The Lover's Children

Chapter 56 – April’s Tears #7

PAT

How do you come to be here?

Tall and willowy, she’s wearing just that touch of kohl and lip gloss that says it’s there for form’s sake.

She doesn’t need it. The liner, subtle as it is, and even under the flickering kaleidoscope of lights,

highlights large, dark expressive eyes. The lips are full and her skin is smooth and clear.

Her hair is long and loose. Under the strobes, I can’t make out the true colour, but it’s dark and glossy

and gorgeous, swinging and swaying with her movement like spun silk. And no matter how closely I

look. It seems to be the genuine article.

No cheating here…

I’d say she works out. Most of the ‘dancers’ are flabby, just using the pole as a prop to display what

passes for their charms. And whereas most of them are too thin, this one’s toned, athletic. As she

gyrates and pivots on the pole, she wears her muscles like jewellery.

Her biceps are like leather straps. Her abs say she does crunches for fun. I’d like to see more, but

she’s wearing just enough of a costume, a black micro-bra and thong, to cover her tits and crotch. A

necklace hugs her throat, a close enough fit not to dangle and interfere with her movement. The spots

reflect off it, mirrored too by the shifting glint from small earrings. I think they must be crystals of some

kind. At this distance, I can’t see properly, but they fracture the light into rainbows that dance with her

as she swivels and pirouettes.

Entranced, I watch her performance. She’s good. Really good. Good enough that she gets the effect

she wants without being lewd about it. My jeans tighten. And I’m not the only one. The perv next to me

is all but drooling. I regard him with disfavour.

She’s not for the likes of you…

Her act finished, the dancer leaves the podium, moving like the queen she is; no swagger of too much

alcohol; head high, spine straight, shoulders back. She could have trained for the catwalk. Maybe she

has. Maybe she models during the day. She has the figure and the poise for it.

You’re so beautiful.

What are you doing in this place?

I’ll take you out of here.

I check my watch.

Too late for tonight.

Still…

Better to plan

I flag down the barman. “Got the dancing on every night?”

“Thursday through to Sunday. We’re closed Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Same girls?”

“Should be.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be back, then.”

“Great. See you soon then.”

“Sure. No hurry.”

The pleasures of anticipation…

*****

GEORGIE

Borje is waiting in the reception area, rising to meet me as I enter. “Sorry, am I late?”

“You’re not late, no. I’m early.” He stoops to kiss my cheek. “You look lovely.” Then, gesturing to the

door, “Shall we?” Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a beautiful evening. I thought we might take a walk down by the river. There’s plenty of bars and

restaurants down there. When we see something we like the look of, we can stop and take things from

there. You choose what we eat. That work for you?”

“Sounds good.”

*****

It is indeed a beautiful evening, warm for the time of year, and the weather has brought out the

strollers, the joggers and the loungers. We’re not far from the river mouth, where it merges with the

harbour and the marina.

We amble along, Borje holding my hand loosely in his. Rowers skull over the water. Joggers and

cyclists use the waterside path. Ahead of us a futuristic, almost Utopian building, half-built yet, rises by

the riverside, a dream in steel and glass. Much of the area around has been cleared, to soon be a

water park and sports facilities. A boarding stands twenty feet high. Haswell Constructions. Shaping the

Future.

“It’s coming on, what they’re doing here, isn’t it,” remarks Borje. “When you think what this area used to

be like, before they cleaned up the river and demolished those old slums.

“My Dad’s building all this.” Borje regards me coolly… “I don’t mean brick by brick. But the plans are all

his.”

He muses. “Not too many actual bricks involved are there? That one there…” He directs a finger

toward the half-constructed building… “… looks as though it’s growing out of the landscape.”

“That’s going to be a Science Museum. That area behind it is where the library will be. I think there’s

some plan to twin it with the University. Have a campus here.”

“He’s a busy man, your father.”

“You have no idea.”

Borje tightens the hold of his hand on mine. “So, how has your day been?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Yours?”

He hesitates. “As you say, same old, same old. Not very pleasant. People still manage to surprise me

with what they do to each other.”

“You’re involved with the City murders?”

“Insofar as the pathologist is involved. Mainly I report findings, but that’s not what I meant. A lot of the

time I see death that is stupid and unnecessary.”

“Can you talk about it?”

He inhales, swipes a hand through his hair. “Not in detail, no. But it was the apparent suicide of a girl of

fourteen. At that age, you’d think she had everything to live for.”

