“Wow.” I laugh. “Presumably they paid a good price.”
“God knows what they paid. The Ellises would never say.”
“Do you know how the Geigers made all their money?”
“They built up a road haulage company from nothing and sold it off. Made a bundle.” He starts mopping up the final patch of meringue.
“And how about you? Before the Ellises?” I tip the congealed apricots down the waste disposal with a shudder.
“I was working at Marchant House,” Nathaniel replies. “It’s a stately home near Oxford. Before that, university.”
“University?” I say, my ears pricking up. “I didn’t know—”
I halt, reddening. I was about to say, “I didn’t know gardeners went to university.”
“I did natural sciences.” Nathaniel gives me a look that makes me think he knew exactly what I was thinking.
I open my mouth to ask him where and when he was at university—then on second thought, close it and switch the waste disposal on. I don’t want to start getting into details, going down the “do we know anyone in common?” road. Right now, I could do without remembering the particulars of my life.
At last the kitchen looks a bit more normal. I pick up the eggcup, drain the rest of the Cointreau, and take a deep breath.
“OK. Showtime.”
“Good luck.” Nathaniel raises his eyebrows.
I open the kitchen door to see Trish and Eddie loitering in the hall, holding their sherry glasses.
“Ah, Samantha! Everything ready?” Trish’s face is all lit up with anticipation, and I feel a huge twinge of guilt for what I’m about to do.
But I can’t see any other way.
I take a deep breath and put on my best breaking-bad-news-to-a-client face.
“Mr. and Mrs. Geiger.” I look from one face to the other, making sure I have their attention. “I am devastated.”
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Devastated?” echoes Trish nervously.
“I have done my best.” I open my eyes. “But I’m afraid I cannot work with your equipment. The dinner I created was not up to my own professional standards. I could not allow it out of the kitchen. I will of course reimburse all your costs—and offer my resignation. I will leave in the morning.”
There. Done. And no casualties.
I can’t help glancing at Nathaniel, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He gives me the thumbs-up.
“Leave?” Trish puts her sherry glass down on a side table with a little crash. “You can’t leave! You’re the best housekeeper we’ve ever had! Eddie, do something!”
“Mrs. Geiger, after tonight’s performance, I feel I have no choice,” I say. “To be frank, the dinner was inedible.”
“That wasn’t your fault!” she says in consternation. “It was our fault! We’ll order you new equipment at once.”
“But—”
“Just give us a list of what you need. Spare no expense! And we’ll give you a pay rise!” She’s suddenly gripped by a new idea. “How much do you want? Name your price!”
This is not going the way I planned. Not at all.
“Well … we never discussed pay,” I begin. “And really I can’t accept—”
“Eddie!” Trish rounds on him savagely. “This is your fault! Samantha’s leaving because you’re not paying her enough!”
“Mrs. Geiger, that’s not the case—”
“And she needs new kitchen pots and pans. From the best place.” She digs Eddie in the ribs with her elbow and mutters, “Say something!”
“Ah … Samantha.” Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “We’d be very happy if you would consider staying with us. We’ve been delighted with your performance, and whatever your salary expectations are … we’ll match them.” Trish digs him in the ribs again. “Exceed them.”
“And health care,” adds Trish.
They’re both gazing at me with a kind of eager hope.
I glance over at Nathaniel, who cocks his head as though to say, “Why not?”
The strangest feeling is coming over me. Three people. All telling me they want me within the space of ten minutes.
I could stay. It’s as simple as that. For however long it takes to … work myself out. I’m miles away from London. No one knows I’m here. I’ll be safe.
I can’t cook, a little voice reminds me. I can’t clean. I’m not a housekeeper.
But I could learn. I could learn it all.
The silence is growing in tension. Even Nathaniel is watching me closely from the door.
“Well … OK.” I feel a smile coming to my lips. “OK. If you want me to … I’ll stay.”
Later that night, after we’ve all eaten a Chinese take-away, I take out my mobile phone, call my mother’s office, and wait till I’m put through to voice mail.
