His silence …
My career is wrecked. My life as I knew it is over.
At last I push back the covers and get out of bed, feeling weak and spacey. This time yesterday I was in my kitchen, getting ready for work, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. In another world—in a parallel universe to this one—I would be waking up today a partner of Carter Spink. I’d be surrounded by messages of congratulation.
I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to escape the sickening if-only thoughts. If I’d seen the memo earlier—if I had a tidier desk—if Arnold hadn’t given me that loan agreement—
But there’s no point. I walk to the window and take deep gulps of fresh air. What happened happened. All I can do is deal with it. Until this moment in time my whole life has been mapped out to the hour. Through exams, through holiday internships, the rungs of the career ladder … I thought I knew exactly where I was headed. And now I find myself in a strange room in the middle of the countryside, my career in ruins.
Plus … there’s something else. Something’s nagging at me. A final piece of the jigsaw still missing in my dazed brain. It’ll come to me in a minute.
I lean against the windowsill and watch a man on the distant horizon walking his dog. Maybe things are salvageable. Maybe it’s not all as bad as I thought. Guy didn’t actually say I’d lost my job. I have to call him—and find out just how bad it is. I take a deep breath and run my hands through my tangled hair. God, I flipped out yesterday. When I consider the way I acted, running out of the office, jumping on a train … I was really on another planet. If it weren’t for the Geigers being so understanding—
My train of thought halts abruptly.
The Geigers.
Something about the Geigers. Something I’m not remembering … something that’s ringing slight alarm bells …
I turn round and focus on a blue dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Some kind of uniform, with piping. Why would there be a—
The alarm bells are getting louder. They’re starting to clang wildly. It’s coming back to me like some kind of terrible, drunken dream.
Did I take a job as a housekeeper?
For a few instants I cannot move. Oh, God. What have I done? What have I done?
My heart starts to thump as I take in my situation properly for the first time. I am staying in a strange couple’s house under completely false pretenses. I’ve slept in their bed. I’m wearing one of Trish’s old T-shirts. They even gave me a toothbrush, after I invented a suitcase-stolen-on-the-train story. The last thing I remember is hearing Trish gloating on the phone. “She’s English!” she was saying. “Yes, speaks English perfectly! Super girl. Cordon Bleu trained!”
I’ll have to tell them it was all lies.
There’s a rapping at my bedroom door and I jump in fright.
“Samantha?” Trish’s voice comes through the door. “May I come in?”
“Oh! Um … yes!”
The door opens and Trish appears, wearing pale pink exercise clothes with a diamanté logo.
“I’ve made you a cup of tea,” she says, handing me the mug with a formal smile. “Mr. Geiger and I would like you to feel very welcome in our house.”
“Oh!” I swallow nervously. “Thanks.”
Mrs. Geiger, there’s something I need to tell you. I’m not a housekeeper.
Somehow the words don’t make it out of my mouth.
Trish’s eyes have narrowed as though she’s already regretting her kind gesture. “Don’t think you’ll be getting this every day, of course! But since you weren’t feeling well last night …” She taps her watch. “Now you’d better get dressed. We’ll expect you down in ten minutes. We only have a light breakfast as a rule. Toast and coffee. Then we can discuss the menu for the week.”
“Er … OK,” I say feebly.
She closes the door and I put the tea down. Oh, fuck. What am I going to do?
OK. Prioritize. I need to call the office. Find out exactly how bad the situation is. With a spasm of apprehension I reach inside my bag for my mobile phone.
The display is blank.
I tap it in frustration, but the battery must have run out. I must have been so spaced out yesterday I forgot to charge it. I pull out my charger, plug it into the wall, and attach the phone. At once it starts charging up.
I wait for the signal to appear … but there’s no bloody signal. How am I going to call the office? How am I going to do anything? I cannot exist without my mobile phone.
