The Undomestic Goddess
Page 49
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Stop.
Just stop. I mustn’t think about it. I’ve left Carter Spink. It’s nothing to do with me anymore. I’m going to relax and enjoy my free time, like any normal person.
Forcing the images out of my mind, I head out into the hall, where I find a copy of the Times on the doormat. I bring it back to the kitchen just as my toast is popping up.
This is the life.
I sit by the window, crunching toast, sipping coffee, and leafing through the paper in a leisurely way. At last, after devouring three slices, two cups of coffee, and all the Saturday sections, I stretch my arms in a big yawn and glance at the clock.
I don’t believe it. It’s only seven fifty-six.
What is wrong with me? I was supposed to take hours over breakfast. I was supposed to be sitting there all morning. Not get everything finished in twenty minutes flat.
OK … never mind. I’ll soon get the hang of it.
I put my crockery away in the dishwasher and wipe away my toast crumbs. Then I sit down at the table again and look about. I wonder what to do next.
Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table with my fingernails. I stop myself and survey my hands for a moment. This is ridiculous. I’m having my first true day off in about ten years. I should be relaxed. Come on, I can think of something nice to do, surely.
What do people do on days off? My mind scrolls through a series of images from TV. I could make another cup of coffee, but I’ve already had two. I could read the paper again, but I have an almost photographic memory. So rereading things I already know is a bit pointless.
My gaze drifts to the garden, where a squirrel is perched on a stone pillar, looking around with bright eyes. Maybe I’ll go outside. Enjoy the garden and the wildlife and the early morning dew. Good idea.
Except the trouble with early morning dew is it gets all over your feet. As I pick my way over the damp grass, I’m already wishing I hadn’t put on open-toed sandals. Or that I’d waited till later for my little stroll.
The garden is a lot bigger than I’d appreciated. I walk down the lawn toward an ornamental hedge where the land seems to finish, only to realize there’s a whole section beyond it, with an orchard at the end and some sort of walled garden to my left.
It’s a stunning garden. Even I can see that. The flowers are vivid without being garish; every wall is covered with some beautiful creeper or vine. As I walk toward the orchard I can see little golden pears hanging from the branches of trees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual pear growing on a tree before in my life. I grew up in a town house with a small paved courtyard containing nothing but a few nondescript shrubs.
I walk through the fruit trees toward a huge, square, brown patch of earth with vegetation growing in serried rows. These must be the vegetables. I prod one of them cautiously with my foot. It could be a cabbage or a lettuce. Or the leaves of something growing underground, maybe.
To be honest, it could be an alien. I have no idea.
I sit down on a mossy wooden bench and look at a nearby bush covered in white flowers. Mm. Pretty.
Now what? What do people do in their gardens?
I feel I should have something to read. Or someone to call. My fingers are itching to move. I look at my watch. Still only eight sixteen. Oh, God.
Come on, I can’t give up yet. I’ll just sit here for a bit and enjoy the peace. I lean back and watch a little speckled bird pecking the ground nearby for a while.
Then I look at my watch again: eight seventeen.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do nothing all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll have to go and buy another paper from the village shop. If they’ve got War and Peace, I’ll buy that too. I get up and head briskly back across the lawn when a bleep from my pocket makes me stop still.
It’s my mobile. It’s received a text. Someone’s just texted me, early on a Saturday morning. I pull out my mobile, feeling edgy. I haven’t had any contact with the outside world for two days. Is it from Carter Spink?
I know there are other texts in my phone—but I haven’t read any of them. I know there are messages in my voice mail—but I haven’t listened to a single one. I don’t want to know.
I finger my mobile, telling myself to put it away. But now my curiosity has been sparked. Someone texted me a few seconds ago. Someone, somewhere, has been holding a mobile phone, punching in a message to me. I have a sudden vision of Guy, in his off-duty chinos and blue shirt. Sitting at his desk, frowning as he texts. Apologizing. Or giving me some news. Some kind of development I couldn’t have guessed at yesterday—
I can’t help it. Despite all, I feel a sudden flicker of hope. As I stand there on the early morning lawn, I can feel my mental self being dragged out of this garden, back to London, back to the office. Two whole days have gone on there without me. A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. Things can change for the better.
