The Undomestic Goddess

by Sophie Kinsella

  “In her ad she said she was an experienced laundress.”

  “She’s fifteen years old!” Galvanized, Iris pushes back her chair. “Samantha, you are not paying Stacey Nicholson to do your ironing. You’re going to learn how to do it yourself.”

  “But I’ve never—”

  “I’ll teach you. Anyone can iron.” She reaches into a little side room, pulls out an old ironing board covered in flowery material, and sets it up, then beckons me over. “What do you have to iron?”

  “Mr. Geiger’s shirts, mainly,” I say, nervously joining her at the ironing board.

  “All right.” She plugs in an iron and turns the dial. “Hot, for cotton. Wait for the iron to heat up. No point beginning till it’s at the right temperature. Now, I’ll show you the right way to tackle a shirt.…”

  She rootles, frowning, in a pile of clean laundry in the little room. “Shirts … shirts … Nathaniel, take off your shirt a moment.”

  I stiffen. As I glance at Nathaniel I see he has stiffened too.

  “Mum!” He gives an awkward laugh.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, love,” says Iris impatiently. “You can take off your shirt for a moment. No one’s embarrassed. You’re not embarrassed, are you, Samantha?”

  “Um …” My voice is a little grainy for some reason. “Um … no, of course not.”

  “Now, this is your steam.” She presses a button on the iron and a jet of steam shoots into the air. “Always check that your steam compartment has water.… Nathaniel! I’m waiting!”

  Through the steam I can see Nathaniel slowly unbuttoning his shirt. I catch a flash of smooth tanned skin and hastily lower my gaze.

  Let’s not be adolescent about this. So he’s taking off his shirt. It’s no big deal.

  He tosses the shirt to his mother, who catches it deftly. My eyes are studiously fixed downward.

  I’m not going to look at him.

  “Start with the collar.” Iris is smoothing the shirt out on the ironing board. “Now, you don’t have to press hard.” She guides my hand as the iron glides over the fabric. “Keep a smooth touch …”

  This is ridiculous. I’m an adult, mature woman. I can look at a man with no shirt on without falling to bits. What I’ll do is … take a casual peek. And get this out of my mind.

  “Now the yoke …” Iris turns the shirt around on the board and I start pressing again. “Very good … onto the cuffs now …”

  I lift the shirttail to flip it over—and as I do so, accidentally-on-purpose raise my eyes.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I’m not sure the whole getting-it-out-of-my-mind plan is going to work after all.

  “Samantha?” Iris grabs the iron from my hand. “You’re scorching the shirt!”

  “Oh!” I come to. “Sorry. I … I lost concentration for a moment.”

  “Your cheeks seem very flushed.” Iris puts a curious hand to my cheek. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

  “Must be the … um … steam.” I start ironing again, my face like a furnace. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  At last I shake out his ironed shirt, perfectly done with all the creases in the right places.

  “Very good!” says Iris, applauding. “After some practice you’ll be able to do that in four minutes flat.”

  “Looks great.” Nathaniel smiles, holding out a hand. “Thanks.”

  “That’s OK!” I manage in a strangled squawk, and hastily look away again, my heart thumping.

  Great. Just great. One glimpse of his body and I have a full-blown crush.

  I honestly thought I was a bit deeper than that.

  Thirteen

  He doesn’t have a girlfriend.

  I managed to get that information out of Trish on Sunday night, under the guise of asking about all the neighbors. There was some girl in Gloucester, apparently—but that was all over months ago. The way is clear. I just need a strategy.

  As I shower and get dressed the next morning, I’m totally fixated by thoughts of Nathaniel. I’m aware I’ve reverted to the behavior of a fourteen-year-old, that next I’ll be doodling Samantha loves Nathaniel with a love heart dotting the i. But I don’t care. It’s not as though being a mature, levelheaded professional was working out so great for me.

  I brush my hair, looking out at the misty green fields, and feel inexplicably lighthearted. I have no reason to feel this way. On paper, everything is still catastrophic. My fast-track career is over. My family has no idea where I am. I’m earning a fraction of what I used to, for a job that involves picking up other people’s dirty underwear off the floor.