Suddenly I remember passing a telephone on the landing. It was on a table in a little window bay. Maybe I could use that. I open my bedroom door and look up and down the corridor. No one’s about. Cautiously I creep into the bay and lift the receiver. The dial tone rings in my ear. I take a deep breath—then dial the direct line for Arnold. It isn’t nine yet, but he’ll be in.
“Arnold Saville’s office,” comes the cheerful voice of Lara, his secretary.
“Lara,” I say nervously. “It’s Samantha. Samantha Sweeting.”
“Samantha?” Lara sounds so gobsmacked, I wince. “Oh, my God! What happened? Where are you? Everyone’s been—” She draws herself up.
“I … I’m out of London right now. May I speak with Arnold?”
“Of course. He’s right here.…” She disappears briefly into chirpy Vivaldi, before the line clears again.
“Samantha.” Arnold’s friendly, assured voice booms down the line. “My dear girl. You’ve got yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?”
Only Arnold could describe the loss of a client’s £50 million as a “pickle.” In spite of everything, I feel the beginning of a smile. I can just picture him, in his waistcoat, his woolly eyebrows knitting together.
“I know,” I say, trying to match his understated tones. “It’s … not great.”
“I’m obliged to point out that your hasty departure yesterday did not help matters.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I just … panicked.”
“Understandable. However, you left a bit of a mess behind.”
Beneath Arnold’s jolly veneer I can hear unfamiliar levels of stress. Arnold never gets stressed. Things must be really bad. I want to fall to the floor in a groveling heap, crying, “I’m so sorry!” But that wouldn’t help. I’ve already been unprofessional enough.
“So—what’s the latest situation?” I’m trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Is there anything the receivers can do?”
“I think it unlikely. They say their hands are tied.”
“Right.” His response is like a hammer blow to the stomach. So that’s it. The fifty million is gone for good. “And … the insurers?”
“That is the next step, of course. The money will be recovered eventually, I’m sure. But not without complications. As I think you will appreciate.”
“I know,” I whisper.
There’s no good news. There’s no silver lining. I’ve fucked up.
“Arnold …” I say, my voice quivering. “I have no idea how I could have made such a … a stupid mistake. I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t even remember seeing the memo on my desk—”
“Where are you now?” Arnold breaks in.
“I’m …” I look helplessly out the window at the Geigers’ gravel drive. “To be honest, I don’t even know exactly where I am.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m in the country somewhere. But I can come back right now!” My words tumble out. “I’ll get on the first train … I’ll only be a few hours.…”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” There’s a new edge to Arnold’s voice, which pulls me up short.
“Have I … have I been fired?”
“There have been slightly more pressing matters to consider, Samantha.” He sounds testy.
“Of course.” I feel the blood rush back into my head. “I’m sorry. I just … I’ve been with Carter Spink all my working life. All I ever, ever wanted was …”
I can’t even say it.
; “Samantha, I know you’re a very talented lawyer.” Arnold sighs. “No one is in any doubt of that.”
“But I made a mistake.”
I can hear tiny crackles down the line; my own pulse beating in my ears.
“Samantha, I’ll do everything I can,” he says at last. “I might as well tell you, a meeting has been arranged this morning to discuss your future.”
“And you honestly don’t think I should come in?” I bite my lip.
“It might do more harm than good at the moment. Stay where you are. Leave the rest to me.” Arnold hesitates, his voice a little gruff. “I’ll do my best, Samantha. I promise.”
“Thank you so much …” I say quickly. But he’s gone. Slowly I put down the phone.
I have never felt so powerless in my life. I have a sudden vision of them all sitting gravely round a conference table. Arnold. Ketterman. Maybe even Guy. Deciding whether to give me another break.
There’s still a chance. If Arnold is on my side, others might be too.…
“Super girl.”
I jump at the sound of Trish’s approaching voice. “Well, of course I’ll check her references, but, Gillian, I am a very good judge of character. I’m not easily fooled.…”
Trish rounds the corner, holding a mobile to her ear, and I quickly move away from the telephone.
