The Lover's Children

Chapter 41 – The Idylls of March #13

KLEMPNER

Haswell’s face lifts and behind the lenses, his eye crease. "Yes, you are. It comes with the marriage

ritual. What did you think you were signing up for?"

I digest this. "How often is this part of the ritual played out? Exactly?"

His lips twitch. “As often as required.”

"Why the hell am I here at all? Mitch doesn't need me to choose clothes. She's dressed herself all her

life."

"And beautifully too. Mitch’s taste is outstanding. You are here to make Ooh Aah noises on cue and

produce your wallet on demand. As luck would have it..." He aims a finger across the floor... "... you

won't be saddled with carrying the bags..."

I follow the finger. Haswell's driver, Ross, sits in an ice cream bar area, perched on a stool, a glass of

something frothy on the counter next to him. Pen in hand, he's intent of what could be a crossword. As

I watch, he chews at a lip then, giving a small, satisfied nod, pencils something in.

Hmmm...

A man who's done this before...

I wind my thumbs again. "Think I'll go for a stroll." I start to haul myself up out of the seat, apparently

designed with dwarves and five-year-olds in mind.

Haswell doesn't look up. His paper rustles as he turns to the next page. "On your head be it."

I hover, semi-upright. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. When wives say Stay There, what they mean is, Be There When I Come Back."

Hmmm…

Clockwise again.

“How long will they be?”

“A while...” Haswell flips over the page. Share prices. “… But don't worry. They'll be out before you lose

the will to live.”

“Oh…”

Anti-clockwise…

Husband…

Without meaning to, I huff a laugh under my breath.

Haswell’s paper lowers an inch. He regards me over the top of his spectacles. “What’s funny?”

I shrug. “Being here. Being married. Doing… married things… It’s not a situation I ever expected to find

myself in…” His mouth twitches again… “Sitting in a department store, with you for Christ’s sake. It’s

hardly as though we have much common ground.”

He folds the paper onto his lap. “Did you imagine that, in your role as husband, you’d be in charge?

That somehow you owned your wife?”

“No, I didn’t. I don't own Mitch. I never wanted to…” Scepticism marches over his features… “Alright,

yes, I was a trafficker. I've owned more women than you can imagine. But I never wanted to own Mitch.

I wanted… I wanted her to want me. To give herself to me.”

Mitch and Beth appear, ignoring us, comparing reflections, nodding and discussing some detail or

other. After a few moments, apparently in agreement, they vanish behind the curtains again.

Haswell watches the performance. “Perhaps we have more common ground than you think, Mr

Waterman.”

For a moment I’m confused. The new label still sits uneasily on my shoulders. Then I remember… Lars

Waterman… The name I was born with.

But my confusion must have shown. Haswell inclines his head. "Still finding it odd with the change of

name?"

I shrug. "What's in a name? Anyone that knows who I am isn't going to be thrown by it. Anyone who

doesn't simply sees Larry Waterman, respectable businessman."

"Respectable?" Haswell grimaces, a caustic expression that sets my teeth on edge.

"Respectable enough..." He snorts, then smiles... "... Don't you find it confusing when your wife calls

you Master?" Haswell’s smile withers. "... You think I haven't heard it? When she thinks you're in

private. Jenny’s the same. She tries to call him James if other people are around, but she doesn't

always remember. For that matter, she's Jenny to me and Mitch, but Charlotte to everyone else who

knows her. Mitch too. She went through a good part of her life known as Shelley."

Haswell ponders. Nods. “True enough.”

"Did they call you Dicky as a kid?"

He winces. "Richie actually, until I was old enough to insist on a bit of respect."

My tone bland, "You didn't like Richie?"

"Hated it." He folds arms, sits back. "Even when I was small, I would always introduce myself as

Richard, but every single adult called me Richie until one day, when I was... oh, seventeen maybe, I

threw my dummy out of the pram and insisted on being Richard."

"Really…?” Oneupmanship wars with curiosity…

I’ve scored my points…

Curiosity wins. “What did you do?"

Haswell casts a glance around, lowers his voice. "I was in my father's office. The secretary called me

Richie one time too many that day, and I lost it. Threw the hole punch at the wall and missed. It hit the

window, smashed the glass and scared the bejeezus out of the cat sleeping in the rosebed just outside.

