The Lover's Children

Chapter 2: Memories - Klempner

WINTER WEDDING – BOOK ONE OF 'THE LOVER'S CHILDREN'

My eyes snap open to darkness...

A clicking sound...

Claws on concrete...

Was I awake as I heard it?

Or asleep?

Scratching and scraping...

A skritching noise...

Cold sweat soaks the sheet under me. My hand, of its own volition, slams toward the light switch. But before I reach it, something cold and wet shoves at my face: Bear's nose.

My heart gives a mighty slam...

Christ...

... and I snatch for air.

Pull yourself together man...

Heartbeat decelerating, I switch on the light anyway. Bear wriggles his backside in an ecstasy of wagging, poking at me with his snout, claws tap-tapping on the hard floor, then muffling as they snag on the bedside rug.

Reaching from under the blankets, I scratch an ear, keeping my voice low, trying not to disturb Mitch. "Good boy."

He blows air in my face, sweet and a little meaty, gives my hand a perfunctory lick, then huffs, dropping to the rug. Head on paws, he faces the door, eyes drooping.

No rat's going to get past him...

A short-cut to snacks...

I roll onto my back, staring up, reluctant to switch off the lamp. Bear's breathing grows steady and slow.

Turn off the light...

...

Turn off the f*****g light...

There's nothing there in the dark that's not there in the light...

Inhaling, feeling the rise and fall of my chest, the quickening of my heartbeat again, still I hesitate...

You're a grown man...

Half the world is scared shitless of you...

So, what the f**k's the matter?

... then flick off the light-switch.

Staring into the gloom, I become conscious of the warmth of the body beside mine: warm, comforting...

Mitch...

I roll again, this time to face my wife...

My wife...

All I ever wished for...

She's watching me, her eyes a green and white glint against the dark, fixed on mine. Drawing close, she contours herself to me. Her hands in my hair, stroking, wordless, she opens her mouth over mine.

*****

GEORGIE

Leaning in close to the mirror, I apply another layer of mascara. My eyes are one of my best features. But by comparison, dark as they are, my eyelashes look vitamin-deficient if I don't give them some help.

What else?

A little more colour on the lips...

Poking through my make-up bag, I pick out a dark flesh tone, then hesitate...

Something brighter? A strong red?

I have the colouring to carry it off, but...

Date Number Three

Don't want to look like a flamenco dancer...

I have no complaints about inheriting my father's strong, dark appearance. Unlike some of my blonde colleagues, men don't tend to make assumptions about my intelligence. On the other hand, I prefer not to look as though I should be dancing with a rose between my teeth.

I brush on lipstick, apply a touch of gloss, then stand back to survey the result.

Not bad...

I straighten up, smooth down my dress...

Lower heels maybe?

No... he's tall enough not to worry about it...

I turn, considering...

Hair up?

No... Date three...

Keep it casual...

A glance at the clock...

Ten minutes...

There's no point going out yet. I'd only be waiting out in the cold. Still, I put on my warmest coat, pacing the room...

It's a pleasant room, in the Hotel-Guest-Room way of things...

I really should move out of here.

Can't keep living here rent-free... Relying on the charity of others...

Well... Michael and Charlotte...

...

Not back to Mom's though.

Get a place of my own...

Earning enough now... For somewhere basic at least...

Wish academics got paid a bit more...

Maybe Dad would help?

My phone Pings with an incoming message.

Arrived early?

A smile cracks across my mouth...

Waiting at the gate?

Flipping open my phone, I jab at the screen, bringing up the message.

Hi Georgie. Sorry but can't make it tonight. Something came up at work.

Damn!

I'd been looking forward to this evening. Matt's good company. And I'd been hoping...

Perhaps...

Tomorrow instead? Or Friday?

Sorry busy at work. Will call u

Stabbing at the screen, I close my messenger.

'I'll call you...'

Not 'Call me'.

We all know what that means.

Abruptly, despite the heavy coat, I'm cold.

Then, unreasonably, I'm hot, my eyes watering.

Dear John/Joan...

Bastard...

Should I reply?

Fuck that...

Shoving the phone in a pocket, I drop to sit on the bed, hunched on the edge.

What does it take?

What do I do wrong?

I'm not bad looking. Intelligent; I got my brains from my dad. I can hold a conversation about more than the latest movie or what's in the charts. I can discuss the latest opinions on climate change or politics. Or what just came out of M.I.T. or Oxford.

But...

Stop judging me...

Will you let me get a word in edgeways...

Did I ask your opinion?

Always, it goes the same way. I can get the dates anytime I want. I can reel 'em in no problem.

But you can't keep them...

My body wants to sob.

To hell with that...

Standing again, I slide a finger under my eyes, wiping moisture from the corners.

All dressed up...

Nowhere to go...

I can't stomach staying in my room. I head out, going...

... Going where?

