My stomach answered in French. “Réveillez petite fleur. Réveilles-toi ma jolie fleur rose. Il est temps de se réveiller.”
“What? I’m not a flower and I don’t want to wake up,” I whined.
“T'es une fleur, une belle fleur, et il est temps de se réveiller.”
“Why can my tummy speak French?”
“Because I studied it at school,” my stomach answered in a sexy English accent.
Wait, my stomach is James Bond now? I thought, struggling to untangle fuzzy knots of sleep logic. Fumbling with the sheets, I shifted and found my laptop half under me, and half hanging off the bed. I opened it, and the Professor’s disembodied head filled my screen.
“Good morning, darling!” he said with entirely too much enthusiasm. I squinted and rubbed blurry eyes.
“You’re ridiculous…” I said as I took him in. Shirtless, with sleep mussed hair, faint pillow lines on his cheeks, and a dopey grin, he was offensively adorable for so early in the morning.
“You’re way too happy,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “It disgusts me.”
“Oh, you need tea,” he said, his tone sweet and patient as if he were speaking to a sick child.
“I need a blood transfusion.” I groaned, rolling over onto my back.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Woman-up, Claremont. don’t let a little whiskey get the better of you. Two aspirin and a cup of strong tea will right you in no time.”
“Is that your official prescription, Doctor?”
He nodded stoically “It is.” .
“Uuuuggghhh,” I moaned and held a hand to my head.
“Need a second opinion?” my mother’s voice came from the doorway to my bedroom, just out of view.
“Mom?” I said, glancing over at the Professor. His mouth had gone wide, his eyebrows raised in the perfect impression of a teenager that had just been caught in his girlfriend’s bedroom. Which is, I suppose almost exactly what was happening.
“I don’t have aspirin or tea, but I have brought you a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Um…just a second, ” I scrambled for composure, tossing pillows and shaking sheets to find my nightie, which I’d neglected to put back on after my late night tryst with the Professor. “I didn’t realize you were home, Mom,” I called to her.
What time is it, anyway? And where is my nightgown? There, on the floor!
I bent over to retrieve the garment and I heard a low whistle come from my computer, then a disappointed “damn” as I drew my nightie over my head.
“Shut up,” I whispered at the screen, as I set the laptop on a desk and closed the lid. “Okay, I’m decent now.”
“I got home just a few minutes ago, sweetheart.” My Mother stepped into the room. “Jeffrey dropped me off and went back to his place. I was anxious to see you.”
Lydia Claremont, my mother, is a compact package of maternal grace and affection. Perpetually draped in Chanel skirt-suits and capped with a sleek blonde bob, she sees all and knows more. She crossed towards me, eyes scanning the room with suspicion, set my coffee on the bed stand, hugged me warmly, then crossed the room again to my laptop and opened it.
“Well, hello,” said the Professor, still shirtless, still mussed.
Jesus Christ, it looks like we’ve been fucking and we aren’t even in the same county.
“Hello yourself, young man,” my Mother said sternly, crossing her arms. She looked at me, then back to the Professor, then back to me. “Care to introduce your friend?” She arched one perfectly groomed eyebrow.
I wasn’t fooled; no way was she mad. What she was, was in the mood for a bit of a laugh at the Professor’s expense. She pressed her lips together, a gesture that I knew was designed to suppress a smile. I was pretty sure that on the Professor’s side of the screen, that smile looked like the snarl of a pissed off Mama Bear. She tapped the toe of one pink patent pump impatiently, and narrowed her eyes at me. Her gaze said “play along”.
“Mom, this is um…this is um…” I began. I really was hung over.
“Dr. Thomas Grayson, Ms. Claremont,” the Professor said as he pulled on a shirt, and tried to pat down unruly tufts of hair. “So nice to meet you.”
“Dr. Grayson.” She nodded then pivoted towards me so that her face was blocked from his view for a moment. She shook one hand like it’d been burnt on the stove and mouthed to me, “He’s HOT!”
“Jesus Christ,” I sighed.
“It’s Doctor Claremont, Doctor Grayson,” she said, turning back towards him. “Doctor of Psychology, certified therapist with a specialty in sexual behaviors.” She laid one manicured hand on her chest, her fingers casually caressing the pearls at her neck.
“Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Jane actually told me that last night. I suppose I could use some of that coffee myself.”