There’s a staggered pause. Both Geigers just gape at me in astonishment.
“Samantha … did you just … curtsy?” says Trish at last.
I stare back, frozen.
What was I thinking? Why did I curtsy? Housekeepers don’t bloody curtsy. This isn’t Gosford Park.
They’re still goggling at me. I have to say something.
“The Edgerlys liked me to … curtsy.” My face is prickling all over. “It’s a habit I got into. I’m sorry, madam, I won’t do it again.”
Trish is squinting at me as though she’s trying to make me out. She must realize I’m a fake, she must.…
“I like it,” she pronounces at last, and nods her head in satisfaction. “Yes, I like it. You can curtsy here too.”
What?
This is the twenty-first century. And I am being asked to curtsy to a woman called Trish?
I take a breath to protest—then close my mouth again. It doesn’t matter. It’s not real. I can curtsy for a morning.
Eight
As soon as I’m out of the room, I dash upstairs, along the corridor, and into my bedroom to check my mobile. But it’s only half charged and I have no idea where I’m going to find a signal. If Trish could get one, I must be able to. I wonder what network she’s on—
“Samantha?”
Trish’s voice rises from the ground floor.
“Samantha?” She sounds annoyed. Now I can hear her footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Madam?” I hurry back along the corridor.
“There you are!” She frowns slightly. “Kindly do not disappear to your room while on duty. I don’t want to have to be calling you like that.”
“Er … yes, Mrs. Geiger,” I say. As we arrive down in the hall my stomach flips over. Beyond Trish, I can see the Times lying on the table. It’s open at the business pages and a headline reads glazerbrooks calls in receivers.
My eyes run down the text as Trish starts rootling around in a huge white Chanel bag—but I can’t see any mention of Carter Spink. Thank God for that. The PR department must have managed to keep a lid on the story.
“Where are my keys?” Trish sounds fretful. “Where are they?” She rummages more and more violently in her Chanel bag. A gold lipstick goes flying through the air and lands at my feet. “Why do things disappear?”
I pick up the lipstick and hand it to her. “Do you remember where you lost them, Mrs. Geiger?”
“I didn’t lose them.” She inhales sharply. “They’ve been stolen. It’s obvious. We’ll have to change all the locks. Our identities will be taken.” She clutches her head. “This is what these fraudsters do, you know. There was a huge article about it in the Mail—”
“Is this them?” I’ve suddenly noticed a Tiffany key fob glinting on the windowsill. I pick it up and hold out the bunch of keys.
“Yes!” Trish looks utterly amazed. “Yes, that’s them! Samantha, you’re marvelous! How did you find them?”
“It was … no trouble.” I shrug modestly.
“Well! I’m very impressed!” She gives me a significant look. “I will be telling Mr. Geiger.”
“Yes, madam,” I say, trying to inject the right note of overwhelming gratitude into my voice. “Thank you.”
“Mr. Geiger and I will be going out in a minute,” she continues, producing a scent spray and spritzing herself. “Kindly prepare a light sandwich lunch for one o’clock, and get on with the downstairs cleaning. We’ll talk about dinner later.” She swivels round. “I might tell you, we were both very impressed by your seared foie gras menu.”
“Oh … um … good!”
It’s fine. I’ll be gone by dinnertime.
“Now.” Trish pats her hair one final time. “Come in the drawing room, Samantha.”
I follow her into the room and over to the fireplace.
“Before you start dusting in here,” Trish says, “I wanted to show you the arrangement of the ornaments.” She gestures to a row of china figurines on the mantelpiece. “This can be tricky to remember. For some reason, cleaners never get it right. So kindly pay attention.”
Obediently, I turn with her to face the mantelpiece.
“It’s very important, Samantha, that these china dogs face each other.” Trish points to a pair of King Charles spaniels. “Do you see? They don’t face out. They face each other.”
“Each other,” I echo, nodding. “Yes. I see.”
“And the shepherdesses face very slightly out. You see? They face out.”
She’s speaking slowly and clearly, as though I have the IQ of a rather thick three-year-old.
