I can’t be blond. It’s just not who I am.
“There we are!” Annabel gives a final blast and switches the hair dryer off. There’s silence. I can’t open my eyes.
“Much better!” Trish says approvingly.
I slowly open one eye. Then the other.
My hair isn’t blond. It’s caramel. It’s warm caramel with streaks of honey and the tiniest threads of gold. As I move my head it shimmers.
I think I might cry.
“You didn’t believe me, did you?” Annabel raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror, a satisfied smile at her lips. “Thought I didn’t know what I was doing?”
She can so obviously read my mind, I feel abashed.
“It’s wonderful,” I say, finding my voice. “I’m … Thank you so much.”
I’m entranced by my reflection, by my new, glowing, caramel, honey self. I look alive. I look colorful.
I’m never going back to the way I looked before. Never.
My pleasure doesn’t fade. Even when I’ve gone downstairs again and am pushing the Hoover round the drawing room, I’m totally preoccupied by my new hair. As I pass any shiny surface, I stop to admire myself and flick up my hair so it cascades back down in a caramelly shower.
Vacuum under the rug. Flick. Vacuum under the coffee table. Flick. Flick.
It never even occurred to me to dye my hair before. What else have I been missing out on?
“Ah, Samantha.” I look up to see Eddie coming into the room, wearing a navy jacket and tie. “I’m having a meeting in the dining room. I’d like you to make some coffee and bring it in to my guests.”
“Yes, sir.” I curtsy. “How many of you are there?”
“Four altogether. And some biscuits. Snacks. Whatever.”
“Of course.”
Huh. He didn’t even notice my hair. In fact, he looks hyped up and red in the face. I wonder what this meeting is. As I head to the kitchen I glance curiously out the front window and see an unfamiliar red Mercedes Series 5 parked in the drive, next to a silver convertible BMW and a dark green Rover.
Hmm. Probably not the local vicar, then. Maybe it’s something to do with his company.
I make a pot of coffee, put it on a tray, add a plate of biscuits and some muffins I bought for tea. Then I head to the dining room and knock.
“Come in!”
I push the door open to see Eddie sitting with four men in suits, around the dining-room table, each with a thick, open file before him. Sitting beside Eddie is a plumpish man in a soft brown jacket and horn-rimmed glasses. Directly opposite him is a guy with chiseled, good-looking features, wearing an expensive-looking suit.
“So just a few amendments,” the chiseled man is saying as I approach the table. “Nothing that should concern anyone!”
“Your coffee,” I murmur in deferential tones.
“Thank you, Samantha.” Eddie looks puffed up, like the lord of the manor. “If you could serve it out?”
I put the tray down on the sideboard and distribute the cups among the men. As I’m doing so I can’t help glancing at the papers on the table—and immediately recognize them as contracts.
“Er … white or black?” I say to a burly, red-haired guy in a blazer.
“White, thanks.” He doesn’t even acknowledge me. While I pour the coffee, I have another casual look. It looks like some kind of property investment deal. Is Eddie sinking his money into something?
“Biscuit?” I offer.
“I’m sweet enough.” The red-haired man bares his teeth in a grin. What an asshole.
“So, Eddie. You understand that point now?” The chiseled-looking man is speaking, his voice dripping with concern.
I recognize this man. Not his face—but I know him. I worked with people like this for seven years. And I know instinctively that this man doesn’t care two jots whether Eddie understands.
“Yes!” says Eddie. “Yes, of course.” He peers at the contract uncertainly, then looks at the man in the brown jacket next to him. “Martin?”
“Let’s just have a look,” replies Martin. He starts perusing the document, nodding every so often. I guess he must be Eddie’s lawyer.
“We’re as concerned about security as you are,” says the chiseled man, with a smile.
“When it comes to money, who isn’t?” quips the red-haired guy.
OK. What exactly is going on here? Why am I suspicious?
As I move round to the chiseled-looking man and pour his coffee, the contract is clearly visible and I run my eyes down it with a practiced speed. It’s a property-development partnership. Both sides putting up money … residential development … so far so standard … It looks fine.
I pour out coffee for the next guy and have another quick scan, just to be sure.
And then I see something that makes me freeze in shock. A carefully worded, innocuous-looking little clause at the bottom of the page that commits Eddie to funding any shortfall. In one line. With no reciprocity.
If things go wrong … Eddie has to foot the bill. Does he realize?
Does his lawyer realize?
I’m totally aghast. My urge to reach for the contract and rip it up is almost overpowering. If this were at Carter Spink, these guys would not last two minutes. Not only would I throw their contract out, but I would recommend to my client that—
“Samantha?” I jerk back to reality to see Eddie frowning slightly at me. “Could you please serve Martin?”
I’m not at Carter Spink. I’m in a housekeeper’s uniform and I have refreshments to serve.
I move round the table and pour out coffee for Martin, who is reading through the contract with not one sign of alarm. Hasn’t he seen the clause?
“Chocolate biscuit?” I offer him the plate. “Or a muffin?”
