The Lover's Children

Chapter 117 – Autumn’s Fury – Part 9

KLEMPNER

"Your wife?” She gapes wide at her compañera. “Gotta say, I'll be interested to meet her."

"I think she might be interested to meet you too."

"Yeah? How come? Not many guys' wives wanna meet us."

"Oh, you might be surprised."

She chuckles, then her face turns serious. “We won’t stop long. We can see you’re not so good. But

seriously, we came in to say thanks. Not just for us two. It’s all the girls. Everyone wanted to come ‘n

see you…”

Donna breaks in… “…But the word was you’d been hit bad, so it’s just us. What you did…” She lays a

hand on my cast… “… ID’ing this bastard, we really appreciate it.” NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

“They’ve not caught him yet.”

“They will. And we know what he looks like now, so everyone’s on their guard if he resurfaces.” She

aims a polished scarlet nail at me. “You ever need anything… Anything… Ever… You call. You’ve got a

lot of friends out there now.”

She checks her watch. “Yeah, gotta go, but some of the other girls would like to drop by sometime, if

that’s okay.”

“Why not?”

*****

Another knock on the door. Actually, more of a tap…

How can a knock on the door sound hesitant?

It does…

Then a voice, quavering. A familiar voice. “Larry?”

“Hello, Georgie. The door’s open.”

“Hi.” Faltering in the doorway, a bunch of flowers in one hand, a brown-paper bag in the other, she

shifts from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

Able to sit up comfortably at last, I’m finding the world a friendlier place. “Be my guest.” But as she

draws closer…

What’s wrong with her?

Georgie’s dark eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, are stark against a face pale way beyond her usual

appearance. She’s pallid to the point of waxen. Her long, dark hair, normally one of her most attractive

features, hangs slack and lackluster.

She’s normally an attractive woman. Not now.

Do I ask?

Where’s Mitch when I need her?

She sits, then passes me the bag. “It’s grapes. If you don’t like them, I can bring something else.”

“Grapes are fine…” I’m trying to think how to ask when, right on cue, Mitch returns with a tray laden

with teapot and mugs, scented of mint. “Larry, I… Oh, hello, Georgie.” She pauses, taking in the girl’s

appearance and her eyes slip to mine, forehead creased. I shrug.

Mitch sets down the tray. “Would you like some tea, Georgie? It’s a fresh pot.”

“Um… Yes, thanks, Mitch.”

Mitch isn’t a huge fan of Georgie. I know that. Jenny may have finally become friendly with the girl after

her earlier gaffs, but Mitch is less forgiving. Nonetheless, she reaches across, touching her hand.

“Georgie, are you ill?”

She jolts, tugging her hand free. “Ill? Why would you ask?”

“You… don’t look yourself. Rather tired, in fact.”

Georgie looks away, face crumpling. I swear her lower lip is trembling. “We broke up.”

Mitch’s eyes widen. “Broke up? You mean you and Borje?”

The words like the crack of a whip, “Of course me and Borje. Who else?” Then, she droops her head,

voice cracking. “Well, he broke up with me.”

“What did you do to upset him?”

Mitch awards me a daggered glance.

Crap…

Georgie’s chin snaps up. “Why would you assume it’s my fault?”

Mitch shoots lightning bolts my way, but I’ve already started…

I’ll pay for this later…

“Because you have a bad case of attitude, Georgie. Because I know that Borje was smitten by you.

And because you have a penchant for opening your mouth inappropriately. .”

She stares, bristling, then the fight sags out of her. “What do I have to do?”

Mitch speaks quietly. “What did you do?”

“It’s what I didn’t do. I wouldn’t…” She trails off, gulping.

Borje… friendly with James, Michael and my Jenny

… those clubs of theirs.

Has he leapt in feet-first expecting Georgie to follow suit?

I have no idea to ask.

Mitch tiptoe through the words. “Georgie, If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly was Borje

expecting of you that you found so offensive?”

She sags. “He wanted to tell me what to wear.”

wtf?

Mitch and I exchange glances.

“To wear?” I ask. “What’s wrong with what you wear, Georgie? I’ve seen you dressed to go out. You

dress well. I think Mitch agrees with me.” Mitch nods, looking baffled.

“No… It was… Well… Under…”

“Under?” I’m swimming in foreign waters… “Your… underclothes… you mean?”

“Yes, he wanted me to wear…”

Mitch touches her hand again. “Wear what? You mean he bought you some underwear?”

“He wanted to buy me some, but I refused.”

Visions of fetish wear, vinyl and leather flit across my brain…

… but Mitch does the asking. “What kind of underwear was it, Georgie. Something… offensive?”

“He wanted me to wear stockings. Black stockings.”

Mitch stares, then bursts out laughing. “For heaven’s sake, Georgie. Learn to bend a little.”

Georgie’s face sets. “Why should I bend? Why should I change?”

Mitch breathes in deep, slaps hands on to thighs and stands. “I think I need some fresh air. I’m going to

take a walk.” She turns and leaves.

Georgie watches her go, mouth a little open, eyes brimming. She turns back to me. “I don’t know what

to do,” she whispers.

I keep my tone dry. “To answer your question, Georgie, do you think the world is going to change for

your convenience? Or the people in it? Sometimes, if you want something, if you really want it, you

have to give up something else.”

She glowers. “What would you know about it?”