“Apparent suicide?”

He shrugs. “It’s not for me to judge. I report on the medical evidence. But I saw nothing to suggest it

wasn’t self-inflicted.”

“Was she pretty?”

“She was before she threw herself under a truck. And of course, the driver’s traumatised too.” He clicks

his tongue. “Mind if we change the subject? There’s a reason I didn’t want to tell you about my

profession.”

“I get that.” Something delicious carries in on the breeze and I find my chin lifting as I taste the air. I’m

not the only one. Heads turn, following the scent. Bodies follow.

Borje smiles. “Ready to eat?”

“I’m ready to eat that, whatever it is.”

He inclines his face into the breeze. “Why don’t we go find out.”

We join a stream of people, thin but growing, following the breeze and the flow of the water toward the

sea.

Along the harbour wall, a world-themed street-food market has sprung up, offering a range from the

mundane to the exotic. Burgers and dogs jostle with oversized wursts, flatbreads, spitted chickens,

pakoras and bhajis, stuffed mushrooms and aubergines, empanadas, halloumi wraps, noodle soup and

chilli con carne.

“What are we having?” says Borje. “You choose.”

The ‘whatever’ my nose gave a round of applause to, turns out to be a bubbling pot of brilliant green

stew. Perched over charcoal, it steams fragrant magic into the evening air. Bubbles rise and break,

circulating chunks of flesh, fragments of claw and shell. Next to it, a vast terracotta pot homes rice,

tinted saffron yellow and dotted with peas and peppers. The vendor, a stooped crab of a man, seeing

me hovering, stirs a strategic spoon through the mix, and steam billows up, pungent with ginger and

garlic, coconut and coriander, lemongrass and lime.

My stomach growls and Borje bursts out laughing. “We’ll have two.”

My hackles rise. “So, in the end, you decided to choose for me after all.” As I blurt the words, even to

myself, I sound waspish and sour.

His brows lift. “I thought you wanted it?”

“I… I did. But… you might have asked.”

He gives me a bow and a flourish of the hand that any theatre-land luvvie would be proud of. “Mistress

Alexanders. Wust thou care to dine on…” He inspects the label… “… Thai fish curry… for thy repast?”

He looks and sounds utterly ridiculous. My bubble bursts and I crack out laughing. “Yes, I’d love some.

And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound…” My cheeks scald as I think how I reacted: like some spoiled

brat.

When will I learn?

Borje remains calm, simply casting me a sidelong glance as the stall-holder delves into the stew,

scooping out a rainbow of shells, chunks of flesh and veggies, then ladling it with rice and fragrant

sauce into cardboard bowls. Borje pays, nodding me toward a bench looking out over the sea.

The food is delicious, but it sticks on my tongue.

Have I offended him?

Borje forks up rice and fish. Chewing, he stares out over the water. Then, “Georgie, what is it that

triggers you?”

“Triggers me?”

He turns his gaze full-on. “Don’t be disingenuous. You’re brighter than that.”

My face burns again. “I… don’t know. It’s as though I always should be in charge of the situation, but

then when I’ve done it…”

“You realise it’s not what you want and you feel a fool?”

I set the wonderful food, half-eaten, to one side. “Yes.” My head hangs. “I’m a lot weaker than I should

be. I try to be strong, but I’m no good at it.”

“You think?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it. I’m a grown woman. I have a responsible job. I should be strong and authoritative.

Instead, I'm pushy and short-tempered.” Involuntarily, I find myself hunching and I straighten up again.

“I suppose it's because I'm female.”

Borje scoops another mouthful of food. Eats. Swallows. “No, I don't think that's so. It’s true, there was a

time when being female robbed you of authority. But it's not like that now. A woman can hold authority if

she has the disposition for it.

“You agree with me then? You think I'm weak.”

“No, I don’t think you’re weak. Perhaps… you're trying to be something you're not.”

“You do think I'm weak.”

“No, I don’t. I think you have a problem with your self-image.”

For a moment, I’m robbed of words, then, “My self-image? What's that supposed to mean?” Rage

swells inside me, corrosive and foul.

Don’t fuck it up…

… Again…

Stamping down on myself, I suppress my temper, only to find anger warring with depression.

Uselessly, I sag. “I know I’m an emotional fuck-up. That’s why I bomb every relationship I have.”