After that, everyone called me Richard."

The great Richard Haswell…

… terrorizing cats…

… and I burst out laughing. Heads turn our way.

“You should do that more often.”

“What?”

“Laugh.”

What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?

But there’s a hint of challenge in Haswell’s eye as he raises his paper again.

Chitchat’s not my forte, but I’ve an urge to fill the silence that follows. “By the way, I never gave you my

thanks.”

The paper lowers again, Haswell’s forehead wrinkling. “What for?”

“I'd assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that it was James who was responsible for persuading the police

commissioner not to arrest me when I returned from Brazil. Mitch told me it was you.”

His tone is dry. “Yes, it was me.”

“Well… thank you.”

“You're welcome…” The paper folds away again. “… And I'll tell you that it wasn't easy. Will is an old

friend of mine, but he was adamant that you had to pay for... Well... We know what for. I told him you

had paid. What with everything Juliana did.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t know…”

He cuts me short. “In fact, I do. James showed me the footage of where Juliana had you imprisoned…”

Footage?

“… I saw your physical condition and I read the medical reports. Yes, you paid.” He pauses, plucking at

his chin, then continues… “And I know also you have tried, and are still trying, to correct what you were

responsible for in the past. I don’t believe you belong in prison. You're most useful to all concerned,

yourself included, out in the world where you can do some good. Not least for Mitch. She deserves

some justice. Certainly, better than the cards she’s been dealt most of her life.”

“Yes, she does. I repeat. Thank you.”

Haswell meets my eyes. Holds them. “I'll say it only once, Klempner. Don't ever make me regret doing

it. Ah...” His tone lightens… “Your wife and mine are emerging, I believe. Along with your daughter.”

*****

RICHARD

With a shiver of changing-room curtains, the three women emerge. Which is to say, my Elizabeth strolls

out, Mitch sashays, Charlotte strides. Klempner and I rise to meet them.

Mitch and Elizabeth are wearing... not dissimilar... dresses. Both drape smoothly to mid-calf, cut from

something silky in shades of deep jade. Elizabeth wears her copper-red hair up, demure, ladylike.

Mitch's drapes her shoulders. But sharing the same alabaster skin, each with the huge, exotically green

eyes that are the mark of the Kimberley women, they look so similar.

Klempner stands beside me, legs astride, arms folded.

"We're two lucky men, wouldn’t you say," I murmur. He clicks his tongue.

There are differences between the two. The age gap is almost meaningless. Mitch has looked after

herself, and it shows. But more than that, the sultry beauty stands chin lifted, facing the world, looking

it, and Klempner, square in the eye.

He respects her strength...

My lovely Elizabeth, one of life's natural submissives, behaves more modestly, her face lowered.

Mitch dresses boldly. The dress is cut to emphasise her still-excellent figure, revealing a little cleavage.

Elizabeth's is more suggestive than revealing, although I know well that her chosen outfit, whilst

appearing as proper as a Roman matron’s, will have some feature, perhaps a hidden fold in the skirts,

to allow me ready access when I require it of her.

In fact, now that I look properly, standing side by side, the dresses are all but identical. It's the women

inside them, their stance and the way they carry them, that are different.

Charlotte still wears jeans and a tee shirt.

I take my wife by the waist, kiss her cheek. "You look lovely..." I turn to Mitch... "... Both of you." …

Then to the waiting Klempner… "Don't they, Larry?" The question hangs...

He flounders, then, "Yes, you look very… nice. You always do."

All the social graces of a halibut.

Mitch looks away, suppressing a smile.

Klempner measures the pair by eye, pair up and down. "Isn't there something in the rules about women

not being seen wearing the same dress?"

"Yes," Mitch chuckles. "But we'll accessorise differently. Wear our hair differently. We won't look the

same. You'll see."

I extend an arm toward the pay desk. “If you’ve finished in here for now, shall we go for some lunch?”

Charlotte scowls. “For now?” © 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

Mitch casts her a cool look. “We’ve finished in this department altogether, Richard. Yes, lunch sounds

lovely. But first, Beth and I would like to go to buy some lingerie to match our outfits. And Jenny needs

something too.”

*****