The Undomestic Goddess

“It was amazing!” I say with enthusiasm. “You must be so proud, to have that in your family.”

Iris nods. “Those pubs have been run by Blewetts for generations.” She sits down and helps us both to bean salad, dressed with oil and speckled with herbs. I take a bite—and it’s absolutely delicious.

“It must have been hard when your husband died,” I venture cautiously.

“Everything was in a mess.” Iris sounds matter-of-fact. A chicken wanders over to the table and she shoos it away. “There were financial difficulties. I wasn’t well. If it hadn’t been for Nathaniel we might have lost all of the pubs. He made sure they got back on track. For his father’s memory.” Her eyes cloud a little and she hesitates. “You never know how things are going to turn out, however much you plan. But you already know that.”

“I always thought my life would be a certain way,” I say, gazing down at my plate. “I had it all mapped out.”

“But … it didn’t happen like that?”

For a few seconds I can’t answer. I’m remembering the moment I heard I was going to be partner. That instant of undiluted, dazzling joy. When I thought my life had finally fallen into place, when I thought everything was perfect.

“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “It didn’t happen like that.”

Iris is watching me with such clear, empathetic eyes I almost believe she’s able to read my mind.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, chicken,” she says. “We all flounder.”

I can’t imagine Iris ever floundering. She seems so puttogether.

“Oh, I floundered,” she says, reading my expression. “After Benjamin went. It was so sudden. Everything I thought I had, gone overnight.”

“So … what did you …” I spread my hands helplessly.

“I found another way,” she says. “But … it took time.” For a moment she holds my gaze, then looks at her watch. “Speaking of which, I’ll make some coffee. And see how that bread’s getting on.”

I get up to follow her, but she bats me down again.

“Sit. Stay. Relax.”

So I sit in the dappled sunlight, sipping my iced tea, trying to relax. Trying to enjoy the present, just sitting here in a beautiful garden. But emotions are still darting around me like unsettled fish.

Another way.

But I don’t know any other way. I feel like the light’s gone out and I’m feeling my way forward, one step at a time. And all I know is I can’t go back to what I was.

I clench my eyes shut, trying to clear my mind. I should never have looked at that Web site. I should never have read those comments.

“Hold out your arms, Samantha.” Iris’s voice is suddenly behind me. “Close your eyes. Go on.”

I have no idea what she’s up to, but I keep my eyes closed and hold out my arms. The next moment I feel something warm being put into them. A yeasty smell is rising up. I open my eyes to see a loaf of bread in my arms.

Proper bread. Real, proper bread like you’d see in a baker’s window. Fat and plump and golden-brown, with faint striations and a crusty, almost flaky top. It smells so delicious I can feel my mouth watering.

“Tell me that’s nothing,” says Iris, squeezing my arm. “You made that, sweetie. And you should be proud of yourself.”

Something hot is wadding my throat as I clutch the warm loaf. I made this bread. I made it. I, Samantha Sweeting, who couldn’t even microwave a packet of soup. Who gave up seven years of her life to end up with nothing, to be wiped out of existence. Who has no idea who she even is anymore.

I made a loaf of bread. Right now I feel like this is the only thing I have to hold on to.

To my horror a tear suddenly rolls down my cheek, followed by another. This is ridiculous. I must get a grip on myself.

“Looks good,” comes Nathaniel’s easy voice behind me, and I wheel round in shock to see him standing next to Iris.

“Hi,” I say, flustered. “I thought you were … fixing a pipe or something.”

“Still am.” He nods. “I just popped home.”

“I’ll go and get the other loaves out,” says Iris, patting me on the shoulder and disappearing over the grass toward the house.

I stand up. Just the sight of Nathaniel is adding all sorts of new emotions into the mix: more fish darting around my body.

Although now I think about it, they’re mainly varieties of the same fish.

“Are you all right?” he says, acknowledging my tears.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a strange day.” I brush them away in embarrassment. “I don’t usually get so emotional about … bread.”