Thick fog swirls, wet on my face: rain without the willpower to drop. Certainly, a far cry from the frost and snow all the movies say we should have so close to Christmas.

Where am I going?

Aimless, I make for my dad's place, at the rear of the hotel, but as it comes into view, I hesitate.

House lights glow golden. Shapes move beyond the windows, indistinct and silhouetted against the light. Music drifts out. Laughter and chatter too. A Merc is parked outside.

Briefly, Charlotte comes close to the window, holding Cara...

My sister...

I pull back into a shadow, watching.

Dad comes up behind her, lips moving with words I can't hear, but he's offering her a glass, tinted red-gold. He kisses Charlotte's forehead, and they exchange baby and glass. Holding Cara in his arms, he talks to her as she waves chubby arms towards the darkness outside.

Beyond them, Michael is dancing with Mitch...

They're very good...

... and as I angle round, Beth sits by the fire, Adam on her knee, chatting with Richard. Larry sits by, watching it all.

I stand at the front door, knuckles poised to knock, but my stomach tightens. My breathing is fast and short. The fog finally gains the will to fall, and rain patters onto the shallow porch roof above me.

Why should I be scared?

As though they'd not let me in...

Not gonna happen...

Dad would be thrilled to have me there...

But my heart is hammering.

All those people...

You're looking good, Georgie...

All dressed up...

On your way somewhere?

"What the f**k am I afraid of?"

And now I'm talking to myself...

But at my muttered words, beyond the door, a dog barks, a short yap. Another joins in; a deep baying. Then, bodies, far more than the two, throw themselves at the door.

Kirstie's voice. "Emma! Meg! Archie! Will you be quiet! You too, Mac."

Then, Michael's voice... "Who on earth's out on a night like this?" ... And approaching footsteps.

My fragile courage cracks. Ducking away, I sprint around the corner, hiding from these people who should be my friends and family.

The click of a lock... The creak of timber...

Golden light slants out. After a moment, Michael steps from the porch, looking one way, then the other. "Hello?"

Shrinking back, I watch as he turns, palms raised, radiating bafflement. Then he shrugs and goes back inside. As the door closes, "Damn dogs. Barking at nothing again."

The light cuts off, then reappears. Larry steps out, his hand on something inside his jacket. He lingers, staring out into the dark, turning slowly. As his gaze revolves toward me, he pauses...

He can't see me...

Surely?

His head tilts. He looks down, then up again. After a moment, he too shrugs and returns inside.

Even if there were anyone to see me in the rain, it would be too dark to see the scald on my cheeks as I trudge back to the hotel parking lot.

*****

Shaking down my umbrella, I reverse indoors from the porch, trying to deposit the drips beyond the threshold. Then, dumping the brolly in the stand by the door, and checking I've not left anything of value in the pockets, hang my dripping coat on a hook.

But turning into the cosy welcome of the bar, once more, I hesitate.

Although it's early, the crowd is building up: Friday night revellers, all laughing and joking; groups of guys, gangs of girls. One set looks like the 'Boy's Christmas Night Out', the group swilling beer, exchanging football critique and off-colour jokes. Another looks to be a hen party: giggling girls in matching printed tee-shirts...

Bridesmaids...

Bride...

Hangers-on...

Here for the booze...

... and red tinsel headbands...

Ridiculous...

... the women shriek with laughter, knocking back vodka.

Couples sit quietly at tables, their heads close. Some talk quietly. Others look over menus. Some just stare out, swaying slightly or tapping fingers on the tabletops to the rhythm of the music. Others are singing along...

.... I played my drum for Him pa-rum pum pum pum

I played my best for Him pa -rum pum pum pum...

Then, there's me...

... dressed in my finery.

Alone...

I start to back out, but beyond the door, rain hammers onto the sidewalk. So instead, I take a spot at the end of the bar.

"What can I get you?" The barman gives me obligatory cheap smile, measuring me with his eyes.

Party dress...

Made-up...

No wedding ring...

Nice tits...

I open my mouth to order a glass of white wine, then...

Fuck it...

"Whisky."

He hesitates, eyes a little narrowed. Then, reaching up to the display of bottles behind the bar, "Any brand in particular?"

I scan the choice. "I'll have a Lagavulin. A large one."

He raises his brows, smiling a little. "Coming up. Ice?"

"No."

Amber fluid splashes into a glass and I cradle it, inhaling the scents of peat and smoke and molasses. It sets a trail glowing down my throat, then heats me from the inside. But I know the warmth isn't real. Alcohol helps, but it's no substitute for...

For what?

What am I missing?

I don't know. But something within aches...

The whisky should be sipped, but I gulp it down, knowing I'm only masking the empty place inside.

Hunched over the bar, I cup the tumbler in my hands, staring down into the contents. Warmed by its fake heat, I'm vaguely aware that next to me, a couple of guys are chatting over a beer apiece. A little longer and I realise that one, surreptitiously, is looking me over.