The Undomestic Goddess (19 page)

We wait. She pops a tea towel over the bowl. Half an hour should do it. Ill make a cup of
tea.

But... what are we waiting for?

For the yeast to rise and work its magic on the dough. She smiles. Underneath that towel,
a small miracle is happening.

I look at the bowl, trying to think miracles. But it isnt working. I cant feel calm or
serene. My body is wound up too far; every nerve is hopping with tension. I used to be in
control of my time to the minute. To the second. And now Im supposed to wait for yeast? Im
supposed to stand here, in an apron, waiting for a.. .fungus ?

Im sorry, I hear myself say. I cant do it. I head for the kitchen door and out into the
garden.

What? Iris comes after me, wiping her hands on her apron. Sweetie, whats wrong?

I cant do this! I wheel round. I cant just...just sit around patiently, waiting for yeast to get its act together.

Why not?

Because its such a waste of time! I clutch my head in frustration. Its such a waste of
time. All of it!

What do you think we should be doing instead? she asks with interest.

Something... important . OK? I walk to the apple tree and back again, unable to keep still. Something
constructive.

I glance at Iris, but she doesnt seem offended.

Whats more constructive than making bread?

Oh, God . I feel an urge to scream. Its OK for her, with her hens and her apron and no wrecked
career on the Internet.

You dont understand anything, I say, close to tears. Im sorry, but you dont. Look... Ill
just leave.

Dont leave. Iriss voice is surprisingly firm. The next moment shes in front of me, placing
her two hands on my shoulders, looking at me with her penetrating blue eyes.

Samantha, youve had a trauma, she says in kind, even tones. And its affected you very
deeply

I havent had a trauma! I wheel away, out of her grasp. I just... I cant do this, Iris. I cant
pretend to be this. Im not a bread maker, OK? Im not a domestic goddess. I look around the garden desperately, as though searching for clues. I
dont know who I am anymore. I have no bloody idea.

A single tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away roughly. Im not going to cry in front
of Iris.

I dont know who I am. I exhale, more calmly. Or what my goal is... or where Im headed in
life. Or anything.

My energys gone and I sink down on the dry grass. A few moments later Iris comes and
squats down beside me.

It doesnt matter, she says, her voice soft. Dont beat yourself up for not knowing all the
answers. You dont always have to know who you are. You dont have to have the big picture,
or know where youre heading. Sometimes its enough just to know what youre going to do next.

For a while I let her words run through my head, like cool water on a headache.

And what am I going to do next? I say at last, with a hopeless shrug.

Youre going to help me shell the beans for lunch. Shes so matter-of-fact that I half smile
in spite of myself.

Meekly, I follow Iris into the house, then collect a big bowl of broad beans and start
splitting the pods as she shows me. Pods into a basket on the floor. New broad beans into
the basin. Over and over and over.

I become a little calmer as I immerse myself in my task. I never even knew broad beans
came from pods like this. To be honest, my total experience of broad beans has been
picking them up in a plastic-covered packet from Waitrose, putting them in my fridge,
taking them out a week after the sell-by date, and throwing them away.

But this is the real thing. This is what theyre like, dug straight out of the ground.
Or... picked off the bush. Whatever it is.

Each time I split one open its like finding a row of pale green jewels. And when I put one
in my mouth, its like

Oh, OK. It needs to be cooked.

Yuck.

When Ive finished the beans we return to the dough, kneading it into loaves. We put the
loaves into special tins and then have to wait another half hour for them to rise again.
But somehow this time I dont mind. I sit at the table with Iris, hulling strawberries and
listening to the radio until its time to put the tins into the oven. Then Iris loads a
tray withCheshire cheese, bean salad, biscuits, and strawberries and we take it outside to
a table set under the shade of a tree.

There, she says, pouring some iced tea into a tumbler made of bubbled glass. Better?

Yes. Thanks, I say awkwardly. Im sorry about earlier. I just...

Samantha, its all right. She cuts a piece of cheese and puts it on my plate. You dont have
to apologize.

But I do. I take a deep breath. Youve been so wonderful... and Nathaniel...

