Page 69 of Sleep

24. Mabel

This was not what I had planned for today, but still rattled by my encounter with Mark, I didn’t have the brainpower to avoid being…kidnapped by a former Olympic gold medallist dressed in a pink ensemble that was giving me a fashion migraine.

I knew the trends in drag, the current scene meshing the over-the-top and ridiculous with understated elegance, usually stripped straight off the fashion pages in Vogue, and I could copy a frock. I could, at a push, design something, but I was no fashion expert, other than knowing that my mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in anything like what Mrs Templar was wearing. Still, I was pretty sure I recognised the style.

Tread carefully, Mabel.

“Loewe?” I purred out. After all, this woman was not to be messed with, and I had a feeling it would be in my interests to have her on my side.

“Of course. My fashion tastes are wide, but I usually get my statement pieces curated by my stylist. I have a certain look I like to maintain.”

“And what a look it is! Potential-terrifying-future-mother-in-law doesn’t even start to describe it.”

“Sharp.” She smiled and winked. “Don’t push me, Mabel Donovan. I’m not easily amused, and you and I need to have a good chat. Lay some ground rules on the table.”

“Agreed.” I nodded and looked out of the window in shame. Not the smartest or most brilliant move on my part, but I wasn’t sure how to steer this conversation. I could deal with the Mrs Templars of the world when I was in my own environment. The name badge was like a solid iron shield, but I had no name badge here, no uniform illusion of protection. I was naked, added to which, I didn’t know Jonny well enough to out him to his mother, or who I was supposed to be right now to avoid accidentally doing so. I was so out of my depth it wasn’t funny.

“I look forward to getting to know you better, Mrs Templar,” I buffered, hoping to get this little luncheon off to a civilised start. Keep things neutral. Me? I was Switzerland. All the way.

We could probably have walked, the time it took for Mrs Templar’s impressive car to deposit us outside the entrance of a private members’ club. The Hawthorne. I should have known. I was pretty sure some of our better waiting staff had defected here, one of the chefs too, and I was racking my brains, trying to think of the name of the bar manager here because I’d crossed paths with him somewhere at some point.

I wanted to do a quick Google on my phone, so I could at least get the name right, but no time for that as the driver was holding my door open, waiting for me to step out into the freezing breeze. What was it with London in winter? I wasn’t dressed for this. My coat was old and worn, and while I’d been prepared to swan in at my now-former place of employment dressed like this, I was not prepared for a posh lunch with Jonny’s mother, nor for her to offer me her arm and lead me gently up the stairs where the porter greeted her by her first name.

It was…lovely, actually. I liked it. A warmth spread through me as said porter took my coat with zero judgment at my high heels or attire. Still. Nerves.

I’d planned to go home, sit with my mother and sort out my father’s weekly chores. Do some laundry. Pack a few of my belongings to take across to Jonny’s flat.

Madness, even thinking about it, as I was seated at a table in the elegant conservatory, candles and silver everywhere, understated elegance in the Christmas decoration department. I was impressed. Sorely so, thinking about the garish glitter and loud decorations I usually put up at—

I had to stop thinking about my OLD JOB.

Forwards, Mabel. Forwards.

“So. I assume you will allow me to order,” Mrs Templar said in a tone that told me she’d order whether I allowed it or not. “Not that I doubt you would make excellent choices here, but I have particular dishes in mind, and I want you to sample them. As you can probably tell, I don’t take no for an answer. I expect things to go my way. I’ve been around far too long to negotiate with people, and things always run smoother when I’m pleased.”

“Solid advice,” I said, accepting the glass of Champagne that was thrust into my hand. The waiter disappeared back to where they’d come from, somewhere out of sight. Nice. Discreet.

“Mrs Templar…” I started, but she waved her hand at me dismissively.

“Emilija. Seriously, Mabel. None of this dancing around the inevitable. My son is my first priority here. My second one? I want to have a pleasant lunch with interesting conversation.”

“That sounds like the perfect first date.”

“Indeed.” She smiled. “Now, how do we rate this Champagne?”

“Not the Noble,” I pointed out. I may not have had the chops of a potential Master of Wine, but I did know my Champagnes, and I recognised this one on taste alone. “Veuve Clicquot. Easy on the palate.”

“Very good. But I like a little bit more bite. Now. I have questions.”

I was sure she did, but first, she waved over the waiter, an overly happy young man who swooned over Mrs Templar like she was some kind of major celebrity.

“Carlos,” she told me as he finally took his leave with a long-winded order perfectly memorised. Again, impressive. Poor Milliee would have had a heart attack. The girl was a delight but couldn’t even remember how to spell her own name.

“Charming,” I said softly.

“Hmm, and annoying as anything. Needs to be kept on a tight leash.” She wriggled in her chair and then slowly changed her stance. “So Mabel. You are a homosexual, I assume?”

Great. We were going straight in at the deep end then.

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