The Lover's Children novel Chapter 3

GEORGIE

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.

Just what I need…

On the prowl…

Glass in hand, I turn to face him, square on. As he sees me staring, he turns too, looking at me properly.

He’s a handsome man, visually striking; some variety of Scandinavian, with silver-blond hair and eyes that passed through the blue of the sky and settled in the glacier. His forehead furrows. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other?”

Oh… God…

“That’s a bit of a tired line, isn’t it? I mean, it’s hardly original.”

He blinks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… But you seem familiar…”

“Oh, give me a break.”

His eyes widen. He lets out air. “Well, excuse me…”

I take another gulp of the whisky, then slap the empty tumbler onto the bar. Silently, the barman slides the glass away from me. I expect him to ask if I want a refill, but he doesn’t speak.

Crap…

I shouldn’t have done that…

I turn back to the silver-haired man. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…” But his back is turned to me. Beyond him, his friend meets my eye, raising brows, then also looks away.

“Two or three?”

“Two, please. But I’ll do it. I can see you have your hands full.”

He wavers, reluctance shining out. “It’s not a problem. I can manage. Take a seat.”

“I’m happy to help...” Still, he hesitates… “I didn’t realise your control issues extended to the kitchen.”

James’ expression darkens. Mitch coughs and lays a hand on my arm. “Larry, it’s James’ kitchen. He’s in charge here.”

Was that rude of me?

Perhaps…

Injecting the joke into my voice, “My plans for world domination didn’t include ousting James from his beloved hob. I was just trying to…”

James awards me a dry look, then turns for the fridge. “Poached eggs coming up. Let’s all play to our strengths.” The toaster clicks and four golden slices pop up. “Help yourself to toast.” He regards the toaster critically, sucking in his cheeks. “I need to get a bigger one, don’t I.”

The doorbell rings. Michael stands, half a slice of toast in hand, still chewing. “I'll get it. Are we expecting anyone?”

Mitch looks up from Vicky's bottle. “I'm giving Kirstie the final fitting for her wedding dress this morning. Ryan’s probably with her.”

As Michael exits the kitchen, Cara bangs on the tray of her high chair, with her spoon, setting the plastic bowl rattling. Vicky burbles and hiccups. Beside Beth, Adam joins in with Cara, banging his own spoon.

Michael returns with a smiling Ryan, a beaming Kirstie.

“Kirstie! Ryan!” Voices rise. Chairs scrape back from the table to make space as Michael pulls in one extra chair, Haswell another.

James cracks eggs into simmering water, then puts the lid on the pan and sets it to one side. “You two joining us for breakfast?”

Ryan rubs at his arms. “Thanks. Don't mind if I do, James. It's cold out there.”

Mugs and plates clatter. Adam and Cara start a mush-throwing contest. Jenny and Beth relieve them of their spoons and bowls, then lift them out of the highchairs, placing them in a playpen set to one side.

How do people stand this all the time?

Two perfectly poached eggs, nestled on golden toast, are set before me, two more in front of Kirstie and Ryan, and James finally sits down to his own breakfast, actually just a slice of toast and black coffee. “So, if it’s not world domination today, Larry, what’s on your timetable?”

I pour myself more coffee, keeping my attention on pot and mug. “Nothing in particular.”

In truth, the day yawns ahead of me. Boredom is a new experience.

What do people do with their time?

A normal life…

*****