Page 81 of Sleep

“Pots,” I repeated and slipped out the door.

I was still standing by the cold kettle when the phone rang, an unknown number flashing on my screen like a warning bell. I hated those calls. A small ball of anxiety formed in my stomach, as I still hadn’t heard about my resignation or had any contact from HR. I needed to make some calls, get my life in order, figure out exactly where I was going from here.

“Hello?” I mumbled into the receiver, almost rolling my eyes in advance of hanging up on some salesperson.

“Mabel Donovan?” A female voice. Professional sounding.

“Yes?” Smarmy AF.

“Jessica Pravath. I got your number from James Christos. I believe you two have met.”

“We have indeed.” Oh God. Make this stop. I was not in the mood for whatever this was.

“I was hoping we could meet me for a chat, alongside a few colleagues of mine.”

“I’m sorry,” I croaked out. “Where are you calling from, Ms Pravath? And what is this concerning?”

My head was spinning. Was this about the hospice? The kettle whistled as I clumsily dropped the box of teabags onto the counter. My head was all over the place lately.

This was what love did to you.

“I run the Cleaver Rooms on Bond Street.”

“Fabulous,” I muttered. I had heard of the Cleaver Rooms—an invitation-only membership place. Roof terrace possibly?

“We’ve been working with Smyth and France on an exciting new venture. I don’t want to give any details over the phone. We would much rather meet in person so we can…discuss.”

“Discuss,” I repeated like a muppet as my mind swirled. “Smyth and France. The recruitment firm?”

“Exactly,” she purred back.

Very exclusive recruitment firm. The kind that finds CEOs for major companies. Big names. Big contracts. I did read the Financial Times, and I was pretty sure…

Shit.

“Are you offering me a job?” I blurted out. So rude.

“Donovan.” More purring. I also quite liked the ‘Donovan’, and she hadn’t misgendered me or asked. It suggested she’d done her research. Impressive. “As I said, I’d rather discuss things in person, but I can tell you this. We’ve had you on our hit list for a while, but you are notoriously hard to reach. We even sent a team down to dine at your establishment in the hope of enabling a point of contact, but so far, we have failed.”

“I see.” Good grief. Mabel. Get it together. My professionalism had obviously flown the nest. A few weeks out of a job and I had completely forgotten how to talk to people. “So you would like to meet?”

“Very much.”

“And you got my number from?”

“James Christos. The Hawthorne.”

“Oh.” She’d already said that, hadn’t she? “When and where?”

“The Smyth and France head office, Sloane Square, four o’clock.”

“Today,” I stated. I had meant to question it. Madness.

“Today. We look forward to meeting you, Donovan.”

That was it. The line went dead.

James Christos. The day after lunch with Mrs Templar, I’d shot off a message to thank him for the delightful meal and experience at his club, colleague to colleague, because I did actually know how to be polite and professional.

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