The Lover's Children

Chapter 94 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 4

GEORGIE

The shop-girl frowns. “No, the swing itself. We sell three different models. After the holiday break, he

bought The Parisian about six months ago. He says it turned his life around.”

“You have it in stock?” says Borje. “Can we see it?”

“Of course, sir. We have a demo set up in the back.”

The contraption dangles from an A-stand, of the kind I’ve occasionally seen by swimming pools or on

sunny lawns, supporting basket chairs. A pair of webbing straps support a sort of sponge rubber base,

a seat. Another pair dangle free. If I’d not known what kind of store we were in, I’d have thought it was

a piece of climbing equipment.

“Here, I’ll show you.” The girl seems entirely unembarrassed as she steps backward into the

arrangement of straps, easing her butt onto the spongy seat. “It looks a bit intimidating when you first

see it, but really, it’s very easy and comfortable. This is set up to my size for demonstration purposes,

but it’s so simple to adjust.”

She grips the supporting straps. “You have to be sure that your arms are outside the straps like this…”

She illustrates by tucking the straps under her elbows… “Then, once you lean back, you can’t fall out of

the swing. You’re really safe, no matter what you do. Then…” She leans forward, hooking her feet,

complete with high heels, into what look like stirrups on the end of another pair of straps… “You just

hook your feet in here, lean back and you’re good to go.”

Sitting up in the contraption, she slides webbing through buckles… “If you lengthen the leg straps, you

can lie back almost flat.” She demonstrates, then sits upright again… “But if you shorten them, like

this…” She tightens the webbing, pulling up her knees… “You’ll find that it kinda of… “She waggles herContentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

eyebrows… “kinda opens you up, so you’re all ready for him…” She drops a wink to Borje, who grins in

return.

She slips of the seat, gesturing to me. “Would you like to try it?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Her smiles fades, but Borje slips an arm around my waist. “A little advanced I think, but thank you. We’ll

just keep looking around.”

The girl’s smile returns. “I’ll be at the counter. Sing out if I can help with anything else.”

“I will.” Borje hooks his arm into mine, steering me back into the main store. “I’d like to buy you

something.”

“Buy me something?” I parrot his words like an audio file set to ‘Repeat’. “What would you buy me from

here?”

He runs hands through his hair. “I don’t know. Something. A gift.” He looks this way and that. “Those

stockings would suit you.”

“Stockings?”

“Yes, stockings. You have the legs for it. And the thighs. Some women don’t look right in in them, the

way they can bite into fleshy thighs, but they’d look great on you.” He plucks a packet from the display.

“They’ve got hold ups, but if you prefer the others, I’ll get you the belt as well…” He flashes brows…

“And the rest of the lingerie set if you like.”

I cringe. “I don’t like stockings. They look cheap and nasty. And they make the women wearing them

look cheap too.”

Borje face falls. Lips pressing flat, unspeaking, he slips the packet back in the rack. “Come on, let’s get

something to eat.”

*****

With barely a word spoken, Borje marches us across the road. “Italian good enough for you?”

“Um… Yes… Fine.”

*****

The restaurant is lovely, sunshine spilling through the windows over our table. A bottle of excellent

‘House Red’ stands open beside the grinder and a small bowl of shredded Parmesan. But I’m uneasy.

Borje stirs the food round his plate.

I grind pepper over my ravioli, then spoon over a bit of cheese. “Don't you like it?”

He winds fettuccine around his fork, but doesn’t eat it, doesn’t reply.

“Are you angry with me?”

“No, not angry. A better word would be disappointed. I thought we had something.”

“We do have something, but… you dragged me into a sex-shop. You wanted to…”

He cuts me short. “Georgie, I think you badly need to chill out and to abandon some of your

preconceptions. A couple who dress, behave and play to please each other, are not somehow immoral

or debauched.”

My hackles rise. “They could be. You read about all sort of pervs and sickos…”

“So you do,” he snaps. “I see the results of some of it on my slab.”

He stops, swallows, then, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have said that. As I say, it’s been a bad morning.”

Sitting upright, he takes a swallow from his glass, looks me face on. “So, give me an example, Georgie.

What makes someone a perv or a sicko in your mind?”

My pasta sits uneasily. “Well… there’s that maniac who’s going round the streets right now,

slaughtering women…” his eyes drop… “There’s people who abuse kids and animals…”

Borje holds for long seconds, his mouth working, before he responds. “And in your head, that kind of

behaviour is the same as…” He aims a finger out and across the road to Wicked Whispers where, in

the window, the assistant, speaking now to the older couple we saw go in earlier, is pulling aside a flap

of lace from a skirt, illustrating how it opens up… “… a consenting couple who enjoy a bit of sexual

tomfoolery with each other.”

“No, of course not. But it’s a slippery slope.”

“It is not a slippery slope,” he hisses. “There’s a very definite dividing line between sexual kink and

perversion.”

