BED & BREAKFAST

CHAPTER 5 - Enter husband Daniel.

... Bed AND Breakfast. I'd forgotten the breakfast part and I'd forgotten the vegan me part as well. So, I descended the stairs to the dining room the next morning (precisely at eight) accompanied by the not-so-welcoming smell of bacon, eggs- not sure what else un-vegan-ish... and she - let's call her Marie (sorry, I forgot to introduce her earlier) - was at the stove, stirring and mixing and flipping very non-vegan stuff.

"Bonjour Elise, sit, sit." A floured hand flourished over her shoulder.

"Morning!" I stood by the ornate table complete with full breakfast setting: plates, silver cutlery, linen napkins, crystal glasses- "Umm... sorry; I forgot to tell you, I'm uh... vegan"

I held my breath. (I was breathing through the nose anyway, my mind in that space women's minds go to when they have to change poopy diapers and man-nappies and... clogged toilets after both sons have had their time in there consecutively?) This could potentially be a very short breakfast- doesn't take long to eat air- especially a non-vegan variety. How much bacon and eggs and... other meat by-products was I ingesting anyway? Was I still technically a vegan? (Questions like these have plagued me all my life: If I am at a BBQ and I am forced to stand there and make small-talk, or I am grilling lamb chops for the boys- how much meat and yes, meaty by-products am I breathing in and absorbing through the pores of my skin? I am that vegan.)

"Oh... mais... I made all this food!"

I stood holding on to the chair... awaiting her verdict. And it came. I got the once over by her eyes again as she turned and faced me fully. She assessed my 'figure' and perhaps held back saying "You're so scrawny you need to eat meat, Madame!" I was ready for it though!

Next moment, however, the now-familiar shrug of her shoulders. "C'est rien; Daniel and I will eat with you." She turned back to the stove. I sat.

I sat and fidgeted with my napkin, no chitchat coming to my rescue. I'd not anticipated sharing my breakfast- more like me reading, (thus the book and glasses plonked on the table to my left) as I was discreetly served by attentive-yet-conscious-of-my-need-for-privacy hosts... based on past experience. Breakfast with- my brain did a quick rewind of the preceding afternoon: My initial unease/mistrust, my sense of inferiority, the sudden relief of NOT being treated as the "sister of", the gradual deepening realisation this woman was somehow meant to have crossed my path...

"Elise, good morning! You slept well?"

Enter husband Daniel- from Argentina no less. Smooth. Classic South American good looks, the kind of face which only improves with age (sigh- when oh when will the wrinkles on MY face be referred to as "Distinguished." And "Full of character." And... "Sexy." Sean Connery sexy damn it!) The accompanying accent - though he's been here for a few decades - sealed it: he was a swooner- despite his accent being far less pronounced than the "Moi? J'habite sixteen years in Australia," coming from Marie earlier.

"Morning!" Had I been staring mutely too long? His eyes... there was mirth there?

"You slept well? Not too cold for you?"

Crap! What did he know? I'd been quiet (also the only guest there that night judging by the place settings) barring the occasional latching and unlatching of the balcony door to sneak a ciggie. There had been a slight creak...

"Very well thank you!" What could I have said? That I froze my arse off for the most part and cursed for the rest of it?

"We don't usually turn the ducted heating on over summer-"

I must have gaped. Or something. He frowned? Ducted bloody heating? I'd not seen any vents!

"Oui," Marie added carrying a platter full of... unmentionables. "The control is right by the stairs. Did I forget to mention it?"

"I enjoyed the fire..." Yeah. That's what I said.

Daniel didn't buy it, I was sure. Marie shrugged her shoulders and went back and forth carrying more unmentionables. "Alright for you," I'd thought rather snidely, "you had a warm body to wrap around!"

But then, as she set the last of the dishes down, she stood at her chair, just to the side of Daniel and looked down at him. He, in turn, looked up. I witnessed this first exchange between them. You want LOVE? I was suddenly swept up in their glance; I was carried between them; I floated on tenderness and caring and easy companionship and mirth and... lust? Yep. Right there at the breakfast table where I attempted to spread homemade "I make everything from - how you say - scratch? All organic, bien sur!" strawberry jam on two thick-cut slabs of toasted bread, I was... suspended in their mutual lust?

Suddenly, the room smelled of eucalypt and pine and the sweet, musty fragrance of rotting undergrowth - from which bright green new fronds emerge and will in time become majestic ferns - wafting in from the open window. Roses too, from the more formal garden, befitting a B&B- trellised over small arches and assorted large ornate pots around wrought iron tables and eclectic metal chairs grouped here and there on the almost circular patch of lawn outside.

Suddenly, veganism and having breakfast alone flew right out that window.

They were loooong moments in that look! They probably weren't- in fact, it could well be proven by simply gazing up at the typical 'old homestead' clock. (If one believed in the concept of time... something else I struggle with daily- effort always expounded away from any linear-type thinking.)

You don't know linear? That's like... when you place all you've got on a single number in roulette- and everything depends on the little silver ball, say, landing on black 33... and you win the equivalent of roulette jackpot. Then, only then you can do this and that and...

The odds? Of course, you lose (you idiot!) and then you go away for a time, save up some (aka 'recover' and 'regroup') and return to risk it on another number (or the same one, or one almost the same - aka the definition of insanity? - and repeat the process, every time certain you're on the winner this time.) Repeat as necessary until just before you die you scratch your head: "What the fuck was all that about?"

That's linear-type thinking: A+B=C, and if there's no B or if B fails, then there certainly can't be any C and every other letter following. My young protege Renn knows all about it, having suffered through many a virtual lecture on this theme: "Stop saying "when" and "if" and relying on one thing to happen before you move on to the next damn it!"

Non-linear is like juggling five balls in the air at once- lose one, meh... you still got four more left to juggle and you might, with a little effort, pick up another fifth. Non-linear is the basis of my 'horizontal living' theory, another convoluted concoction I've spoken about elsewhere: Not climbing up towards some pinnacle (with perfect arses stretching infinitely upwards from you, and yours in turn admired by those infinitely below) but rather meandering from one horizontal path to the next, connecting and disconnecting in a mesh-type pattern-

Wait!

Something hit me. Drawing eyes back indoors, I faced them. There but for the Grace of God sat he and I! Usually, I reserve this statement for things of a negative nature- like seeing someone worse-off than me, this, in turn, inducing a state of compassion and gratitude. But not this time!

No. This time I was pissed. And I wasn't going to leave until I discovered something of a negative nature.