BED & BREAKFAST

CHAPTER 2 - High School French Lessons.

I was greeted promptly (she must have seen the trail of dust tagging along behind me?) by a tall, statuesque French woman, maybe a few years younger than me. Traipsing down the path, arms outstretched she was dressed... 'chic' (This word has always fascinated me because it directly brings to mind a French woman, no matter what the context of its use... Sleek modern leather sofa touted as chic? I see only a languid French model draped across its length dressed in something Chanel-ish. Period.)

My host's face, even without makeup and despite the fine lines and small patches of age-related discoloration glowed with a mix of- what was it? Confidence? Charm? Dare I even venture into... haughtiness and, hidden- what was she hiding under all of this whatever it was? I, in fact, became suspicious. A little uneasy at the first sight of her- like... okay, I suddenly felt inferior? That's a rarity for me. Not that I don't face inferiority often; life throws me into environments where I am the pauper and the loser and the failure enough for me to have grown and be maintaining a decent defence.

But this woman unnerved me. There was no time to process why- my gut had spoken and as usual it prevailed over everything else. I am never wrong- rather it isn't. More often than not, I wish it was. Something as simple as red or black, left or right: My gut tells me its red, or right... but I buck- sometimes I tempt it on purpose and choose the opposite. (Those times I say "fuck!" a lot and kick myself. Rather swiftly and yes, it can be done.) Standing in front of her this early afternoon, no doubt about it, I felt inferior- and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing I could do about it?

She swept her eyes up and down my length once, noting my own more eclectic dress-style with one raised eyebrow. (Repurposed cowboy boots with feathers and bits of crochet doily, frilly denim mini skirt, shrunken singlet - from the time twelve years ago when we got lost and drenched in the Blue Mountains and I had to shop for dry clothes in the children's section of the only 'Variety' store in town; the words "If you want the job done, ask a girl" rather faded now - and my younger son's sky-blue cotton shirt tied in a knot at the waist IS eclectic damn it!)

She hugged me. I mean she really, really hugged me like I was some distant cousin she'd not seen in decades. Lots of fast foreign words followed and I scrambled my brain dredging up the old High School French lessons. The feeling of being out of my depth- somewhat below this suspiciously haughty yet at the same time welcoming specimen continued.

"...Near Marseilles, oui, but non, no family here. Only my husband Daniel and our children." This, to my question as to whether she was French, followed by which part of France she hailed from. Like I had to ask right? The strong accent and foreign words were not enough?

"Bienvenue, come, come!"

Lugging my overnight bag and lappie strapped in its own satchel across my front, I followed her up the path. We came to a stop in the foyer where she pointed at the entrance to the dining room- I was to present myself there at eight the next morning?

Eight? Would not one - strike that - would not couples want to be lazy... sleep in maybe, forget clocks here- have a last minute quickie... and then, amble down to the dining room at ten instead- ample time to return and pack before check-out? Hmmm...

(Thus began what would continue as an internal monologue throughout my stay. I am not alone here am I? Surely everyone does this?)

We entered the small outdoor eating area off the breakfast room. She introduced me to Coco the parrot, who flew in and fed off her hand and, swore- appropriately, in French. (A picture of Giorgio Armani, the infamous cat in our lives flashed for a second - Coco Chanel and Pierre Cardin, his sane siblings sadly missed, HIS demented departure celebrated given we all had many a battle scar - but I shooed it away literally, sending this Coco flapping off to sit on the veranda rail and focus her beady little eyes on me for the rest of our time there.)

Eventually, we climbed the stairs and reached the landing; my initial alarm now having given over substantial headspace for other impressions to occupy my brain. Like the fact... everything about her was tactile! She touched things; she ran fingers over plush cushions, sprayed some musky essence in the large bathroom - fitted out with black and white tiles and a decent-size spa bath on a platform framed by large windows - she pumped some cream on my hand and gently rubbed it in, telling me it was locally made and organic. (Got me there!) She patted what she said were "Soft, very nice towels." She poured some locally produced Port into a small crystal glass and invited me to sample it. (I more than sampled it much later!) She touched my arm often, to point out something or other on our... very slow tour.

Normally, I guard my personal space fiercely. Normally- least in my past, I stayed well clear of the cosmetics section in department stores; those overly made-up women offering this and that to improve my... appearance- hell, I've never been a Barbie. But I was letting her get close, letting her touch me?

I had the sense she conducted this same tour thingy with every guest- or in the majority of not-so-forlorn-looking cases, with couples. As she spoke and did the tactile things, I, of course, imagined a couple in my stead. Witnessed the scenes through the man's eyes first: Saw the sensuality- fingers rubbing skin; the hint of sexuality in the images of one woman touching another...

Then the woman- oh how the woman would be seduced by all the promises of what lay ahead! Promises this host alluded to- her touch reinforcing, assuring. Trapped in her world, I was compelled to murmur assenting words often, nodding my head in agreement; mouthing "Yes," mostly to the constant "Oui?" or "Non?" both offered up as questions, tacked on the end of almost every remark.

She was clever. I understood on that landing why this particular B&B rated so highly. She wasn't providing a bed and some home-cooked breakfast, she was providing an experience, one where all the senses were seduced. Simply, she created the illusion of sex- hot, passionate sex.

And, weren't they coming here for just that, the couples occupying each suite for a night or two? Bed and breakfast they could do at home. This experience though- I got it. I got how a couple could be sucked into it- how they could sell out the world (reality) and buy into this woman's fantasy: That the two of them would have a "sublime" time there during their stay; this word seen several times in the reviews on the bottom of their internet page. (Posted by women guests- hint hint?)

Suddenly - and quite rudely interrupting my brief internal reverie - the weirdness began. (If you're not convinced by now that she and I were meant to meet, this should seal it.) Standing in the small foyer again, flanked on three sides by suites and on the fourth by the old timber stairwell leading to the lower level, she'd paused.

"You are... his sister, oui?"