Chapter 3 - Winter Wedding #2
GEORGIE
Shaking down my umbre, 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 wee of the bar, once more, I hesitate.
Although it’s early, the crowd is building up: Friday night revellers, allughing 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 withughter, 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 yed my drum for Him pa-rum pum pum pum
I yed 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 ss of white wine, then…
Fuck it…
“Whisky.”
He hesitates, eyes a little narrowed. Then, reaching up to the disy of bottles behind the bar, “Any
brand in particr?”
I scan the choice. “I’ll have a Lagavulin. Arge one.”
He raises his brows, smiling a little. “Coming up. Ice?”
“No.”
Amber fluid sshes into a ss and I cradle it, inhaling the scents of peat and smoke and msses.
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 ce 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…
ss 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 cier. 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 p the empty tumbler onto the bar. Silently, the barman slides
the ss 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.
*****
KLEMPNER
Mitch leads the way to breakfast. I follow her, carrying Vicky in her travel-cot.
My wife…
My daughter…
Ahead of us, the kitchen is a cacophony of mour and tter and chatter, echoing down the hall.
My mouth is dry…
Why?
A normal life…
I wanted this…
James, in jeans and a cable-knit pullover, sleeves rolled up, is at the hob, moving between pans and
tes and grill like a conjurer on speed. He shes a smile at Mitch as she enters; nods an
acknowledgement to me as I hesitate in the doorway, then pauses, looking fixedly at me for a moment.
Mitch takes a seat next to Jenny, pulling up a side-table…
My other daughter…
… who is upied with feeding Cara…
My grandchild...
Seated in a highchair, her face and bib are spattered yellow as Jenny spoons something eggy into her
mouth. The tray of the chair swims with God-knows-what.
Right next to Cara, Beth feeds Adam bright orange mush. It’s a messy process. His tray too, and the
stic mat on the floor, amodating both chairs, is a slush-bespattered disaster zone.
Jenny holds back a bright green Mickey Mouse spoon, loaded with egg. “Herees the aerone…”
The spoon makes an arc through the air and Cara, burbling, opens her mouth wide.
At thest moment, chubby fingers grab the spoon from Jenny, aiming more-or-less at their owner’s
face. A small portion of the food is delivered to her mouth. The remainder slops down face, bib and
tray. Cara tries again, jabbing down into the bowl of egg with the spoon, scooping up a little, spilling
most. Next to her, Adam has lost interest in his orange slop, stretching out wriggling fingers to Cara’s
bowl.
Jenny watches with critical eye, then slices toast into finger-sized pieces, giving one to Cara and
offering another to Adam. He grabs it, then champs at the end, not so much eating it, as pulverising it.
Mitch pats the side-table. “Just pop Vicky down here, would you, Larry.” As I set down the cot, she
produces her bag of baby-feeding kit.
At the other side of the table, Michael is telling some tale to Haswell, illustrating his words with waves
of a toast-clutching hand. He breaks off halfway through as Adam raises a wail of protest, pudgy arms
still grabbing toward Cara’s bowl.
Normal life?
Complete fucking chaos…
James, poking at a sizzling frying pan, flicks eyes to mine, away to his pan, then back to me, once
more holding for a moment. He sweeps the room with his gaze. Returns to me. Head inclining, he
smiles slightly and nods me to a seat. “Larry, poached eggs?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“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 andys 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 ns 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 eggsing up. Let’s all y 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
stic bowl rattling. Vicky burbles and hups. 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 tes tter. 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, cing them in a ypen set to one side.
How do people stand this all the time?
Please check at N/?vel(D)rama.Org.
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 ck
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 particr.”
In truth, the day yawns ahead of me. Boredom is a new experience.
What do people do with their time?
A normal life…
*****