  And yet I find myself humming as I straighten my bed.

  My life has changed, and I’m changing with it. It’s as if the old conventional monochrome Samantha has faded away into a paper doll. I’ve thrown her into the water and she’s melting away to nothing. And in her place is a new me. A me with possibilities.

  I’ve never gone after a man before. But then, until yesterday I’d never basted a chicken before. If I can do that, I can ask a man out, surely? The old Samantha would have sat back and waited to be approached. Well, not the new Samantha. I’ve seen the dating shows on TV; I know the rules. It’s all about looks and body language and flirty conversation.

  I walk over to the mirror and, for the first time since I’ve arrived here, examine my appearance with an honest, unflinching eye.

  At once I regret it. Ignorance was better.

  For a start, how can anyone look good in a blue nylon overall? I reach for a belt, fasten it around my middle, and hitch up my overall till the skirt is about three inches shorter, like we used to at school.

  “Hi,” I say to my reflection, and casually toss back my hair. “Hi, Nathaniel. Hi, Nat.”

  All I need now is lots of black eyeliner badly applied, and I’ll be back to my fourteen-year-old self in every single way.

  I reach for my makeup bag and spend about ten minutes alternately applying and removing makeup, until I’ve got something that looks natural and subtle, yet defined. Or else like I’ve wasted ten minutes. I have no idea.

  Now to the body language. I wrinkle up my forehead, trying to remember the rules from TV. If a woman is attracted to a man, her pupils will dilate. Also, she will unconsciously lean forward, laugh at his jokes, and expose her wrists and palms.

  Experimentally I lean toward my reflection, holding out my hands as I do so.

  I look like Jesus.

  I try adding a flirty laugh. “Ha ha ha!” I exclaim aloud. “You just crack me up!”

  Now I look like a cheerful Jesus.

  I’m really not sure this is adding to my chances.

  I head downstairs and draw back the curtains, letting in the bright morning sunshine. I’m picking up the post from the doormat when the doorbell rings. A guy in uniform, holding a clipboard, is standing outside, a van behind him in the drive. “Delivery from Professional Chef’s Equipment Direct,” he says. “Where shall I put the boxes?”

  “Oh, right,” I say apprehensively. “In the kitchen, please. Thanks.”

  Professional Chef’s Equipment. I guess that would be for me, the Professional Chef.

  “What’s that van, Samantha?” calls Trish, tottering down the stairs in a dressing gown and high-heeled mules. “Is it flowers?”

  “It’s the cookery equipment you ordered for me!” Somehow I summon up an enthusiastic front.

  “Oh, good!” Trish is delighted. “Now you’ll be able to stun us with your cooking! It’s roasted sea bream with julienned vegetables tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Er … yes!” I gulp. “I suppose it is.”

  “Mind your backs!”

  We both jump aside as two deliverymen troop past with boxes stacked high in their arms. I follow them into the kitchen and watch the growing pile in disbelief.

  “Now, we bought you everything,” says Trish, as though reading my mind. “Go on! Open them! I’m sure you can’t wait!”

  I fetch a knife and start unpacking the first bo
x, while Trish slits the plastic on another. Out of the profusion of foam peanuts and bubble wrap, I lift a gleaming stainless-steel … something. What on earth is this? I glance quickly at the label on the side of the box. Savarin Mold.

  “A … savarin mold!” I exclaim. “How marvelous. Just what I … wanted.”

  “We only got eight of those,” says Trish, with concern. “Is that enough?”

  “Er …” I look at it helplessly. “That should be plenty.”

  “Now, the saucepans.” Trish has ripped open a box of shiny aluminum pans and holds out one to me expectantly. “We were told these were the very best quality. Would you agree? As a trained chef?”

  “Let’s just have a look,” I say, trying to sound professional. I heft the saucepan appraisingly, then study the bottom and, for good measure, ping the surface with my fingernail.

  “Yes, that’s a nice-quality pan,” I say at last. “You chose well.”

  “Oh, good!” Trish beams, delving into another box. “And look at this!” She scatters foam to reveal a weird-shaped gadget with a wooden handle. “I’ve never even seen one of these! What is it, Samantha?”

