The Undomestic Goddess
Page 80
“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 waiting, like two giant microphones ready to pick up the slightest sound.
My face is prickling. What am I going to say? I’ll say … thirty-five. No. Don’t be ridiculous. She can’t be that self-deluded. Forty? No. I can’t say forty. It’s too near the truth.
“Are you about … thirty-seven?” I hazard at last. Trish turns round—and from her smug expression of pleasure I reckon I hit the note of flattery about right.
“I’m actually … thirty-nine!” she says, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks.
“No!” I exclaim, trying not to look at her crow’s-feet. “That’s … amazing!”
She is such a liar. She was forty-six last February. And if she doesn’t want people to know, she shouldn’t leave her passport out on her dressing table.
“Now!” she says, clearly cheered up. “We’ll be out all day at my sister’s party. Nathaniel will be coming over to work in the garden, but I expect you know that—”
“Nathaniel?” I feel an electric jolt. “He’s 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 didn’t realize.” I’m trying to stay collected, but tentacles of excitement are creeping through me. “So … he’s working on a Sunday?”
“Oh, he often does. He’s 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. What’s 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. “It’s going to be bloody sweltering, you know.”
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 waiting, like two giant microphones ready to pick up the slightest sound.
My face is prickling. What am I going to say? I’ll say … thirty-five. No. Don’t be ridiculous. She can’t be that self-deluded. Forty? No. I can’t say forty. It’s too near the truth.
“Are you about … thirty-seven?” I hazard at last. Trish turns round—and from her smug expression of pleasure I reckon I hit the note of flattery about right.
“I’m actually … thirty-nine!” she says, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks.
“No!” I exclaim, trying not to look at her crow’s-feet. “That’s … amazing!”
She is such a liar. She was forty-six last February. And if she doesn’t want people to know, she shouldn’t leave her passport out on her dressing table.
“Now!” she says, clearly cheered up. “We’ll be out all day at my sister’s party. Nathaniel will be coming over to work in the garden, but I expect you know that—”
“Nathaniel?” I feel an electric jolt. “He’s 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 didn’t realize.” I’m trying to stay collected, but tentacles of excitement are creeping through me. “So … he’s working on a Sunday?”
“Oh, he often does. He’s 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. What’s 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. “It’s going to be bloody sweltering, you know.”
