“You’re right,” she’s saying, her voice trembling. “You’re right! But he doesn’t see it like that! And let me tell you, I’ve tried!”
I freeze in embarrassment. Does Trish know I’m in here? Should I cough?
“I don’t want to play golf! Is there nothing else we can do together?” I glance out of the laundry door into the kitchen and to my horror see Trish at the table, dabbing at her eyes with a pink tissue. “It’s all right for him! He has no idea what it’s like for me!”
Hastily I duck back into the laundry and start busily shoving clothes into the drum at random. If Trish comes in, she’ll see me dutifully at work, impervious to her conversation. I shake some washing powder into the little tray at the top and close the door firmly. Now what?
WASH? the machine is still flashing at me. WASH?
“Er … yes!” I mutter. “Wash them.” I jab randomly at a button.
ENTER PROGRAM? it flashes back.
My eyes dart about for clues, and I spot a manual tucked behind a spray bottle. I grab it and start leafing through.
The half-load option for small washes is only available for prewash programs A3-E2 and superrinse programs G2-L7 not including H4.
… What?
OK, let’s forget the manual. Let’s just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in my best housekeeper manner.
PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3?
I don’t like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret government plot.
“No,” I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. “I want something else.”
YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY PROGRAM.
Heavy duty? Upholstery?
“Stop it,” I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. “Stop!” I kick the machine in desperation. “Stop!”
“Everything all right, Samantha?” Trish appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are gone and she’s applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But it’s hardly my place to ask.
“Er … fine! Just … getting some washing on.”
“Well done.” She holds out a stripy shirt to me. “Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this shirt, if you would be so kind.”
“Absolutely!” I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesn’t show on my face.
“And here’s your list of duties!” She hands me a sheet of paper. “It’s by no means complete, but it should get you started.”
As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.
Make beds … sweep and clean front steps … arrange flowers … polish all mirrors … store cupboards tidy … laundry … clean bathrooms daily …
“Now, there’s nothing here that should present you with a problem, is there?” adds Trish.
“Er … no!” My voice is a little strangled. “No, it should all be fine!”
“But make a stab at the ironing first,” she continues firmly. “There is quite a lot, I’m afraid, as you’ll have seen. It does tend to mount up rather …” For some reason, Trish is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack. At least thirty.
As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I can’t iron a shirt. I’ve never used an iron in my life. What am I going to do?
“I expect you’ll whip through these in no time!” she says gaily. “The ironing board’s just there,” she adds with a nod.
“Um, thanks!” I manage.
I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it won’t move. I try another one with no luck. I’m pulling harder and harder, till I’m hot with the effort, but the bloody thing won’t budge. How am I supposed to open it up?
“It’s got a catch,” Trish says, watching me in surprise. “Underneath.” She takes the board from me, and in two movements has opened it up to exactly the right height. “I expect you’re used to a different model,” she adds wisely as she clicks it shut. “They all have their own little tricks.”
“Absolutely!” I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. “Of course! I’m far more used to working with a … a … a Nimbus 2000.”
Trish peers at me in surprise. “Isn’t that the broomstick out of Harry Potter?”
Damn. I knew I’d heard it somewhere.
“Yes … it is,” I say at last, my face flaming. “And also a well-known ironing board. In fact, I think the broomstick was named … er … after the ironing board.”
“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “I never knew that!” To my horror she leans expectantly against the door and lights a cigarette. “Don’t mind me!” she adds, her voice muffled. “Just carry on!”
Carry on?
“There’s the iron,” she adds with a gesture. “Behind you.”
“Er … great! Thanks!” I take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart banging in fright. I cannot do this. I need a way out. But I can’t think of one. My brain is totally blank.
“I expect the iron’s hot enough now!” says Trish helpfully.
“Right!” I give her a sick smile.
I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on the ironing board. Unable to believe what I’m doing, I pick up the iron. It’s far heavier than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt I’m aiming for. I think my eyes might be shut.
Suddenly there’s a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God … thank God … thank God …
“Oh, who’s that?” says Trish, frowning. “Sorry, Samantha. I should get this …”
“That’s fine!” My voice is shrill. “No worries! I’ll just get on—”
As soon as Trish is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in my hands. I must have been mad. This isn’t going to work. I’m not made to be a housekeeper. The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and collapse against the wall. It’s only nine twenty and I’m already a total wreck.
And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.
Eleven
By the time Trish comes back into the kitchen I’m a little more composed. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s not quantum physics. It’s housework.
“Samantha, I’m afraid we’re going to desert you for the day,” says Trish, looking concerned. “Mr. Geiger is off to golf and I’m going to see a very dear friend’s new Mercedes. Will you be all right on your own?”
“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Don’t you worry about me. Really. I’ll just get on with things.…”
“Is the ironing done already?” She glances at the laundry room, impressed.
Done?