  Yikes. What’s that? It looks like a cross between a sieve, a grater, and a whisk. I glance quickly at the box for clues, but the label has been torn off.

  “What is it?” says Trish again.

  “This is used for a highly specialized cooking technique,” I say at last. “Highly specialized.”

  “What do you do with it? Show me!” She thrusts the handle at me.

  “Well.” I take the thing from her. “It’s a kind of … whisking … circular motion … keep the wrist light …” I beat the air briskly a few times. “Kind of like that. It’s difficult to show properly without the … um … truffles.”

  “So what’s it called?” says Trish, agog.

  “I’ve always known it as a … truffle beater,” I say at last. “But it could have some … other name as well. Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee?” I add quickly. “And I’ll unpack everything else later.”

  I switch on the kettle, reach for the coffeepot, and glance out the window. Nathaniel is striding across the lawn.

  Oh, God. Full crush alert. Full, one hundred percent, old-fashioned adolescent crush.

  I cannot take my eyes off him. The sunlight is catching the ends of his tawny hair and he’s wearing ancient, faded jeans. As I watch, he picks up some huge sack of something, swings it round easily, and throws it onto something that might be a compost heap.

  My mind is suddenly filled with a fantasy of him picking me up in exactly the same way. Swinging me round easily in his big strong arms. I mean, I can’t be that much heavier than a sack of potatoes—

  “So, how was your weekend off, Samantha?” Trish breaks my thoughts. “We barely saw you! Did you go into town?”

  “I went to Nathaniel’s house,” I reply without thinking.

  “Nathaniel?” Trish sounds astonished. “The gardener? Why?”

  Immediately I realize my huge mistake. I can’t exactly say, “To have cooking lessons.” I try to fabricate an instant, convincing reason.

  “Just … to say hello, really,” I say at last, aware that I sound tongue-tied. And also that my cheeks are turning pink.

  Trish’s face suddenly snaps in comprehension and her eyes open very wide.

  “Oh, I see,” she says. “How adorable!”

  “No!” I say quickly. “It’s not … Honestly—”

  “Don’t worry!” Trish cuts me off emphatically. “I won’t say a word. I am discretion itself.” She puts a finger to her lips. “You can rely on me.”

  Before I can say anything else she picks up her coffee and heads out of the kitchen. I sit down amid all the kitchen stuff and packaging and fiddle with the truffle beater.

  That was awkward. But I suppose it doesn’t really matter. As long as she doesn’t say anything inappropriate to Nathaniel.

  Then I realize I’m being stupid. Of course she’ll say something inappropriate to Nathaniel. She’ll make some oh-so-subtle innuendo, and then who knows what he’ll think. This could be really embarrassing. This could ruin everything.

  I must go and make the situation quite clear to him. That Trish misunderstood me, and I do not have a crush on him.

  While, obviously, making it clear that I do.

  I force myself to wait until I’ve done breakfast for Trish and Eddie, tidied the new kitchen equipment away, mixed up some olive oil and lemon zest, and put tonight’s sea bream fillets into it, just as Iris taught me.

  Then I hitch up my uniform a bit more, add some more eyeliner for luck, and head out into the garden, holding a basket I found in the larder. If Trish wants to know what I’m doing, I’m gathering herbs for cooking.

  I find Nathaniel in the orchard behind the old wall, standing on a ladder, tying some rope round a tree. As I make my way toward him I’m ridiculously nervous. My mouth feels dry—and did my legs just wobble?

  God, you’d think I’d have some poise. You’d think being a lawyer for seven years would have prepared me a bit better. Ignoring my jitters as best I can, I walk up to the ladder, toss back my hair, and wave up to him, trying not to squint in the sun.

  “Hi!”

  “Hi.” Nathaniel smiles back. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, thanks! Much better. No disasters yet …”

  There’s a pause. I suddenly realize I’m gazing a little too hard at his hands as they tighten the rope. “I was just after some … rosemary.” I gesture to my basket. “If you have any?”

  “Sure. I’ll cut you some.” He jumps down off the ladder and we walk along the path toward the herb garden.

