The Undomestic Goddess (15 page)

Eat and enjoy, Iris says each time, handing me my share. My impulse is to gobble down my
foodbut Iris always shakes her head in dismay. Not so fast. Take your time! Taste the food!

As were stirring risotto on Saturday afternoon, Iris puts on a CD of Puccini and tells me
how she spent a year inItaly at the age of twenty, learning to cook and speak the
language. She tells me how she came home for a holiday, intending to return toItaly after

a month. Shed been offered a cooking job there. But she met Benjamin, Nathaniels fatherand
never took the job.

He must have been an extraordinary person for you to do that. I look up from the risotto.

Yes, he was, says Iris, her face softening. He was funny and warm... and full of life. And
kind. Most of all, kind. Then she notices my stationary spoon. Keep stirring!

On Sunday afternoon, under Iriss calm guidance, I make roast chicken with sage and onion
stuffing, steamed broccoli, cumin-scented carrots, and roast potatoes. As I heave the huge
roasting tin out of the oven, I pause for a moment and let the warm, chicken- scented air
rise over me. I have never smelled a more homey smell in my life. The chicken is golden,
its crisp, crackly skin speckled with the pepper I ground on earlier, the juices still
sizzling in the tin.

Gravy time, Iris calls from the other side of the kitchen. Take the chicken out and put it
on the dishand cover it up. We need to keep it warm. Now tilt the roasting tin. Can I you
see those globules of fat floating on the surface? You need to spoon those out.

Shes finishing the topping on a plum crumble as she speaks. She dots it with butter and
pops it into the oven, then seamlessly reaches for a cloth and wipes down the surface. Ive
watched her all day, moving swiftly and precisely around the kitchen, tasting as she goes,
fully in control.

Thats right. Shes by my side, watching as I whisk the gravy. Keep going... itll thicken in
a minute...

I cannot believe Im making gravy. Making gravy .

Andlike everything Ive learned to make in this amazing kitchenits working. The ingredients
are obeying. The mishmash of chicken juices, stock, and flour is somehow turning into a
smooth, fragrant broth.

Very good! says Iris. Now pour it into this nice warm jug... sieve out any bits... See how
easy that was?

I think youre magic, I say bluntly. Thats why everything works in here. Youre a cooking
witch.

A cooking witch! Ha! I like that. Now come on. Pinny off. Time to enjoy what weve made.
She takes off her apron and holds out a hand for mine. Nathaniel, have you finished the
table?

Nathaniel has been in and out of the kitchen all weekend, and Ive got used to his
presence. In fact, Ive been so taken up with cooking Ive barely noticed him. Now hes

laying the wooden table with rush mats, old bone-handled cutlery, and soft checked napkins.

Wine for the cooks, says Iris, producing a bottle from the fridge and uncorking it. She
pours me a glass, then gestures to the table. Sit, Samantha. Youve done enough for one
weekend. You must be shattered.

Im fine! I say automatically. But as I sink down into the nearest chair, I realize for the
first time quite how exhausted I am. And how much my feet hurt. I close my eyes and feel
myself relax for the first time that day. My arms and back are aching from all the
chopping and mixing. My senses have been bombarded with smells and tastes and new
sensations.

Dont fall asleep! Iriss voice jolts me back to the present. This is our reward! Nathaniel
love, put Samanthas roast chicken down there. You can carve.

I open my eyes to see Nathaniel carrying over the serving dish bearing the roast chicken,
and feel a fresh glow of pride. My first roast chicken. I almost want to take a photo.

Youre not telling me you made this? says Nathaniel.

Ha ha. He knows full well I made it.

Just something I rustled up earlier. I wink at him. As we Cordon Bleu chefs do.

Nathaniel carves the chicken with an expert ease, and Iris dishes out the vegetables. When
were all served she sits down and raises her glass.

To you, Samantha. Youve done splendidly.

Thanks. I smile and am about to sip my wine when I realize the other two arent moving.

And to Ben, Iris adds softly.

On Sundays we always remember Dad, Nathaniel explains.

Oh. I hesitate, then raise my glass.

And now. Iris reaches for her knife and fork. The moment of truth. She takes a bite of
chicken while I try to hide my nerves.

Very good. She nods at last. Very good indeed. I cant stop beaming. Really? Its... good?

Iris lifts her glass to me. By George. Shes got roast chicken, at any rate.

