The Lover's Children

Chapter 47 – The Idylls of March #19

MICHAEL

Logs chopped, I follow my nose and the scent of coffee to the kitchen to find James puttering about,

scraping something chopped green into a pot on the hob. On the next ring, the coffee pot hisses and

spits.

"What're we having?"

"Lamb Rogan Josh." He rinses off the chopping board and stacks it into the drainer. "Good timing." He

nods to the pot. "Want one?"

"Mmmm, please."

Five minutes later, legs stretched out by the hearth, coffee in hand and the promise of James' creation All content is © N0velDrama.Org.

drifting by my nose, life's looking pretty good, when the door swings wide and Charlotte enters...

... and life's looking even better.

She looks great. Long hair swinging loose by her waist, her eyes are made-up, lips tinted. It's subtle

and lovely and suits her fine complexion perfectly. The skirt and blouse she's wearing cling and billow

in all the right places, and she moves with grace and a bloom about her that says…

My stomach clutches…

James, stooping as he slides a tray into the oven, straightens up, measuring her with his eyes.

She bobs him a nod and he goes to the fridge, takes out a bottle of bubbly.

Charlotte's smile creases dimples into her cheeks. Sitting up straight, I pat my knee and she sits on my

lap, one arm crooked around my neck.

James offers a flute, filled golden, bubbles shooting sparkling lines upward before popping into mist at

the surface. But she shakes her head. "No, Master. Thank you, but not wine."

His mouth and eyes lift as he pushes the glass into her hand. "Not wine. It’s elderflower cordial."

My stomach clutches again, then flips. "You're off wine?"

"Yes." She kisses my cheek, looks me in the face. "I'm off wine for about the next eight months."

"Oh, God… You're pregnant? You're sure?"

"I'm pregnant. And yes, I'm sure."

Flinging my arms around her, I squeeze tight and James darts in, snatching the glass from her.

"Oh, God… Oh, God… Oh, God… That's marvellous. That's brilliant!" Standing, taking Charlotte up

with me, I spin, spinning her with me.

I'm laughing out loud and Charlotte's laughing with me. "That's absolutely fucking amazing." Pulling her

in, an arm around her waist, another cupping her head, I squeeze, then plant a kiss on her mouth. "Isn't

that amazing, James?"

"Yes, it is." He prises her from me, kisses her forehead. "Congratulations. Both of you. And I'm sure

Cara will enjoy having a younger brother or sister."

"What's happening?" Klempner stands in the doorway, perplexity creasing his forehead. Mitch is close

behind him but looks merely expectant.

I prise our wife away from her other husband, turning her to face her parents. "Your daughter has just

told us she is expecting her second child."

Mitch pushes past and I have to surrender Charlotte again, this time as her mother embraces her. "I'm

so pleased for you. I know it's what you wanted."

"Yes..." Klempner's voice is quiet. "Congratulations, Jenny and..." His gaze lingers on me. “… Michael,

James. All of you."

James produces another bottle from the fridge... "Champagne all round, except..." and he nods

Charlotte to her flute of cordial.

"What's the occasion?" Richard and Beth now stand framed by the doorway, but Beth's eyes are bright

as they drop to Charlotte's still flat stomach. "Yes?"

Charlotte grins. "Yes."

"Yay!” Beth charges forward, arms flung wide, engulfing Charlotte and Mitch together. Then, she

pauses, looking to me, to James, to me again. "Yes?"

"Yes," I say.

The arms fling again, this time around me. "Congratulations! You did it, the two of you."

Klempner's eyes roll. Richard slaps him on the arm. "Take it in your stride, man. It works for them.

That's what's important."

"It's what I promised to do," says Charlotte. "I'm keeping my promise."

*****

KLEMPNER

They don’t need me. With celebrations all round, it’s as good a time as any to make myself scarce.

Shrugging a jacket from the hook by the door, I head out.

Breathe…

Driving down the mountain, with no clear idea of where I’m going, I steer on autopilot.

Mitch is right. Fuck knows I've spent enough of my life alone. And I know that I don’t want that life

again. But somehow, with Mitch’s blessing, I can admit to myself that what I’m feeling is the Call of the

Wild.

In the City, I park up.

What to do?

I’ve no idea. Aimless, I wander the streets, enjoying the feel of having the swarm around me but not

being a part of it. Roaming at random, I follow my feet, seeing what’s to be seen…

It feels good. Walking. Just walking. Just me. Watching the crowds.

Crowd-watching is always revealing. I'm hardly the sociable type, but you can learn a lot by simply

strolling, taking in the mood.

The mood's ugly. The A-board by a newsstand is headlined: Slasher strikes again. City Police Baffled.

