The Undomestic Goddess

“Mr. Geiger’s shirts, mainly,” I say, nervously joining her at the ironing board.

“All right.” She plugs in an iron and turns the dial. “Hot, for cotton. Wait for the iron to heat up. No point beginning till it’s at the right temperature. Now, I’ll show you the right way to tackle a shirt.…”

She rootles, frowning, in a pile of clean laundry in the little room. “Shirts … shirts … Nathaniel, take off your shirt a moment.”

I stiffen. As I glance at Nathaniel I see he has stiffened too.

“Mum!” He gives an awkward laugh.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, love,” says Iris impatiently. “You can take off your shirt for a moment. No one’s embarrassed. You’re not embarrassed, are you, Samantha?”

“Um …” My voice is a little grainy for some reason. “Um … no, of course not.”

“Now, this is your steam.” She presses a button on the iron and a jet of steam shoots into the air. “Always check that your steam compartment has water.… Nathaniel! I’m waiting!”

Through the steam I can see Nathaniel slowly unbuttoning his shirt. I catch a flash of smooth tanned skin and hastily lower my gaze.

Let’s not be adolescent about this. So he’s taking off his shirt. It’s no big deal.

He tosses the shirt to his mother, who catches it deftly. My eyes are studiously fixed downward.

I’m not going to look at him.

“Start with the collar.” Iris is smoothing the shirt out on the ironing board. “Now, you don’t have to press hard.” She guides my hand as the iron glides over the fabric. “Keep a smooth touch …”

This is ridiculous. I’m an adult, mature woman. I can look at a man with no shirt on without falling to bits. What I’ll do is … take a casual peek. And get this out of my mind.

“Now the yoke …” Iris turns the shirt around on the board and I start pressing again. “Very good … onto the cuffs now …”

I lift the shirttail to flip it over—and as I do so, accidentally-on-purpose raise my eyes.

Sweet Jesus.

I’m not sure the whole getting-it-out-of-my-mind plan is going to work after all.

“Samantha?” Iris grabs the iron from my hand. “You’re scorching the shirt!”

“Oh!” I come to. “Sorry. I … I lost concentration for a moment.”

“Your cheeks seem very flushed.” Iris puts a curious hand to my cheek. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

“Must be the … um … steam.” I start ironing again, my face like a furnace. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

At last I shake out his ironed shirt, perfectly done with all the creases in the right places.

“Very good!” says Iris, applauding. “After some practice you’ll be able to do that in four minutes flat.”

“Looks great.” Nathaniel smiles, holding out a hand. “Thanks.”

“That’s OK!” I manage in a strangled squawk, and hastily look away again, my heart thumping.

Great. Just great. One glimpse of his body and I have a full-blown crush.

I honestly thought I was a bit deeper than that.

Thirteen

He doesn’t have a girlfriend.

I managed to get that information out of Trish on Sunday night, under the guise of asking about all the neighbors. There was some girl in Gloucester, apparently—but that was all over months ago. The way is clear. I just need a strategy.

As I shower and get dressed the next morning, I’m totally fixated by thoughts of Nathaniel. I’m aware I’ve reverted to the behavior of a fourteen-year-old, that next I’ll be doodling Samantha loves Nathaniel with a love heart dotting the i. But I don’t care. It’s not as though being a mature, levelheaded professional was working out so great for me.

I brush my hair, looking out at the misty green fields, and feel inexplicably lighthearted. I have no reason to feel this way. On paper, everything is still catastrophic. My fast-track career is over. My family has no idea where I am. I’m earning a fraction of what I used to, for a job that involves picking up other people’s dirty underwear off the floor.

And yet I find myself humming as I straighten my bed.

My life has changed, and I’m changing with it. It’s as if the old conventional monochrome Samantha has faded away into a paper doll. I’ve thrown her into the water and she’s melting away to nothing. And in her place is a new me. A me with possibilities.

I’ve never gone after a man before. But then, until yesterday I’d never basted a chicken before. If I can do that, I can ask a man out, surely? The old Samantha would have sat back and waited to be approached. Well, not the new Samantha. I’ve seen the dating shows on TV; I know the rules. It’s all about looks and body language and flirty conversation.