I sit in the glow of the evening light, not talking much but eating and listening to Iris
and Nathaniel chat. They tell me stories about Eddie and Trish, about when they tried to
buy the local church and turn it into a guest cottage, and I cant help laughing. Nathaniel
outlines his plans for the Geigers garden and draws a sketch of the avenue of limes he
created at Marchant House. When he gets animated he draws more and more quickly, his hand
dwarfing the stub of pencil hes using. Iris notices me watching in admiration and points
out a watercolor of the village pond, hanging on the wall.

Ben did that. She nods toward Nathaniel. He takes after his father.

The atmosphere is so relaxed and easy, so different from any meal Ive ever had at home. No
ones on the phone. No ones rushing to get anywhere else. I could sit here all night.

As the meal is finally drawing to a close I clear my throat. Iris, I just want to say
thank you again.

I enjoyed it. Iris takes a forkful of plum crumble. I always did enjoy bossing people
about.

But really. Im so grateful. I dont know what I would have done without your help. Is there
any way I can repay you?

Dont be ridiculous! Iris takes a sip of wine and dabs her mouth. Next weekend well make
lasagne. And gnocchi!

Next weekend? I stare at her. But

You dont think youve finished? Ive only just started on you!

But... I cant take up all your weekends...

Im not graduating you yet, she says with a cheerful asperity. So you have no choice. Now,
what else do you need help with? Cleaning? Washing?

I feel a twinge of embarrassment. She clearly knows exactly how much of a mess I got
myself into the other day.

Im not really sure how to use the washing machine, I admit at last.

Well cover that. She nods. Ill pop up to the house when theyre out and have a look at it.

And I cant sew on buttons.

Buttons... She reaches for a piece of paper and a pencil, and writes it down, still
munching on the crumble. I suppose you cant hem either.

Er...

Hemming... She scribbles it down. What about ironing? She looks up, suddenly alert. You
must have had to iron. How did you wriggle out of that one?

Im sending the clothes out to Stacey Nicholson, I confess. In the village. She charges
three pounds a shirt.

Stacey Nicholson? Iris puts her pencil down. That flibbertigibbet?

In her ad she said she was an experienced laundress.

Shes fifteen years old! Galvanized, Iris pushes back her chair. Samantha, you are not paying Stacey Nicholson to do your ironing. Youre going to learn how to do it yourself.

But Ive never

Ill teach you. Anyone can iron. She reaches into a little side room, pulls out an old
ironing board covered in flowery material, and sets it up, then beckons me over. What do
you have to iron?

Mr. Geigers shirts, mainly, I say, nervously joining her at the ironing board.

All right. She plugs in an iron and turns the dial. Hot, for cotton. Wait for the iron to
heat up. No point beginning till its at the right temperature. Now, Ill show you the right
way to tackle a shirt...

She rootles, frowning, in a pile of clean laundry in the little room. Shirts... shirts...
Nathaniel, take off your shirt a moment.

I stiffen. As I glance at Nathaniel I see he has stiffened too.

Mum! He gives an awkward laugh.

Oh, dont be ridiculous, love, says Iris impatiently. You can take off your shirt for a
moment. No ones embarrassed. Youre not embarrassed, are you, Samantha?

Um... My voice is a little grainy for some reason. Urn... no, of course not.

Now, this is your steam. She presses a button on the iron and a jet of steam shoots into
the air. Always check that your steam compartment has water... Nathaniel! Im waiting!

Through the steam I can see Nathaniel slowly unbuttoning his shirt. I catch a flash of
smooth tanned skin and hastily lower my gaze.

Lets not be adolescent about this. So hes taking off his shirt. Its no big deal.

He tosses the shirt to his mother, who catches it deftly. My eyes are studiously fixed
downward.

Im not going to look at him.

Start with the collar. Iris is smoothing the shirt out on the ironing board. Now, you dont
have to press hard. She guides my hand as the iron glides over the fabric. Keep a smooth
touch...

This is ridiculous. Im an adult, mature woman. I can look at a man with no shirt on
without falling to bits. What Ill do is... take a casual peek. And get this out of my mind.

Now the yoke... Iris turns the shirt around on the board and I start pressing again. Very
good... onto the cuffs now...

I lift the shirttail to flip it overand as I do so, accidentally-on-purpose raise my eyes.
Sweet Jesus. Im not sure the whole getting-it-out-of-my-mind plan is going to work after
all. Samantha? Iris grabs the iron from my hand. Youre scorching the shirt!

