The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

As I stand there in stupefaction, she disappears into the bedroom, followed by Eddie. The door closes and I’m left on the landing.

My dinner party’s ruined.

When they’ve roared out of the drive in Eddie’s Porsche, I go into the dining room and slowly clear everything up. I put away the crystal glasses and fold up the napkins and blow out the candles. Then I head back into the kitchen and look for a moment at all my dishes, set out ready for action. My sauce, bubbling away on the hob. My carved lemon-slice garnishes. I was so proud of everything.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.

My sea bream are looking pretty sorry for themselves, but I slip one onto a plate anyway and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit at the table, cut myself a piece, and raise it to my mouth. Then I put my knife and fork down without even tasting it. I’m not hungry.

A whole wasted afternoon. And tomorrow I’ve got to do it all over again. The thought makes me feel like sinking my head down onto my arms and never looking up again.

What am I doing here?

I mean, really. What am I doing? Why am I not walking out right now and getting on a train back to London?

As I’m slumped there I become aware of a faint tapping at the open door, and I

look up to see Nathaniel leaning in the door frame, holding his rucksack. Remembering this morning’s encounter, I feel a flash of embarrassment. Without quite meaning to, I swivel my chair away slightly and fold my arms.

“Hi,” I say, with a tiny If-you-think-I’m- interested-in-you-you’re-much-mistaken shrug.

“I thought I’d come and see if you needed any help.” His eyes travel around the kitchen, at the dishes of untouched food. “What happened?”

“They didn’t eat it. They went out to dinner.”

Nathaniel stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “After you spent all day cooking for them?”

“It’s their food. Their house. They can do what they like.”

I’m trying to sound careless and matter- of-fact. But the disappointment remains heavy inside me. Nathaniel puts down his rucksack and inspects the sea bream. “Looks good.”

“It looks like congealed, overcooked fish,” I correct him.

“My favorite.” He grins, but I’m not in the mood for his good humor.

“Have some, then.” I gesture at the dish. “No one else is going to eat it.”

“Well, then. Shame to waste it.” He helps himself to everything, piling his plate ludicrously high, then pours himself a

glass of wine and sits down opposite me at the table.

“To you.” Nathaniel raises his glass. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Seriously, Samantha.” He waits patiently until I drag my eyes up from the floor. “Whether they ate it or not, this is a real achievement. I mean, bloody hell. Remember the last dinner you cooked in this kitchen?”

I give a reluctant smile. “The lamb of doom, you mean.”

“The chickpeas. I’ll never forget those.” He takes a bite of fish. “This is good, by the way.”

An image comes to me of those tiny blackened bullets; myself running around in a frenzy; the meringue dripping on the floor… and in spite of everything I want to giggle. I’ve already learned so much since then.

“Well, of course, I’d have been OK that night,” I say nonchalantly. “If you hadn’t insisted on helping me. I had it all under control till you got in my way.”

Nathaniel puts his fork down, still munching, his blue eyes crinkled up with something—amusement, maybe. I can feel the telltale heat rising in my cheeks, and as I glance downward I notice that my hands are resting on the table, palms up.

And I’m leaning forward, I realize in sudden horror. My pupils are probably half a mile wide too. My body language could not be any clearer if I wrote I fancy you in felt-tip on my forehead.

I hastily remove my hands to my lap, sit up straight, and adopt a stony expression. I haven’t got over this morning’s mortification. In fact, I might take the opportunity to regain my equilibrium.

“So—” I begin, just as Nathaniel starts speaking too.

“Go on.” He takes another bite of fish. “After you.”

“Well.” I clear my throat. “After our… conversation this morning. I was just going to say that you’re quite right about relationships. Obviously I’m not ready

for anything new yet. Or even interested. At all.”

There. At least I’ve salvaged my dignity a little.

“What were you going to say?” I ask, pouring more wine into his glass.

“I was going to ask you out,” says Nathaniel, and I nearly flood the table with wine.

He what?

The body language worked?

“But not to worry.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I understand.”

Backtrack. I need to backtrack, very, very quickly. Yet subtly, so he doesn’t actually notice I’m backtracking.

Oh, bugger it, I’ll just be inconsistent. I’m a woman, I’m allowed to be.

“Nathaniel,” I force myself to say calmly. “I’d love to go out with you.”

“Good.” He looks unperturbed. “How’s Friday night?”

“Perfect.”

As I grin back, I suddenly realize I’m hungry. I pull my plate of sea bream toward me, pick up my knife and fork, and begin to eat.

Chapter Fourteen

I get to Friday morning without any major calamities. At least, none that the Geigers know about.

There was the vegetable-risotto disaster on Tuesday—but thank God I managed to get a last-minute substitute from the caterers. There was a peach camisole that, in hindsight, should have been ironed on a lower setting. There was the Darting-ton vase that I broke while trying to dust with the vacuum-cleaner attachment. But no one seems to have noticed it’s gone yet. And the new one should arrive tomorrow.

So far, this week has cost me only two hundred pounds, which is a vast improvement on last week. I may even start making a profit before too long.