“It’s all right, Mum,” I say. “You don’t need to call in any favors. I’ve got a job.” And I click the mobile shut.
Ten
The only thing is, now I actually have to be a housekeeper.
The next morning my alarm goes off at six fifteen and I arrive downstairs in the kitchen before seven, in my uniform. The garden is misty and there are no sounds, except a couple of magpies chacking at each other on the lawn. I feel as though I’m the only person awake in the world.
As quietly as I can, I empty the dishwasher and put everything away in the cupboards. I straighten the chairs under the table. I make a cup of coffee. Then I look around at the gleaming granite counters.
My domain.
It doesn’t feel like my domain. It feels like someone else’s scary kitchen.
So … what do I do now? I feel twitchy, just standing here. I should be occupied. My mind flashes back to London before I can stop it, to my regular routine. If I were still at Carter Spink, I would be queuing for a cappuccino by now. Or maybe on the tube, answering e-mails. I wonder how many e-mails are stacked up, unanswered, in my BlackBerry? The thought makes me feel slightly ill.
No. Don’t think about it. There’s an old copy of The Economist in the magazine rack by the table and I pick it up. I flip through and start reading a piece on international monetary controls, sipping my coffee.
Then, as I hear a sound from upstairs, I hastily put it down again. Housekeepers aren’t supposed to read articles on international monetary controls. They’re supposed to be making breakfast. But how can I do that until I know what the Geigers want?
Then all of a sudden I remember yesterday morning. Trish made me a cup of tea.
Maybe today I’m supposed to make her a cup of tea. Maybe they’re waiting upstairs, tapping their fingers impatiently, saying “Where’s the damn tea?”
Quickly I boil the kettle and make a teapot full. I put it on a tray with cups and saucers and after a moment’s thought add a couple of biscuits. Then I head upstairs, venture along the silent corridor to Trish and Eddie’s bedroom … and stop outside the door.
Now what?
What if they’re asleep and I wake them up?
I lift a hand to knock—but the tray’s too heavy to hold in one hand and there’s an alarming chinking as the whole thing starts tilting sideways. In horror, I grab it just before the teapot slides off. Sweating, I put the whole lot on the ground, raise a hand, and knock very quietly, then pick up the tray again.
There’s no answer.
Hesitantly I tap again.
“Eddie! Stop that!” Trish’s raised voice filters faintly through the door.
Oh, God. Why can’t they hear me?
I’m hot all over. This tray is bloody heavy. I can’t stand outside their room with a cup of tea all morning. Shall I just … retreat?
I’m about to turn round and creep away. Then determination comes over me. No. Don’t be so feeble. I’ve made the tea. They can always tell me to leave.
I grip the tray tightly and bang the corner hard against the door. They have to have heard that.
After a moment, Trish’s voice rise
s up. “Come in!”
I feel a swell of relief. They’re expecting me. I knew they would be. Somehow I turn the doorknob while balancing the tray against the door. I push the door open and walk into the room.
Trish looks up from the canopied mahogany bed, where she’s sprawled on a pile of lace pillows, alone. She’s wearing a silky nightie, her hair is disheveled, and makeup is smudged about her eyes. For a moment she looks startled to see me.
“Samantha,” she says sharply. “What do you want? Is everything all right?”
I have an immediate, horrible feeling I’ve done the wrong thing. My gaze doesn’t move from hers, but my peripheral vision starts to register a few details in the room. I can see a book called Sensual Enjoyment on the floor. And a bottle of musk-scented massage oil. And …
A well-worn copy of The Joy of Sex. Right by the bed. Open at “Turkish Style.”
OK. So they weren’t expecting tea.
I swallow, trying to keep my composure, desperately pretending I haven’t seen anything.
“I … brought you a cup of tea,” I say, my voice cracking with nerves. “I thought you might … like one.”
Do not look at The Joy of Sex. Keep your eyes up.