Oh! I come to. Sorry. I... I lost concentration for a moment.

Your cheeks seem very flushed. Iris puts a curious hand to my cheek. Are you all right,
sweetie?

Must be the... um... steam. I start ironing again, my face like a furnace. Im fine. Thanks.

At last I shake out his ironed shirt, perfectly done with all the creases in the right
places.

Very good! says Iris, applauding. After some practice youll be able to do that in four
minutes flat.

Looks great. Nathaniel smiles, holding out a hand. Thanks.

Thats OK! I manage in a strangled squawk, and hastily look away again, my heart thumping.

Great. Just great. One glimpse of his body and I have a fullblown crush. I honestly
thought I was a bit deeper than that.

He doesnt have a girlfriend.

I managed to get that information out of Trish on Sunday night, under the guise of asking
about all the neighbors. There was some girl inGloucester , apparentlybut that was all
over months ago. The way is clear. I just need a strategy.

As I shower and get dressed the next morning, Im totally fixated by thoughts of Nathaniel.
Im aware Ive reverted to the behavior of a fourteen-year-old, that next Ill be doodling Samantha loves Nathaniel with a love heart dotting the i . But I dont care. Its not as though being a mature, levelheaded professional was working
out so great for me.

I brush my hair, looking out at the misty green fields, and feel inexplicably
lighthearted. I have no reason to feel this way. On paper, everything is still
catastrophic. My fast-track career is over. My family has no idea where I am. Im earning a
fraction of what I used to, for a job that involves picking up other peoples dirty
underwear off the floor.

And yet I find myself humming as I straighten my bed.

My life has changed, and Im changing with it. Its as if the old conventional monochrome
Samantha has faded away into a paper doll. Ive thrown her into the water and shes melting
away to nothing. And in her place is a new me. A me with possibilities.

Ive never gone after a man before. But then, until yesterday Id never basted a chicken
before. If I can do that, I can ask a man out, surely? The old Samantha would have sat
back and waited to be approached. Well, not the new Samantha. Ive seen the dating shows on
TV; I know the rules. Its all about looks and body language and flirty conversation.

I walk over to the mirror and, for the first time since Ive arrived here, examine my
appearance with an honest, unflinching eye.

At once I regret it. Ignorance was better.

For a start, how can anyone look good in a blue nylon overall? I reach for a belt, fasten it around my
middle, and hitch up my overall till the skirt is about three inches shorter, like we used
to at school.

Hi, I say to my reflection, and casually toss back my hair. Hi, Nathaniel. Hi, Nat.

All I need now is lots of black eyeliner badly applied, and Ill be back to my fourteen-
year-old self in every single way.

I reach for my makeup bag and spend about ten minutes alternately applying and removing
makeup, until Ive got something that looks natural and subtle, yet defined. Or else like
Ive wasted ten minutes. I have no idea.

Now to the body language. I wrinkle up my forehead, trying to remember the rules from TV.
If a woman is attracted to a man, her pupils will dilate. Also, she will unconsciously
lean forward, laugh at his jokes, and expose her wrists and palms.

Experimentally I lean toward my reflection, holding out my hands as I do so. I look like
Jesus. I try adding a flirty laugh. Ha ha ha! I exclaim aloud. You just crack me up! Now I
look like a cheerful Jesus. Im really not sure this is adding to my chances.

I head downstairs and draw back the curtains, letting in the bright morning sunshine. Im
picking up the post from the doormat when the doorbell rings. A guy in uniform, holding a
clipboard, is standing outside, a van behind him in the drive. Delivery from Professional
Chefs Equipment Direct, he says. Where shall I put the boxes?

Oh, right, I say apprehensively. In the kitchen, please. Thanks.

Professional Chefs Equipment. I guess that would be for me, the Professional Chef.

Whats that van, Samantha? calls Trish, tottering down the stairs in a dressing gown and
high-heeled mules. Is it flowers?

Its the cookery equipment you ordered for me! Somehow I summon up an enthusiastic front.

Oh, good ! Trish is delighted. Now youll be able to stun us with your cooking! Its roasted sea
bream with julienned vegetables tonight, isnt it?

Er... yes! I gulp. I suppose it is.

Mind your backs!

We both jump aside as two deliverymen troop past with boxes stacked high in their arms. I
follow them into the kitchen and watch the growing pile in disbelief.

Now, we bought you everything , says Trish, as though reading my mind. Go on! Open them! Im sure you cant wait!

