The Cure

Chapter 39

Lola didn't know what she expected when they left the bathroom; that the room would be silent, and staring, or snickering.

But the diners chattered, the low clattering of cutlery and the mellow hum of conversation easing her; Nate leaned against the cash desk, asking for the bill without taking his eyes off her as she dithered, embarrassed in her finery, by the door.

'Come here,' he murmured, pulling her to his side by her hand, slipping his hand back around the small of her back, tracing small circles as he paid for their dinner.

She glimpsed the check, her mouth falling open, but Nate didn't even flinch.

That was, until they turned, and the waiter opened the door to let a couple of new diners in, in the form of his mother and father.

He froze; they were busying themselves, taking off heavy coats, and expensive scarves and gloves, handing them to the waiter.

They were only metres away, and Lola pulled herself out of Nate's grasp just in time.

His parents' reaction was one of immediate, agreeable surprise, in stark contrast to Nate's own, which was more that of a child caught at mischief.

'Nate!' It was his mother that moved first, darting forward to scoop him up, and Lola thought with panic that he must smell like sex, that their debauchery was tattooed on their skin for all to see; thank God she only kissed his cheeks, in typical two-pecked European style.

'What are you doing here, mon chéri?'

'You should have said you were coming by,' Doctor Wells added, repeating the bisous on his son's cheeks, before clapping them with his soft palms.

Then their heads turned simultaneously to find Rosie, their smiles faltering in unison as their eyes fell upon a smaller form, the fronds of blonde, instead the flames of red, their eyes flickering to their son and back to Lola in the short, uncomfortable silence.

'You remember Lola,' Nate finally creaked into action, and she felt her cheeks bleeding embarrassment as they renewed their grins valiantly.

Lola glanced at Nate, seeing the corner of his own lip threatening upwards, trying to hide his smile as he watched her cringe.

The asshole.

'Lola, my parents.'

'Nice to see you again,' her smile was sincere, and her outstretched hand was ignored as they tapped their soft cheeks against hers, the bourgeois mwah-mwah.

Nate was biting his lip, now, behind his parents' back, and she shot him a menacing frown before reassembling her face quickly into politeness as Mrs. and Doctor Wells held her at arms' length.

'You are glowing, Lola,' Mrs. Wells said, and Nate held his fist to his lips, trying to wipe away the smile that threatened, nodding his head in consensus.

'You are,' Nate mouthed from over their shoulders, his face gmealingly amused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he bit his lip, eyes meaningful, proud of his handiwork as her lip quivered despite herself.

'Thanks. God,' Lola held her hands up to her embarrassed cheeks, 'it's warm in here.'

'Isn't it?' Nate joined her at her side, now, with a mischievous grin, and she was sure she was tomato red as he slipped an easy hand about her waist, earning the simultaneous surprise of his parents, steering her towards the door with a quick gesture in its direction.

'We had better be getting off, anyway—' and then, with only the breath of a whisper at her ear, '—even though you just did—'

'Not so fast,' Doctor Wells interrupted their escape attempt, looking from his son, whose lips were close to Lola's temple, to Lola's agreeably flushed cheeks, and back to Nate again. 'Nathaniel, I have got these wonderful cigars from Mexico—'

'Not now, dad.'

'—they're in the car. Come on, let's go out on the terrace and light one. Moon's lovely.'

'Dad—'

'Go on, Nathaniel, I won't hear the end of those bloody cigars if he doesn't have one now.' Mrs. Wells was already seated on one of the high bar stools, and tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails against it impatiently, by way of beckoning, with a slow smile as she looked Lola appreciatively up and down.

'Come, honey.' She cocked her impossibly beautiful head. 'Come, come.'

Lola looked back at Nate, agonised, as he was turning about on his heel; he shrugged, equally gorgeous to behold in his white shirt, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a slow grin as he followed his father leisurely out of the restaurant, accepting his jacket on the way out and slinging it over his arm.

There was a thin, damp line of transparency at the small of his back, the minute trace of sweat giving his recent exploits away.

'That's the good thing about champagne,' Mrs. Wells started as Lola slid onto a bar stool, taking care not to reveal too much of her leg from the slit in the silk of her dress, her heart still calming down from the onslaught of events over the past five minutes, starkly aware that she had left her underwear, snapped in two in the bathroom bin. 'You can have it before dinner, and after.' She shrugged. 'Hmm. And during.' She laughed as two fizzing glasses arrived. 'But this is not good champagne. But whatever.'

'Thanks.' Lola was glad of the effervescent courage, glancing at their half-finished wine bottle on their hastily deserted table.

She wasn't even tipsy, and she was going to need anything she could get her hands on to navigate through what could only be described as pure emotional turmoil.

'You're not a "meet the parents" girl,' Mrs. Wells drew her head back as she observed Lola at length, the fluorescent light at the bar shimmering over her lightly-lined, tanned skin.

Lola bristled. 'I'm sorry?'

'I hated that too, when I was a girl. Greg's parents were just—' she shook a palm in front of her, '—oh, no, no, no.' Lola chuckled. 'It was terrible.'

She handed Lola her glass, clinking the rim of her own against it, and they sipped, Lola secretly relieved that Mrs. Wells wasn't intimating that she was what she had always suspected herself to be – the kind of girl that a boy shouldn't bring home.

'No. I've never really gone in for that kind of thing.'

'Then the Rosie thing has kicked the bucket?'

Lola spluttered on her champagne. 'I wouldn't put it like that—'

'Why not? He's young. At his age, relationships, his girlfriends, it's just like hamsters. Sweet, cute, but short-lived.' She took a long draught of champagne, wrinkling her nose. 'Nope. Really not good champagne.'

'Has he had many – girlfriends – then?' Lola tried nonchalance, sipping at her own glass, secretly marvelling at how delicious it tasted to her.

'Oh, you know. One serious, I think, before Rosie. But he's like his papa. Girls are just past-times until they meet one who's crazy enough to take them on full-time.'

'I just – he never really had girls back to the flat. I think Rosie only came by twice.'

'He's a pretty boy. I hope he's playing the field, even if his papa would prefer for him to get married now. As long as he's happy. That's the only thing a maman wants. For her son to be happy.' Mrs. Wells had been chattering absent-mindedly, her fingers turning about the flute of champagne, and now she looked at Lola again, her eyes dancing over her tattoos, and then with a small, knowing smile as she eyed the black satin. 'Your dress, dear.'

Lola passed a hand over the knee of the dress, blushing, sweeping at whatever mark was there as Mrs. Wells' smile widened, her eyes dancing the same mischief as Lola saw, far too frequently, in the eyes of her son.

Then, suddenly, the smile faltered, and she was tapping her glass with a long fingernail.

'I asked him, I ask him, he never answers me. And I'm worried about him. Tell me. Is he happy, Lola?'

Lola drained her glass with a quick tilt of the head, looking towards the entrance to the terrace, spotting Doctor Wells, and then Nate, leaning against the wooden railings, his head thrown back as he laughed, a cigar between thumb and forefinger, the moonlight floating on the water behind him, and she passed a hand quickly across her chest.

'Yeah. Yeah, he is.'