He took you to the pub, I heard.

It was amazing! I say with enthusiasm. You must be so proud, to have that in your family.

Iris nods. Those pubs have been run by Blewetts for generations. She sits down and helps
us both to bean salad, dressed with oil and speckled with herbs. I take a biteand its
absolutely delicious.

It must have been hard when your husband died, I venture cautiously.

Everything was in a mess. Iris sounds matter-of-fact. A chicken wanders over to the table
and she shoos it away. There were financial difficulties. I wasnt well. If it hadnt been
for Nathaniel we might have lost all of the pubs. He made sure they got back on track. For
his fathers memory. Her eyes cloud a little and she hesitates. You never know how things
are going to turn out, however much you plan. But you already know that.

I always thought my life would be a certain way, I say, gazing down at my plate. I had it
all mapped out.

But... it didnt happen like that?

For a few seconds I cant answer. Im remembering the moment I heard I was going to be
partner. That instant of undiluted, dazzling joy. When I thought my life had finally
fallen into place, when I thought everything was perfect.

No, I say, trying to keep my voice level. It didnt happen like that.

Iris is watching me with such clear, empathetic eyes I almost believe shes able to read my
mind.

Dont be too hard on yourself, chicken, she says. We all flounder.

I cant imagine Iris ever floundering. She seems so put-together.

Oh, I floundered, she says, reading my expression. After Benjamin went. It was so sudden.
Everything I thought I had, gone overnight.

So... what did you... I spread my hands helplessly.

I found another way, she says. But... it took time. For a moment she holds my gaze, then
looks at her watch. Speaking of which, Ill make some coffee. And see how that breads
getting on.

I get up to follow her, but she bats me down again. Sit. Stay. Relax.

So I sit in the dappled sunlight, sipping my iced tea, trying to relax. Trying to enjoy
the present just sitting here in a beautiful garden. But emotions are still darting around
me like unsettled fish.

Another way.

But I dont know any other way. I feel like the lights gone out and Im feeling my way
forward, one step at a time. And all I know is I cant go back to what I was.

I clench my eyes shut, trying to clear my mind. I should never have looked at that Web
site. I should never have read those comments.

Hold out your arms, Samantha. Iriss voice is suddenly behind me. Close your eyes. Go on.

I have no idea what shes up to, but I keep my eyes closed and hold out my arms. The next
moment I feel something warm being put into them. A yeasty smell is rising up. I open my
eyes to see a loaf of bread in my arms.

Proper bread. Real, proper bread like youd see in a bakers window. Fat and plump and
golden-brown, with faint striations and a crusty, almost flaky top. It smells so delicious
I can feel my mouth watering.

Tell me thats nothing, says Iris, squeezing my arm. You made that, sweetie. And you should
be proud of yourself.

Something hot is wadding my throat as I clutch the warm loaf. I made this bread. I made
it. I, Samantha Sweeting, who couldnt even microwave a packet of soup. Who gave up seven
years of her life to end up with nothing, to be wiped out of existence. Who has no idea
who she even is anymore.

I made a loaf of bread. Right now I feel like this is the only thing I have to hold on to.

To my horror a tear suddenly rolls down my cheek, followed by another. This is ridiculous.
I must get a grip on myself.

Looks good, comes Nathaniels easy voice behind me, and I wheel round in shock to see him
standing next to Iris.

Hi, I say, flustered. I thought you were... fixing a pipe or something.

Still am. He nods. I just popped home.

Ill go and get the other loaves out, says Iris, patting me on the shoulder and
disappearing over the grass toward the house.

I stand up. Just the sight of Nathaniel is adding all sorts of new emotions into the mix:
more fish darting around my body.

Although now I think about it, theyre mainly varieties of the same fish.

Are you all right? he says, acknowledging my tears.

Im fine. Its just been a strange day. I brush them away in embarrassment. I dont usually
get so emotional about... bread.

Mum said you got a bit frustrated. He raises his eyebrows. All that kneading?

It was the rising. I raise a rueful smile. Having to wait. Ive never been good at waiting.