I fetch a knife and start unpacking the first box, while Trish slits the plastic on
another. Out of the profusion of foam peanuts and bubble wrap, I lift a gleaming
stainless-steel... something. What on earth is this? I glance quickly at the label on the
side of the box. Savarin Mold .

A... savarin mold! I exclaim. How marvelous. Just what I... wanted. We only got eight of those, says Trish, with concern. Is that enough? Er... I look at it helplessly. That
should be plenty.

Now, the saucepans. Trish has ripped open a box of shiny aluminum pans and holds out one
to me expectantly. We were told these were the very best quality. Would you agree? As a trained chef?

Lets just have a look, I say, trying to sound professional. I heft the saucepan
appraisingly, then study the bottom and, for good measure, ping the surface with my
fingernail.

Yes, thats a nice-quality pan, I say at last. You chose well.

Oh, good ! Trish beams, delving into another box. And look at this ! She scatters foam to reveal a weird-shaped gadget with a wooden handle. Ive never even seen one of these! What is it, Samantha?

Yikes. Whats that? It looks like a cross between a sieve, a grater, and a whisk. I glance
quickly at the box for clues, but the label has been torn off.

What is it? says Trish again.

This is used for a highly specialized cooking technique, I say at last. Highly specialized.

What do you do with it? Show me! She thrusts the handle at me.

Well. I take the thing from her. Its a kind of... whisking... circular motion... keep the
wrist light... I beat the air briskly a few times. Kind of like that. Its difficult to
show properly without the... um... truffles.

So whats it called? says Trish, agog.

Ive always known it as a... truffle beater, I say at last. But it could have some... other
name as well. Why dont I make you a cup of coffee? I add quickly. And Ill unpack
everything else later.

I switch on the kettle, reach for the coffeepot, and glance out the window. Nathaniel is
striding across the lawn.

Oh, God. Full crush alert. Full, one hundred percent, old-fashioned adolescent crush.

I cannot take my eyes off him. The sunlight is catching the ends of his tawny hair and hes
wearing ancient, faded jeans. As I watch, he picks up some huge sack of something, swings
it round easily, and throws it onto something that might be a compost heap.

My mind is suddenly filled with a fantasy of him picking me up in exactly the same way.
Swinging me round easily in his big strong arms. I mean, I cant be that much heavier than a sack of potatoes

So, how was your weekend off, Samantha? Trish breaks my thoughts. We barely saw you! Did
you go into town?

I went to Nathaniels house, I reply without thinking.

Nathaniel? Trish sounds astonished. The gardener ? Why?

Immediately I realize my huge mistake. I cant exactly say, To have cooking lessons. I try
to fabricate an instant, convincing reason.

Just... to say hello, really, I say at last, aware that I sound tongue-tied. And also that
my cheeks are turning pink.

Trishs face suddenly snaps in comprehension and her eyes open very wide.

Oh, I see , she says. How adorable !

No! I say quickly. Its not... Honestly

Dont worry! Trish cuts me off emphatically. I wont say a word . I am discretion itself. She puts a finger to her lips. You can rely on me.

Before I can say anything else she picks up her coffee and heads out of the kitchen. I sit
down amid all the kitchen stuff and packaging and fiddle with the truffle beater.

That was awkward. But I suppose it doesnt really matter. As long as she doesnt say

anything inappropriate to Nathaniel.

Then I realize Im being stupid. Of course shell say something inappropriate to Nathaniel. Shell make some oh-so-subtle innuendo, and
then who knows what hell think. This could be really embarrassing. This could ruin
everything.

I must go and make the situation quite clear to him. That Trish misunderstood me, and I do not have a crush on him.

While, obviously, making it clear that I do.

I force myself to wait until Ive done breakfast for Trish and Eddie, tidied the new
kitchen equipment away, mixed up some olive oil and lemon zest, and put tonights sea bream
fillets into it, just as Iris taught me.

Then I hitch up my uniform a bit more, add some more eyeliner for luck, and head out into
the garden, holding a basket I found in the larder. If Trish wants to know what Im doing,
Im gathering herbs for cooking.

I find Nathaniel in the orchard behind the old wall, standing on a ladder, tying some rope
round a tree. As I make my way toward him Im ridiculously nervous. My mouth feels dryand
did my legs just wobble ?

God, youd think Id have some poise. Youd think being a lawyer for seven years would have
prepared me a bit better. Ignoring my jitters as best I can, I walk up to the ladder, toss
back my hair, and wave up to him, trying not to squint in the sun.

