The Lover's Children

Chapter 39 – The Idylls of March #11

GEORGIE

What was that smell?

Context. It’s all context.

The ghost of a smell. Something that hasn’t quite washed off. That doesn’t belong here in this place.

Alcohol? Disinfectant?

Formalin?

Should I ask?

Excuse me, Borje, but you smell weird. Would you mind telling me what it is?

I hold my tongue.

The music picks up pace once more, to a rocking rhythm that has us swinging and swaying, swirling

over the floor, laughing as we collide with another pair of dancers and exchange smiling apologies. As I

grow warm, beginning to perspire, my lightweight top comes into its own. Borje too, has a sheen of

sweat on his face. And now, all I smell is the clean, musky fragrance of male flesh, heated with

exercise.

The song ends and the band set down their instruments for half-time. “Thank God for that.” Borje

swipes hands across cheeks shiny with heat and sweat. “C’mon, let’s sit and cool down.”

I fan my face with a hand. “Sounds good to me.”

*****

It’s a lovely evening. A perfect evening. Full of laughter and smiles,

Despite my ‘permission’, Borje doesn’t try to touch more than my hand, just for a moment twining

fingers around mine, giving them a squeeze as he looks into my eyes. "You're so shy, Georgie.” His

head inclines. “You pretend you’re not. But it’s all an act... Or is it just me you're shy with?"

"I… I'm not very good with people. If I don't talk, I can't say the wrong thing. I don’t mean to, but I

always seem to try to… to…"

He’s barely hiding his grin. “To take control?”

“Yeah… I'm sorry. As I’ve mentioned, and as you spotted Day One, I take after my father. Do you know

what that's like?”

The grin morphs to a thoughtful expression. “In fact, I do. For what it is worth, I’ll say that while I realise

you respect your father. A great deal…” He blinks, lowering his eyes, then raising them again to mine.

"You look like your father's daughter, but you don't behave like him. Not truly."

"Well, Dad's kind of... forceful... If you know what I mean."

"I do, yes. It goes with the territory."

"What territory?"

His gaze shears away from mine.

After some moments, he says, “I am not dating your father. I’m dating you. And you talk too much

about him. You should talk about yourself more.”

Really?

What are you avoiding?

“What about me?”

I didn’t mean to sound testy. Borje lifts hands, palms upward as though weighing the air. “Ah, Christ…

Whatever… Your work perhaps. You clearly enjoy it.”

“You don’t talk about your work…” The words, bitter and toxic, fall from my lips… “… Except to say that

it makes you late.”

The hands fall. His eyes shift away. Then he cracks a smile, gives me a depreciating shrug. “No. You’re

right. I don’t. Look, there’s…”

Something Bings.

Whatever Borje was about to say is lost. He breaks off in mid-sentence, smile fading. Reaching into a

pocket, he produces a flashing phone, stares at the screen for a moment… “Damn” … Rising from his

seat, he flags down the waiter. Wallet in hand, he’s already holding up a credit card. After a muttered

exchange, "Georgie, I'm very sorry, but I have to go."

Words and disappointment tumble from my lips. "What...?"

"I can't apologise enough for this. I don’t want to spoil your evening. You enjoy the music. Finish your

meal. I've told the waiter that when you're done, to call you a taxi to get you home. I’ve already paid for RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

it."

The waiter returns with his coat. Borje throws it on, gives me a peck on the cheek, then strides away

and out.

Eyes pricking, I pick at my plate, but the food tastes stale and the wine sour.

At least I didn't screw it up myself this time...

Did I?

"Would you like to choose a dessert, Madam?"

"No, I’ve had enough. Could you order my taxi, please.”

*****

KLEMPNER

Despite the chill, a walk in the fresh air feels good. Even a stroll around the garden and the hotel

grounds takes me out of the house.

A coffee...

Maybe raid James’ whiskey...

A spot by the fire...

…

Will Mitch be busy?

A taxi pulls up to the main gate and a familiar figure steps out, Georgie.

She’s dressed for the evening. Her long coat looks expensive, going-out-wear, and the bag slung over

her shoulder sparkles as she teeters onto the gravel drive in dagger-heeled shoes. Her eyes are

heavily kohled, her lips painted some strong colour, probably red but looking almost black in the harsh

floodlit illumination of the entrance drive. The effect is stark on her already strong features.

