(11) He Slept, She Slept, They Slept
It seemed strange to feel the house so full. It had been that way during Jordan’s seminar, but Andrew, having only stayed over on the Friday, hadn’t felt the full force of it. At least, that’s what he told himself lying there, wondering whether to read, or maybe listen to some Renaissance lute music, his late night soothing treat. Especially the duets of Anthony Holborne. It was Lara’s first night here too. She seemed to be following her script without any overdue stress. In fact, on parting she whispered how much fun she was having. She also intimated that Asha had asked if she was doing the driver. She whispered of course I denied it, and briefly poked her tongue in his ear. Jordan, of course, had that rumpled, lived-in look, like he’d been squatting here for years. Shortly after turning in to his room he’d returned, knocked on his door, popped a head in and said, with briefly raised eyebrows, don’t forget to dream.
A few minutes later he was wishing he could somehow forget to think, such were the reflections cascading through the grey matter. Ah, he should have partaken of a single malt, that would have laid a quilt on the ripples. It would be morning in Europe, maybe he could phone someone, tell them about his exciting life. He picked up The Sunday Philosophy Club. Alexander McCall Smith was all the rage in certain quarters these days and he was keen to find out why. There’d been a copy sitting, alone and chastely forlorn, on a table in the library while he waited out Lara’s secret mission, and he’d checked it out on a whim. He soon fell into the gentle rhythms of the prose. His protagonist, Isabel Dalhousie, seemed like any of a dozen Edinburgh ladies he’d known vaguely in his work year before leaving for Canada. He’d taken tickets at a repertory theatre, and served many lattes, croissants, and salad nicoises at the Chaise Longue down the block. Ladies who looked a lot like Isabel would come in for lunch or maybe to while away the afternoon. They’d read the papers, make notes in notebooks, study catalogues, await friends. Sometimes, if he was quiet, or had finished lunch time clean up, they’d chat. Of course he reminded some of them of their sons, far away studying, some as far as Australia, and they’d grow soft eyed reminiscing. The descriptions of Edinburgh and its daily life soothed him and eventually he put the book down and rested his tired eyes.
Jordan’s reminder had brought out a bit of the rebel in him. He’d actually rather not dream, thank you very much. A night’s soft darkness would be very much appreciated. Tomorrow, with all its mystery and challenge, was moving from the horizon to a point a few inches from his face, and he fell into sleep with it hanging there ominously. It was still there when he awakened around dawn, seemingly dream free.
He couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. Each, he had to admit, had its appeal. Was life not just jam packed with such delicious little dilemmas? Like choosing chocolates from an expensive box.
He got up and brushed his teeth. A sobering exercise at the best of times. He looked at the clock. He looked out the window. The day was dull, likely a damp November chill, and one would have to dig deep to find any solace in it. That’s if one were looking for solace, which he was not. Was he looking for anything? A suitable outfit for the day. Sober but not too showy. He was still the chauffuer butler guy, right?
Yeah, let’s not forget that. Despite being stuck in the spotlight, Asha would be watching. And maybe she’d seen through the act already.
So, what first? Breakfast might be a good idea. He proceeded downstairs affecting his butler/chauffuer act, whatever that was. Maybe the Alan Bates role from Gosford Park was overdoing it. Okay, tone it down, make it casual. Lara was already in the kitchen area. He said good morning and she replied Jordan’s outside walking, and Asha’s still in bed I think.
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