Hi! Hi. Nathaniel smiles back. Hows it going? Fine, thanks! Much better. No disasters
yet...

Theres a pause. I suddenly realize Im gazing a little too hard at his hands as they
tighten the rope. I was just after some... rosemary. I gesture to my basket. If you have
any?

Sure. Ill cut you some. He jumps down off the ladder and we walk along the path toward the
herb garden.

Its totally silent, down here away from the house, apart from the odd buzzing insect and
the crunch of gravel on the path. I try to think of something light and easy to say, but
my brain is blank.

Its... hot, I manage at last.

Uh-huh. Nathaniel nods, and steps up easily over the stone wall into the herb garden. I
try to follow him with a light springing step and catch my foot on the wall. Ow. Fuck.

All right? Nathaniel turns.

Fine! Even though my foot is throbbing with agony. Wow. This is amazing! I look around the
garden in genuine admiration. Its laid out in a hexagonal shape, with little paths between
the sections. Tiny dark green hedges act as borders, and topiary spheres mark the corners.
Lavender stems are gently waving in old stone planters, interspersed with tubs of some
tiny white flower that smells of honey.

Did you do all this? I peer at a bed of plants that I think might be oregano. Its
absolutely stunning!

Thanks. Im pleased with it. Nathaniel sounds offhand but I can tell hes gratified. Anyway.
Your rosemary.

He pulls out a pair of secateurs from an old leather holster-type thing and starts
clipping at a dark green, spiky bush.

OK. I have to say what Ive come to say.

So... um... its really weird, I begin as lightly as I can, fingering the scented leaves of
some bushy plant. But Trish seems to have got the wrong idea about us! She seems to think
were... you know.

Ah. He nods, his face averted.

Which is obviously... ridiculous! I add.

Mm-hmm. He clips some more rosemary sprigs and holds them up. This enough for you?

Mm-hmm? Thats it? Thats all he has to say on the subject?

Actually, Id like some more, I say, and he turns back to the bush. So... isnt it
ridiculous? I add, trying to prod him into a proper answer.

Well, of course. At last Nathaniel looks at me properly. You wont be wanting to get into
anything for a while. Not so soon after a bad relationship.

I look at him blankly. What on earth Oh, yes. My bad relationship. Right, I say after a
pause. Yes, that.

Dammit.

Why did I go along with the bad relationship story? What was I thinking ?

Heres your rosemary. Nathaniel puts a fragrant bundle into my arms. Anything else?

Um... yes! I say quickly. Could I have some mint?

I watch as he moves carefully over the rows of herbs to where mint is growing in large
stone containers.

Actually... I force myself to sound careless. Actually, the relationship wasnt that bad. In fact, I think Ive pretty much got over it.

Nathaniel looks up, shading his eyes against the sun. Youve got over a seven-year
relationship in a week?

Now that he puts it like that, it does sound a bit implausible. I cast around quickly in
my mind.

I have great reserves of resilience, I say at last. Im like... rubber.

Rubber, he echoes, his expression unreadable.

Was rubber a bad choice of word? No. Come on, rubber is sexy.

Nathaniel adds the mint to the rosemary in my arms. Mum said... He pauses awkwardly.

What? I say, a little breathless. Theyve been talking about me?

Mum wondered if youd been... badly treated. He shifts his gaze away. Youre so tense and
twitchy.

Im not tense and twitchy! I retort at once.

Well, maybe that was a little tense and twitchy.

Im naturally twitchy, I explain. But I wasnt badly treated or anything like that. I was
just... I always felt... trapped.

The word comes out to my own surprise. I have a flash of my life at Carter Spink.
Constantly at the beck and call of senior partners. Practically living at the office some
weeks. Taking piles of work home with me. Answering e-mails at every hour. Maybe I

did feel a little bit trapped.

But Im fine now. I shake back my hair. Ready to move on... and start a new relationship...
or something more casual... whatever.

I gaze up at him, trying as hard as I can to dilate my pupils and casually lifting my hand
to my ear for good measure. Theres a still, tense silence, broken only by the buzzing of
insects.

You probably shouldnt rush into anything new, Nathaniel says. He moves away without
meeting my eye and starts examining the leaves on a shrub.

Theres a stiffness in his back. I feel a rush of blood to my face. Hes letting me down
lightly. He doesnt want to go out with me.