The taxi pulls away, and she stands, watching after it, arms folded, shoulders slumped.

Backing into a gloomy corner, I linger. Georgie doesn't go inside. Instead, she paces up and down, or

tries to, stumbling in the unsuitable shoes. Then she sags onto one of the benches dotted around the

entrance.

I peel away from my shadow. "Georgie?"

She startles, twisting to face me... "Oh! … Oh…” She makes a failed attempt at a smile. “… It’s you.

Hello, Larry."

"Hello…”

What the fuck am I supposed to say?

“… Georgie?"

She hunches, hugging her arms around herself. "I'm fine."

Yeah... Right...

I shove hands into pockets, amble across, stand beside her. "Nice outfit. You're looking good. On your

way somewhere?" I’m lying. Close up, she looks fucking awful. Some women can pull off Hollywood

tears. Georgie looks like someone’s been at her eyes with a balloon pump.

She scuffs into the gravel, scraping the shine off the patent finish of her shoes. "No. Just got back

actually."

I scuff the gravel myself, but it won’t touch my boot leather.

What to do?

Where’s Mitch when I need her?

"Would you like to come back to the house? Your father's not here, but I was just going to make coffee.

Want one?"

"Um, yes. I would… Thanks."

In the kitchen, I spoon grinds into the pot, but I'm conscious that, furtively, Georgie's watching me.

I set two mugs on the table. Sit. “So what's the problem? Or shouldn't I ask?"

She cups palms around the mug. Screws up her face. "Just one of those days. Well, one of those

evenings actually. I had a date..."

"Didn't work out?”

“No… Well… It's not so much that it didn't work out. It just didn't happen. He'd booked a nice place, a

club. Much better than I can afford. But we'd been there less than an hour when he left."

"Left? You… argued?"

"No, nothing like that. Something came up on his phone. And just like that, he left me. Just made some

quick apology and left. He paid the bill and he'd ordered a taxi for me, but..." She droops.

"Not a great end to an evening, I'll grant. He didn't say why he left so suddenly?"

"No. Not a word. Just that he had to go."

Now what…

"Would you prefer something stronger than coffee?"

"Your father’s whiskey. Or I can rifle his brandy supply. He thinks I don’t know where he’s hidden it."

That produces a pale smile. "I'd like the brandy."

Retrieving James' excellent Armagnac from behind the gallon-sized flagon of olive oil in the larder, I

splash an inch into two tumblers. As an afterthought, I bring the decanter back to the table, push a

tumbler into Georgie’s hand and set the decanter down beside her.

"You're very kind."

I pull up a chair opposite her. "Well, that's new territory. A phrase I've never had thrown at me before."

She raises swollen eyes. “What is?"

"Kind. Never been told that before. Not many would agree."

"You've always been kind to me."

I don't know what to say to that, so I swish down a mouthful of the brandy and wait for her to start

talking.

"Why?" She looks up from under dark lashes that nonetheless frame red-rimmed eyes.

"Why what?"

"Why are you kind to me? You barely know me, but you behave as though we're friends."

"Your father has been very good to me, and for very little reason other than that Jenny... Sorry,

Charlotte... is my daughter. Let’s just say I'm returning the favour."

"Why do you call her Jenny?"

The brandy burns down my gullet. "Long story. It's the name she was born with."

"But she changed it. Why?"

I exhale fumes of fire. "I don't think it's for me to tell you that. If she decides to, or your father does,

you'll not think so well of me."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not kind. Or I haven't been in the past."

"I don't believe you."

"Which part?"

"The part about being kind to me just because of my dad. That's not a good enough reason to say what

you just did."

"Maybe." I toss back the drink, top up, offer her the decanter and she holds out her glass.

"Tell me," she insists.

“Tell you what? I thought I’d brought you in here for a shoulder to cry on.” She just stares at me.

Ah… What the fuck…

"I recognize the signs in you. You don't fit in properly. You want to, but you're not sure how to."

"Like you?"

I swill brandy around my mouth, letting it burn away any reply I might make.