“Ah!” His fleshy face lights up. “Now … let me see … they all look so good.…” His hand hovers over the plate.
I don’t believe this. He’s paying more attention to the muffins than he is to the contract. What kind of lawyer is this guy?
“So. Enough talk. The adventure begins.” Mr. Chiseled is unscrewing the lid of a smart pen. “Ready?” He hands it to Eddie.
He’s about to sign? Now?
“Everything OK by you?” says Eddie to Martin, whose mouth is now stuffed full of muffin.
“Take your time,” Mr. Chiseled adds with a perfect-toothed smile. “If you’d like to read it through again …”
I feel a surge of sudden fury at these guys, with their flash cars and sharp suits and smooth voices. They are not going to rip off my boss. I’m not going to let it happen.
“Mr. Geiger,” I say urgently. “Could I see you for a minute please? In private?”
Eddie looks up in annoyance.
“Samantha,” he says with heavy humor. “I’m in the middle of rather important business here. Important to me, at any rate!” He glances round the table, and the three men laugh sycophantically.
“It’s very urgent,” I say. “It won’t take long.”
“Samantha—”
“Please, Mr. Geiger. I need to speak to you.”
At last Eddie exhales in exasperation and puts down the pen.
“All right.” He gets up and ushers me out of the room. “What is it?” he demands.
I stare back at him dumbly. Now I’ve got him out here I have no idea how to bring up the subject. What can I say?
Mr. Geiger, I would recommend reviewing clause 14.
Mr. Geiger, your liabilities are not sufficiently protected.
It’s impossible. Who takes legal advice from their housekeeper?
His hand is on the doorknob. This is my last chance.
“Do you take sugar?” I blurt out.
“What?”
“I couldn’t remember,” I mumble. “And I didn’t want to draw attention to your sugar consumption in public.”
“Yes, I take one lump,” says Eddie testily. “Is that all?”
“Well … yes, there was somethin
g else. It looks like you’re signing some papers in there.”
“That’s right.” He frowns. “Private papers.”
“Of course!” I swallow. “I was just … remembering. You told me always to be very careful with legal documents.”
Eddie laughs jovially.
“You don’t need to worry. I’m not a fool. I do have a lawyer!”
“Um … yes, sir.” I think quickly for another way. “Only I couldn’t help thinking of a time that Lady Edgerly signed up to some kind of investment, I think it was. And afterward she said to me that she wished she’d got a second opinion.”
I look into his eyes, willing the message to get through. Consult a decent lawyer, you stupid schmuck.
“Very thoughtful of you to be concerned, Samantha.” Eddie gives me a pat on the shoulder, then opens the door and strides back in. “Where were we, gentlemen?”
I watch in dismay as he picks up the pen again. He’s going to get fleeced.
But not if I can help it.
“Your coffee, Mr. Geiger,” I murmur, hurrying into the room. I pick up the pot, start pouring, then accidentally-on-purpose drop it on the table.
“Aaargh!”
“Jesus!”
There’s total mayhem as the coffee spreads in a dark brown lake over the table, soaking into papers and dripping onto the floor.
“The contracts!” shouts Mr. Chiseled in annoyance. “You stupid woman!”
“I’m really sorry,” I say in my most flustered voice. “I’m really, really sorry. The coffeepot just … slipped.” I start mopping the coffee with a tissue, making sure to spread it over all the remaining paperwork.
“Do we have any copies?” asks the red-haired man, and I look up, alert.
“They were all on the bloody table,” says Mr. Chiseled in exasperation. “We’ll have to get them printed out again.” He looks at Eddie. “Can you make tomorrow?”
“Actually …” Eddie clears his throat. “Not tomorrow. I think I want a little more time. Just want to make sure it’s all shipshape. Might even get another opinion, to be on the safe side. No offense, Martin!”
“None taken,” said Martin amiably, reaching for a chocolate biscuit.
The visitors exchange looks.
“Of course,” says the chiseled-looking man after a long pause. “No problem.”
Ha! Something tells me this deal may not be happening after all.
“Your jacket, sir?” I say with a smile, handing it to him. “And again, I’m dreadfully, dreadfully sorry.”
The great thing about legal training is it really teaches you to lie.
It also teaches you to put up with being yelled at by your boss. Which is handy, because as soon as Trish hears what I’ve done, I’m forced to stand in the kitchen for twenty minutes while she strides around, haranguing me.
“Mr. Geiger is putting together a very important business deal! That meeting was crucial!”
“I’m very sorry, madam,” I say, eyes downcast.
“I know you have no understanding of these things, Samantha. But a lot of money is at stake! Money that you probably have no conception of.”
Stay calm. Stay humble.
“A lot of money,” Trish repeats, impressively.
She’s itching to tell me more. I can see the urge to show off and the urge to remain discreet fighting it out on her face.
“Seven figures,” she says at last.
“Um … gosh.” I do my best to look awestruck.
“We’ve been very good to you, Samantha. We’ve made every effort.” Her voice throbs with resentment. “And we expect you to make every effort in return.”
