There’s a stiffness in his back. I feel a rush of blood to my face. He’s letting me down lightly. He doesn’t want to go out with me.
Aargh. This is hideous. Here I am, with my hitched-up skirt and eyeliner, employing all the body language I know, basically just offering myself to him. And he’s trying to let me know he’s not interested.
I’m mortified. I have to get away from here. From him.
“You’re right,” I say, flustered. “It’s … far too soon to think about anything like that. In fact, it would be a terrible idea. I’m just going to focus on my new job. Cooking and … and … so forth. I must get on. Thanks for the herbs.”
“Anytime,” says Nathaniel.
“Yes. Well. I’ll see you.”
Clasping the bundle more tightly, I turn on my heel, step over the wall, managing not to bash my foot this time, and stride back along the gravel path up to the house.
I am beyond embarrassed. So much for a whole new Samantha.
That is the last time I ever go after a man, ever. My original strategy of waiting politely, being ignored, and then being passed over for someone else was a million times better.
Anyway. I don’t care. It’s for the best, really. Because I do have to concentrate on my work. As soon as I get back to the house I set up the ironing board, plug in the iron, turn on the radio, and make a nice strong cup of coffee. This is going to be my focus from now on. Getting my tasks for the day done. Not some ridiculous crush on the gardener. I’m being paid to do a job here and I’m going to do it.
By midmorning I’ve ironed ten shirts, put a load of laundry on, and hoovered the conservatory. By lunchtime, I’ve dusted and hoovered all the downstairs rooms and polished all the mirrors with vinegar. By teatime, I’ve put on another load of laundry, shredded my vegetables in the food processor, measured out the wild rice to be steamed, and carefully prepared four filo pastry cases for my tartes de fruits, as Iris taught me.
By seven o’clock I’ve thrown away one lot of burned filo cases, baked another four, topped them with strawberries, and finished with heated-up apricot jam. I’ve pan-fried the vegetable shreds in olive oil and garlic till they’re soft. I’ve blanched my French beans. I’ve put the sea bream in the oven. I’ve also taken more than a few sips of vermouth meant for the coulis, but that’s neither here nor there.
My face is bright red and my heart is beating fast and I’m moving round the kitchen in a kind of speeded-up reality—but I kind of feel OK. In fact, I almost feel exhilarated. Here I am, actually cooking a meal all on my own—and I’m just about on top of it! Apart from the mushroom fiasco. But they’re safely in the bin.
I’ve laid the dining table with the Minton china and put candles in the silver candlesticks. I’ve got a bottle of Prosecco waiting in the fridge and heated plates waiting in the oven, and I’ve even put Trish’s CD of Enrique Iglesias love songs in the player. I feel like I’m throwing my first dinner party.
With a pleasant flutter in my stomach, I smooth down my apron and push open the kitchen door. “Mrs. Geiger? Mr. Geiger?”
What I need is a big gong.
“Mrs. Geiger?” I try again.
There’s absolutely no reply. I would have thought they’d be hovering around the kitchen by now. I fetch a glass and a fork and tinkle one loudly in the other.
Nothing. Where are they?
I investigate the rooms on the ground floor, but they’re all empty. Cautiously, I advance up the stairs.
Maybe they’re having a Joy of Sex moment. Should I retreat?
“Er … Mrs. Geiger?” I call hesitantly. “Dinner’s served.”
I can hear voices from the end of the corridor, as I take a few more steps forward. “Mrs. Geiger?”
Suddenly the bedroom door is violently flung open.
“What’s money for?” comes Trish’s shrill voice. “Just tell me that!”
“I don’t need to tell you what money’s for!” Eddie is yelling back. “Never have!”
“If you understood anything—”
“I understand!” Eddie sounds apoplectic. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand!”
Ooooookay. So probably not a Joy of Sex moment. I start backing away silently on tiptoe—but it’s too late.
“What about Portugal?” Trish shrieks. “Do you remember that?” She strides out of the room in a whirlwind of pink and stops short as she sees me.