“I know a lot about it. There’s very little I wouldn’t have given up to have Mitch accept me.”

The glower morphs to a scowl. “Why would you do that? Why would you change just to be with

someone who wanted to dictate how you should behave?”

“Georgie, I don’t think you have any idea what I was willing to do to be with Mitch.” She stares down,

silent, sullen… “Borje was willing to change,” I say quietly. “To give things up in order to have you.”

Her face pops up. “What things? What did Borje give up?”

I muscle down the humour. “It seems to me that most women would find Borje an attractive man. It

doesn’t seem to me that he would be short of options when it comes to female company. Yet it seems

he wanted you.”

She remains silent for long seconds, then, “You say you changed to be with Mitch. What does she do

for you? Does she wear the clothes you ask to to?”

“I don’t care what Mitch wears. She would please me if she turned out in a potato sack, not that she’s

likely to.”

The door bangs open. Borje marches in, clutching a clipboard “Larry, I have that information you…” He

trails to a halt as he sees my company. “Uh… Hello… Georgie.”

“Borje.” She colours up…

“I didn’t know you were… How are you?”

“I’m fine. I was just leaving…” Rocketing out of her seat, she stampedes for the door, her footsteps

retreating down the corridor.

Borje havers, the clipboard aimed my way, his face toward the door.

“For fuck’s sake, man. You want the woman? Go after her. If you don’t settle this between yourselves,

you’re both going to be miserable for the foreseeable future.”

*****

GEORGIE

Larry’s words drift after me as I exit. “For fuck’s sake, Man. Go after her...”

Quickening my walk…

… I’m simply leaving…

An embarrassing encounter…

No need to stay…

I’m not running away…

From behind me, the click of an opening door, then footsteps follow me down the passageway…

… and I break into a run…

… then I bolt, lunging for the end of the corridor, barging between a pair of blue-uniformed nurses

blocking my way. They twist as I barrel past, mouths open with astonishment. “Probably had bad news,

poor thing…”

But before I hear any more, I’m gone.

Footsteps clatter behind me. "Georgie. Wait!"

Face burning, eyes stinging, I duck into the side corridor…

The footsteps grow louder…

… then through the first door I see…

… and the footsteps fade once more…

In the dark, I lean back against the wall, lungs heaving, my palms pressed backwards against cold

brickwork…

… then as I register my surroundings…

Oh… God…

Even in the darkness, the scent of fresh linen and disinfectant tells me where I am.

Blindly patting at the wall, I find a light switch, click it on. The room is tiny, barely a closet. Opposite me,

wooden-slat shelves, floor to ceiling, are stacked with towels, sheets and pillowcases. To my side, more

shelving houses bottles of bleach and detergent, hand sprays and polishes, cleaning rags and

sponges. The only space is near the door, where I’ve crammed myself into a gap populated by an

industrial-grade floor washer, sweeping brushes and an old-fashioned mop and bucket.

At least no one else can see my stupidity. Shuddering, I listen. From beyond the door, there’s no

sound.

Inside too, naught but silence… Except that inside my head the blood rushes and pounds. Air rasps my

throat, and under my ribs, my heart jabbers.

I don’t mean to, but I find tears streaming down my cheeks. Crouching down against the wall, I drop my

face into my hands, sobbing.

My emotions run riot, all out of control, playing havoc with mind and body. Shaking and crying, helpless

to resist, I hang onto only enough self-control to remain silent while shame and grief and hopelessness

wrack me.

The storm runs its course…

… until eventually, subsiding, it leaves only an empty space, that hollow in my soul which somehow, is

always there. Never filled, only, at best, concealed for a while.

Staring at brickwork, squatting on the naked concrete floor, swiping salt from crusted lashes, I face it.

I finally face it.

Here I am. Hiding in a broom cupboard from the man I love. Entombed by my own fears and

insecurities.

Is this my life?

I have no answer. At least, not one that I want to accept.

Shuddering a breath, I struggle upright again. Moisture still leaks from my eyes. Annoyed at myself, I

fumble at the catch on my purse to rummage for a tissue…

… and knock my elbow against something hard…

With a crash, a sweeping brush topples beside me, taking another with it as it falls. Somehow, a

cleaning rag gets snagged in, catching the mop handle, which tumbles to one side. The bucket tips too,

clattering metallically onto the hard floor.

Scrabbling and fumbling at the bedlam I’ve created of handles and bristles, I stack them back into the

corner. But somehow they won’t fit, and I end up jamming them together in the bucket like some

elephant-sized version of pick-up-sticks.

I was never any good at the game even as a kid. But now, the whole sorry mess somehow knots itself

into a muddle of string, tattered threads and electric cable, wedging between wooden slats, getting

caught in crevices and gaps between the shelves, until as a broom handle tangles into the cable of the

floor washer, the snarled-up shambles jolts, knocks against a shelf bracket and the whole lot drops.

Brushes and bottles and sprays and cleaners crash down around me. Glass bottles of white spirit and

disinfectant smash on the tiles, splashing up again over clean linen. A bucket of paint pops its lid and a

tide of white emulsion washes over the floor…

Until, with a horrible finality, silence falls once more, broken only by the drip-drip of turpentine.

Gulping behind fists thrown to my mouth, frozen, I stare at the havoc I’ve committed.

Oh, God…

Oh… God…

…

From beyond the door, footsteps are approaching.