The Lover's Children novel Chapter 39

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 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?"