The Undomestic Goddess

  “Here we are. You need a bit of glitz.” She produces a diamanté clip in the shape of a sea horse. “I got this in Monte Carlo!”

  “Er … lovely!” I say, eyeing it in horror. Before I can stop her, she sweeps my hair to one side and plonks it on. She looks at me appraisingly. “No … I think you need something larger. Here.” She fishes out a large jeweled beetle and clips it to my hair. “Now. You see how the emerald brings out your eyes?”

  I gaze at myself speechlessly. I cannot go out with a sparkly beetle on my head.

  “And this is very glam!” Now she’s garlanding a gilt chain around my waist. “Let me just hang the charms on …”

  Charms?

  “Mrs. Geiger …” I begin, flustered, as Eddie appears out of the study.

  “Just got the quote in for the bathroom,” he says to Trish.

  “Isn’t this twinkly elephant gorgeous?” says Trish, hooking it on the gilt belt. “And the frog!”

  “Please,” I say desperately. “I’m not sure I need any elephants—”

  “Seven thousand.” Eddie cuts across me. “Seems quite reasonable. Plus VAT.”

  “Well, how much is it with VAT?” says Trish, rifling in her box. “Where’s that monkey gone?”

  I feel like a Christmas tree. She’s hanging more and more glittery baubles off the belt, not to mention the beetle. And Nathaniel will arrive any moment—and he’ll see me.

  “I don’t know!” retorts Eddie impatiently. “What’s seventeen and a half percent of seven thousand?”

  “One thousand, two hundred, and twenty-five,” I respond absently.

  There’s a stunned silence.

  Shit. That was a mistake.

  I look up to see Trish and Eddie goggling at me.

  “Or … something.” I laugh, hoping to distract them. “Just a guess. So … have you got any more charms?”

  Neither of them takes the slightest notice of me. Eddie’s eyes are fixed on the paper he’s holding. Very slowly he looks up, his mouth working strangely.

  “She’s right,” he announces. “She’s bloody right. That’s the correct answer.” He jabs the paper. “It’s here!”

  “She’s right?” Trish breathes in sharply. “But how …”

  “You saw her! She did it in her head!” They both swing round to goggle at me again.

  “Is she autistic?” Trish seems beside herself.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Rain Man has a lot to answer for, if you ask me.

  “I’m not autistic!” I say. “I’m just … I’m just quite good with numbers. It’s no big deal …”

  To my huge relief the doorbell rings, and I rush to answer it. Nathaniel is standing on the doorstep, looking a little smarter than usual in tan jeans and a green shirt.

  “Hi,” I say hurriedly. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait!” Eddie blocks my way. “Young lady, you may be a lot brighter than you realize.”

  Oh, no.

  “What’s going on?” asks Nathaniel.

  “She’s a mathematical genius!” says Trish wildly. “And we discovered it! It’s just extraordinary!”

  I shoot Nathaniel an agonized she’s-talking-nonsense look.

  “What formal education have you had, Samantha?” Eddie demands. “Other than cooking.”

  Oh, God. What did I say in my interview? I honestly can’t remember.

  “I … um … here and there.” I spread my hands vaguely. “You know …”

  “It’s the schools today,” Trish declares. “Tony Blair should be shot.”

  “Samantha,” Eddie says self-righteously. “I will take on your education. And if you’re prepared to work hard—hard, mind—I’m sure we can get you some qualifications.”

  This is getting worse.

  “I don’t really want any qualifications, sir,” I mumble. “I’m happy as I am. Thanks anyway—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer!” insists Eddie.

  “Aim higher, Samantha!” says Trish with sudden passion, gripping my arm. “Give yourself a chance in life! Reach for the stars!”

  As I look from face to face I can’t help feeling touched. They only want the best for me.

  “Um … well … maybe.” I surreptitiously divest myself of all the jeweled creatures and slip them back into the jewelry box. Then I turn to Nathaniel, who has been waiting patiently on the doorstep. “Shall we go?”

  “So, what was all that about?” asks Nathaniel as we start walking along the village road. The air is soft and warm and my new hair is bouncing lightly, and with every step I can see my toes, painted in Trish’s pink nail polish. “You’re a mathematical genius?”

  “No.” I can’t help laughing. “Of course not! I can just … do sums in my head. It’s no big deal.”

  “Must be useful.”

