The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

Um… My voice is a little grainy lor some reason. “Urn… 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.

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