The Lover's Children - Box Set One

Chapter Eight - Georgie

Chapter Eight - Georgie

For the fifth time, and without meaning to, I lean back a little to catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

It’s not easy, only a partial view, blocked by ranked bottles of spirits and liqueurs. Besides, I’ve already checked myself over in the bathroom. I know that my make-up is well applied, my clothes look good and there’s no spinach poking from between my teeth. I started the evening with my hair up, fussing with a complicated knot-work of braids for nearly an hour before I decided it looked just too complicated…

Casual venue…

Trying too hard…

… then spending another twenty minutes with comb and tongs smoothing it all out again. Now it drapes over my shoulders, the glossy black of a raven’s wing, catching highlights from the spots.

The door swings, and on autopilot, I lean to see who entered…

Just some stranger…

One eye on the mirror again, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, hesitate...

No, it looked better before…

... then tug it forward again to drape by my cheek. But now, my hair unkempt, I rummage through my bag for my hairbrush, give myself a quick once-over, then stuff the brush back in the bag just as the door opens again…

Is it him?

The Friday night crowd blocks my view, but above the throng, a head of silver-blond hair moves and twists, one way, then the other. The crowd briefly parts…

… Borje pauses, taking in the room, then spotting me, strides forward, breaking into a star-burst smile. Reflexively, smoothing the skirt over my knees, I check my reflection again, just in time for my date to break through the horde. Hands outheld, he takes me by the shoulders, gives me a peck on the forehead. "Georgie, you look beautiful."

My stomach tips. “You’re looking pretty good too.” Patting the leather-topped stool next to mine, "I saved you a place."

"Thank you. But in fact, I booked us a table."

"You did?"

"I did.” He glances around. "And it’s just as well. On which point..." Borje raises a forefinger to the barman. "... Table for two. Booked in the name of Anderssen for eight o'clock."

"Yes, Mr Anderssen. It's ready for you." The barman gestures to a waitress. "Marsha will show you. I’ll take your coat."

‘Marsha’, pink and harassed-looking, leads us to our table: a lovely position by the window, looking across the street over the Friday night bustle and buzz, towards the park.

Borje pulls out a chair, seating me. "When I booked, I asked for this spot. Plenty of chances for watching the world go by." Doubt creeps into his voice. “Is this alright for you? I realised after I booked that I’d not even asked if you like Mexican food?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t have it often, but I like it fine.”

“Good.” He brushes my cheek. "We have the evening ahead of us, and I wanted to share more than a drink with you this time."

My face glows and I look away.

Ye gods… But you’re handsome…

Something flutters behind my ribs…

Then pounds…

He’s dressed against the chilly evening in a roll-neck sweater and casual pants. His eyes, an almost glacial blue, are softened by deeply tanned skin. Scandinavian silver hair spills to his shoulders. If he wore his hair short, he'd look like the guy that plays the Gestapo interrogator in the movies. As it is, it shifts and shimmers like quicksilver. Women would kill for that hair.

“Looks like they’re short-staffed,” he comments.

“Hmmm, yes.” Across the floor, a long table, occupied by what could be a stag party, grows louder. It may still be early, but it seems the party is well underway, the beer flowing freely.

Marsha stands over me, half an eye on the rowdies. “What can I get you?”

I slide a finger down the menu. “I’ll have the pork chile verde.”

She jots it down, still watching the loudmouths across the room, then to Borje. “And you?”

“The same. And tortillas, please.”

Marsha nods, muttering to herself as she scribbles onto her pad. “Tortilla…”

“Georgie? What would you like to drink?”

“Red wine, please.”

Borje returns the menus. “We’ll have a bottle of Tempranillo.”

“Gotcha.” The waitress returns in under a minute with the bottle and glasses, twisting out the cork with practised skill. “Want to try it first?”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” Borje pours for me, then for himself, tries a sip and sighs. “I was ready for that.”

I sample my wine. It’s smooth and soft, earthy and deeply scented. “Yes, it’s very good. You sound tired. Long week at work?”

“Always.” He sips again.

"What is it you do exactly? I don't think you've mentioned."

"Oh... Nothing you’d want to hear about." His gaze slides away, then back again. "Never mind me. How was it for you at work today?"

"Oh, same old, same old. It doesn't vary much."

"You work in the university library? Do I have that right?"

“Some, yes. But mainly the museum.”

“Ah? What does that involve?”

“Oh, all sorts. It’s quite varied. Cataloguing specimens. Preparing exhibits. Deciding what to display and what to keep down in the archives. Sometimes I give tours for school kids and students.”

His voice is dry. “I imagine that can keep you on your toes.”

“You’re not wrong there. The questions they come up with...”

“Such as?”

“Such as… Oh… Where do we get the fossils made? Do we import them from China?”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Kids who’ve spent all their lives in cities and think everything comes from factories in plastic wrap. Or the ones who’ve seen the Flintstones and won’t believe that humans and dinosaurs lived seventy million years apart.”

He shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Is the library work so entertaining?”

“Well, I’ve amassed quite a collection of items left as bookmarks. Everything from bus tickets to sheet music. Once, a rasher of bacon.”

Disbelief washes over his face. “So much for respect for learning. And the actual work involved?”

“It’s good. I enjoy it. I’m pretty much my own boss, so I can do what’s needed without anyone standing over me and telling me what to do.”

He sobers, his eyes narrow a little. “Plenty of opportunities to meet people, I imagine.”

"Yes, there are, so long as you don't mind them all being conversations that start and end with..." I press a finger to my lips... "Shhh..."

"I can imagine,” he laughs. He leans in close, then, for no reason I can see, leans back again. His expression morphs to… paternal…

?

???

“I'll admit, you're not the classic image of the museum curator. Or of a librarian. Aren’t you supposed to be a middle-aged battle-axe with horn-rimmed spectacles and an attitude problem?"

I chuckle with him. "That’s the stereotype, isn’t it. But I’m not strictly a curator or a librarian. I do both to bring in some extra cash. My job title is research assistant."

He Aahhhs. "Sounds interesting. So, what's your field? Your qualification?"

“PhD in entomology.”

“Entomology? You study insects? That sounds fairly niche.”

“It is, but I'm hoping that with it being a small field, I’ll be able to rise to the top quickly. And while it doesn't pay very much at my level, there are all kinds of opportunities for consultancy in, oh… agriculture… forestry… pharmaceuticals…"

“Forensics…”

“That too. So, I’m hoping that in a few years, I’ll be earning a lot more. But right now…”

You barely know him…

He’ll think you’re scrounging for money…

“Quite.” Borje nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Academic salaries, especially at the lower levels, are notoriously stingy. Is that why you're living in that hotel your father owns?"

"Sort-of…” My face burns. “It's not actually Dad’s hotel. His friend Michael owns it. I think Charlotte has a share too. They have some kind of arrangement. Um… You know Michael and Charlotte, don't you? They were at Kirstie's wedding."

Borje pauses. Caution tiptoes through his voice. "Yes, I know them. I've known the three of them for some years."

My stomach flips. "Some years? How did you meet them? Dad and Michael and Charlotte?"

His expression remains bland. “We have a common friend in Kirstie.”

"Oh, yes… Of course. Er… Do you know about..." The heat in my cheeks intensifies…

His lips twitch. "Yes. I’m aware of the special relationship between James, Michael and Charlotte. "

"Oh!”

He smiles at my surprise. “And… You're okay with that?"

Borje shrugs. "Yes, I'm okay with it. They make a good team. They're well-matched." The tightness in my stomach eases. It must show. He takes my hand, strokes a thumb over the fingers. "Relax, Georgie. Your father's family arrangements are his own business. My interest is in you."

But something remains unsaid…

He’s not lying…

Exactly…

Is it me?

“You’re sure you’re not upset with me about something?”

“No.” His forehead wrinkles. “Why do you ask?”

“I… I don’t know… I always get it wrong, like when you and I met. You didn't like me at first because I kept doing all the wrong things.”

He gives me a lop-sided smile. “Georgie, that was at least fifty percent my fault. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I was very rude to you.”

“You had cause.” Eyes crinkling, “I imagine attractive women are approached with lame pick-up lines all the time.”

“Yours wasn't a pick-up line.”

That c**k-eyed smile again. “You weren’t to know that.”

Without meaning to, I droop my head then, remembering myself, straighten up. “People say I'm bossy. I mean, Dad's bossy. Everyone says I’m like him, but people take notice of what he says. They just ignore me. Or laugh. Or stop talking to me.”

The fingers holding mine tighten their grip. “You get on well with your father?”

“I do now, yes. But we... fell out… when he split up with Mom.” I tug free of the hand, play with a bit of bread. “If I’m honest, I fell out with him. I believed it was his fault. Mom told me some things I later found weren't true. And then… when I met Dad with Charlotte... She's so young. And she was pregnant. I thought he'd dumped Mom for the younger model. Abandoned her, like some men do.”

Borje c***s his head. “James isn't the abandoning kind. And I believe he parted ways with your mother long before he met Charlotte.”

“I know that now…”

He pauses, then, “You respect your father.” It’s not a question.

“Oh, God, yes. He's amazing. I always wanted to be like him.”

“Really?” Borje’s head tilts.

“Yes, really. Of course…” I blow air… “… he's a hard act to follow.”

“I can imagine.” But he says no more. Waits. A silence stretches… Needs filling.

“When I was a little girl…” I lick dry lips… “… I admired him. So much.” Borje’s steady gaze continues. “He was my Daddy. My perfect Daddy. He was so tall and strong. And handsome. And clever. He was so clever. Everyone said so. Even my mother, although she didn’t seem to like it…”

Am I babbling?

