The Lover's Children novel Chapter 100

KLEMPNER

I cut her short. Cut her growing panic short. “Would it bother you if I come to the club? I’d appear to be a normal punter. There to watch you and the rest of the show. But I’ll be looking for him. If he turns up, you can point him out.”

“Yeah… Yes, sure.” Her speech accelerates to a gallop. “Whatever you say.”

“Is it likely to be busy tonight?”

She recovers herself. Takes a breath, then a drink. “Could be. If the weather stays like this. If you want, I’ll save you a table.”

“A quiet table. Somewhere I can watch without having eyes on me all the time.”

“I’ll reserve one in the back corner. You’ll be able to see across the floor from there. The stage. The bar. All of it. Is that okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Come to the main doors at ten. Tell them Danielle invited you. I'll look out for you. I might be on the stage, but even if I can’t join you, if I see him, I’ll point him out to you.”

*****

Do I do this alone?

Or bring company?

*****

MICHAEL

The hottest part of the day: even high up our mountain, under summer’s blast, the long meadowed slopes down to the lake are scorching to a brown patchwork that will need the cooling rains of Autumn to heal.

It’s way too hot for physical work. Catching some shade on the terrace, a bottle of beer apiece, companionable silence with James is a restful way to pass an hour or so.

Until something catches my eye.

I watch for a few moments, take a swig of beer, and roll it around my mouth. As I swallow, “You know when you see women with their heads together and your blood runs cold?”

“Mmmm?” James replies casually, then jolts to attention. “What?”

I nod across the garden: Beth and Mitch seated at opposite sides of the picnic bench. Heads close enough almost touching, they talk animatedly in turn, each nodding at the other’s comments.

James watches for several seconds. “Whatever’s hatching there, it's not chickens.”

“Think we should interrupt?”

“Interrupt what?” Richard strolls out, casually dressed in the black jeans and linen shirt Beth encourages him to wear when he's not dressed for the office.

“That...” James aims his bottle neck at the brewing conspiracy.

Richard gives it a long look too. “Something about that conversation makes me itchy.”

“Couldn't agree more.”

By unspoken consent, we stroll across. Two heads pop up, adopting matching, and completely fake, expressions of innocence.

“You looked engrossed there, the pair of you,” comments Richard. “Mind if we join you?”

Beth shuffles up the seat, making space for me. Richard and James flank Mitch.

James speaks casually. “So, what were you talking about?

“Babies,” says Beth.

“Books,” says Mitch.

Two pairs of emerald eyes slide sidelong, meet, then diverge.

“Books about babies,” says Beth.

*****

JAMES

In my study, comfortable in my favourite armchair, low music playing, I ponder the issue of my depressed mermaid.

But I don’t have an answer. The root of the problem is that Charlotte wants another child, and on this occasion, that’s in Michael’s hands.

What can I do to help?

Not much…

Might as well get on with some work…

It’s beastly hot, making it hard to think straight. Opening the window doesn’t help; the air coming in is hotter than what’s already inside. A glass of iced water does.

Switching on my desk fan, I set it to high, positioning it to blow across my armchair then, clipboard in hand, settle to sketch out a few ideas…

But the ideas won’t come. Normally, when I work like this, freeing my mind, my hands do my thinking for me. But this time, worry gnaws, and inspiration escapes me.

Giving it up as a bad job, I set down my pad, staring into space.

Maybe a swim would help?

A quiet knock on my door.

“It’s open.”

It’s Beth. Stepping quietly in, she checks outside, then clicks the door closed behind herself.

On the scale of how we sometimes see each other, she’s by no means provocatively dressed. But neither is she wearing everyday clothing. Barefoot, her hair loose, the light wrap she wears, a translucent silk, belted at her waist, does nothing to hide her nakedness beneath.

Almost before I have chance to register her dress, to my utter astonishment, face lowered, she kneels.

“Beth? What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m a sub, kneeling before a Dom.”

“I’m not your Dom, as you well know.” I splutter the words. “I'm neither your Master nor your husband. It’s deeply inappropriate.”

“I have a request to make of you, Sir. A favour.”

A favour? A favour that requires Beth, submissive to another Dominant, to kneel for me?