Police Commissioner William Stanton pressured to explain…

Stanton Out – Demands increase for resignation…

Generally, I read James’ and Haswell’s papers. I seldom bother to buy my own. This time, I make an

exception.

Without really thinking about it, I find myself gravitating back to the square. Both cordon and enclosure

are still in place by the park entrance, but the square itself has recovered some air of normality.

It’s a thoroughly agreeable spot. When I first knew this area, it was as good an example of urban decay

as you could ask for: factories and warehouses either run-down or abandoned. The old docks, not far

away, were deserted and decaying, a place of rotting masonry and ironwork, the haunt of junkies,

crackheads and the long-lost.

All that has gone. A promenade, lined either side by sapling trees, leads to an open plaza, centred by a

fountain. Restaurants and bars make up one side of the square, their terraces spilling over the

pedestrian areas, set with tables, occupied by eaters, drinkers or simple loungers. The adjacent side

leads out into the main city, the traffic, stores, theatres and cinemas. The fourth side opens to the park.

As James mentioned, the park’s not new. But until recently it was the squalid haunt of pimps and

pushers, hookers and the hooked. All credit to Haswell’s cash and James’ design, they’ve cleared that

out. What I remember as a glass-and-needle-strewn wasteland is now clipped turf, and trees dating

back to the original glory days rear skyward.

By the park gates, the chaos of the previous day has died down. The entrance is partly cordoned off to

the public, just a narrow walkway cleared to allow access. The rest is barriered off, a couple of

uniformed officers standing guard.

Beyond the entrance, the barrier continues, marking off an area around a screened enclosure.

Uniformed and badged individuals enter and leave, purposeful, carrying clipboards and unidentifiable

equipment. Press vehicles are parked, nose-to-tail, along the road. A van at the end of the line does a

brisk trade in fries, Pepsi and ice cream. Doubtless the press and police presence is bringing in extra

custom. A tramp sits close by, perhaps hoping for donations.

Whatever’s happening, from here I have as good a view as is available.

Why not?

I indulge myself.

A table in a sunny corner near the park railings but with a view over the entire square, including the

gate. “I’ll have Rioja. Bread and olives. Alioli.”

The waiter frowns. “Alioli, sir?”

“Garlic mayonnaise.” He shrugs, but my bread and alioli arrive, along with the wine.

“Leave the bottle.”

I’d intended to read the newspaper but find I can’t be bothered.

So, I sit...

And watch...

And think…

It's not warm, the breeze brisk. The sun breaks from between the clouds, then lurks again, casting

racing lines of light and shade.

But my personal sky is blue.

Mitch understands.

She doesn't need me all the time.

I should get her something…

What?

I’ve bought her jewellery before…

Maybe something for Jenny too. Something to celebrate.

People do that, don’t they?

The square reminds me a little of parts of São Paulo…

Antonio's bar…

Wonder how he's doing?

Maybe I should contact him…

A couple sit at the next table, a small child in a stroller with them. The woman talks incessantly. The

guy wants to read his paper, but she rattles on at him. Her chatter is punctuated by questions. He

produces auto-responses, but after five minutes, his shoulders are rigid.

Beyond them is a young woman with her kid squawking next to her and a belly testifying to the

imminent arrival of the next squawker.

On the other side, three old biddies ten years older than God exchange gossip and Christ-knows-what.

All speak at the same time, with no apparent pause for breath. But they seem happy enough.

I sip my wine...

Then, a bite of bread, slathered with the alioli. It's good, although it's not the same as eating it in a

genuine Mediterranean environment. But it washes down well with more of the wine.

Relaxing, enjoying myself, I assemble my thoughts into some kind of order.

What the hell was I thinking yesterday?

Just because Borje happened to be here.

He stands Georgie up, and out of that I construct...

What?

A figment…

She a grown woman. Can’t protect her from a bad date…

Get a grip.

I toss a chunk of bread to one of the pigeons making its jerk-headed walk-by. Within seconds, a dozen

more feathered raptors swoop in like the freaking Luftwaffe, wrangling over crumbs. One plummets

from above, snatches a piece from my plate, scattering what’s left to the ground, then makes off again.

To the opportunist, the spoils…

No matter…

I pour another glass of wine. Sample an olive. They’re rather good. I try another…

Everyone around me is with someone else.

Except one. A single lone figure, male I think. Not at my bar, but seated at a terrace table of another

cafe, angled toward the park entrance, toward the enclosure. His face is concealed by a hoodie, but he

sips from a beer, watching the gates. There’s an air about him, somehow, indefinably, perky.

Cheerful.

Something about his body language sets my neck prickling.

Why?

What do I think I’m seeing?

My antennae are twitching.