“Um … dinner’s ready,” I mumble, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “Madam.”
“If you mention bloody Portugal one more bloody time—” Eddie comes marching out of the room.
“Eddie!” Trish cuts him off savagely, then gives a tiny nod toward me. “Pas devant.”
“What?” says Eddie, scowling.
“Pas devant! Les … les …” She wheels her hands, as though trying to conjure the missing word.
“Domestiques?” I offer awkwardly.
Trish shoots me a flinty look, then draws herself up with dignity. “I shall be in my room.”
“It’s my bloody room too!” says Eddie furiously, but the door has already banged shut.
“Erm … I’ve made dinner …” I venture, but Eddie stalks to the stairs, ignoring me.
I feel a swell of dismay. If the sea bream isn’t eaten soon it’ll get all shriveled.
“Mrs. Geiger?” I knock on her door. “I’m just worried the dinner will spoil—”
“So what?” comes back her muffled voice. “I’m not in the mood for eating.”
I stare at the door in disbelief. I’ve spent all bloody day cooking dinner for them. It’s all ready. The candles are lit, the plates are in the oven. They can’t just not eat it.
“You have to eat!” I cry out, and Eddie stops, halfway down the stairs. The bedroom door opens, and Trish looks out in astonishment.
“What?” she says.
OK. Play this one carefully.
“Everyone has to eat,” I improvise. “It’s a human need. So why not discuss your differences over a meal? Or put them on hold! Have a glass of wine and relax and agree not to mention … er … Portugal.”
As I say the word, I can feel their hackles rising.
“I’m not the one who mentioned it,” growls Eddie. “I thought the subject was closed.”
“I only mentioned it because you were so insensitive.” Trish brushes a sudden tear from her eye. “How do you think I feel, being your … trophy wife?”
Trophy?
I must not laugh.
“Trish.” To my astonishment, Eddie is hurrying up the stairs. “Don’t you ever say that.” He grips her shoulders and looks her fiercely in the eye. “We’ve always been a partnership. You know that. Ever since Sydenham.”
First Portugal, now Sydenham. One day I have to sit Trish down with a bottle of wine and coax her entire life history out of her.
“I know,” whispers Trish.
She’s gazing up at Eddie as though no one else exists, and I suddenly feel a little pang. They really are in love. I can see the antagonism slowly melting away in their eyes. It’s like witnessing a chemical reaction in a test tube.
“Let’s go and eat,” says Eddie finally. “Samantha was right. We should have a nice meal together. Sit down and talk it over.”
Thank God for that. The sea bream will still be just about OK.… I only need to put the sauce in a jug.
“All right, let’s.” Trish sniffs. “Samantha, we’ll be out to dinner tonight.”
My smile freezes on my face.
“Don’t worry about cooking for us,” puts in Eddie, giving me a jovial pat. “You can have a night off!”
What?
“But … I’ve cooked!” I say quickly. “It’s done!”
“Oh. Well … never mind.” Trish makes a vague dismissive gesture with her hand. “Eat it yourself.”
No. No. They cannot do this to me.
“But it’s all ready for you downstairs! Roasted fish … and julienned vegetables …”
“Where shall we go?
” says Trish to Eddie, not listening to a word. “Shall we try and get in at The Mill House?”
As I stand there in stupefaction, she disappears into the bedroom, followed by Eddie. The door closes and I’m left on the landing.
My dinner party’s ruined.
When they’ve roared out of the drive in Eddie’s Porsche, I go into the dining room and slowly clear everything up. I put away the crystal glasses and fold up the napkins and blow out the candles. Then I head back into the kitchen and look for a moment at all my dishes, set out ready for action. My sauce, bubbling away on the hob. My carved lemon-slice garnishes. I was so proud of everything.
Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.
My sea bream are looking pretty sorry for themselves, but I slip one onto a plate anyway and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit at the table, cut myself a piece, and raise it to my mouth. Then I put my knife and fork down without even tasting it. I’m not hungry.
