“What?” Suze stares at me.
“It’s true!”
Tapping is almost my favorite class. Plus, I think it must be very good for toning the facial muscles, tapping your chin the whole time. I put my basket down and turn to demonstrate.
“You tap your forehead and you say, ‘I know I have bought too much, but I deeply and completely accept myself.’ See?” I beam at her. “Easy.” I tap my chest for good measure, and the top of my head.
“Bex …” Suze seems perplexed.
“What?”
“Are you sure you’re doing it right?”
“Of course I’m doing it right!”
The trouble with Suze is, she hasn’t had her mind opened, like I have. She hasn’t been exposed to the wealth of mind-spirit enhancement that’s out there.
“You’ll learn the ways of Golden Peace after you’ve been here a bit,” I say kindly. “Now, let’s try on T-shirts!”
I would have thought Suze would be more impressed by Golden Peace. I think she’s got a mental block. She’s prejudiced, that’s what it is. She hasn’t signed up for a single class, and she didn’t even buy a T-shirt. All she keeps saying is, she thinks it’s all really expensive and what’s the point?
The point? Hasn’t she noticed how transformed I am? Luckily, Tarkie is on my side. He thinks Golden Peace is great, and he’s really bonded with Bryce.
“We both think exactly the same way about light pollution,” he’s saying now. It’s breakfast time the next day, and we’re all gathered in the kitchen. “Light pollution is a modern evil, but politicians simply won’t listen.”
I can see Suze rolling her eyes, and I give her a little smile. Tarkie is so obsessed about light pollution, he goes around Letherby Hall all the time switching off lights, and Suze creeps after him, switching them back on.
“Right!” I approach the table triumphantly, holding a plate. “Here’s our healthy L.A. breakfast. It’s a steamed egg-white omelet, made with kale.”
There’s silence around the table. Everyone is looking at the plate in horror.
OK, I admit it doesn’t look exactly like an omelet. It’s kind of white and shapeless, and the kale has turned gray-green. But it’s healthy.
“A steamed omelet?” says Suze at last.
“I did it in the microwave, in a Ziploc bag,” I explain. “It’s fat-free. Who’d like the first one?”
There’s another silence.
“Ahm … it looks delicious, I must say.” Tarquin plunges in. “But you don’t have any kippers, do you?”
“No, I don’t have any kippers!” I say, a bit rattled. “This isn’t Scotland, it’s L.A., and everyone eats steamed omelets.”
Luke finally looks up from the letter he’s been reading. “What’s that?” he says in horror, then sees my face and adjusts his expression. “I mean … what’s that?”
“It’s a steamed omelet.” I prod it disconsolately.
They’re right; it does look disgusting. And I spent ages separating all the eggs and chopping up all the kale. The recipe was in a book called Power Brunch, and I thought everyone would be really impressed. I don’t dare tell them about the mushroom protein shake, which I’ve got waiting in the blender.
“Bex, where are the egg yolks you didn’t use?” says Suze suddenly.
“In a bowl.”
“Well, why don’t I make an omelet with them?”
Before I can stop her, Suze is heating up a pan, putting lashings of butter into it, and frying up the most delicious, yellow, crispy omelet I’ve ever seen, together with ribbons of bacon, which she got from the fridge.
“There.”
She puts it on the table, and everyone falls on it. I take a forkful myself and nearly die with pleasure.
“They should do egg-yolk omelets in restaurants,” says Suze, her mouth full. “Why’s everyone so obsessed by egg whites anyway? They don’t taste of anything.”
“They’re healthy.”
“Crap,” says Suze robustly. “We feed egg yolks to our lambs and they’re perfectly healthy.”
Luke is pouring coffee for everyone, Suze is slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, and spirits have generally lifted.
“So.” Luke looks around the table. “I’ve had an invitation today. Who fancies coming to a gala benefit at the Beverly Hilton hotel?”
“Me!” Suze and I exclaim simultaneously.
“It’s for …” He squints at the letter. “Victims of discrimination. Some new charity.”