“Samantha!” she says in surprise. “What are you doing? Still not dressed? Buck up!” She heads off again and I scuttle back to my room.
I suddenly feel bad.
In fact … I feel terrible. How are the Geigers going to react when I tell them I’m a total fraud? That I’m not a trained Cordon Bleu housekeeper at all, I just wanted a place to stay for the night?
I have a sudden image of them bundling me furiously out of the house. Feeling totally used. Maybe they’ll even call the police and file charges. Oh, God. This could get really nasty.
But, I mean, it’s not like I have any other option. It’s not like I could actually …
… Could I?
I pick up the blue uniform and finger it, my mind whirling round and round.
They’ve been so kind, putting me up. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. Maybe it’ll even take my mind off things, doing a little light housework—
Abruptly I come to a decision.
I’ll busk it for a morning. It can’t be that hard. I’ll make their toast and dust the ornaments or whatever. I’ll think of it as my little thank-you to them. Then as soon as I hear from Arnold I’ll find a convincing excuse to leave. And the Geigers will never know I wasn’t a proper housekeeper.
Hurriedly I put on my uniform and run a comb through my hair. Then I stand to face myself in the mirror.
“Good morning, Mrs. Geiger,” I say to my reflection. “And … er … how would you like the drawing room dusted?”
The Geigers are standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at me as I descend. I have never felt more self-conscious in my life.
I’m a housekeeper. I must behave like a housekeeper.
“Welcome, Samantha!” says Eddie as I arrive down in the hall. He’s wearing a polo shirt with some crested logo, and golfing trousers. “Sleep all right?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Geiger,” I reply demurely.
“That’s good!” Eddie rocks back and forth on the soles of his feet. He seems just a little awkward. In fact … they both seem awkward. Underneath the makeup, the tans, the expensive clothes … there seems a hint of uncertainty about the Geigers.
I walk over to the bench seat and straighten a cushion, trying to look as though I know what I’m doing.
“You’ll be wanting to get to know your new kitchen!” says Trish brightly.
“Of course!” I say with a confident smile. “I’m … looking forward to it!”
It’s only a kitchen. It’s only one morning. I can do this.
Trish leads the way into the vast maple kitchen, and this time I try to take in the details. There’s a huge hob set into the granite counter to my left. A bank of ovens built into the wall. Everywhere I look I can see shiny chrome gadgets plugged into sockets. Racks of saucepans and implements of all descriptions are hanging overhead in a jumble of stainless steel.
“You’ll want to get it the way you like it, of course,” says Trish, gesturing around. “Just change anything you like. Knock it into shape. You’re the professional!”
They’re both looking at me expectantly.
“Absolutely,” I say in a businesslike way. “Obviously I have my own … um … systems. That shouldn’t be there, for example.” I point randomly at a small metal gadget resembling a torpedo. “The … um …”
“Juice extractor,” supplies Trish.
“Exactly. I’ll have to move it.”
“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “Why’s that?”
There’s a beat of silence. Even Eddie looks interested.
“Kitchen … ergonomic … theory,” I improvise. “So, you’d like toast for breakfast?” I add quickly.
“Toast for both of us,” says Trish. “Whole wheat. And coffee with skim milk.”
“Coming up.” I smile, feeling slight relief.
I can make toast. And the bread bin is helpfully marked Bread.
“So, I’ll just bring that through in a moment,” I add, trying to chivvy them out. “Would you like to eat in the dining room?”
There’s a small crash from the hall.
“That’ll be the newspaper,” says Trish. “Yes, you may serve breakfast in the dining room.” She hurries out, but Eddie loiters in the kitchen.
“You know, I’ve changed my mind.” He gives me a jovial smile. “Forget the toast, Samantha. I’ll have your famous eggs Benedict. You whetted my appetite last night!”
Last night? What did I say last—
Oh, Jesus. Eggs Benedict. My famous signature dish as beloved by Lord Edgerly.