Trish’s face relaxes. “Samantha! You treasure! Put it down!” She waves an arm vaguely at a bedside table.
I’m just starting to move toward it when the bathroom door opens and Eddie emerges, naked except for a pair of too-tight boxer shorts, displaying a quite staggeringly hairy chest.
Somehow I manage not to drop the entire tray on the floor.
“I’m … I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing away. “I didn’t realize …”
“Don’t be silly! Come in!” exclaims Trish gaily. She now seems completely reconciled to me being in her bedroom. “We’re not prudish.”
OK, I’m really wishing they were. Cautiously I edge further toward the bed, stepping over a mauve lace bra. I find a place for the tray on Trish’s bedside cabinet by pushing aside a photo of her and Eddie sitting in a Jacuzzi, holding up glasses of champagne.
I pour out the tea as fast as I can and hand a cup to each of them. I cannot look Eddie in the eye. In what other job do you see your boss naked?
Only one other occupation springs immediately to mind. Which isn’t that encouraging.
“Well … I’ll go now,” I mumble, head down.
“Don’t rush off!” Trish sips her tea with relish. “Mmm. Now you’re here, I wanted to have a little chat! See where we are with things.”
“Er … right.” Her nightie is gaping and I can see the edge of her nipple. I hastily look away and find myself catching the eye of the bearded guy in The Joy of Sex as he contorts himself.
I can feel my face flaming with embarrassment. What kind of surreal weirdness is this, that I am standing in the bedroom of two people, pretty much strangers to me, being practically shown how they have sex? And they don’t seem remotely bothered.…
And then it comes to me. Of course. I’m staff. I don’t count.
“So, is everything all right, Samantha?” Trish puts her cup down and gives me a beady look. “You’ve got your routine sorted? All under control?”
“Absolutely.” I grope for a competent-sounding phrase. “I’m pretty much … on top of everything.” Aaargh. “I mean … getting to grips with it all.”
Aaaargh.
She takes a sip of tea. “I expect you’ll be tackling the laundry today.”
The laundry. I hadn’t even thought about the laundry.
“Only I’d like you to change the sheets when you make the beds,” she adds.
Make the beds?
I feel a slight twinge of panic.
“Obviously I have my own … er … established routine,” I say, trying to sound casual. “But it might be an idea if you give me a list of duties.”
“Oh.” Trish looks a little irritated. “Well … if you really think you need it …”
“And I, Samantha, must go through your terms and conditions later on,” says Eddie. He’s standing in front of the mirror, holding a dumbbell. “Let you know what you’ve got yourself into.” He guffaws, then with a slight grunt lifts the weight above his head. His stomach is rippling with the effort. And not in a good way.
“So … I’ll get on with … things.” I start backing toward the door.
“See you later, then, at breakfast.” Trish gives me a cheery little wave from the bed. “Ciao ciao!”
I cannot keep up with Trish’s mood shifts. We seemed to have lurched straight from employer-employee to people-enjoying-a-luxury-cruise-together.
“Er … bye then!” I say, matching her chirpy tone. I bob a curtsy, step over her bra again, and exit the room as quickly as I can.
Breakfast is a bit of a nightmare. It takes me three failed attempts before I realize how you’re supposed to cut a grapefruit in half. You’d think they’d make it clearer. They could draw guidelines round them, or have perforations, or something. Meanwhile the milk for the coffee boils over—and when I plunge down the cafetière, the coffee explodes everywhere. Luckily Trish and Eddie are so busy arguing about where to go on their next holiday, they don’t seem to notice what’s going on in the kitchen.
When they’ve finished, I stack the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and am desperately trying to remember how I made it work yesterday, when Trish comes into the kitchen.
“Samantha, Mr. Geiger would like to see you in his study,” she says. “To discuss your pay and conditions. Don’t keep him waiting!”
“Er … very good, madam.” I curtsy, then smooth down my uniform and head out into the hall. I approach the door of Eddie’s study and knock twice.
