The Lover's Children

Chapter 28 - Winter Wedding #27

MICHAEL

Klempner’s brow a little furrowed, he watches. I try to follow his line-of-sight, but across the dancing

crowd, can’t make out where his interest lies.

I shift along the bar…

James dancing with Mitch?

Not something he’s going to worry about… All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

Ryan with Charlotte?

Hardly…

Curiosity wars with good manners. Curiosity wins. Making my way along to stand next to him, I raise a

finger to the barman. “A beer here, please.” Then with a nod to the empty glass. “What can I get you,

Larry?”

“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, thanks.”

Drink in hand, and now with Klempner’s view over the room, “Something bothering you?”

Whisky glass in one hand, he raises it to his mouth, eyes and forefinger aiming to a table in the far

corner. “I was wondering who the blond wolf is, stalking Georgie.”

And now, although still dancing with Mitch, I see James’ attention too, is fixed on the table.

Would he object?

Why should he?

He was happy enough to let Borje fuck Charlotte…

“Borje is no wolf,” I say. “He's a decent man.” I watch the pair for a moment… Heads close over the

table, her hands, although holding a glass, stretch across to him. And his to hers. And though seating

on opposite sides of the small table, they’re as close as space will allow… “They're looking cosy

together, aren't they.”

Klempner’s brows draw together. He sips his drink. “That they are. A decent man you say?”

Concerned about Georgie?

“That's right. He is. Although... If Georgie hooked up with him, she'd be in for a few surprises.”

The glass halts en route, hovering mid-air. “What does that mean?”

“It means that Borje is a long-time friend. James and I… Kirstie too for that matter… know him because

he uses the clubs. I imagine that’s why he’s on the guest list. Kirstie knows him of old.”

“Clubs? Oh... Those clubs?”

“Yes, those clubs.”

Klempner turns to hold my face, very still, wheels turning behind his eyes, gears clicking. Then, I see

the shutters open. His gaze swings to Charlotte…

… still dancing with Ryan; chatting, laughing at some joke...

… then back to me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes?” His eyes narrow.

“Yes. Borje and Charlotte have… known … each other. In the past.”

“Known? We’re speaking Biblically?”

“That’s right.”

“And Jenny was happy with him?”

“I’d say she enjoyed his company very much.”

Klempner doesn’t reply, simply sucking in his cheeks, then gulping his malt. His attention returns to

Borje and Georgie.

“I wouldn't worry about Georgie,” I say. “She knows how to look after herself.”

He gives a side-glance. “You think?”

Not just concerned…

Protective towards her?

Klempner?

Where the hell’s that coming from?

Perhaps he divines something of my thoughts. “James has done his level best to protect my daughter,”

he says calmly. “It’s the least I can do to return the favour. So, you don’t think he’s any threat to her?”

I consider.

“Might be good for her.”

A figure materialises by us, Kirstie, her face flushed and smiling. “I wanted to say thank you to you

both.” James approaches from behind her, accompanied by Mitch. Richard and Beth join us.

Ryan appears, Charlotte by his side. He lays his arm over Kirstie’s shoulder. She hooks hers around

his waist. “Yes,” he says. “What else can we say? To all of you. The day could have been disastrous.

Instead, it’s been amazing. From the depths of my heart, thank you, all of you.”

There’s a silence, the kind where everyone has something to say, but no one wants to push forward.

Kirstie breaks it. “We’ve had Christmas. And New Year’s not quite here. But it’s our New Year. Mine

and Ryan’s. Our new life. And it’s been made possible for us with so much help from our friends. New

friends… “She smiles to Mitch and Klempner… “And old ones…” She nods to Richard, me and

James… “You helped us buy the mill. You looked after us. You made today possible. And… it’s a bit

early… But I gave the band a special request, because I don’t know anything more appropriate.”

She lifts a hand, waves. The singer is watching her, clearly waiting for the signal. At her gesture, the

music strikes up.

The hubbub dies down. Gathered family and friends pause, then smile and link hands, voices rising…

Should auld acquaintance be forgot..

Mixed ages…

… And never brought to mind?

Mixed accents…

… Should auld acquaintance be forgot…

All singing together…

… And days of auld lang syne?

*****

THE CITY

I stir my coffee, sugar and creamer swirling spirals in my cup. And I sip. And wait…

…

…

There you are…

I see you…

Patrolling your territory. Along with that other one you work with, with her bottle-blonde hair and over-

inflated chest.

The pair of you pace up and down, parading to the passing traffic in your tacky skirts and your too-low

tops, displaying yourselves…

Even whores can be pretty, I suppose.

You're wearing your hair up tonight. You’ve braided it into a coiled knot, sitting high. It looks

complicated. You must have taken a long time over it. Or perhaps your cheap little friend did it for you.

Some might say it's classy, but I prefer it the way you wear it when you're not working: sometimes in

that long ponytail, clipped behind to swing down to your waist.

But it’s best of all when you wear your hair loose: a dark waterfall, cascading over your shoulders,

flowing almost to your knees, silky and shiny.

Beautiful hair.

You'll wear your hair loose for me.

When we meet properly.

You've not seen me yet.

Not noticed me.

There’s no reason you should notice me. I've not introduced myself yet. And to the café staff, I’m simply

having a meal and a coffee as I pass through. Just as I always do. Like all the others, the hundreds

who pass through the cafe or on the street every day.

I’m a face. One amongst the multitude.

But I’ve seen you. Every night for the last month.

Some of the days too.

To your clients, you're Jez, or Delilah, or Vivian. Or whatever you want to call yourself. And when you're

done, you gather with others of your ilk at some bar or other, psychedelic with music, alcohol, lights and

drugs.

But I'm being unfair. You're not like those others. I've seen the scars, the withered veins where the

needles have entered. The drunken frolics where they drink the night's takings instead of paying the

rent.

No, you're not like them: your skin clean and whole, a single glass of wine, where they're knocking

back shot after shot of vodka. You've only allowed your self-abuse to go so far.

I like that about you. Nice and clean.

Nice and healthy.

Last week, as you flagged down the barman for your drink, you cooed and chatted with him as he

poured. He cracked some crap joke and you laughed. He called you Emma.

Are you fucking him?

Emma…

A car pulls up at your corner. As the window winds down, you strut across, stooping to talk to the driver.

Will you be fucking him next?

Yesterday, at the hot dog stand, queuing behind you, I could smell your cheap perfume, competing with

frying onions. You shouldn't use that stuff. It doesn’t suit you. You’re better than that.

But the sunshine made a glittering liquid fall of your hair, tracing the curve of your spine to the belt of

your jeans, swishing over your hips.

Beautiful hair.

Your own colour? I think so. No betraying roots. Only a cascade of glinting black. Almost a blue-black.

Sleek and smooth.

A bit of Chinese or Indian in you perhaps?

How can something so corrupt be so beautiful?

Still, perhaps you’ll pay your way tonight.

You straighten up from the car, gesturing to your big-titted blonde friend. It’s her the driver wants.

Why would he want her when he could buy you?

After half a minute’s dicker, the passenger door swings open. Big-Tits gets in and the car pulls away.

So now, you stand alone, facing into the flow of the traffic, still flaunting yourself to strangers.

I wipe down my plate with the last of the bread, knock back my coffee, and as the fat waitress clears

my table, I drop a few coppers by the check. I pick up my car keys, “Night, Brenda.”

“G’night, Pat. Sleep well.”

“Sure I will. See you tomorrow.”

*****