Page 66 of Sleep

It wasn’t something I could ask Jenny…well… I could. Maybe there were some things I should keep private and locked away because this was mine. All mine. Nobody else need be involved.

I made it until just before lunch before my front door opened. Glass walls were a blessing. Electronic keycards and concierges who didn’t buzz me to let me know I had a visitor, however, were not.

I was sure I’d told them to do that.

Or had I?

I could smell her even before she’d yanked my office door open and wafted in, in all her elegant glory. My mother, garbed in a smooth, cream-coloured suit with so many pink accessories she resembled a marshmallowy flower arrangement.

What can I say? Mother had a certain…style.

“I’m taking you for lunch,” she declared loudly.

Yes, Mother, your son is half-deaf, but I could hear voices at a normal pitch in a quiet environment like this room, where I had curtains and a rug and the sound muted on my computer.

“I’m in the middle of three different meetings and have Jenny on the phone,” I said, getting up to air kiss my birth giver.

“And still not wearing trousers, Jonathan? I despair.”

My mother despaired a lot.

She patted her carefully coiffed hair, as if my trouser-less state had made it stand on end. “I’ll give you half an hour to get spruced up, then I’m leaving, with or without you.”

“I’m running a company, Mother. I can’t just take lunch on a whim.”

“Excuses, excuses. Come on, darling. It’s Thursday. French cuisine at the club. You love French cuisine.”

Did I? The French themes usually involved bouillabaisse, and I did quite enjoy that, though that was probably another dish I wasn’t supposed to eat. I could take or leave the accompanying Champagne.

“Thirty minutes,” my mother threatened as she waltzed off to no doubt undertake her usual inspection of my living quarters, which would give her enough conversation topics to see us through lunch, my inability to clean, the state of the bedroom, my clothes on the floor, and the empty fridge usually being top of her list. I was dreading it already.

I retreated back to my office and was midway through trying to rein in my tasks for the day and reschedule my twelve o’clock call with Kopetski when the front door opened again. I was going to kill that doorman. Or perhaps not because here was my Pickle, carrying an enormous armful of bright-orange glittery fabric. They kicked the door shut behind them and arrived in the living area at the same time as my mother exited the bedroom.

Standoff. Much as I was delighted to see Mabel at any time, the fear in my stomach was crippling, but there was also some other feeling threatening to overwhelm me, and for a moment I couldn’t define what it was. Then I realised it was happiness, pure and unfettered, coursing through my entire being.

Mabel could hold their own, I was sure, but my mother was terrifying. Walking slowly on her stiletto heels, which for an almost seventy-year-old woman was no mean feat, her mouth in a straight line under that bright-red lipstick. Her fingers, adorned with enough jewellery to buy a small estate, she circled Mabel like they were prey. If I’d been on the receiving end, I’d have turned around and left forever, but not Mabel. No, they kept their shoulders back and tracked my mother’s movements with their eyes, the prey turned predator.

I hung up on Jenny, stood up and straightened my shirt, which, since I had no trousers to tuck it into, was ridiculous, as was I. As was this situation.

“I assume you’re the person who has been sharing my son’s bed,” my mother stated.

“Mother!”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Well, it’s obvious, Jonathan, and since you don’t tell me anything, I have to ask.” She returned her attention to Mabel.

They smiled warmly and held out their free hand. “Mabel Donovan.”

My mother, always graceful, shook it. “Emilija Templar. How rude of me. I should have introduced myself properly.”

“Delighted.” This was why I loved them. All that grace and warmth, even towards the sometimes stone-cold specimen of my mother.

“Mabel—a classic name. I like it,” she said softly, letting her Eastern European accent shine through. My mother spoke perfect BBC English, but she used her traits to her advantage, intimidation being her forte. “Do put that fabric down—ghastly colour, but I suppose that’s what you young people like these days—and let me look at you. Hmm-hmm…very elegant daywear. Pearls, that’s what it needs. I have far too many sets—not quite my style, but remind me to bring a selection when I next see you.”

I saw Mabel swallow and glance over at me. Help. I could read that, loud and clear, but there was nothing I could do. My mother was unstoppable.

“A blouse like this should never be worn without pearls, and you have just the neck for them.”

“I’ve never been much of a pearl person,” they challenged softly. “My budget will often only stretch to hand-me-down costume replicas, but my mother owns some beautiful bracelets. She has good taste.”

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