“Actually, I thought I’d leave the ironing for now and tackle the rest of the house,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “That’s my normal routine.”
“Absolutely.” She nods vigorously. “Whatever suits you. Now, I won’t be here to answer any questions, I’m afraid, but Nathaniel will!” She beckons out the door. “You’ve met Nathaniel, of course?”
“Oh,” I say as he walks in, wearing ripped jeans, his hair disheveled. “Er … yes. Hi, again.”
It feels a bit strange seeing him this morning, after all the dramas of last night.
“Hi,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say lightly. “Really well.”
“Nathaniel knows all there is to know about this house,” puts in Trish, who is doing her lipstick. “So if you can’t find anything—need to know how a door unlocks or whatever—he’s your man.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say. “Thanks.”
“But, Nathaniel, I don’t want you disturbing Samantha,” adds Trish, giving him a severe look. “Obviously she has he
r own established routine.”
“Obviously,” says Nathaniel. As Trish turns away, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and I feel my color rise.
What’s that supposed to mean? How does he know I don’t have a routine? Just because I can’t cook, it doesn’t follow I can’t do anything.
“So you’ll be OK?” Trish picks up her handbag. “You’ve found all the cleaning stuff?”
“Er …” I look around uncertainly.
“In the laundry room!” She disappears through the doorway for a moment, then reappears, holding a gigantic blue tub full of cleaning products. “There you are!” she says, dumping it on the table. “And don’t forget your Marigolds!” she adds merrily.
My what?
“Rubber gloves,” says Nathaniel. He takes a huge pink pair out of the tub and hands them to me with a little bow.
“Yes, thank you,” I say with dignity. “I knew that.”
I have never worn a pair of rubber gloves in my life. Trying not to flinch, I slowly pull them onto my hands.
Oh, my God. I’ve never felt anything quite so rubbery and … revolting. Must I wear these all day?
“Toodle-oo!” calls Trish from the hall, and the front door bangs shut.
“Right!” I say. “Well … I’ll get on.”
I wait for Nathaniel to leave, but he leans against the table and looks at me quizzically. “Do you have any idea how to clean a house?”
I’m starting to feel quite insulted here. Do I look like someone who can’t clean a house?
“Of course I know how to clean a house.”
“Only I told my mum about you last night.” He smiles, as though remembering the conversation. What could he have said about me? “Anyway. She’s willing to teach you cooking. And I said you’d probably need cleaning advice too—”
“I do not need cleaning advice!” I retort. “I’ve cleaned houses loads of times. In fact, I need to get started.”
“Don’t mind me.” Nathaniel shrugs.
I’ll show him. In a businesslike manner, I pick a can out of the tub and spray it onto the counter.
“So you’ve cleaned lots of houses,” says Nathaniel, watching me.
“Yes. Millions.”
The spray has solidified into crystalline little gray droplets. I rub them briskly with a cloth—but they won’t come off.
I look more closely at the can. do not use on granite. Shit.
“Anyway,” I say, hastily putting the cloth down to hide the droplets. “You’re in my way.” I grab a feather duster from the blue tub and start brushing crumbs off the kitchen table. “Excuse me …”
“I’ll leave you, then,” says Nathaniel, his mouth twitching. He looks at the feather duster. “Don’t you want to be using a dustpan and brush for that?”
I look uncertainly at the feather duster. What’s wrong with this one? Anyway, what is he, the duster police?
“I have my methods,” I say, lifting my chin. “Thank you.”
“OK.” He grins. “See you.”
I’m not going to let him faze me. I just need … a plan. Yes. A time sheet, like at work.
I grab a pen and the pad of paper by the phone and start scribbling a list for the day-. I have an image of myself moving smoothly from task to task, brush in one hand, duster in the other, bringing order to everything. Like Mary Poppins.
9:30–9:36 Make Geigers’ bed
9:36–9:42 Take laundry out of machine and put in dryer
9:42–10:00 Clean bathrooms
I get to the end and read it over with a fresh surge of optimism. At this rate I should be done easily by lunchtime.
9:36 Fuck. I cannot make this bed. Why won’t this sheet lie flat?
9:42 And why do they make mattresses so heavy?
9:54 This is sheer torture. My arms have never ached so much in my entire life. The blankets weigh a ton, and the sheets won’t go straight and I have no idea how to do the wretched corners. How do chambermaids do it?
10:16 At last. Forty minutes of hard work and I have made precisely one bed. I’m already way behind. But never mind. Just keep moving. Laundry next.
10:26 No. Please, no.
I can hardly bear to look. It’s a total disaster. Everything in the washing machine has gone pink. Every single thing.
What happened?
With trembling fingers I pick out a damp cashmere cardigan. It was cream when I put it in. It’s now a sickly shade of candy floss. I knew K3 was bad news. I knew it—
There must be a solution, there must be. Frantically I scan the cans of products stacked on the shelves. Stain Away. Vanish. There has to be a remedy.… I just need to think.…
10:38 OK, I have the answer. It may not totally work—but it’s my best shot.