A whole wasted afternoon. And tomorrow I’ve got to do it all over again. The thought makes me feel like sinking my head down onto my arms and never looking up again.
What am I doing here?
I mean, really. What am I doing? Why am I not walking out right now and getting on a train back to London?
As I’m slumped there I become aware of a faint tapping at the open door, and I look up to see Nathaniel leaning in the door frame, holding his rucksack. Remembering this morning’s encounter, I feel a flash of embarrassment. Without quite meaning to, I swivel my chair away slightly and fold my arms.
“Hi,” I say, with a tiny If-you-think-I’m-interested-in-you-you’re-much-mistaken shrug.
“I thought I’d come and see if you needed any help.” His eyes travel around the kitchen, at the dishes of untouched food. “What happened?”
“They didn’t eat it. They went out to dinner.”
Nathaniel stares at me for a moment, then shakes his head. “After you spent all day cooking for them?”
“It’s their food. Their house. They can do what they like.”
I’m trying to sound careless and matter-of-fact. But the disappointment remains heavy inside me. Nathaniel puts down his rucksack and inspects the sea bream. “Looks good.”
“It looks like congealed, overcooked fish,” I correct him.
“My favorite.” He grins, but I’m not in the mood for his good humor.
“Have some, then.” I gesture at the dish. “No one else is going to eat it.”
“Well, then. Shame to waste it.” He helps himself to everything, piling his plate ludicrously high, then pours himself a glass of wine and sits down opposite me at the table.
“To you.” Nathaniel raises his glass. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Seriously, Samantha.” He waits patiently until I drag my eyes up from the floor. “Whether they ate it or not, this is a real achievement. I mean, bloody hell. Remember the last dinner you cooked in this kitchen?”
I give a reluctant smile. “The lamb of doom, you mean.”
“The chickpeas. I’ll never forget those.” He takes a bite of fish. “This is good, by the way.”
An image comes to me of those tiny blackened bullets; myself running around in a frenzy; the meringue dripping on the floor … and in spite of everything I want to giggle. I’ve already learned so much since then.
“Well, of course, I’d have been OK that night,” I say nonchalantly. “If you hadn’t insisted on helping me. I had it all under control till you got in my way.”
Nathaniel puts his fork down, still munching, his blue eyes crinkled up with something—amusement, maybe. I can feel the telltale heat rising in my cheeks, and as I glance downward I notice that my hands are resting on the table, palms up.
And I’m leaning forward, I realize in sudden horror. My pupils are probably half a mile wide too. My body language could not be any clearer if I wrote I fancy you in felt-tip on my forehead.
I hastily remove my hands to my lap, sit up straight, and adopt a stony expression. I haven’t got over this morning’s mortification. In fact, I might take the opportunity to regain my equilibrium.
“So—” I begin, just as Nathaniel starts speaking too.
“Go on.” He takes another bite of fish. “After you.”
“Well.” I clear my throat. “After our … conversation this morning. I was just going to say that you’re quite right about relationships. Obviously I’m not ready for anything new yet. Or even interested. At all.”
There. At least I’ve salvaged my dignity a little.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, pouring more wine into his glass.
“I was going to ask you out,” says Nathaniel, and I nearly flood the table with wine.
He what?
The body language worked?
“But not to worry.” He takes a gulp of wine. “I understand.”
Backtrack. I need to backtrack, very, very quickly. Yet subtly, so he doesn’t actually notice I’m backtracking.
Oh, bugger it, I’ll just be inconsistent. I’m a woman, I’m allowed to be.
“Nathaniel,” I force myself to say calmly. “I’d love to go out with you.”
“Good.” He looks unperturbed. “How’s Friday night?”
“Perfect.”
As I grin back, I suddenly realize I’m hungry. I pull my plate of sea bream toward me, pick up my knife and fork, and begin to eat.
Fourteen
I get to Friday morning without any major calamities. At least, none that the Geigers know about.