Uh-huh. Nathaniels steady blue eyes meet mine. For anything. Somehow I seem to be edging
closer and closer to him, Im not entirely

sure how. I have to have things now !

Uh-huh.

Were inches apart, and as I gaze up at him, breathing hard, all the frustrations and
shocks of the last couple of weeks are distilling inside me. A huge block of pressure is
growing, until I cant bear it. Unable to stop myself, I reach up and pull his face down
toward mine.

I havent kissed like this since I was a teenager. Arms wrapped around each other,
oblivious of anything else in the world. Completely lost. Trish could be standing there
with a video camera, issuing directions, and I wouldnt notice.

It seems hours later that I open my eyes and we draw apart. My lips feel swollen; my legs
are staggery. Nathaniel looks equally shell-shocked.

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 dont 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 dont take long, I say, my voice husky with desire. When did I become so brazen, exactly?
I really dont 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 Im joking.

Seriously, I say, trying to sound modest yet sexy. Im fast. Six minutes, give or take.

Theres silence for a few moments. An incredulous expression is coming over Nathaniels
face. Somehow he doesnt 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... Im 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
toGloucester tonight.

I feel an inward drop at his businesslike tone. Hes 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. Its the most basic rule.

So... Ill see you, I say, trying to sound casual yet encouraging. What are you doing
tomorrow?

Im not sure yet. He shrugs noncommittally. Are you around?

I guess so. Maybe.

Well... I may see you.

And with that hes striding away again over the grass, and Im left with nothing but a
misshapen loaf of bread and total confusion.

Like I said. There should be a different system. There should be some kind of universal
arrangement that leaves no room for misunderstanding. It could involve hand signals,
perhaps. Or small, discreet stickers placed on the lapel, color-coded for different
messages:

AVAILABLE/NOT AVAILABLE RELATIONSHIP ON/RELATIONSHIP OFF

SEX IMMINENT/SEX CANCELED/SEX MERELY POSTPONED.

How else are you supposed to know whats going on? How?

By the next morning Ive thought long and hard and have got nowhere. Either: a) Nathaniel
was offended by my references to sex and isnt interested anymore. Or b) hes fine, its 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 havent even considered. Or... Actually, I
think that might cover it. But still. Im 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 Ive 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 cant move her arms.

What do you think? she says to Eddie.

Yes, very nice, he says, frowning at a copy of Road Map ofBritain 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 youre right. She makes to undo her buttonsbut shes so trussed
up, she cant get her hands near enough. And now Eddies 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 Ive 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. Im sure this wasnt 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 Im saying.
Id 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 doesnt sound entirely happy. Whats wrong with being thin and elegant, for Gods sake?

Not that shes either, lets be honest.

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

For a moment Im too flummoxed to answer. Young? Young compared to what? Er... absolutely,
I say at last. That... goes without saying. Please dont say, How old do you think I How
old would you say I am, Samantha?

Shes moving her head from side to side, flicking dust off her jacket, as though shes not really interested in the answer. But I know her ears are
ready and waiting, like two giant microphones ready to pick up the slightest sound.

My face is prickling. What am I going to say? Ill say... thirty-five. No. Dont be
ridiculous. She cant be that self-deluded. Forty? No. I cant say forty. Its too near the truth.

Are you about... thirty-seven? I hazard at last. Trish turns roundand from her smug

expression of pleasure I reckon I hit the note of flattery about right.

Im actually... thirty-nine! she says, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks.

No! I exclaim, trying not to look at her crows-feet. Thats... amazing!

She is such a liar. She was forty-six last February. And if she doesnt want people to
know, she shouldnt leave her passport out on her dressing table.

Now! she says, clearly cheered up. Well be out all day at my sisters party. Nathaniel will be coming over to work in the garden, but I expect you
know that

Nathaniel? I feel an electric jolt. Hes coming here?

He called this morning. The sweet peas need... stringing or looping or something? She gets
out a lip pencil and begins outlining her already lined lips.

Right. I didnt realize. Im trying to stay collected, but tentacles of excitement are
creeping through me. So... hes working on a Sunday?