11:00 I’ve just spent £852 replacing all the clothes in the machine as closely as possible. Harrods personal-shopping department was very helpful and will send them all tomorrow, Express Delivery. I just hope to heaven Trish and Eddie won’t notice that their wardrobe has magically regenerated.
11:06 And … oh. The ironing. What am I going to do about that?
11:12 I have a solution, via the local paper. A girl from the village will collect it, iron it all overnight at £3 a shirt, and sew on Eddie’s button.
So far this job has cost me nearly a thousand pounds. And it’s not even midday.
11:42 I’m doing fine. I’m doing well. I’ve got the Hoover on, I’m cruising along nicely—
What was that? What just went up the Hoover? Why is it making that grinding noise?
Have I broken it?
11:48 How much does a Hoover cost?
12:24 My legs are in total agony. I’ve been kneeling on hard tiles, cleaning the bath, for what seems like hours. There are little ridges where the tiles have dug into my knees, and I’m boiling hot and the cleaning chemicals are making me cough. All I want is a rest. But I can’t stop for a moment. I am so behind …
12:30 What is wrong with this bleach bottle? Which way is the nozzle pointing, anyway? I’m turning it round in confusion, peering at the arrows on the plastic … Why won’t anything come out? OK, I’m going to squeeze it really, really hard—
That nearly got my eye.
12:32 FUCK. What has it done to my HAIR?
By three o’clock I am utterly knackered. I’m only halfway down my list and I can’t see myself ever making it to the end. I don’t know how people clean houses. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever done, ever.
I am not moving smoothly from task to task like Mary Poppins. I’m darting from unfinished job to unfinished job like a headless chicken. Right now I’m standing on a chair, cleaning the mirror in the drawing room. But it’s like some kind of bad dream. The more I rub, the more it smears.
I keep catching glances of myself in the glass. I have never looked more disheveled in my life. My hair is sticking out wildly, with a huge grotesque streak of greeny-blond where I splashed the bleach. My face is bright red and shiny, my hands are pink and sore from scrubbing, and my eyes are bloodshot.
Why won’t it get clean? Why?
“Get clean!” I cry, practically sobbing in frustration. “Get clean, you bloody … bloody—”
“Samantha.”
Abruptly I stop rubbing, to see Nathaniel standing in the doorway. “Have you tried vinegar?”
“Vinegar?”
“It cuts through the grease,” he adds. “It’s good on glass.”
“Oh. Right.” I put my cloth down, trying to regain my cool. “Yes, I knew that.”
Nathaniel shakes his head. “No, you didn’t.”
I look at his adamant face. There’s no point pretending anymore. He knows I’ve never cleaned a house in my life.
“You’re right,” I admit at last. “I didn’t.”
As I get down off the chair, I feel wobbly with fatigue.
“You should have a break,” says Nathaniel firmly. “You’ve been at it all day; I’ve seen you. Did you have any lunch?”
“No tim
e.”
I collapse onto a chair, suddenly too drained to move. Every single muscle in my body is in pain, including muscles I never even knew I had. I feel like I’ve run a marathon, and I still haven’t polished the woodwork or beaten the mats.
“It’s … harder than I thought,” I say at last. “A lot harder.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s peering at my head. “What happened to your hair?”
“Bleach,” I say shortly. “Cleaning the loo.”
He gives a muffled snort of laughter, but I don’t respond. To be honest, I’m beyond caring.
“You’re a hard worker,” he says. “I’ll give you that. And it’ll get easier—”
“I can’t do it.” The words come out before I can stop them. “I can’t do this job. I’m … hopeless.”
“Sure you can.” He rifles through his rucksack and produces a can of Coke. “Have this. You can’t work on no fuel.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it gratefully. I crack open the can and take a gulp, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
“The offer still stands,” he adds after a pause. “My mother will give you lessons if you like.”
“Really?” I wipe my mouth, push back my sweaty hair, and look up at him. “She’d … do that?”
“She likes a challenge, my mum.” Nathaniel gives a little smile. “She’ll teach you your way around a kitchen. And … anything else you need to know.”
I feel a sudden burn of humiliation and look away. I don’t want to be useless. I don’t want to need lessons. That’s not who I am. I want to be able to do this on my own, without asking assistance from anyone.
But … the truth is, I need help.
Apart from anything else, if I keep on going like today I’ll be bankrupt in two weeks.
I turn back to Nathaniel.
“That would be great,” I say. “I really appreciate it. Thanks.”
Twelve
I wake up the next morning, heart pounding, leaping to my feet, my mind racing with everything I have to do …
And then it stops, like a car screeching to a halt. For a moment I can’t move. Then, hesitantly, I sink back into bed, overcome by the most extraordinary feeling.
The Undomestic Goddess Page 12