“Out,” I repeat dutifully.
“Now, have you got that?” Trish steps back from the fireplace. “Let’s see. Which way do the china dogs go?” She lifts an arm to block my view of the mantelpiece.
I don’t believe it. She’s testing me.
“The china dogs,” she prompts. “Which way?”
Oh, God, I cannot resist this.
“Er …” I ponder hard for a few moments. “They face … out?”
“Each other!” Trish cries in exasperation. “They face each other!”
“Oh, right,” I say apologetically. “Yes. Sorry. I’ve got that now.”
Trish has closed her eyes and is holding two fingers to her forehead as though the stress of stupid help is too much to bear.
“Never mind,” she says at last. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“I’ll take the coffee tray out,” I suggest humbly. As I pick it up I glance again at my watch. Ten twelve. I wonder if they’ve started the meeting.
By eleven-thirty my nerves are really beginning to fray. My mobile’s charged and I’ve finally found a signal in the kitchen, but it hasn’t rung. And there are no messages. I’ve checked it every minute.
I’ve stacked the dishwasher and at last managed to turn it on. And I’ve dusted the china dogs with a tissue. Other than that all I’ve done is pace up and down the kitchen.
I gave up on the “light sandwich lunch” almost straightaway. At least, I briefly tried sawing away at two loaves of bread—and ended up with huge, wonky slices, each one more misshapen than the last, lying in a sea of crumbs.
All I can say is, thank God for yellow pages and caterers. And American Express. It’s only going to cost me £45.50 to provide Trish and Eddie with a “gourmet sandwich lunch” from Cotswold Caterers. Less than six minutes of my time at Carter Spink.
Now I’m just sitting on a chair, my hand clasped tight over the mobile in my pocket, desperately willing it to ring.
At the same time I’m utterly terrified that it will.
This tension is unbearable. I need something to relieve it. Anything. I wrench open the door of the Geigers’ enormous fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. I pour myself a glass and take an enormous gulp. I’m about to take another when I feel a tingling on the nape of my neck.
As if … I’m being watched.
I swivel round and nearly jump out of my skin. There’s a man at the kitchen door.
He’s tall and broad, and deeply tanned, with intense blue eyes. His wavy hair is golden brown with bleached-blond tips. He’s wearing old jeans and a torn T-shirt and the muddiest boots I’ve ever seen.
His eyes run doubtfully over the ten wonky, crumbly bread slices on the side, then onto my glass of wine.
“Hi,” he says at last. “Are you the new Cordon Bleu cook?”
“Er … yes! Absolutely.” I smooth my uniform down. “I’m the new housekeeper, Samantha. Hello.”
“I’m Nathaniel.” He holds out his hand and after a pause I take it. His skin is so hard and rough, it’s like shaking a piece of tree bark. “I do the garden for the Geigers. You’ll be wanting to talk to me about vegetables.”
I look at him uncertainly. Why would I want to talk to him about vegetables?
As he leans against the door frame and folds his arms, I can’t help noticing how massive and strong his forearms are. I’ve never seen a man with ar
ms like that before.
“I can supply pretty much anything,” he continues. “Seasonal, of course. Just tell me what you want.”
“Oh, for cooking,” I say, suddenly realizing what he means. “Er … yes. I’ll be wanting some of those. Definitely.”
“They told me you trained with some Michelin-starred chef?” He gives a small frown. “I don’t know what kind of fancy stuff you use, but I’ll do my best.” He produces a small, mud-stained notebook and a pencil. “Which brassicas do you like to use?”
Brassicas?
What are brassicas? They must be some kind of vegetable. I search my mind frantically but all I can see is images of brassieres, waving on a washing line.
“I’d have to consult my menus,” I say at last with a businesslike nod. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”
“But just generally.” He looks up. “Which do you use most? So I know what to plant.”
I daren’t risk naming a single vegetable in case I get it totally wrong.
“I use … all sorts, really.” I give him an airy smile. “You know how it is with brassicas. Sometimes you’re in the mood for one … sometimes another!”