Oh, he often does. Hes very dedicated. She stands back to look at her reflection, then starts shading in her lips with
yet more lipstick. I heard he took you to his little pub?

His little pub. She is so patronizing.

Er... yes. He did.

I was so glad about that, really. She takes out a mascara wand. We nearly had to look for another
gardener, can you imagine. Although of course it was a great shame for him. After all his
plans.

I must have missed a beat or three. Whats she talking about?

What was a shame? I say.

Nathaniel. His nursery. Plant thing. She frowns at her reflection. Organic something or
other. He showed us the business proposition. In fact, we even considered backing him. We
are very supportive employers, Samantha. She fixes me with a blue gaze as though daring me to disagree.

Of course!

All set? Eddie comes out of the study wearing a Panama hat. Its going to be bloody
sweltering, you know.

Eddie, dont start, snaps Trish, shoving her mascara wand back in the tube. We are

going to this party and thats final. Have you got the present?

And what happened? I ask, trying to haul the conversation back on track. With Nathaniels
plans?

Trish makes a small, regretful moue at herself in the mirror. Well, his father passed away
very suddenly, and there was all that dreadful business with the pubs. And he changed his
mind. Never bought the land. She gives herself another dissatisfied look. Should I wear my pink suit?

No , Eddie and I say in unison. I glance at Eddies exasperated face and stifle a laugh.

You look lovely, Mrs. Geiger, I say. Really.

Somehow, between us, Eddie and I manage to chivvy her away from the mirror, out the front
door, and across the gravel to Eddies Porsche. Eddies right, its going to be a boiling
day. The sky is already a translucent blue, the sun a dazzling ball.

What time will you be back? I ask as they get in.

Not until late this evening, says Trish. Eddie, wheres the present ? Ah, Nathaniel, here you are.

I look over the top of the car. There he is, coming down the drive, in jeans and an old
gray T-shirt, his rucksack over his shoulder. And here I am, in my dressing gown with my
hair all over the place.

And still not sure how things have been left between us. Although certain bits of my body
are already responding to the sight of him. They dont seem to be in any confusion at all.

Hi, I say as he gets near.

Hi. Nathaniels eyes crinkle in a friendly way, but he doesnt make any attempt to kiss me
or even smile. Instead, he just comes to a halt. Theres something about his intent,
purposeful gaze that makes me feel a bit wobbly around the legs.

So. I wrench my eyes away. Youre... working hard today.

I could do with some help, he says casually. If youre at a loose end. Mum told me you
werent cooking today.

I feel a huge leap of delight, which I attempt to hide with a cough. Right. I shrug
slightly, almost frowning. Well... maybe.

Great. He nods to the Geigers and saunters off toward the garden.

Trish has been watching this exchange in increasing dissatisfaction.

Youre not very affectionate with each other, are you? she says. You know, in my experience

Leave them alone, for Gods sake! retorts Eddie, starting the engine. Lets get this bloody
thing over with.

Eddie Geiger! Trish shrills. This is my sisters party youre talking about! Do you realize

Eddie revs the engine, drowning out her voice, and with a spattering of gravel the Porsche
disappears out of the drive, leaving me alone in the silent, baking sunshine.

Right.

So... its just Nathaniel and me. Alone together. Until eight oclock this evening. Thats
the basic scenario.

A pulse is starting to thud somewhere deep inside me. Like a conductor setting the beat,
like an introduction.

Deliberately nonchalant, I turn on the gravel and start to make my way back toward the
house. As I pass a flower bed I even pause and study a random plant for a moment, holding
the green leaves between my fingers.

I guess I could wander down and offer a helping hand. It would be polite.

I force myself not to rush. I take a shower and get dressed and have breakfast, consisting
of half a cup of tea and an apple. Then I go upstairs and put on a little makeup.

Ive dressed low-key. A T-shirt, a cotton skirt, and flip-flops. As I look in the mirror I
feel almost shivery with anticipation. But other than that my mind is weirdly blank. I
seem to have lost all my thought processes.

