New World in the Morning by Stephen Benatar Read Free Book Online Page B

people had seemed surprisingly indulgent. Is it true, then: all the world loves a lover?
    â€œI’m so glad I have someone I’ll always be able to lean on. Lots of girls haven’t, you know. You can’t think how happy that makes me.”
    Now I delivered Junie’s tray. The intake of her breath, the soaring of her hands, was undoubtedly genuine. “But what are you trying to do?” she cried. “Fatten me up for Christmas?”
    â€œWhy not?” I was Spencer Tracy. “What meat there is on you is cherce.”
    â€œYou’re sweet. You’re a liar but you’re sweet.”
    â€œDo you love me?” I asked.
    â€œEver so. Millions and millions.”
    Matt, too, was happily surprised. He struggled to sit up and did so with the air of still being in the midst of dreams.
    Like me he didn’t wear pyjamas. In the light of what I’d noticed yesterday I thought his shoulders were also looking broader. A light shadow spilled across his chest: the possible forerunner to a quantity of blond fuzz. One thing was certain. If he meant to throw himself into his training with the dumbbells, I should clearly have to intensify my own programme of exercises.
    Soon, of course, he’d start to take more interest in girls. And vice versa—obviously. Already I could see he was becoming quite a hunk.
    â€œYoung Matthias,” I said. “I reckon you need building up.”
    He, as well, had occasionally had breakfast seen to by myself—cereal, toast, a bar of chocolate—but even so… “Gosh! Eggs? Mushrooms? Did you cook them?”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œNot bad. Not bad at all. Where’s the fried bread?”
    â€œSorry. Must’ve forgotten.”
    â€œAnd the sausages?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œBut thanks, Pop, this is cool. You’re a good bloke. Ta.”
    â€œNo crossed fingers?”
    â€œNo crossed fingers. But next time…”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDon’t forget the fried bread.”
    Standing in the doorway I lifted two fingers at him; and they weren’t crossed, either. He giggled. “I’ll tell Mum…”
    I made the toast and coffee—real coffee. I discovered a jar of honey in the larder; I knew Matt preferred honey to jam or marmalade. Honey on butter! ( Anything on butter was the kind of extravagance I had generally frowned on; but not this morning. Nor, indeed, ever again.) I even prepared Susie a piece of buttered toast with honey, which I put on the grass near the back door. She guarded it between her front paws and looked at me askance, as though she supposed I might be passing through some form of crisis.
    â€œHave you eaten anything yet?” asked Junie.
    â€œNo, but it’s ready and waiting.”
    â€œWell, go and have it, please. Your eggs and bacon will be cold. Mine were delicious. It was all delicious—every mouthful.”
    I didn’t mention that I wouldn’t be eating eggs and bacon. Despite my decision of the previous night I’d now resolved to shed those extra pounds. Not wholly for the sake of appearance: asceticism got catered for as well: less self-indulgence in the future, a bit more restraint, a promise of my having reacquired control. (Surely I had once been in control?) Over appetites—digestive juices—destiny.
    Therefore I drank only orange juice, no coffee; spread only honey on my crispbread—no butter. Went to collect the trays. But not even Matt took me up on my offer of more toast. And Junie scolded. “You’ll wear your legs out running up and down those stairs! You can’t guess how grateful I am, though. But your own breakfast wasn’t spoilt, was it?”
    â€œNot a bit.”
    â€œAnd did you enjoy it as much as me?”
    â€œNo, I enjoyed you more.”
    â€œDid you get as much enjoyment out of your breakfast as I did?”
    â€œYes thank you. I got at least as much enjoyment out of my