I’m really not sure how convincing that sounded. Nathaniel looks baffled.
“I’m about to order leeks,” he says slowly. “What variety do you prefer? Albinstar or Bleu de Solaise?”
I fiddle with a button on my uniform, my face prickling. I didn’t catch either of those. Oh, God, why did this guy have to come into the kitchen right now?
“The … um … first one,” I say at last. “It has very tasty … qualities.”
Nathaniel puts down his notebook and surveys me for a moment. His attention shifts to my wineglass again. I’m not sure I like his expression.
“I was just about to put this wine in a sauce,” I say hastily. With a nonchalant air, I take a saucepan down from the rack, put it on the hob, and pour the wine in. I shake in some salt, then pick up a wooden spoon and stir.
Then I dart a glance at Nathaniel. He’s regarding me with something approaching incredulity.
“Where did you say you trained?” he says.
I feel a twinge of alarm. He’s not stupid, this man.
“At … Cordon Bleu school.” My cheeks are growing rather hot. I shake more salt into the wine and stir it briskly.
“You haven’t turned the hob on,” Nathaniel observes.
“It’s a cold sauce,” I reply, without lifting my head. I keep stirring for a minute, then put down my wooden spoon. “So. I’ll just leave that to … marinate now.”
At last I look up. Nathaniel is still leaning against the door frame, calmly watching me. There’s an expression in his blue eyes that makes my throat tighten.
He knows.
He knows I’m a fake.
Please don’t tell the Geigers, I silently transmit to him. Please. I’ll be gone soon.
“Samantha?” Trish’s head pops round the door and I start nervously. “Oh, you’ve met Nathaniel! Did he tell you about his vegetable garden?”
“Yes.” I can’t look at him. “He did.”
“Marvelous!” She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head. “Well, Mr. Geiger and I are back now, and we’d like our sandwiches in twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes? But it’s only ten past twelve. The caterers aren’t coming till one o’clock.
“Would you like a drink first, maybe?” I suggest.
“No, thanks!” she says. “Just the sandwiches. We’re both rather famished, actually, so if you could hurry up with them …”
“Right.” I swallow. “No problem!”
I automatically bob a curtsy as Trish disappears, and I hear a kind of snorting sound from Nathaniel.
“You curtsy,” he says.
“Yes, I curtsy,” I say defiantly. “Anything wrong with that?”
Nathaniel’s eyes move to the misshapen bread slices lying on the breadboard.
“Is that lunch?”
“No, that’s not lunch!” I snap, flustered. “And please could you get out of my kitchen? I need a clear space to work in.”
He raises his eyebrows. “See you around, then. Good luck with the sauce.” He nods toward the pan of wine.
As he closes the kitchen door behind him I whip out my phone and speed-dial the caterers. But they’ve left their machine on.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly after the bleep. “I ordered some sandwiches earlier? Well, I need them now. As soon as you can. Thanks.”
Even as I put the phone down I realize it’s fruitless. The caterers are never going to turn up in time. The Geigers are waiting.
OK. I can do this. I can make a few sandwiches.
Quickly I pick up the two least wonky of my bread slices and start cutting off the crusts until they’re about an inch square but presentable. There’s a butter dish on the side and I gouge some out with a knife. As I spread butter on the first slice of bread, it tears into two pieces.
Fuck.
I’ll patch them together. No one’ll notice.
I fling open a cupboard door and frantically root through pots of mustard … mint sauce … strawberry jam. Jam sandwiches it is. An English classic. I hastily smother one piece of bread with jam, spread some more butter on the other, and sandwich the two together. Then I stand back and consider the result.
Total disaster. Jam is oozing out of the cracks and it still isn’t completely square. I’ve never seen a more revolting sandwich in my life.
Slowly I put the knife down in defeat. So this is it. Time for my resignation. Two jobs potentially lost in one day. As I stare at the jammy mess I feel strangely disappointed in myself. I would have thought I could last a morning.
