Blooming Women

3. Breakfast

'Let me explain. I was having breakfast with my friend – Cloud – she's pregnant and likes something called an Elvis Sandwich? It settles her morning sickness.'

'Oh I know her. You and she came past this morning; she's usually alone. Later she took you back, too. I saw her come here with her mate when my dress was new summer green, and now she will give birth.'

'Yes. I'd love to be able to see the baby?'

The figure in front of her failed to react. Amber tried to find her way into The Story of Georgie Porgy, who kissed the girls uninvited and was made to cry inordinately for his lack of manners.

'She can get these. Sandwiches. At a place not far away?'

The figure seemed to be listening politely. Amber ploughed on, uncomfortably.

'I came for a party – they're getting married, now that there's a baby on the way... but I came early so we could catch up, and we went for breakfast together so we could have a chat – you know, without anybody to interrupt? She gets morning sickness, like I said, and she nearly threw up when we arrived, so I went to get our food ordered.'

Oh for Scheherazade's sake, Dear! I would mark that effort as particularly poor. Imagine yourself running for the lavatory and live the story: your life depends upon it. Concentrate.

They'd entered the garden centre Cloud favoured for breakfast not long after the doors had opened for the day, and chatted to the motherly woman behind the counter about poor Mary Bright until Cloud had, like clockwork, began to look queasy and had swung away, stomach heaving... 

Right. She had the feeling of the tale now.

Amber had sprinted past her friend, who was duck-footing green-facedly towards the Lady's loos. Slamming open the doors, she let Cloud pass, then beat a hasty retreat as soon as the retching echoed over the cubicle door: the sound and scent of splattering bile would be enough to make her join in, and she believed that food should be purchased, not merely rented. Spotting  a sign which read 'Carnivorous plants/Cafe' dangling from the ceiling – honestly, there was an anti-breakfast conspiracy going on – Amber turned gratefully away from the display of meat-eating vegetation, leaned on the glass door to the cafe and pushed inside.

This early in the day, the places was populated by a total of four delivery drivers on Sunday wages and... Georgie. Cloud had warned her about Georgie, but the warning hadn't done him justice.

'Can I help you?'

Amber blinked. It was an unwelcomely suggestive greeting that promised more trouble than the assistance it pretended to offer. A tall, emphatically over-weight young man wearing kitchen whites, several chins and a very large chequerboard apron was standing behind the empty self-service counter; he was smiling with a pleasure she felt uncomfortable to be caught up in: there was something wolfish about him, if, that is, the story had gone wrong, the wolf had eaten all three little pigs and had come looking for a Grandma dessert; she was momentarily taken aback.

'Hi. Errr. Do you have Elvis sandwiches?'

'Yes. Yes we do.' His top chin came up, his head went back and Amber received the unpleasant impression that he was staring at her with a pair of hairy nostrils.

'Two. Please?'

'Two? You pregnant?'

'No. You?'