What was I thinking?
I don’t even know what eggs Benedict is.
“Are you … sure that’s what you want?” I try to sound relaxed.
“I wouldn’t miss your specialty!” Eddie rubs his stomach in anticipation. “It’s my favorite breakfast. The best eggs Benedict I’ve ever tasted were at the Carlyle in New York, but I’ll take a bet yours are even better!”
“I don’t know about that!”
OK, think. It must be simple enough. Eggs and … something.
Eddie leans against the counter with an expectant look. I have a nasty suspicion he’s waiting for me to start cooking. Hesitantly, I get down a gleaming pan from the rack, just as Trish bustles in with the newspaper. She eyes me with bright curiosity.
“How will you be using the asparagus steamer, Samantha?”
Shit.
“I just wanted to … examine it. Yes.” I nod briskly, as though the pan has confirmed my suspicions, then carefully hang it back on the rack again.
Could I quickly look it up in a cookbook?
But it’s supposed to be my specialty. Why would I need a cookbook?
I’m feeling hotter and hotter. I have no idea even how to begin. Do I … crack the eggs? Boil them?
“Here you are.” Eddie takes a huge box of eggs out of the fridge, plonks them on the counter, and lifts the lid. “Should be enough there, I’d imagine!”
Before me are rows and rows of brown eggs. What do I think I’m doing? I can’t make bloody eggs Benedict. I can’t make these people breakfast. I’m going to have to confess.
I turn round and take a deep breath.
“Mr. Geiger … Mrs. Geiger …”
“Eggs?” Trish’s voice cuts across mine. “Eddie, you can’t have eggs! Remember what the doctor said!” Her eyes bore into me. “What did he ask you for, Samantha? Boiled eggs?”
“Er … Mr. Geiger ordered eggs Benedict. But the thing is—”
“You’re not eating eggs Benedict!” Trish practically shrieks at Eddie. “It’s full of cholesterol!”
“I’ll eat what I like!” Eddie protests.
“The doctor gave him an eating plan.” Trish is dragging furiously on her cigarette as she speaks. “He’s already had a bowl of cornflakes this morning!”
“I was hungry!” says Eddie, defensive. “You had a chocolate muffin!”
Trish gasps as though he’s hit her. Small red dots appear in her cheeks.
“We will have a cup of coffee each, Samantha,” she announces at last in a dignified voice. “You may serve it in the lounge. Use the pink china. Come along, Eddie.” And she sweeps out before I can respond.
I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. This is ridiculous. I can’t carry on with this charade. I have to tell the Geigers the truth. Now. I walk decisively out of the kitchen into the hall, but then behind the closed door of the sitting room I can hear the shrill, indistinct voice of Trish angrily berating Eddie, and Eddie’s defensive rumbles in return. Hastily I back away again into the kitchen and switch the kettle on.
A quarter of an hour later I’ve arranged a silver tray with a French press coffeepot, pink cups, creamer, sugar, and a sprig of pink flowers I snipped from a hanging basket outside the kitchen window. Fifteen minutes, just to make a cup of coffee. At Carter Spink I would have earned the firm £125 in that time.
Of course, I would have been quicker if I hadn’t had to work out how to use the French press first. And if my first batch of coffee hadn’t tasted like dishwater.
I approach the sitting-room door, put the tray down on the table in the hall, and knock cautiously.
“Come in!” Trish calls.
As I enter, she’s sitting in an overstuffed striped velvet chair by the window, holding a magazine at a rather artificial angle. Eddie is on the other side of the room, examining a wooden carving.
“Thank you, Samantha.” Trish inclines her head graciously as I pour out the coffee. “That will be all for the moment.”
I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some bizarre Merchant Ivory costume drama, except the costumes are pink yoga wear and golfing sweaters.
“Er … very good, madam,” I say, playing my part. Then, without meaning to, I bob a curtsy.
The Undomestic Goddess Page 7