The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“He punched him?” My voice comes out a petrified squeak.

“It was on the day of his dad’s funeral.” Eamonn lowers his voice. “One of his dad’s lawyers came in here and Nathaniel socked him one. We tease him about it now.”

He turns away to serve someone and I take another drink of wine, my heart hammering with nerves.

Let’s not freak out here. So he doesn’t like lawyers. That doesn’t mean me. Of course it doesn’t. I can still be honest with him. I can still tell him about my past. He won’t take it against me. Surely.

But… what if he does?

What if he punches me?

“Sorry about that.” All of a sudden Nathaniel is in front of me. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine!” I say over-brightly. “Having a lovely time!”

“Hey, Nathaniel,” says Eamonn, polishing a glass. He winks at me. “What do you call five thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?”

“A start!” The words jump out of my mouth before I can stop them. “They should all… rot. Away. Into hell.”

There’s a surprised silence. I can see Eamonn and Nathaniel exchanging raised eyebrows.

OK. Change the subject. Now.

“So! Er…” I quickly turn to a group standing by the bar. “Can I serve anyone?”

By the end of the evening I’ve pulled about forty pints. I’ve had a plate of cod and chips and half a dish of sticky toffee pudding—and beaten Nathaniel at darts, to loud cheers and whoops from everyone watching around.

“You said you hadn’t played before!” he says in disbelief after I nail my winning triple eight.

“I haven’t,” I say innocently. There’s no need to mention that I did archery at school for five years.

At last Nathaniel rings Last Orders with a resounding clang of the bell, and a good hour later the last few stragglers make it

to the door, each pausing to say good-bye as they leave. He must know every single person in this village.

“We’ll clear up,” says Eamonn firmly, as Nathaniel starts picking up glasses, five at a time. “Give those here. You’ll want to be enjoying the rest of the evening.”

“Well… OK.” Nathaniel claps him on the back. “Thanks, Eamonn.” He looks at me. “Ready to go?”

Almost reluctantly I slide down off my bar stool. “It’s been an amazing evening,” I say to Eamonn. “Brilliant to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He grins. “Send us your invoice.”

I’m still buoyed by the atmosphere; by my win at darts; by the satisfaction of having spent the evening actually doing something. I’ve never had an evening out like this in my life.

No one in London ever took me to a pub for a date—let alone to the other side of the bar. On my first evening out with Jacob he took me to Les Sylphides at Covent Garden, then left after twenty minutes to take a call from the States and never returned. The next day he said he was so bound up in a point of commercial contract law, he “forgot” I was there.

And the worst thing is, instead of saying “You bastard!” and punching him, I asked what point of commercial contract law.

After the beery warmth of the pub, the summer night feels fresh and cool. I can hear the faint laughter of pub-goers up ahead, and a car starting in the distance. There are no street lamps; the only light comes from a big full moon and curtained cottage windows.

“I really, really loved tonight,” I say with enthusiasm. “It’s a great pub. And I can’t get over how friendly it is. The way everyone knows you! And the village spirit. Everyone cares about each other. You can tell.”

“How can you tell that?”

“From the way everyone claps each other on the back,” I explain. “Like, if someone were in trouble, everyone

would rally round in a heartwarming way. You can just see it.”

I hear Nathaniel stifle a laugh.

“We did get the ‘Most Heartwarming Village’ award last year,” he says.

“You can laugh,” I retort. “But in London, no one’s heartwarming. If you fell over dead in the street they’d just push you into the gutter. After emptying your wallet and stealing your identity. That wouldn’t happen here, would it?”

“Well, no,” says Nathaniel, straightfaced. “If you die here, the entire village gathers round your bed and sings the village lament.”

My mouth twists into a smile. “I knew it. Strewing flower petals?”

“Naturally.” He nods. “And making ceremonial corn dollies.”

A small animal runs across the road, stops, and regards us with two tiny yellow headlamps, then skitters into the hedgerow.

“How does the lament go, then?” I say.

“It goes something like this.” Nathaniel clears his throat, then sings in a low, mournful monotone. “ ‘Oh, no. He’s gone.’”

“What about if it’s a woman?” I match his deadpan manner.

“Good point. Then we sing a different lament.” He draws a deep breath and sings again, on exactly the same tuneless note: “ ‘Oh, no. She’s gone.’ ”

I can’t help but laugh. “Well… we don’t have laments in London. We move on. Big on moving, Londoners. Big on staying ahead.”

“I know about Londoners.” Nathaniel runs his hand along a hedge. “I lived in London for a time.”

Nathaniel lived in London? I try, and fail, to picture him straphanging on the tube, reading Metro.

“When?”

“I was a waiter on my year off before uni. My flat was opposite a twenty-four- hour supermarket. It was lit up all night, with these bright fluorescent strips. And the noise…” He winces. “In ten months of living there, I never had a single

moment of total darkness or total quiet. I never heard a bird. I never saw the stars.”

Instinctively I tilt my head back to look up at the clear night sky. Slowly, as my eyes adjust to the blackness, the tiny pinpricks begin to appear, forming whorls and patterns that I can’t begin to decipher. He’s right. I never saw the stars in London either.

“My dad taught me the constellations,” Nathaniel says, looking up too. “He had a telescope up in the attic.”

“Nathaniel… what happened with your dad?” I speak tentatively. “Eamonn told me there was a court case with the council?”

“Yes.” His voice tightens. “There was.”