The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

By teatime, I’ve put on another load of laundry, shredded my vegetables in the food processor, measured out the wild rice to be steamed, and carefully prepared four filo pastry cases for my tartes de fruits, as Iris taught me.

By seven o’clock I’ve thrown away one lot of burned filo cases, baked another four, topped them with strawberries, and finished with heated-up apricot jam. I’ve pan-fried the vegetable shreds in olive oil and garlic till they’re soft. I’ve blanched my French beans. I’ve put the sea bream in the oven. I’ve also taken more than a few sips of vermouth meant for the coulis, but that’s neither here nor there.

My face is bright red and my heart is beating fast and I’m moving round the kitchen in a kind of speeded-up reality—

but I kind of feel OK. In fact, I almost feel exhilarated. Here

I am, actually cooking a meal all on my own—and I’m just about on top of it! Apart from the mushroom fiasco. But they’re safely in the bin.

I’ve laid the dining table with the Minton china and put candles in the silver candlesticks. I’ve got a bottle of Prosecco waiting in the fridge and heated plates waiting in the oven, and I’ve even put Irish’s CD of Enrique Iglesias love songs in the player. I feel like I’m throwing my first dinner party.

With a pleasant flutter in my stomach, I smooth down my apron and push open the kitchen door. “Mrs. Geiger? Mr.

Geiger?”

What I need is a big gong.

“Mrs. Geiger?” I try again.

There’s absolutely no reply. I would have thought they’d be hovering around the kitchen by now. I fetch a glass and a fork and tinkle one loudly in the other.

Nothing. Where are they?

I investigate the rooms on the ground floor, but they’re all empty. Cautiously, I advance up the stairs.

Maybe they’re having a Joy of Sex moment. Should I retreat?

“Er…Mrs. Geiger?” I call hesitantly. “Dinner’s served.”

I can hear voices from the end of the corridor, as I take a few more steps forward. “Mrs. Geiger?”

Suddenly the bedroom door is violently flung open.

“What’s money for?” comes Trish’s shrill voice. “Just tell me that!”

“I don’t need to tell you what money’s for!” Eddie is yelling back. “Never have!”

“If you understood anything—”

“I understand!” Eddie sounds apoplectic. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand!”

Ooooookay. So probably not a Joy of Sex moment. I start backing away silently on tiptoe—but it’s too late.

“What about Portugal?” Trish shrieks. “Do you remember that?” She strides out of the room in a whirlwind of pink and stops short as she sees me.

“Um… dinner’s ready,” I mumble, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “Madam.”

“If you mention bloody Portugal one more bloody time—” Eddie comes marching out of the room.

“Eddie!” Trish cuts him off savagely, then gives a tiny nod toward me. “Pas devant.”

“What?” says Eddie, scowling.

“Pas devant! Les… les…” She wheels her hands, as though trying to conjure the missing word.

“Domestiques?” I offer awkwardly.

Trish shoots me a flinty look, then draws herself up with dignity. “I shall be in my room.”

“It’s my bloody room too!” says Eddie furiously, but the door has already banged shut.

“Erm… I’ve made dinner…” I venture, but Eddie stalks to the stairs, ignoring me.

I feel a swell of dismay. If the sea bream isn’t eaten soon it’ll get all shriveled.

“Mrs. Geiger?” I knock on her door. “I’m just worried the dinner will spoil—”

“So what?” comes back her muffled voice. “I’m not in the mood for eating.”

I stare at the door in disbelief. I’ve spent all bloody day cooking dinner for them. It’s all ready. The candles are lit, the plates are in the oven. They can’t just not eat it.

“You have to eat!” I cry out, and Eddie stops, halfway down the stairs. The bedroom door opens, and Trish looks out in astonishment.

“What?” she says.

OK. Play this one carefully.

“Everyone has to eat,” I improvise. “It’s a human need.

So why not discuss your differences over a meal? Or put them on hold! Have a glass of wine and relax and agree not to mention… er… Portugal.“

As I say the word, I can feel their hackles rising.

“I’m not the one who mentioned it,” growls Eddie. “I thought the subject was closed.”

“I only mentioned it because you were so insensitive.” Trish brushes a sudden tear from her eye. “How do you think I feel, being your… trophy wife?”

Trophy?

I must not laugh.

“Trish.” To my astonishment, Eddie is hurrying up the stairs. “Don’t you ever say that.” He grips her shoulders and looks her fiercely in the eye. “We’ve always been a partnership. You know that. Ever since Sydenham.”

First Portugal, now Sydenham. One day I have to sit Trish down with a bottle of wine and coax her entire life history out of her.

“I know,” whispers Trish.

She’s gazing up at Eddie as though no one else exists, and I suddenly feel a little pang. They really are in love. I can see the antagonism slowly melting away in their eyes. It’s like witnessing a chemical reaction in a test tube.

“Let’s go and eat,” says Eddie finally. “Samantha was right. We should have a nice meal together. Sit down and talk it over.”

Thank God for that. The sea bream will still be just about OK… I only need to put the sauce in a jug.

“All right, let’s.” Trish sniffs. “Samantha, we’ll be out to dinner tonight.”

My smile freezes on my face.

“Don’t worry about cooking for us,” puts in Eddie, giving me a jovial pat. “You can have a night off!”

What?

“But… I’ve cooked!” I say quickly. “It’s done!”

“Oh. Well… never mind.” Trish makes a vague dismissive gesture with her hand. “Eat it yourself.”

No. No. They cannot do this to me.

“But it’s all ready for you downstairs! Roasted fish… and julienned vegetables…”

“Where shall we go?” says Trish to Eddie, not listening to a word. “Shall we try and get in at The Mill House?”