Just stop. I mustn’t think about it. I’ve left Carter Spink. It’s nothing to do with me anymore. I’m going to relax and enjoy my free time, like any normal person.
Forcing the images out of my mind, I head out into the hall, where I find a copy of the Times on the doormat. I bring it back to the kitchen just as my toast is popping up.
This is the life.
I sit by the window, crunching toast, sipping coffee, and leafing through the paper in a leisurely way. At last, after devouring three slices, two cups of coffee, and all the Saturday sections, I stretch my arms in a big yawn and glance at the clock.
I don’t believe it. It’s only seven fifty-six.
What is wrong with me? I was supposed to take hours over breakfast. I was supposed to be sitting there all morning. Not get everything finished in twenty minutes flat.
OK … never mind. I’ll soon get the hang of it.
I put my crockery away in the dishwasher and wipe away my toast crumbs. Then I sit down at the table again and look about. I wonder what to do next.
Abruptly I realize I’m tapping the table with my fingernails. I stop myself and survey my hands for a moment. This is ridiculous. I’m having my first true day off in about ten years. I should be relaxed. Come on, I can think of something nice to do, surely.
What do people do on days off? My mind scrolls through a series of images from TV. I could make another cup of coffee, but I’ve already had two. I could read the paper again, but I have an almost photographic memory. So rereading things I already know is a bit pointless.
My gaze drifts to the garden, where a squirrel is perched on a stone pillar, looking around with bright eyes. Maybe I’ll go outside. Enjoy the garden and the wildlife and the early morning dew. Good idea.
Except the trouble with early morning dew is it gets all over your feet. As I pick my way over the damp grass, I’m already wishing I hadn’t put on open-toed sandals. Or that I’d waited till later for my little stroll.
The garden is a lot bigger than I’d appreciated. I walk down the lawn toward an ornamental hedge where the land seems to finish, only to realize there’s a whole section beyond it, with an orchard at the end and some sort of walled garden to my left.
It’s a stunning garden. Even I can see that. The flowers are vivid without being garish; every wall is covered with some beautiful creeper or vine. As I walk toward the orchard I can see little golden pears hanging from the branches of trees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual pear growing on a tree before in my life. I grew up in a town house with a small paved courtyard containing nothing but a few nondescript shrubs.
I walk through the fruit trees toward a huge, square, brown patch of earth with vegetation growing in serried rows. These must be the vegetables. I prod one of them cautiously with my foot. It could be a cabbage or a lettuce. Or the leaves of something growing underground, maybe.
To be honest, it could be an alien. I have no idea.
I sit down on a mossy wooden bench and look at a nearby bush covered in white flowers. Mm. Pretty.
Now what? What do people do in their gardens?
I feel I should have something to read. Or someone to call. My fingers are itching to move. I look at my watch. Still only eight sixteen. Oh, God.
Come on, I can’t give up yet. I’ll just sit here for a bit and enjoy the peace. I lean back and watch a little speckled bird pecking the ground nearby for a while.
Then I look at my watch again: eight seventeen.
I can’t do this.
I can’t do nothing all day. It’s going to drive me crazy. I’ll have to go and buy another paper from the village shop. If they’ve got War and Peace, I’ll buy that too. I get up and head briskly back across the lawn when a bleep from my pocket makes me stop still.
It’s my mobile. It’s received a text. Someone’s just texted me, early on a Saturday morning. I pull out my mobile, feeling edgy. I haven’t had any contact with the outside world for two days. Is it from Carter Spink?
I know there are other texts in my phone—but I haven’t read any of them. I know there are messages in my voice mail—but I haven’t listened to a single one. I don’t want to know.
I finger my mobile, telling myself to put it away. But now my curiosity has been sparked. Someone texted me a few seconds ago. Someone, somewhere, has been holding a mobile phone, punching in a message to me. I have a sudden vision of Guy, in his off-duty chinos and blue shirt. Sitting at his desk, frowning as he texts. Apologizing. Or giving me some news. Some kind of development I couldn’t have guessed at yesterday—
I can’t help it. Despite all, I feel a sudden flicker of hope. As I stand there on the early morning lawn, I can feel my mental self being dragged out of this garden, back to London, back to the office. Two whole days have gone on there without me. A lot can happen in forty-eight hours. Things can change for the better.
