The Undomestic Goddess (Page 83)

We seem to lie still for hours afterward. I feel numb with euphoria. There are stones and dust embedded in my back and knees and hands and raspberry stains all over my skin. I don’t mind. I can’t even bring myself to lift a hand and remove the ant that is crawling up my stomach like a tickling dot.

My head is on Nathaniel’s chest, his heart beating like a deep, comforting clock. The sun is hot on my skin. I have no idea what time it is. I don’t care what time it is. I’ve lost all sense of minutes and hours.

At last Nathaniel shifts his head slightly. He kisses my shoulder, then smiles. “You taste of raspberry.”

“That was—” I break off, almost too stupefied to frame any sensible words. “You know … normally I …” A huge yawn suddenly overcomes me and I clap my hand over my mouth. I want to go to sleep now, for days.

Nathaniel traces lazy circles around my back.

“Six minutes isn’t sex,” I hear him saying as my eyes crash shut. “Six minutes is a boiled egg.”

By the time I wake up, the raspberry cages are in partial shade. Nathaniel has moved from underneath me, given me a pillow constructed from my crumpled, raspberry-stained skirt, put on his jeans, and brought down some beer from the Geigers’ fridge. I sit up, my head still groggy, to see him leaning against a tree on the grass.

“Slacker,” I say. “The Geigers think you’re tying up sweet peas.”

He turns toward me with a flicker of amusement. “Sleep well?”

“How long was I asleep?” I put my hand to my face and remove a small stone. I feel totally disoriented.

“Couple of hours. You want some of this?” He gestures to the bottle. “It’s cold.”

I get to my feet, brush myself down, put on my skirt and bra as a good compromise outfit and join him. I sink back against the tree trunk, my bare feet in the cool grass.

“God, I feel so …” I lift a hand and let it drop down with a heavy thump.

“You’re not as twitchy as you were,” says Nathaniel. “You used to jump a mile whenever I spoke to you.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Uh-huh, you did.” He nods. “Like a rabbit.”

“I thought I was a badger.”

“You’re a rabbit–badger cross. Very rare breed.” He grins at me. For a while neither of us speaks. I watch a tiny plane high above, leaving a white trail in the sky.

“Mum says you’ve changed too. She said she reckons whoever you’ve run away from … whatever happened … they’re losing their grip on you.”

The question is there in his voice, but I don’t respond. I’m thinking of Iris yesterday. Letting me take all my frustrations out on her. It’s not like she’s had it easy herself.

“Your mum’s amazing,” I say at last. I put the bottle down and roll onto the grass, staring up at the blue sky. I can smell the earth beneath my head and feel grass stems against my ears and hear a grasshopper chirruping nearby.

I have changed. I can feel it in myself. I feel … stiller.

“Who would you be?” I say, twisting a grass stem round my finger. “If you could just run away. Become a different person.”

“I’d be me,” he says at last. “I’m happy as I am. I like living where I live. I like doing what I do.”

I roll over onto my front and look up at him, squinting in the sunlight. “There must be something else you’d like to do. Some dream you’ve got.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “I’m doing what I want to do.”

“But what about the nursery you were going to set up?”

I see the surprise on his face. “How did you—”

“Trish told me about it this morning. She said you had business plans and everything. What happened?”

For a moment he’s silent, his eyes averted from mine. I can’t tell what’s going on inside.

“It was just an idea,” he says finally.

“You gave it up for your mum. To run the pubs.”

“Maybe.” He reaches for a low-growing branch and starts stripping it of leaves. “Everything changed.”

“But do you really want to run the pubs?” I edge forward on the grass, trying to intercept his gaze. “You said it yourself, you’re not a landlord. You’re a gardener.”

“It’s not a question of want.” Nathaniel’s voice has a sudden edge of frustration. “It’s a family business. Someone has to run it.”

“Why you?” I persist. “Why not your brother?”

“He’s … different. He does his own thing.”