“Oh? Is that right? And what is this dividing line? How do you decide where it lies?”

He leans close, enunciating the word. “Consent.”

“Consent? That’s it?”

“Yes. Consent. Informed, adult consent, between individuals who understand what they are doing

together and who trust each other.”

He gulps at his wine. “Children and animals can’t give consent. Neither did the women that bastard

they’re calling The Surgeon gutted. But most can. And many do. And as far as I’m concerned,

intelligent, informed adults, making intelligent, informed decisions to enjoy each other, are welcome to

do so. Their tastes may not be my tastes, but so long as no one is being hurt by it, that’s their concern.”

“Okay! Okay…” I sip my own wine, then put down the glass when I realise my hand is shaking.

“Perhaps I overstated it. But I mean… Look at it…” The assistant has taken the skirt off the model and

the woman is now holding it up against herself, while her partner grins, making some comment. “It’s

so… tawdry.”

“Tawdry? They look like a married couple to me. And as though they’ve been together some while.

Having an active love life is tawdry?”

The pasta weighs in my stomach, an indigestible clot.

After some seconds, Borje lets out air. “So, what you’re saying, Georgie is, you think sex is dirty.”

“Well, not… dirty… as such. It’s just, there’s things you don’t do.”

“Such as? Not minding that the world can see you as two perfectly normal human beings who…” He

looks across again. The woman, standing on tiptoes, her palm resting on his chest, reaches up to kiss

her husband… “… who by the look of it, after some years of marriage, are still heavily into each other.”

Swiping a bit of my pasta through the sauce, I bite in, but the spinach and ricotta centre has congealed

gone cold.

Borje just stares at his plate. “Perhaps this isn't a good idea.”

“It was a great idea…” My stomach knots, but I put the bounce in my voice. “This pasta is lovely. And

the wine's really good.”

He looks up, unsmiling. “I didn't mean the meal, Georgie. I meant you and me.”

The clot inside curdles entirely. “What do you mean?”

As if I didn’t know…

“I'm beginning to think I'm expecting too much from you.” He speaks slowly, carefully, clearly choosing

his words. “Perhaps, Georgie, we are simply not a good fit together.”

His eyes drop and he stirs the food around his plate again. “I’m not looking for an arguement. I hope

we’ll still be friends. But I'm pushing at boundaries you’re not happy to cross. And that's… fine.

Everyone has places they want to go, and places they don't. But yours and mine aren't the same. I

think… I think I might cause both of us a good deal of hurt if I keep pursuing this.”

My eyes flood. “You can't mean that…” Shooting out a hand, I take his… “Please don't tell me you

mean that.” Then the heat boils inside. “Is this some kind of blackmail? You’re going to break off with

me unless I agree to behave like some common prostitute?”

He swings his head. “No, Georgie, that's not it. It's that when I make a basic suggestion, visiting an

adult shop, buying you a gift… a very simple gift… you see it that way.”

“It's the same thing.”

“No. It isn’t. There's all the difference in the world. Couples can do whatever they want together.

Georgie, how do you imagine you were conceived? You think your mother experienced some version

of the immaculate conception? Your father blew her a kiss and magically you came to be?”

Without meaning to, I rise from my seat. “Don’t you bring my mother and father into this!” Then I realise

heads are turning my way, and I sit again. “Mom always said he was strange,” I hiss, “…and that he

wanted… Well…”

“Wanted what?” Borje tilts his head. “What did he want, Georgie? That a man may not ask of his wife?”

“I’m not repeating it. But the fact he shares his current so-called wife with another man says it all,

doesn’t it.”

He leans back, sighing. “We’re back to that, are we? Your parents weren’t well matched, and your

father went on to choose a lifestyle you don’t approve of.”

My face is hot, and my glass is empty. I fill it again then knock back half the glass. Borje watches

without comment then taking the bottle, pours half a glass for himself.

“Georgie, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“You talked about your father asking for something your mother wouldn’t agree to. Did she ever say he

coerced her?”

“No, of course not. He’s not that kind of man.”

He nods, slowly. “I’m glad you see it that way. So do I.”

“Borje, are you trying to tell me something?”

His eyes go far away… Then, “Yes, I am. But you’re not interested in hearing it.”

*****

RICHARD

Perching a hip on the edge of her desk, “Francis, can you make me an appointment with the mayor

for…”

The elevator doors swish open and Klempner sweeps in as though he owned the place. “Haswell, I

don’t know if you need me to check in or similar, but I’ll be in the apartment upstairs.”

Francis half rises from her seat at his entry, but I wriggle fingers at her…

Let it lie…

With a touch of Jack-in-the-Box about her, Lydia’s head pops up from behind some training manual

Francis has her working on. “Apartment? You’re living here?”

“Lydia!” Francis snaps the word in a tone to blister leather.