The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

The bread is totally squashed, I suddenly notice. I try to reshape it as best I can, putting it on the table like a deformed pottery exhibit while I gather my breath.

“I don’t have long,” Nathaniel says. “I have to get back to the pub.” His hand runs lightly down my back and I feel my body curving toward his.

“I don’t take long,” I say, my voice husky with desire.

When did I become so brazen, exactly?

“I really don’t have long.” He glances at his watch. “About six minutes.”

“I only take six minutes,” I murmur with an enticing glance, and Nathaniel smiles back, as though I’m joking.

“Seriously,” I say, trying to sound modest yet sexy. “I’m fast. Six minutes, give or take.”

There’s silence for a few moments. An incredulous expression is coming over Nathaniel’s face. Somehow he doesn’t look as impressed as I thought he would.

“Well… round here we take things a bit slower,” he says at last.

“Right,” I say, trying not to look at all disappointed. “Er… well… I’m sure…” I trail off.

I should not have started that sentence.

He looks at his watch again. “I must be off. I have to drive over to Gloucester tonight.”

I feel an inward drop at his businesslike tone. He’s barely looking at me anymore. I should never have mentioned timing, I realize in dismay. Everyone knows, you never bring up any kind of numerical measurement during sex with a man. It’s the most basic rule.

“So… I’ll see you,” I say, trying to sound casual yet encouraging. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He shrugs noncommittally. “Are you around?”

“I guess so. Maybe.”

“Well… I may see you.”

And with that he’s striding away again over the grass, and I’m left with nothing

RELATIONSHIP

ON/RELATIONSHIP OFF

SEX IMMINENT/SEX CANCELED/SEX MERELY POSTPONED.

How else are you supposed to know what’s going on? How?

By the next morning I’ve thought long and hard and have got nowhere. Either: a) Nathaniel was offended by my references to sex and isn’t interested anymore. Or b) he’s fine, it’s all still on, he was just being a man and not saying much, and I should stop obsessing.

Or somewhere in between.

Or some other option I haven’t even considered. Or…

Actually, I think that might cover it. But still. I’m totally confused just thinking about it.

I stumble downstairs in my robe at around nine, to find Eddie and Trish in the hall, dressed up very smartly. Eddie is in a blue blazer with shiny gold buttons, and Trish is in a white slub silk suit, with the biggest corsage of fake red roses I’ve ever seen. She also seems to be having the teeniest problem doing up the buttons of her jacket. At last she edges the last one into its buttonhole and stands back to look at herself in the mirror, panting slightly.

Now she looks as though she can’t move her arms.

“What do you think?” she says to Eddie.

“Yes, very nice,” he says, frowning at a copy of Road Map of Britain 1994. “Is it the A347? Or the A367?”

“Um… I think it looks nice with the jacket unbuttoned,” I venture. “More… relaxed.”

Trish looks as though she suspects me of deliberately sabotaging her appearance.

“Yes,” she says at last. “Maybe you’re right.” She makes to undo her buttons— but she’s so trussed up, she can’t get her hands near enough. And now Eddie’s wandered off into the study.

“Shall I…”I offer.

“Yes.” Her neck flames red. “If you would be so kind.”

I move forward and undo the buttons as gently as I can, which is not very, given how stiff the fabric is. When I’ve finished she takes a step backward and regards herself again, looking slightly dissatisfied, plucking at her silky shirt thing.

“Tell me Samantha,” she says casually. “If you saw me now for the first time… what word would you use to describe me?”

Oh, bloody hell. I’m sure this wasn’t in my job description. I rack my brains hastily for the most flattering word I can come up with.

“Um… um… elegant,” I say at last, nodding as though to add conviction to what I’m saying. “I’d say you were elegant.”

“Elegant?” Something tells me I got it wrong.

“I mean, thin!” I amend, in sudden realization.

How could I have overlooked thin?

“Thin.” She looks at herself a few moments, turning from side to side. “Thin.”

She doesn’t sound entirely happy. What’s wrong with being thin and elegant, for God’s sake?

Not that she’s either, let’s be honest.

“What about…” She shakes back her hair, deliberately avoiding my eye. “What about… young?”

For a moment I’m too flummoxed to answer. Young?

Young compared to what?

“Er… absolutely,” I say at last. “That… goes without saying.”

Please don’t say, “How old do you think I—”

“How old would you say I am, Samantha?”

She’s moving her head from side to side, flicking dust off her jacket, as though she’s not really interested in the answer. But I know her ears are ready and