Well – yes, the breakfast. Haven’t been able to post for days, it seems, because there’s been so much going on at work, and then Rachel came round again, to flee from the evil Oscar…
It felt very peculiar going round to Michael’s house at 7 a.m. having spent about an hour washing my hair etc first. The Philipino maid showed me in to the dining room – huge expanse of shiny table with four places laid and loads of newspapers, and asked me what I’d like to eat. It really was the perfect place to be, so I just sort of settled in happily and drank coffee and had bacon, sausage and tomato (and fried bread, which I hadn’t asked for, but ate as it was there), and it was almost startling when two strange men appeared as well, and started eating and chatting to each other. And then Michael turned up in shirt-sleeves, looking terribly busy and important, and kissed me on the cheek. I had a question ready – about whether he’d advise me to start up by myself in the PR business –pretty obvious really. But I DIDNT HAVE TO ASK IT. There were mobiles going off all the time, and every time Michael caught my eye and smiled at me, as if he was about to bring the question up, one of the other men would butt in and say something to him. So basically, all I did was turn up and have a very nice heavy breakfast and read his Daily Telegraph.
About 8.15 I thought I’d better go, and he waved at me (on the phone) and said, ‘We must do this again!’ And that was it. So what do I do now? Do I ask myself to breakfast again? Does this count as a date?
Oh – and the bad thing about eating a full cooked breakfast is that you still feel wistful when other people produce fairy cakes later on, but you know you have completely used up your calorie allowance for the whole day. So it’s sort of like being a prisoner.
2 comments:
This is all very interesting.
Maid, men on cell phones, (you're sure he's not gay, right?) (Had they spent the night?) (Were they there to ensure he didn't have any private time with you?)
Questions, questions. Dearie me.
Cow must say though the next mooove should be his. In her humble, leafy, Topiary opinion.
Moo!
Dear Topiary, you are absolutely right, the next move should be his. But what do I do if he DOESN'T make a move? I thought it really strange that the other people were there, and he was on the phone all the time (though he did tell me it was a working, power breakfast). Surely everyone has time for romance? Also the maid was quite pretty, which is a worry. And Phillipinos are effortlessly slim - and jolly young. Love from fretting scones x
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