There was the vegetable-risotto disaster on Tuesday—but thank God I managed to get a last-minute substitute from the caterers. There was a peach camisole that, in hindsight, should have been ironed on a lower setting. There was the Dartington vase that I broke while trying to dust with the vacuum-cleaner attachment. But no one seems to have noticed it’s gone yet. And the new one should arrive tomorrow.
So far, this week has cost me only two hundred pounds, which is a vast improvement on last week. I may even start making a profit before too long.
I’m putting Eddie’s damp underwear in the dryer, averting my eyes as best I can, when I hear Trish calling me.
“Samantha! Where are you?” She doesn’t sound pleased. What’s she discovered? “I can’t have you walking around like that anymore.” Trish arrives at the door of the utility room, shaking her head vigorously.
“I’m sorry?” I peer at her.
“Your hair.” She makes a face.
“Oh, right.” I touch the bleached patch with a grimace. “I meant to get it done at the weekend—”
“You’re having it done now,” she cuts across me. “My super hairdresser’s here.”
“Now?” I stare at her. “But … I’ve got vacuuming to do.”
“I’m not having you walk around like a fright anymore. You can make up the hours later. Come on. Annabel’s waiting!”
I guess I have no choice. I dump the rest of Eddie’s underpants in the dryer, switch it on, and follow her up the stairs.
“Now, I’ve been meaning to mention my cashmere cardigan,” Trish adds sternly as we reach the top. “The cream one?”
Shit. Shit. She’s found out I replaced it. Of course she has. I should have known she couldn’t be that stupid—
“I don’t know what you’ve done to it.” Trish pushes open her bedroom door. “But it looks marvelous. That little ink stain on the hem has completely disappeared! It’s like new!”
“Right.” I give a smile of relief. “Well … all part of the service!”
I follow Trish into the bedroom, where a thin woman with big blond hair, white jeans, and a gold chain belt is setting up a chair in the middle of the floor.
“Hello!” She looks up, cigarette in hand, and I realize that she’s about sixty years old. “Samantha. I’ve heard all about you.”
Her voice is gravelly, her mouth is pursed with lines, and her makeup looks like it’s been welded to her skin. She co
mes forward, surveys my hair, and winces.
“What’s all this? Thought you’d try the streaky look?” She gives a raucous laugh at her own joke.
“It was a … bleach accident.”
“Accident!” She runs her fingers through my hair, tsking all the while. “Well, it can’t stay this color. We’d better go a nice blond. You don’t mind going blond, do you, dear?”
Blond?
“I’ve never been blond,” I say in alarm. “I’m not really sure—”
“You’ve got the coloring for it.” She’s brushing my hair out.
“Well, as long as it’s not too blond,” I say hurriedly. “Not … you know, that fake, tarty, platinum blond …”
I trail off as I realize that the other two women in the room have fake, tarty, platinum-blond hair.
“Or … um …” I swallow. “Whatever you think. Really.”
I sit down on the chair, wrap a towel around my shoulders, and try not to flinch as Annabel briskly pastes some chemical-smelling goo on my head and layers in what feels like a thousand bits of silver foil.
Blond. Yellow hair. Barbie dolls.
Oh, God. What am I doing?
“I think this was a mistake,” I say abruptly, trying to get out of my chair. “I don’t think I’m a natural blonde—”
“Relax!” Annabel clamps down on my shoulders, forcing me back into my seat, and puts a magazine in my hand. Behind, Trish is opening a bottle of champagne. “You’ll look lovely. Pretty girl like you should do something with her hair. Now, read us our signs.”
“Signs?” I say in bewilderment.
“Horoscopes!” Annabel tsks again. “Not the brightest penny, is she?” she adds in an undertone to Trish.
“She is a little dim,” Trish murmurs back discreetly. “But marvelous at laundry.”
So this is what being a lady of leisure is like. Sitting with foil in your hair, drinking Buck’s Fizz, and reading glossy magazines. I haven’t read any magazines except The Lawyer since I was about thirteen. Normally I spend my hairdresser’s appointments typing e-mails or reading contracts.
But I simply can’t relax. By the time Annabel is blow-drying my hair, my entire body is seized up in fear.
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