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Ah. A helpful employee. Oliver, his name badge read. He was a portly chap around my own age, although the look on his face registered disgust and a wish to expel me from the building.
“Ah, Oliver. Good evening. I’m hoping to get a quick dinner from your in-house establishment. I hear it’s rather good.”
I hated the posh tone of my voice. It made me feel just as uncomfortable as wearing a suit.
“Are you staying at the hotel, sir?” Oliver asked, still unconvinced by my unconventional dinner attire and unshaven face.
“I’ve just moved into the apartment complex next door, and my PA assured me there was no dress code as such. Jonathan Templar.” I reached out, shaking his hand with a firm grip as his face turned from dismissive to smarmy. Yes, I could read him like a book. He was also clearly interested in the state of my backside from the look he gave me as I turned and attempted to walk away.
“Of course, of course. Let me introduce you to Mark Quinton, our celebrated restaurateur,” Oliver exclaimed.
I was beginning to regret ever venturing out of my flat. I should have ordered in. I didn’t give a rat’s arse who this Mark whatever was, but these were the rules of the game, and if I had to play them to get fed, then so be it.
I was immediately shown to a table overlooking the half-empty restaurant. It made me more uncomfortable, sitting there like a fool on display, as the waiter came over to pour me a tall glass of water and handed me a menu.
“Sir, how are you this very fine evening?” The waiter shot me a cheerful smile. “I trust you’re hungry, and I hope we can provide you with exactly what you need.”
What I needed? I didn’t even know that myself.
Mabel
Isuppose it all started the day my bedroom ceiling caved in on me, like a rebirth of some sorts. Overdramatic much? But yes, story of my life. I’d woken up in bed in my rented flat with foul-smelling liquid dripping on my face like some torturous waterboarding attempt. Nightmare. Well, it truly had been. With a cherry on top.
I’d panicked, because who in that situation wouldn’t have? God only knew what grime was coming through the ceiling, and my Greekneighbours were arguing again while I stood there trying to clean my face. Then the walls had trembled, and suddenly I no longer had a ceiling above my bed. What had once been my comfortable mattress was now drenched in a generous pouring of putrid brown goo. Cue me, ten minutes later, shouting obscenities at our useless landlord slash caretaker slash local drug dealer, a kid with a late-night gaming habit and no idea how to run a small block of flats. I was still in my pyjamas—I got cold at night since the heating here had never worked, not that that was important right now, because I clearly wouldn’t be sleeping there tonight, and the fact remained that I needed to get my arse in gear and find a new place to rent.
I couldn’t stay, that had been absolutely certain. Not that I had much to show for my life in the bedsit I’d called home for the last couple of years, but what I did own was valuable enough that I’d spent an hour this morning wrapping everything up as well as I could, just in case the entire building collapsed while I was at work.
I had nowhere to go, which again, was my fault. I should have been looking for a better place to live instead of putting up with what I had. This goddamn flat had black mould and a vermin problem, and the walls were paper thin. With a little help from Duolingo, I could probably join in the neighbours’ constant slanging matches. I’d have banged on the walls and shouted at them, but it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference. Most nights, I was so exhausted my head barely hit the pillow before I was asleep. Other nights, I stayed up late working on my projects while my headphones drowned out the noise around me.
I wasn’t happy. This flat of mine wasn’t a home. It was a convenient pitstop on my road to a life where I lived happily ever after. You can all laugh now. Like that would ever happen.
The crux of the matter was I’d ended up being seriously late for work since showering was an absolute necessity, and then I’d had to patch up my face before I rolled into the mid-lunch service to snide remarks and evil stares from my team.
They’d managed fine without me, but I got it. My bad. I hated when people were late, and I was never late, and yes, I hadn’t looked my best, not by a mile. My hair was matted and clumsily sprayed into place. I’d shaved and moisturised, but my skin was patchy and my pale eyelashes framed bloodshot eyes. I could have housed a family of four on the bags underneath them. I was also clearly not on the ball, wearing mismatched bright-orange high-waisted trousers with a long-sleeved shirt and a cardigan that had seen better days. At least I was clean and smelling of roses. Well, perhaps not roses, more like Gucci perfume, but I’d managed to present myself as non-offensively as I could under the circumstances.
On a normal day, I would have done my make-up on the Tube, but that took a certain level of brassy attitude, which could invite abuse that my already fragile mind wouldn’t be able to deal with today. On a normal day, just being me seemed to make people think I welcomed their comments and stares, their hushed whispers and laughter that I knew were directed at the way I presented myself.
Some days, I would dress predominantly masculine, wearing sharp shirts and tailored trousers; other days, my head would be in a different space and my legs would crave the flow of fabric, my hips swaying gently to pull off a more feminine look. It never bothered me either way. I just dressed the way I did, and the people who knew me had to learn to live with it. Today, with the added stress of the safety of my belongings, the lack of a bed—there was no way I would ever be able to sleep in that bed again—and the fact that I was now homeless meant I hadn’t been paying much attention when I’d dressedthis morning.
Told you. Overdramatic. I was fairly sure my meagre home insurance would cover some costs, if they ever paid up, and the London property market was full of rat-infested hovels like the one that had caved in on me this morning. I just didn’t want it. I didn’t want my old life. Didn’t want to continue on like this. The sheer thought of the paperwork involved in an insurance claim already brought the taste of bile to my mouth.
I was slightly rattled by my appearance since I rarely came to work looking anything but perfect, even though perfection wasn’t an option today. I plonked my arse down on the chair in the restaurant office, the restaurant that felt more like home than the four walls I had left behind, and the place that had always brought me calm. I belonged here. I always had. But where my home-sweet-homely relationship with my place of employment had always brought me happiness, this, alongside the rest of my life, seemed to be falling apart at the seams.
I stayed well beyond my scheduled working hours, trying to make up for my late arrival and sorting out the mess left behind from our lunch service to hopefully land myself in the good books of the evening shift. Well, mostly with Mark. Because Mark…oh, and yes. Here he was, stomping into the small office we shared looking like thunder personified.
I’d read somewhere that you could read people’s faces, see right into their souls by just staring into their eyes. I was staring all right, but the guy in front of me…
Ugh.
“The fuck, Mabs?”
Mark Quinton. Restaurateur extraordinaire. Award-winning in his trade. Hair swept into a perfectly messy quiff, albeit shorter than I would have liked, face covered in neatly trimmed scruff and a stern scowl that mademe shrink back. Not that I had any say in his appearance. Not anymore. Mark was handsome and sleek and today poured into some kind of shiny floral suit combo that made my eyes sting.
“Things happened. At least I am here,” I hissed, staring at him with what felt like fire in my eyes.
There had once been a time when I would have laid my life on the line for the man who pulled up a stool and sat himself in front of me, reaching out to grab my hand from the desk. I pulled away. I had no interest in getting dragged into one of Mark’s pity parties of guilt. I might once have been hopelessly besotted with him, but his charms no longer worked on me.
“Mabs, you look a mess. Dishevelled.”
