everywhere, all over the countertops, all over me,ç€ all over›me, all over everything . . . I dive on the machine, trying to switch it off. Only I can’t even see where the switch is, as now I’ve got beetroot juice in my eyes, and the machine is making a loud grinding noise, and it’s shuddering, and I’m getting soaked, and—
‘Jesus!’
Abruptly the machine falls silent and I twirl round to see Nate. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he’s holding the flex, his face aghast.
‘It looks like a bloodbath in here!’
Dazedly I take in the sight. It’s like something from a horror film. Everywhere you look the walls are dripping with red liquid. It’s sprayed over the countertops, the stainless-steel fridge, the cooker, the utensils . . . and then there’s the celery pulp. Green clumps of it, flecks of it, little bits of it, all over his lovely pristine kitchen.
And me.
‘What the hell happened?’
‘Um . . . I-I was having a spot of trouble with the j-juicer,’ I stammer in shock. Mortified, I start trying to wipe the splatters of pulp from my face with the sleeve of my dressing gown.
‘No kidding.’ Grabbing a few sheets of kitchen roll, he passes them to me.
‘There was this piece missing.’
‘You mean the lid?’
The tone of his voice makes me bristle slightly.
‘Gosh, look, I’m so sorry. I’ll clear it all.’ Grabbing a dishcloth, I start frantically trying to clean up.
‘It’s probably going to ruin the marble countertop.’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, really.’
‘Marble’s porous, you know.’
‘Is it? Oh crap.’ I wipe faster. ‘Though it’s a bit silly to make a work surface out of it, then, isn’t it?’ I can’t help noting aloud as an afterthought.
‘Well, they don’t expect you to drown it in beetroot juice,’ he retorts.
‘I know. I’m sorry. It was just a total accident.’
And I’ve apologised three times, I feel like adding.
There’s a pause and then he sighs. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I suppose it’s not a big deal.’ Picking his way through the debris, he tugs open the fridge and reaches for a bottle of Evian. ‘I’d just forgotten how clumsy you are.’
Abruptly I feel myself prickle. OK, I admit I’m not the most coordinated of people, but still.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I reply stiffly, pausing from wiping the countertop.
‘In Italy don’t you remember you were always tripping over?’
‘Have you ever attempted walking in high heels on cobbles?’ I reply, trying not to sound defensive, and sounding defensive.
‘Or breaking things.’
I look at him in disbelief. ‘You’re never going to let me forget that vase, are you?’
‘It was expensive. It was Murano glass.’
‘I didn’t mean to drop it,’ I gasp. ‘It was all that spider’s fault. It just appeared from nowhere and it was huge, with those big, hairy black legs.’ I give a little shudder. ‘Anyway, I bought you another vase.’
‘True.’ He nods. ‘But they were all individually hand-blown. No two were alike.’
‘I can’t believe you’re still holding this against me. It was ten years ago.’
‘I’m just saying.’ He shrugs, unscrewing the bottle of Evian and taking a swig.
I look at him leaning up against the fridge, casually glugging back water, while I’m standing here soaked in beetroot juice and covered in sticky bits of celery pulp, scrubbing down his kitchen, and feel a stab of annoyance. Actually, it’s more than a stab – it’s a great big dollop of fury.
‘Well, don’t,’ I snap.
Unknown
He stops drinking and glances at me sharply. ‘This mess...
‘No, it’s mine. I know, I’m clumsy.’ Turning away, I continue furiously wiping the countertop.
‘Well, if you were a bit more careful . . .’ he retorts.
‘If you bought juice in a carton like a normal person,’ I say hotly.
He scowls. ‘Oh, so I’m being blamed now.’
‘No, you’re just being patronising.’
There’s silence as Nate and I stare at each other angrily.
‘OK, well, I’m going to jump in the shower,’ he says gruffly after a pause. ‘I’ve got work to do today.’
It’s like a boxer’s jab. It’s the weekend. We’d made plans to spend it together.
I reel slightly, then quickly recover. ‘Yeah, I’m busy too,’ I say stiffly. ‘I’ll just finish clearing up and then I’ll go.’
Then before he can say anything else, I turn away sharply and start scrubbing the sink.
Chapter Fourteen
OK, so we’ve just had our first row.
But that’s fine. All couples have them. It’s perfectly normal.
In fact, it’s not a bad thing at all. It’s a good thing, I tell myself firmly. Arguing is healthy. It means we’re a proper couple. I