But Borje waits, showing no sign of impatience or boredom. I sip at the wine.

“… I didn't see as much of him as I wanted. He was always busy. Always working. Mom made excuses for him. But when he was there, he’d make a big fuss of me. Play with me. Talk to me. Even when I was too little to understand, he’d tell me about things as though I was all grown up, important things, clever things. He would show me what he was doing. His drawings and his work as an architect. Have you seen his drawings?”

“No, I haven't. I'm aware that James is an architect, but I haven't seen any of his work. Except in the bricks and mortar sense of course.”

“Yeah… Half the City renovation is down to his work. I so wanted to be just like him.”

“Just like him?”

“You know, strong and in charge all the time. I guess I’m not very good at that.”

His eyelids lower and he nods slowly. “Perhaps. But Georgie. Surely, wanting to be like your father isn’t enough to… Ah… The food’s here.”

The waitress sets a plate in front of me: rice topped with a stew, colourful with peppers and carrots, and spicy enough for the scent to set my stomach growling. A couple of floury tortillas perch on the edge of my plate. Borje leans forward, inspecting my plate, Hmmming approval.

I inhale... “Smells good…” Then, “And my partner’s?”

“It’s coming.” Marsha quick-steps towards the kitchen, returning a minute or so later with a huge bowl of soup. Placing it before Borje and without waiting for any response, she turns away again. He Ohs! the unexpected dish, leaning in to examine it.

I call out. “’Scuse me, this isn’t right.”

Marsha U-turns, diving into an apron pocket. Whipping out her pad, she flips back a couple of sheets. “Tortilla soup,” she snaps.

“No, he asked for what I’m having, with tortillas on the side.”

She scowls at me. “That’s not what it says here.”

Borje raises a finger. “Actually…”

But I’m still talking. “I’m sorry, but you weren’t paying attention. You wrote it down wrong. Could you bring him what he ordered, please.” Marsha scowls, muttering something to a passing runner, jerking her head back to the kitchen…

But Borje lays a hand on her arm, staying her. “Please wait. Georgie, calm down. It looks great. I’ll keep it.”

“It’s not what you asked for.”

“Does it matter? Take a sniff.”

He has a point. Steam rises from his bowl, fragrant with jalapeños, cilantro and lime. Brilliant red, the soup is chunky with what could be chicken, dotted gold with sweet corn and set with slices of avocado and lime.

“Yes…” Borje stirs the bowl... “… I’ll have this.”

The waitress gives a curt nod, glowering at me, then spins toward the next table and the hand flagging her down.

I inspect Borje’s soup. “Sure you’re happy with it?”

“Sure I’m sure.” He spears a chunk of chicken, bites in... “It’s delicious… And Georgie, you don’t have to fight my battles for me. If I didn’t want it, I’d have said so.”

Bridling a bit, “So long as you’re happy,” I mutter. Then I look away as I realise I’m glaring.

Borje munches, apparently thinking on something. “You know,” he comments, “they say that when you make close eye contact with someone, it's because they’re going to either kiss you or punch you. With you, I’m not sure which it is.”

My throat tightens and I take refuge behind a forkful of pork and rice.

He Hmmms in satisfaction, then helps himself to one of my tortillas. Tearing off a strip, he dips it in my bowl, scooping up meat and vegetables. “Yup, that’s good too. Now…” He reaches, gives my hand a squeeze. “You were telling me about your father…”

*****

It’s a good evening. Borje drives me home at the end.

Have I blown it?

Again?

We pull into the hotel parking lot and Borje opens my door, standing back to let me out. We stand close, but not touching.

Won’t you hold me?

“Borje…” I slide a hand over the rough, cable-weaved knit of his sweater. The warmth of his chest percolates through… He rests a palm on my shoulder in an almost-embrace that holds for only seconds.

Is there that extra moment that says he wants me…?

… but won’t take it further?

If there is, it’s brief enough that I’m not sure.

Borje’s breath blows blue. His pupils widen, then contract. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Side by side, we stroll to the hotel entrance. His fingers brush mine, but he makes no attempt to touch me. On the front step of the lobby, “Thank you for a lovely evening, Georgie. I hope we can repeat it.”

“I’d like that. Um… Would you like to come in for a coffee? They’ll still be serving at the bar.”

He shuffles, looks down. “Coffee? No, I have an early start tomorrow. But I’ll call you if I may?”

I can feel the subtext, something unsaid. But I can’t read it. “Borje, is there something wrong? You think my Dad’s going to appear with a shotgun? I'm one of the grown-ups.”

“Are you?” He smiles slightly, leans in, brushes lips over my cheek. The kiss is tender and soft, but so fleeting. “Good night, Georgie.”

And with that, he strolls back to the car and drives away into the night.

*****