After the cool house, the garden feels scorching, the air still and almost shimmery. I
keep to the shade, heading down the side path, not knowing where hes working, where Im
heading. And then I see him, in the midst of a row of lavender and lilac-colored flowers,
knotting a length of twine.

Hi, I say.

Hi. He looks up and wipes his brow. Im half-expecting him to drop what hes doing, come
forward, and kiss me. But he doesnt. He just carries on knotting, then cuts the

twine off with a knife.

I came to help, I say after a pause. What are we doing?

Tying up the sweet peas. He gestures at the plants, which are growing up what look like
cane wigwams. They need support, otherwise they just flop. He throws me a ball of twine.
Have a go. Just tie them gently.

Hes not joking. I really am helping with the gardening. Cautiously I unwind a length of twine and follow what hes
doing, cutting with a pair of secateurs he passes to me. The soft leaves and petals tickle
me as I work and fill the air with an amazing sweet scent.

Nathaniel comes over to take a look. You could tie a little tighter. His hand brushes
briefly against mine as he turns away. Lets see you do the next one.

My hand tingles at his touch. Did he mean to do that? Uncertain, I tie up the next plant,
knotting tighter than before.

Yeah, thats good. Suddenly Nathaniels voice is behind me and I feel his fingers on the
back of my neck, tracing around my earlobe. You need to do the whole row.

He definitely meant to do that. No question. I turn round, wanting to reciprocate, but hes
already on the other side of the row, intent on a sweet pea plant, as though nothing
happened.

He has a game plan, I suddenly realize.

Now I really am turned on.

The pulse is growing stronger inside me as I move from plant to plant. Theres silence
except for the rustling of leaves and faint snap of twine as I cut. Three more plants and
Im at the end of the row.

Done, I say without turning round.

Great, lets see. He comes over to inspect my knotted twine. I can feel his other hand
edging up my thigh, pushing up my skirt. I cant move. Im transfixed. Then suddenly he
breaks away, businesslike again, picking up a pair of trugs.

What I cant even frame a sentence properly.

He kisses me briefly, hard on the mouth. Lets move on. Raspberries need picking.

The raspberry cages are further down the garden, like rooms of green netting, with dry,
earthy floors and rows of plants. As we enter theres no sound except that of buzzing
insects and the flapping of a trapped sparrow, which Nathaniel shoos away through the

netting.

We work the first row wordlessly, picking the fruit off the plants. By the end of the row
my mouth is tangy with the taste of them, my hands are scratched and aching from the
constant plucking, and Im sweating all over. The heat seems more intense in this raspberry
cage than anywhere else in the garden.

We meet at the end of the row. Sweat is pouring down our faces.

Hot work, he says. He puts his basket down and strips off his T-shirt.

Yes. Theres a still beat between us. Then, almost defiantly, I do the same. Im standing
there in my bra, inches from him, my skin pale and milky next to his.

Have we done enough? I gesture at the basket, but Nathaniel doesnt even glance down.

Not yet.

His expression makes me damp and prickly behind my knees. I meet his eyes and its like
were playing truth or dare.

I couldnt reach those ones. I point at a high cluster of fruit just out of reach.

Ill help. He leans over me, skin against skin, and I feel his mouth on my earlobe as he
picks the fruit. My entire body responds. I cant bear this; I need it to stop. And I need
it not to stop.

But it goes on. We move up and down the rows like two performers in a courtly dance.
Outwardly concentrating on our moves yet aware only of each other. At the end of every
row, he brushes some part of me with his mouth or fingers. One time he feeds me
raspberries and I graze his fingers with my teeth. I want to get at him, I want my hands
all over him, but every time he turns away before anything can progress.

Im starting to shiver all over with desire. He unhooked my bra two rows ago. Ive discarded
my knickers. Hes unbuckled his belt. And still, still were picking raspberries.

The baskets are full and heavy and my arms are aching, but Im barely aware of them. All Im
aware of is that my whole body is throbbing, that I cant stand this for much longer. As I
reach the end of the last row I put the basket down and face him, unable to hide how
desperate I am.