was nothing anyone could do. I’d been a late only child. My parents had run their company, and I had been taught everything from the ground up. We’d been a team. Always.

Until we weren’t anymore and everything had crumbled because without my mum’s steady hand and calm temper we’d had nothing left.

And yet, here we were, once again, a unit of three in a crumbling council house in the most southwestern of the South London suburbs, rough and ready and full of the modern world’s failings. The well-kept road I’d grown up at was still here, but it was full of bins and rubbish and weeds and cars, knocked-over garden walls and skips, loud music and kids on bikes, someone shouting in the distance as my father reached over and closed the window behind him.

“So, Ma-belle. What’s the plan?”

“Ma-belle,” I parroted back with a smile. “I’m not a child anymore.”

“Still, a beautiful creature you are, though.” He grinned, motioning for me to sit down next to him. “You’re always going to be ma belle.”

An old joke. A term of endearment. It should have made me feel calm and loved. Instead, all I could think was that I wanted a poached egg and a nice cup of coffee. My normality back.

“I’ll go shopping later.” I sighed, reaching for my father’s teacup and draining the cold liquid he’d left over.

“Hey,” he protested.

I didn’t care. I’d make him another bloody tea. “Dad, tea is better hot. Toast is better fresh. Marmalade is better when it actually has oranges in it.”

“Tea should be drunk cold. Toast should be buttered when cold. And marmalade is marmalade, whatever it says on the label.”

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