The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

The garden is a lot bigger than I’d appreciated. I walk down the lawn toward an ornamental hedge where the land seems to finish, only to realize there’s a whole section beyond it, with an orchard at the end and some sort of walled garden to my left.

It’s a stunning garden. Even I can see that. The flowers are vivid without being garish; every wall is covered with some beautiful creeper or vine. As I walk toward the orchard I can see little golden pears hanging from the branches of trees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual pear growing on a tree before in my life. I grew up in a town house with a small paved courtyard containing nothing but a few nondescript shrubs.

I walk through the fruit trees toward a huge, square, brown patch of earth with vegetation growing in serried rows. These must be the vegetables. I prod one of them cautiously with my foot. It could be a cabbage or a lettuce. Or the leaves of something growing underground, maybe.

To be honest, it could be an alien. I have no idea.

I sit down on a mossy wooden bench and look at a nearby bush covered in white flowers. Mm. Pretty.

Now what? What do people do in their gardens?

I feel I should have something to read. Or someone to call. My fingers are itching to move. I look at my watch. Still only eight sixteen. Oh, God.

Come on, I can’t give up yet. I’ll just sit here for a bit and enjoy the peace. I lean back and watch a little speckled bird pecking the ground nearby for a while.

Then I look at my watch again: eight seventeen.

I can’t do this.

I can’t do nothing all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll have to go and buy another paper from the village shop. If they’ve got War and Peace, I’ll buy that too. I get up and head briskly back across the lawn when a bleep from my pocket makes me stop still.

It’s my mobile. It’s received a text. Someone’s just texted me, early on a Saturday morning. I pull out my mobile, feeling edgy. I haven’t had any contact

with the outside world for two days. Is it from Carter Spink?

I know there are other texts in my phone—but I haven’t read any of them. I know there are messages in my voice mail—but I haven’t listened to a single one. I don’t want to know.

I finger my mobile, telling myself to put it away. But now my curiosity has been sparked. Someone texted me a few seconds ago. Someone, somewhere, has been holding a mobile phone, punching in a message to me. I have a sudden vision of Guy, in his off-duty chinos and blue shirt. Sitting at his desk, frowning as he texts. Apologizing. Or giving me some news. Some kind of development I couldn’t have guessed at yesterday—

I can’t help it. Despite all, I feel a sudden flicker of hope. As I stand there on the early morning lawn, I can feel my mental self being dragged out of this garden, back to London, back to the office. Two whole days have gone on there without me. A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. Things can change for the better.

Or… become even worse. They’re suing me. They’re prosecuting me. There’s some obscure piece of negligence law I don’t know about…

I’m gripping my phone more and more tightly. I have to know. Good or bad. I flip open the phone and find the text. It’s from a number I don’t even recognize.

Who? Who on earth is texting me?

Feeling a little sick, I press OK to read.

@

hi samantha, nathaniel here.

Nathaniel?

Nathaniel?

My relief is so huge, I laugh out loud. Of course! I gave him my mobile number yesterday for his mother. I scroll down to read the rest of the message.

if you’re interested, mum could start cooking lessons today, nat

Cooking lessons. I feel a spark of delight. What a perfect way to fill the day! I press reply and quickly text:

would love to. thanks, sam

I send it with a little smile. This is fun. A minute or two later, the phone bleeps again.

what time? is 11 too early? nat

I look at my watch. Eleven o’clock is still two and a half hours away.

Two and a half hours with nothing to do except avoid Trish and Eddie. I press reply.

shall we make it 10? sam

//hr

At five to ten I’m ready in the hall. Nathaniel’s mother’s house is nearby but apparently tricky to find, so the plan is to meet here and he’ll walk me over. I check my reflection in the hall mirror and wince. The streak of bleach in my hair is as obvious as ever. Am I really going out in public like this? I push my hair backward and forward a few times—but I can’t hide it. Maybe I could walk along with my hand carelessly positioned at my head, as if I’m thinking hard. I attempt a few casual, pensive poses in the mirror.

“Is your head all right?”

I swivel round in shock to see Nathaniel at the open door, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans.

“Er… fine,” I say, my hand still glued to my head. “I was just…”

Oh, there’s no point. I bring my hand down from my hair and Nathaniel regards the streak for a moment.

“It looks nice,” he says. “Like a badger.”

“A badger?” I say, affronted. “I don’t look like a badger.”

“Badgers are beautiful creatures,” says Nathaniel with a shrug. “I’d rather look like a badger than a stoat.”

Hang on. Since when was my choice between badger and stoat? How did we get onto this subject, anyway?

“Perhaps we should go,” I say with dignity, then pick up my bag and give one last glance in the mirror.

OK. Maybe I look a little bit like a badger.

The summer air is already warming up outside, and as we walk down the gravel drive I sniff appreciatively. There’s some sort of nice flowery smell that I definitely recognize…

“Honeysuckle and jasmine!” I exclaim in sudden recognition. I have the Jo Malone bath oil at home.

“Honeysuckle on the wall.” Nathaniel points to a tangle of tiny pale-yellow