  It’s totally silent, down here away from the house, apart from the odd buzzing insect and the crunch of gravel on the path. I try to think of something light and easy to say, but my brain is blank.

  “It’s … hot,” I manage at last.

  “Uh-huh.” Nathaniel nods, and steps up easily over the stone wall into the herb garden. I try to follow him with a light springing step and catch my foot on the wall. Ow. Fuck.

  “All right?” Nathaniel turns.

  “Fine!” Even though my foot is throbbing with agony. “Wow. This is amazing!” I look around the garden in genuine admiration. It’s laid out in a hexagonal shape, with little paths between the sections. Tiny dark green hedges act as borders, and topiary spheres mark the corners. Lavender stems are gently waving in old stone planters, interspersed with tubs of some tiny white flower that smells of honey.

  “Did you do all this?” I peer at a bed of plants that I think might be oregano. “It’s absolutely stunning!”

  “Thanks. I’m pleased with it.” Nathaniel sounds offhand but I can tell he’s gratified. “Anyway. Your rosemary.”

  He pulls out a pair of secateurs from an old leather holster-type thing and starts clipping at a dark green, spiky bush.

  OK. I have to say what I’ve come to say.

  “So … um … it’s really weird,” I begin as lightly as I can, fingering the scented leaves of some bushy plant. “But Trish seems to have got the wrong idea about us! She seems to think we’re … you know.”

  “Ah.” He nods, his face averted.

  “Which is obviously … ridiculous!” I add.

  “Mm-hmm.” He clips some more rosemary sprigs and holds them up. “This enough for you?”

  Mm-hmm? That’s it? That’s all he has to say on the subject?

  “Actually, I’d like some more,” I say, and he turns back to the bush. “So … isn’t it ridiculous?” I add, trying to prod him into a proper answer.

  “Well, of course.” At last Nathaniel looks at me properly. “You won’t be wanting to get into anything for a while. Not so soon after a bad relationship.”

  I look at him blankly. What on earth—

  Oh, yes. My bad relationship.

  “Right,” I say after a pause. “Yes, that.”

  Dammit.

  Why did I go along with the
bad relationship story? What was I thinking?

  “Here’s your rosemary.” Nathaniel puts a fragrant bundle into my arms. “Anything else?”

  “Um … yes!” I say quickly. “Could I have some mint?”

  I watch as he moves carefully over the rows of herbs to where mint is growing in large stone containers.

  “Actually …” I force myself to sound careless. “Actually, the relationship wasn’t that bad. In fact, I think I’ve pretty much got over it.”

  Nathaniel looks up, shading his eyes against the sun. “You’ve got over a seven-year relationship in a week?”

  Now that he puts it like that, it does sound a bit implausible. I cast around quickly in my mind.

  “I have great reserves of resilience,” I say at last. “I’m like … rubber.”

  “Rubber,” he echoes, his expression unreadable.

  Was rubber a bad choice of word? No. Come on, rubber is sexy.

  Nathaniel adds the mint to the rosemary in my arms. “Mum said …” He pauses awkwardly.

  “What?” I say, a little breathless. They’ve been talking about me?

  “Mum wondered if you’d been … badly treated.” He shifts his gaze away. “You’re so tense and twitchy.”

  “I’m not tense and twitchy!” I retort at once.

  Well, maybe that was a little tense and twitchy.

  “I’m naturally twitchy,” I explain. “But I wasn’t badly treated or anything like that. I was just … I always felt … trapped.”

  The word comes out to my own surprise. I have a flash of my life at Carter Spink. Constantly at the beck and call of senior partners. Practically living at the office some weeks. Taking piles of work home with me. Answering e-mails at every hour. Maybe I did feel a little bit trapped.

  “But I’m fine now.” I shake back my hair. “Ready to move on … and start a new relationship … or something more casual … whatever.”

  I gaze up at him, trying as hard as I can to dilate my pupils and casually lifting my hand to my ear for good measure. There’s a still, tense silence, broken only by the buzzing of insects.

  “You probably shouldn’t rush into anything new,” Nathaniel says. He moves away without meeting my eye and starts examining the leaves on a shrub.