  “It can be. But I’d rather be able to cook like your mum. She’s wonderful.” I think back to the serene, homey atmosphere of the cottage, sitting at Iris’s table, feeling sated and sleepy and secure. “You must have had a really happy childhood.”

  “We were pretty happy,” Nathaniel assents. “Of course, Dad was alive then.”

  “It sounds like they had a fantastic marriage.”

  “It wasn’t all hearts and flowers.” Nathaniel grins. “Mum can speak her mind, and so could Dad. But it was … grounded. They knew they belonged together and that was more important than anything else in life.” He smiles, reminiscently. “When they got really mad with each other, Dad would go and chop wood in the barn, and Mum would chop vegetables in the kitchen. The two of them would be at it furiously. Jake and I would be creeping around, not daring to make a sound.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “One of them would crack,” he says, laughing. “Usually Dad.” He turns his head. “How about your parents?”

  I tense up with apprehension. I’m not sure if I’m ready to start talking about myself yet.

  “They split up when I was little,” I say at last. “And my mum works hard.… It wasn’t really the same.”

  “People do what they have to do,” says Nathaniel after a pause. “It’s tough for a single woman bringing up a family on her own, having to make ends meet.”

  “Um … yes.”

  Somehow I sense he might have formed a slightly different idea of Mum from the reality.

  We walk on, passing an old stone wall covered with a profusion of climbing roses, and as I breathe in the delicious scent, I feel a sudden buoyancy. The street is dappled with soft evening light and the last rays of sun are warm on my shoulders.

  “Nice hair, by the way,” says Nathaniel.

  “Oh, thanks,” I say nonchalantly. “It’s nothing, really.” Flick. “So … where are we heading?”

  “The pub. If that’s OK?”

  “Perfect!”

  We walk over the bridge and pause to look at the river. Moorhens are diving for weed and the sunlight is like amber puddles on the water. Some tourists are taking pictures of each other, and I feel a glow of pride. I’m not just visiting this beautiful place, I want to tell them. I live here.

  “And what about you?” says Nathaniel. “Before you came here? What’s your background?”

  “Oh … you don’t want to know.” I give him a brush-off smile. “Very boring.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.” His tone is light but persistent. “Did you have a career?”

  I walk for a few paces without responding, trying to think what to say. I can feel Nathaniel’s eyes on me, but I twist my head away from his scrutiny.

  “You don’t want to talk about it,” he says at last.

  “It’s … it’s hard.”

  Nathaniel exhales sharply. “You’ve had a bad time of it?”

  Oh, God, he still thinks I’m an abused wife.

  “No! It’s not that. It’s just … a long story.”

  Nathaniel doesn’t look put off. “We’ve got all evening.”

  As I meet his steady gaze I feel a sudden pull, like a hook
inside my chest. Although it’ll be painful, I want to tell him. I want to unburden everything. Who I am, what happened, how hard it’s been. Of all people, I could trust him. He wouldn’t tell anyone. He’d understand. He’d keep it secret.

  “So.” He stops still in the street, his thumbs in his pockets. “Are you going to tell me who you are?”

  “Maybe.” We’re only a few yards away from The Bell, and there’s a small crowd outside. A couple of people greet Nathaniel and he waves back; the atmosphere is casual and happy. I don’t want to puncture the mood.

  “But … not right now.” I smile at him. “It’s too nice an evening to spoil with all my problems. I’ll tell you later.”

  We make our way through the crowd. Some are standing by the door, others sitting at the wooden tables.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Waiting,” he says. “Landlord’s late.”

  “Oh,” I say. I look around but all the tables are already taken. “Well, never mind. We can sit here.”

  I perch on an old barrel—but Nathaniel has already headed for the door of the pub.

  And … that’s odd. Everyone is standing back to let him through. I watch in astonishment as he reaches in his pocket and produces a big bunch of keys, then looks around to find me.

  “Come on.” He beckons with a grin. “Opening time.”

  “You own a pub!” I say in wonderment, as the initial melee of the evening dies down.

  I’ve watched for fifteen minutes as Nathaniel has pulled pints, bantered with customers, given instructions to the bar staff, and made sure everyone is happy. Now the initial rush is over, he’s come round to where I’m perched on a bar stool with a glass of wine.

  “Three pubs,” he corrects me. “And it’s not just me. It’s our family business. The Bell, The Swan over in Bingley, and The Two Foxes.”

