The Lover's Children

Chapter 34 – The Idylls of March #6

GEORGIE

"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?" NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

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 cock-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 cocks 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…?