“Come in!” replies a jovial voice. I walk in to find Eddie sitting behind his desk—a huge affair of mahogany and tooled leather—with an expensive-looking laptop in front of him. He’s fully clothed by now, thank God, in tan trousers and a sports shirt.
“Ah, Samantha. Ready for our little meeting?” Eddie gestures to an upright wooden chair, and I sit down. “Here we are! The document you’ve been waiting for!”
With a self-important air he hands me a folder marked housekeeper’s contract. I open it up to find a title sheet on cream vellum paper.
CONTRACT OF AGREEMENT
Between Samantha Sweeting and Mr. and Mrs. Edward Geiger, this first day of July in the year of our Lord two thousand and four.
“Wow,” I say in surprise. “Did a lawyer draw this up?”
“I didn’t need a lawyer.” Eddie chuckles knowingly. “Downloaded it from the Internet. And obviously amended it slightly. All you need is a bit of common sense.”
I turn over the title sheet and run my eyes down the printed clauses. I have to bite my lip as I take in phrases here and there, presumably Eddie’s “amendments.”
“Now, I know it looks frightening!” says Eddie, misinterpreting my silence. “But don’t be intimidated by all these long words. Did you have a chance to look at the pay?”
My eye flicks to the figure quoted in bold under Weekly Salary. It’s slightly less than I charged per hour as a lawyer.
“It seems extremely generous,” I say after a pause. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“Is there anything you don’t understand?” He beams jovially. “Just say!”
“Um … this bit.” I point to Clause 7: Hours. “Does this mean I have the whole weekend off? Every weekend?”
“Unless we’re entertaining.” Eddie nods. “In which case you’ll have two days off in lieu … You’ll see in clause nine …”
I’m not listening. Every weekend free. I can’t get my head around this idea. I don’t think I’ve had a totally free weekend since I was about twelve.
“That’s great.” I look up, unable to stop myself smiling. “Thanks very much!”
“Didn’t your previous employers give you weekends off?” Eddie looks taken aback.
“Well, no,” I say truthfully. “Not really.”
“They sound like slave
drivers!” He beams. “Now, I’ll leave you alone for a while to study the agreement before you sign.”
“I’ve pretty much read it—” I halt as Eddie raises a hand in reproof.
“Samantha, Samantha, Samantha,” he says in avuncular tones, shaking his head. “I’m going to give you a little tip that will stand you in good stead in life. Always read legal documents very carefully.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my nose twitching with the effort of staying deadpan. “I’ll try to remember that.”
As Eddie disappears from the room, I look down at the contract again, rolling my eyes. I pick up a pencil and automatically start correcting the text, rephrasing, scoring out, and adding queries in the margin.
What am I doing?
I grab an eraser and hastily erase all my amendments. I reach for a Biro and turn to the bottom of the page.
Name: Samantha Sweeting.
Occupation:
I hesitate for a moment … then put Domestic Help.
I’m really doing this. I’m really committing to this job, miles away from my former life in every sense. And no one knows what I’m doing.
I have a sudden flash on my mother’s face, on the expression she’d have if she knew where I was right now … if she could see me in my uniform … her reaction.… It would be as though some seismic world catastrophe had occurred. I’m almost tempted to call her up and tell her what I’m doing.
But I’m not going to. And I haven’t got time to think about her. I have laundry to do.
It takes me two trips to bring down all the washing to the laundry room, just off the kitchen. I dump the overflowing baskets on the tiled floor and look at the hi-tech washing machine. This should be simple enough. Experimentally, I open the door of the machine and at once an electronic display starts flashing at me. WASH? WASH?
Immediately I feel flustered. Obviously I want you to wash, I feel like snapping back. Just give me a chance to get the bloody clothes in.
Stay calm. One thing at a time. First step: sort the clothes. Feeling pleased with myself for having thought of this, I start sorting out the dirty clothes into piles on the floor, consulting the labels as I go. As I’m peering at one marked Wash with GREAT CARE, I hear Trish coming into the kitchen, clearly on the phone.
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