The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“Never mind,” she says at last. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I’ll take the coffee tray out,” I suggest humbly. As I pick it up I glance again at my watch. Ten twelve. I wonder if they’ve started the meeting.

By eleven-thirty my nerves are really beginning to fray. My mobile’s charged and I’ve finally found a signal in the kitchen, but it hasn’t rung. And there are no messages. I’ve checked it every minute.

I’ve stacked the dishwasher and at last managed to turn it on. And I’ve dusted the china dogs with a tissue. Other than that all I’ve done is pace up and down the kitchen.

I gave up on the “light sandwich lunch” almost straightaway. At least, I briefly tried sawing away at two loaves of bread—and ended up with huge, wonky slices, each one more misshapen than the last, lying in a sea of crumbs.

All I can say is, thank God for yellow pages and caterers. And American Express. It’s only going to cost me £45.50 to provide Trish and Eddie with a “gourmet sandwich lunch” from Cotswold Caterers. Less than six minutes of my time at Carter Spink.

Now I’m just sitting on a chair, my hand clasped tight over the mobile in my pocket, desperately willing it to ring.

At the same time I’m utterly terrified that it will.

This tension is unbearable. I need something to relieve it. Anything. I wrench open the door of the Geigers’ enormous fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. I pour myself a glass and take an enormous gulp. I’m about to take another when I feel a tingling on the nape of my neck.

As if… I’m being watched.

I swivel round and nearly jump out of my skin. There’s a man at the kitchen door.

He’s tall and broad, and deeply tanned, with intense blue eyes. His wavy hair is golden brown with bleached-blond tips.

He’s wearing old jeans and a torn T-shirt and the muddiest boots I’ve ever seen.

His eyes run doubtfully over the ten wonky, crumbly bread slices on the side, then onto my glass of wine.

“Hi,” he says at last. “Are you the new Cordon Bleu cook?”

“Er… yes! Absolutely.” I smooth my uniform down. “I’m the new housekeeper, Samantha. Hello.”

“I’m Nathaniel.” He holds out his hand and after a pause I take it. His skin is so hard and rough, it’s like shaking a piece of tree bark. “I do the garden for the Geigers. You’ll be wanting to talk to me about vegetables.”

I look at him uncertainly. Why would I want to talk to him about vegetables?

As he leans against the door frame and folds his arms, I can’t help noticing how massive and strong his forearms are. I’ve never seen a man with arms like that before.

“I can supply pretty much anything,” he continues. “Seasonal, of course. Just tell me what you want.”

“Oh, for cooking,” I say, suddenly realizing what he means. “Er…yes. I’ll be wanting some of those. Definitely.”

“They told me you trained with some Michelin-starred chef?” He gives a small frown. “I don’t know what kind of fancy stuff you use, but I’ll do my best.” He produces a small, mud-stained notebook and a pencil. “Which brassicas do you like to use?”

Brassicas?

What are brassicas? They must be some kind of vegetable. I search my mind frantically but all I can see is images of brassieres, waving on a washing line.

“I’d have to consult my menus,” I say at last with a businesslike nod. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

“But just generally.” He looks up. “Which do you use most? So I know what to plant.”

I daren’t risk naming a single vegetable in case I get it totally wrong.

“I use… all sorts, really.” I give him an airy smile. “You know how it is with brassicas. Sometimes you’re in the mood for one… sometimes another!”

I’m really not sure how convincing that sounded. Nathaniel looks baffled.

“I’m about to order leeks,” he says slowly. “What variety do you prefer? Albinstar or Bleu de Solaise?”

I fiddle with a button on my uniform, my face prickling. I didn’t catch either of those. Oh, God, why did this guy have to come into the kitchen right now?

“The… um… first one,” I say at last. “It has very tasty… qualities.”

Nathaniel puts down his notebook and surveys me for a moment. His attention shifts to my wineglass again. I’m not sure I like his expression.

“I was just about to put this wine in a sauce,” I say hastily. With a nonchalant

air, I take a saucepan down from the rack, put it on the hob, and pour the wine in. I shake in some salt, then pick up a wooden spoon and stir.

Then I dart a glance at Nathaniel. He’s regarding me with something approaching incredulity.

“Where did you say you trained?” he says.

I feel a twinge of alarm. He’s not stupid, this man.

“At… Cordon Bleu school.” My cheeks are growing rather hot. I shake more salt into the wine and stir it briskly.

“You haven’t turned the hob on,” Nathaniel observes.

“It’s a cold sauce,” I reply, without lifting my head. I keep stirring for a minute, then put down my wooden spoon. “So. I’ll just leave that to… marinate now.”

At last I look up. Nathaniel is still leaning against the door frame, calmly watching me. There’s an expression in his blue eyes that makes my throat tighten.

He knows.

He knows I’m a fake.

Please don’t tell the Geigers, I silently transmit to him. Please. I’ll be gone soon,

“Samantha?” Trish’s head pops round the door and I start nervously. “Oh, you’ve

met Nathaniel! Did he tell you about his vegetable garden?”

“Yes.” I can’t look at him. “He did.”

“Marvelous!” She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head. “Well, Mr. Geiger and I are back now, and we’d like our sandwiches in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes? But it’s only ten past twelve. The caterers aren’t coming till one o’clock.

“Would you like a drink first, maybe?” I suggest.

“No, thanks!” she says. “Just the sandwiches. We’re both rather famished, actually, so if you could hurry up with them…”

“Right.” I swallow. “No problem!”