Page 82 of Sleep

What had she said about sending diners to the Clouds? I had no idea what was going on.

“Have you rung the carers?” my dad called from the hallway. “Mum’s in pain again. I think they should come.”

“Okay.” I stomped around in a circle. It was just gone midday, I hadn’t washed my hair, I was still in my pyjamas, and I needed to ring the carers. Now.

“Where’s my tea?” And here was my dad, staring at me with the iPad in his hand. “I asked for tea.”

I finally got around to making his tea, then I picked up my phone and, as per some insane instinct, rang Mark, because my brain seemed to have missed the memo that we were no longer friends, that this was another big, messy divorce I was handling with quiet dignity and…FUUUUUCK!

“Mabs?” His voice rang through the receiver.

“You need to ring the carers!” my dad once again reminded me, as I plonked a cup in front of him and fled into the living room.

“Mark,” I said. “I just had a phone call from Smyth and France.”

“Shit!” he hissed.

“Yes, shit.” We didn’t need more words than that; we both knew the drill here.

“I suppose that means that…I actually have to let you resign.”

“I resigned days ago. The fuck, Mark?”

“I never handed it in. You’re on unpaid leave. Health issues,” he admitted. “Your mum, not you.”

“Mark…”

“I was secretly hoping you’d come to your senses and come back.”

“Still playing games.”

“No, Mabs. Still having your back. Always. Because I really, really wanted you back here. We’ve always had each other. Always worked together, and this sucks! SUCKS!” He was shouting. Nothing new there. Mark was Mark. I was me.

“Tell me about Smyth and France. Level with me here.”

“Mega-exclusive recruitment. Always huge money. Have you got any idea what they’re offering?”

“Not a clue.” I breathed out in relief that we were actually talking. That he’d taken my call. I needed this. Desperately. Just to hear his voice and relieve some of this awful tension I still carried around. “I still hate you, by the way. Just so you know.”

“Of course you do, and I don’t blame you. I do engage in some self-reflection, you know. I don’t expect miracles. And I honestly, deep down know I’ve lost you, and that I’ll have to live with that. I’m also more than a bit jealous of whatever is next for you. Anyway, Smyth and France is led by Carl France. American-born, wildly successful, married to a woman, past issue with party drugs. Gets exactly what he wants. Has a team of diehard recruiters who will shut down a restaurant in order to get the head chef.”

“Oh! They took out Grand Piazza?”

“And Francesca’s. Both went down on hygiene issues, to swiftly grab the people they wanted. And now they want you. I would definitely do your research on whatever they’re offering, but trust me, they only deal with top-end companies in the hospitality field. Rarely on the catering side. This is unexpected, but…”

“Yes?”

“You already hate me.”

“I do.”

“You also love me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mark, we’re friends. We will always…fucked-uppedly enough, be friends. But what?”

“I’m kind of scared. They’ve tried to get you before. Twice. Really sneakily tried to get a foot in the door to get you on your own. HR was fuming because they just wouldn’t give up trying to get hold of you.”

“You…” I really, really did hate him. So bloody much. “You made me change my number?!”

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