Nathaniel stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “After you spent all day cooking for them?”
“It’s their food. Their house. They can do what they like.”
I’m trying to sound careless and matter-of-fact. But the disappointment remains heavy inside me. Nathaniel puts down his rucksack and inspects the sea bream. “Looks good.”
“It looks like congealed, overcooked fish,” I correct him.
“My favorite.” He grins, but I’m not in the mood for his good humor.
“Have some, then.” I gesture at the dish. “No one else is going to eat it.”
“Well, then. Shame to waste it.” He helps himself to everything, piling his plate ludicrously high, then pours himself a glass of wine and sits down opposite me at the table.
“To you.” Nathaniel raises his glass. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously, Samantha.” He waits patiently until I drag my eyes up from the floor. “Whether they ate it or not, this is a real achievement. I mean, bloody hell. Remember the last dinner you cooked in this kitchen?”
I give a reluctant smile. “The lamb of doom, you mean.”
“The chickpeas. I’ll never forget those.” He takes a bite of fish. “This is good, by the way.”
An image comes to me of those tiny blackened bullets; myself running around in a frenzy; the meringue dripping on the floor … and in spite of everything I want to giggle. I’ve already learned so much since then.
“Well, of course, I’d have been OK that night,” I say nonchalantly. “If you hadn’t insisted on helping me. I had it all under control till you got in my way.”
Nathaniel puts his fork down, still munching, his blue eyes crinkled up with something—amusement, maybe. I can feel the telltale heat rising in my cheeks, and as I glance downward I notice that my hands are resting on the table, palms up.
And I’m leaning forward, I realize in sudden horror. My pupils are probably half a mile wide too. My body language could not be any clearer if I wrote I fancy you in felt-tip on my forehead.
I hastily remove my hands to my lap, sit up straight, and adopt a stony expression. I haven’t got over this morning’s mortification. In fact, I might take the opportunity to regain my equilibrium.
“So—” I begin, just as Nathaniel starts speaking too.
“Go on.” He takes another bite of fish. “After you.”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “After our … conversation this morning. I was just going to say that you’re quite right about relationships. Obviously I’m not ready for anything new yet. Or even interested. At all.”
There. At least I’ve salvaged my dignity a little.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, pouring more wine into his glass.
“I was going to ask you out,” says Nathaniel, and I nearly flood the table with wine.
He what?
The body language worked?
“But not to worry.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I understand.”
Backtrack. I need to backtrack, very, very quickly. Yet subtly, so he doesn’t actually notice I’m backtracking.
Oh, bugger it, I’ll just be inconsistent. I’m a woman, I’m allowed to be.
“Nathaniel,” I force myself to say calmly. “I’d love to go out with you.”
“Good.” He looks unperturbed. “How’s Friday night?”
“Perfect.”
As I grin back, I suddenly realize I’m hungry. I pull my plate of sea bream toward me, pick up my knife and fork, and begin to eat.
Fourteen
I get to Friday morning without any major calamities. At least, none that the Geigers know about.
There was the vegetable-risotto disaster on Tuesday—but thank God I managed to get a last-minute substitute from the caterers. There was a peach camisole that, in hindsight, should have been ironed on a lower setting. There was the Dartington vase that I broke while trying to dust with the vacuum-cleaner attachment. But no one seems to have noticed it’s gone yet. And the new one should arrive tomorrow.
So far, this week has cost me only two hundred pounds, which is a vast improvement on last week. I may even start making a profit before too long.
I’m putting Eddie’s damp underwear in the dryer, averting my eyes as best I can, when I hear Trish calling me.
“Samantha! Where are you?” She doesn’t sound pleased. What’s she discovered? “I can’t have you walking around like that anymore.” Trish arrives at the door of the utility room, shaking her head vigorously.
“I’m sorry?” I peer at her.