  Every seat seems to be full, with people spilling outside into the tiny garden and onto the forecourt. The chatter is tremendous. “How on earth do you keep the pubs running and have time to be a gardener?” I ask.

  “OK, I’ll come clean.” Nathaniel lifts his hands. “I don’t serve very often. We have a great bar staff. But I thought it might be fun tonight.”

  “So you’re not really a gardener!”

  “I am really a gardener.” He straightens a bar mat. “This is … business.”

  There’s the same tone in his voice as before. As though I’ve trodden on something sensitive. I look away—and my attention is caught by a picture on the wall of a fair-haired middle-aged man. He has Nathaniel’s strong jaw and blue eyes, and the same crinkles around his eyes as he smiles.

  “That’s your dad?” I say cautiously. “He looks wonderful.”

  “He was the life and soul.” Nathaniel’s eyes soften. “Everyone here, they all loved him.” He takes a deep slug of beer, then puts his glass down. “But listen. We don’t have to stay. If you’d rather go somewhere else, somewhere nicer …”

  The pub is bustling. Some song I vaguely recognize as a current hit is playing above the noise of talk and laughter. A group of regulars are greeting each other by the bar with cheerful insults. A pair of elderly American tourists in Stratford T-shirts are being advised on local beers by a barman with red hair and twinkling eyes. Across the room a darts game has started. I can’t remember the last time I was in such an easy, friendly atmosphere.

  “Let’s stay. And I’ll help!” I slip off my bar stool and head behind the bar.

  “Have you ever pulled a pint before?” Nathaniel follows me.

  “No.” I pick up a glass and put it under one of the beer taps. “But I can learn.”

  Nathaniel comes round the bar. “You tilt the glass like this.… Now pull.”

  I pull the tap, and a burst of foam splutters out. “Damn!”

  “Slowly …” He puts his arms around me, guiding my hands. “That’s better.”

  Mmm, this is nice. I’m in a blissful happy haze, enveloped in his strong arms. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m very slow at learning how to pull pints. Maybe we can stand like this all evening.

  “You know—” I begin, turning my head toward him. And then I stop as my eyes focus on something. There’s an old wooden notice on the wall, stating no muddy boots, please and no working clothes. Underneath, another notice has been pinned. It’s printed on yellowing paper in faded marker pen—and it reads: no lawyers.

  I’m dumbfounded. No lawyers?

  “There we are.” Nathaniel holds up the glass, full of gleaming amber liquid. “Your first ever pint.”

  “Er … great!” I say. I pretend to examine the pump, then gesture casually at the sign. “What’s this?”

  “I don’t serve lawyers,” he replies.

  “Nathaniel! Get over here!” someone calls from the other end of the bar, and he clicks in annoyance.

  “I’ll only be a moment.” He touches my hand, then moves away. Immediately I take a deep gulp of wine. He doesn’t serve lawyers. Why doesn’t he serve lawyers?

  OK … just calm down, I instruct myself firmly. It’s a joke. Obviously it’s a joke. Everyone hates lawyers, just like everyone hates estate agents and tax collectors. It’s an accepted fact of life.

  But they don’t all put up signs about it in their pubs, do they?

  As I’m sitting there, the red-haired barman comes up to where I’m standing and scoops some ice out of the tank.

  “Hi,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Eamonn.”

  “Samantha.” I shake it with a smile. “I’m here with Nathaniel.”

  Eamonn nods. “Welcome to Lower Ebury!”

  I watch him serving for a moment, my mind working. This guy will know something about the sign.

  “So!” I say when he comes back over. “That sign about lawyers. It’s a … joke, right?”

  “Not really,” Eamonn replies cheerfully. “Nathaniel can’t stand lawyers.”

  “Right!” Somehow I manage to keep on smiling. “Um … why’s that?”

  “Ever since his dad died.” Eamonn hefts a crate of orange mixers onto the bar and I shift round on my stool so I can see him properly.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “There was some lawsuit between him and the council.” Eamonn pauses in his work. “Nathaniel says it should never have been started in the first place, but Ben got talked into it by the lawyers. He got more and more stressed by it and couldn’t think about anything else—then he had a heart attack.”

  “God, how awful,” I say in horror.

  Eamonn resumes hefting crates. “Worst thing was, after Ben died they had to sell off one of the pubs. To pay the legal bills.”

  I’m aghast.

  “The last lawyer came in this pub …” Eamonn leans conspiratorially across the bar. “Nathaniel punched him.”

  “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 su
bject. 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.