The Undomestic Goddess
Page 61

“Mrs. Geiger?” I knock on her door. “I’m just worried the dinner will spoil—”
“So what?” comes back her muffled voice. “I’m not in the mood for eating.”
I stare at the door in disbelief. I’ve spent all bloody day cooking dinner for them. It’s all ready. The candles are lit, the plates are in the oven. They can’t just not eat it.
“You have to eat!” I cry out, and Eddie stops, halfway down the stairs. The bedroom door opens, and Trish looks out in astonishment.
“What?” she says.
OK. Play this one carefully.
“Everyone has to eat,” I improvise. “It’s a human need. So why not discuss your differences over a meal? Or put them on hold! Have a glass of wine and relax and agree not to mention … er … Portugal.”
As I say the word, I can feel their hackles rising.
“I’m not the one who mentioned it,” growls Eddie. “I thought the subject was closed.”
“I only mentioned it because you were so insensitive.” Trish brushes a sudden tear from her eye. “How do you think I feel, being your … trophy wife?”
Trophy?
I must not laugh.
“Trish.” To my astonishment, Eddie is hurrying up the stairs. “Don’t you ever say that.” He grips her shoulders and looks her fiercely in the eye. “We’ve always been a partnership. You know that. Ever since Sydenham.”
First Portugal, now Sydenham. One day I have to sit Trish down with a bottle of wine and coax her entire life history out of her.
“I know,” whispers Trish.
She’s gazing up at Eddie as though no one else exists, and I suddenly feel a little pang. They really are in love. I can see the antagonism slowly melting away in their eyes. It’s like witnessing a chemical reaction in a test tube.
“Let’s go and eat,” says Eddie finally. “Samantha was right. We should have a nice meal together. Sit down and talk it over.”
Thank God for that. The sea bream will still be just about OK.… I only need to put the sauce in a jug.
“All right, let’s.” Trish sniffs. “Samantha, we’ll be out to dinner tonight.”
My smile freezes on my face.
“Don’t worry about cooking for us,” puts in Eddie, giving me a jovial pat. “You can have a night off!”
What?
“But … I’ve cooked!” I say quickly. “It’s done!”
“Oh. Well … never mind.” Trish makes a vague dismissive gesture with her hand. “Eat it yourself.”
No. No. They cannot do this to me.
“But it’s all ready for you downstairs! Roasted fish … and julienned vegetables …”
“Where shall we go?” says Trish to Eddie, not listening to a word. “Shall we try and get in at The Mill House?”
As I stand there in stupefaction, she disappears into the bedroom, followed by Eddie. The door closes and I’m left on the landing.
My dinner party’s ruined.
When they’ve roared out of the drive in Eddie’s Porsche, I go into the dining room and slowly clear everything up. I put away the crystal glasses and fold up the napkins and blow out the candles. Then I head back into the kitchen and look for a moment at all my dishes, set out ready for action. My sauce, bubbling away on the hob. My carved lemon-slice garnishes. I was so proud of everything.
Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.
My sea bream are looking pretty sorry for themselves, but I slip one onto a plate anyway and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit at the table, cut myself a piece, and raise it to my mouth. Then I put my knife and fork down without even tasting it. I’m not hungry.
A whole wasted afternoon. And tomorrow I’ve got to do it all over again. The thought makes me feel like sinking my head down onto my arms and never looking up again.
What am I doing here?
I mean, really. What am I doing? Why am I not walking out right now and getting on a train back to London?
As I’m slumped there I become aware of a faint tapping at the open door, and I look up to see Nathaniel leaning in the door frame, holding his rucksack. Remembering this morning’s encounter, I feel a flash of embarrassment. Without quite meaning to, I swivel my chair away slightly and fold my arms.
“Hi,” I say, with a tiny If-you-think-I’m-interested-in-you-you’re-much-mistaken shrug.
“I thought I’d come and see if you needed any help.” His eyes travel around the kitchen, at the dishes of untouched food. “What happened?”
“They didn’t eat it. They went out to dinner.”