The sound of someone knocking breaks me out of my reverie and I whip round to see a girl in a blue velvet hair band peering through the kitchen window.
“Hi!” she calls. “Did you order sandwiches for twenty?”
It all happens so fast. One minute I’m standing there looking at my botch of jam and crumbs. The next, two girls in green aprons are trooping into the kitchen with plate after plate of professionally made sandwiches.
Clean-cut white and brown sandwiches, stacked in neat pyramids, garnished with sprigs of herbs and slices of lemon. They even have little handwritten paper flags describing the fillings.
Tuna, mint, and cucumber. Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and caviar. Thai chicken with wild rocket.
“I’m so sorry about the numbers mix-up,” the girl in the hair band says as I sign for them. “It honestly looked like a twenty. And we don’t often get an order for sandwiches for just two people—”
“It’s fine!” I say, edging her toward the door. “Really. Whatever. Just put it on my card.…”
The door finally closes and I look around the kitchen, totally dazed. I’ve never seen so many sandwiches. There are plates of them everywhere. On every surface. I’ve even had to put some on the cooker.
“Samantha?” I can hear Trish approaching.
“Um … hold on!” I hurry to the door, trying to block her view.
“It’s already five past one,” I can hear her saying a little sharply. “And I did ask, most clearly, for …”
Her voice trails off into silence as she reaches the kitchen door, and her whole face sags in astonishment. I turn and follow her gaze as she surveys the endless plates of sandwiches.
“My goodness!” At last Trish finds her voice. “This is … this is very impressive!”
“I wasn’t sure what fillings you’d prefer,” I say. “Obviously next time I won’t make quite so many.…”
“Well!” Trish appears totally at a loss. She picks up one of the little flags and reads it out loud. “Rare beef, lettuce, and horseradish.” She looks up in astonishment. “I haven’t bought any beef for weeks! Where did you find it?”
“Er … in the freezer?”
I looked in the freezer earlier. The amount of food crammed into it would probably feed an entire small African country for
a week.
“Of course!” Trish clicks her tongue. “And you thawed it in the microwave! Aren’t you clever!”
“I’ll put a selection on a plate for you,” I suggest. “And bring it out to the conservatory.”
“Marvelous. Nathaniel!” Trish raps on the kitchen window. “Come in and have a sandwich!”
I stop dead. No. Not him again.
“We don’t want to waste them, after all.” She arches her eyebrows. “If I did have a criticism, Samantha, it would be that you were a little profligate—Not that we’re poor,” she adds suddenly. “It isn’t that.”
“Er … no, madam.”
“I don’t like to talk about money, Samantha.” Trish lowers her voice a little. “It’s very vulgar. However—”
“Mrs. Geiger?”
Nathaniel has appeared in the kitchen doorway again, holding a muddy garden spade.
“Have one of Samantha’s delicious sandwiches!” exclaims Trish, gesturing around the kitchen. “Just look! Isn’t she clever?”
There’s total silence as Nathaniel surveys the endless mounds of sandwiches. I can’t bring myself to meet his eye. I feel I could be losing my grip on sanity here. I’m standing in a kitchen in the middle of nowhere. In a blue nylon uniform. Masquerading as a housekeeper who can magically make sandwiches out of thin air.
“Extraordinary,” he says at last.
I finally risk looking up. He’s gazing at me, his brow deeply furrowed as if he really can’t make me out.
“That didn’t take you long,” he says, a slight question in his voice.
“I’m … pretty quick when I want to be,” I say blandly.
“Samantha’s wonderful!” says Trish, biting greedily into a sandwich. “And such a tidy worker! Look at this immaculate kitchen!” She shoves another sandwich in her mouth and practically swoons. “This Thai chicken is divine!”
Surreptitiously I pick up one from the pile and take a bite into it, feeling suddenly ravenous.
Bloody hell, that’s good. Though I say it myself.
By half past two the kitchen is empty. Trish and Eddie devoured over half the sandwiches and have now gone out. Nathaniel is back in the garden. I’m pacing up and down, fiddling with a spoon.
The Undomestic Goddess Page 8