“I’m very sorry,” I say for the millionth time, but Trish still seems dissatisfied.
“Well, I’ll expect far more care tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“At dinner.” Trish raises her eyes skyward.
“But … I’ve got tonight off,” I say in alarm. “You said it would be OK, I could leave you a cold supper …”
Trish has clearly forgotten all about our conversation.
“Well,” she says querulously. “That was before you threw coffee over our guests. That was before you spent all morning sitting about, having your hair done.”
What? That is so unfair I can’t even find a response.
“Frankly, Samantha, I expect a little better. You will stay in tonight and serve dinner.” She picks up a magazine and strides out of the kitchen.
I stare after her, a familiar, heavy resignation creeping over me. This has happened so many times in my life, I’m used to it. I’ll have to call off my date with Nathaniel. Another date … another cancellation.
And then my thoughts stop mid-track. I’m not at Carter Spink anymore. I don’t have to put up with this.
I stalk out of the kitchen and find Trish in the living room.
“Mrs. Geiger,” I say as forcefully as I can. “I’m sorry about the coffee and I’ll make every effort to do better. But I have to have tonight off. I’ve made arrangements—and I’m going to stick to them. I’ll be going out at seven as planned.”
My heart is beating fast as I finish. I’ve never asserted myself like that before in my life. If I’d ever spoken like that at Carter Spink I’d have been dead meat.
For a moment Trish looks livid. Then, to my astonishment, she gives an irritated click with her tongue and turns a page.
“Oh, very well. If it’s that important—”
“Yes.” I swallow. “It’s important. My personal life is important.”
As I say the words, I feel stirred up. I almost want to say something more to Trish. Something about priorities, about balance.
But Trish is already engrossed in an article on “The Red Wine Diet—How It Can Work for You.” I’m not sure she’d appreciate being disturbed.
I’m putting the finishing touches to a cold roasted-vegetable salad for the Geigers’ supper when Trish comes into the kitchen. She opens the fridge, peers into it, then closes the door, looking dissatisfied. She leans against the counter, watching me work, until I start feeling twitchy.
“Er … can I get you anything, Mrs. Geiger?”
“No, you just carry on.” She picks up a vegetable parer and twirls it around in her hands.
“Um … Mrs. Geiger …” I gesture that I need the parer, and she hands it over with a tsk of irritation.
“You have such a simple life, Samantha,” she says, with a sigh. “So … untroubled.”
“Yes, madam,” I say after a pause. If you only knew …
Trish moves to the window and gives another gusty sigh.
“Mr. Geiger will be out this evening. So you only need to make one cold supper.”
“Um … right.” I have the feeling that if I point out I’ve already made a salad for two, she’ll bite my head off.
She definitely looks out of sorts, standing there, running her finger up and down the windowpane. Maybe I should make conversation.
“Nathaniel told me that you used to run a business, Mrs. Geiger,” I say, carving strips off a huge chunk of Parmesan. “Road haulage? That must have been interesting.”
“Oh, yes. It was our life.”
“You must have worked hard,” I prompt.
“We built it up from scratch, you know. Mr. Geiger and I.” She suddenly looks animated. “By the end we had a staff of thirty. Contracts with every major supermarket chain in the country. You’ll have seen our lorries on the road. Red with a black flash.”
“Those are yours?” I feel a flash of genuine interest. “I’ve seen them on the motorway!”
“They were ours,” corrects Trish. “We were made an extremely generous offer a few years ago. Which naturally … we took.” All the animation has waned from her voice.
As I sprinkle torn basil over the plate, she gazes out the window again, her face rigid.
“And you don’t ever think about … doing another job?” I venture.
“Samantha,” says Trish, in her exp
laining-things-to-a-three-year-old voice. “Mr. Geiger and I have made our money. I am fortunate enough not to need to work.”
“No, of course not,” I say deferentially.
I grind black pepper onto the salad, remembering Trish’s tears that day by the washing machine. I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. She obviously has no idea what to do with all her time. And Eddie doesn’t help, being out on the golf course all day.
“You know, Lady Edgerly didn’t have a job either,” I say casually as I put cling wrap over the salad dish and place it in the fridge. “But of course she kept busy with her charity work.”
“Charity work?” echoes Trish after a pause. “What sort of charity work?”
“All sorts! Fund-raisers … charity lunches … She said if she hadn’t had those to occupy her, she would have gone stir-crazy, doing nothing all day except filing her nails and having her hair done—although obviously that’s nothing like you!” I backtrack as Trish turns around. “You’ve got … er … loads going on!”
“Absolutely.” Trish lifts her chin defensively. “I have many interests and … and … occupations. People envy me my full life, you know, Samantha.”
“I’m … sure they do, madam. It was just a thought.” I bob a curtsy and head out of the kitchen. At the door I glance back. Trish is still standing in exactly the same place.
Fifteen
By seven o’clock that evening, Trish’s mood has unaccountably transformed. Or maybe not so unaccountably. I arrive downstairs in the hall to see her wandering out of the living room with a cocktail glass, bloodshot eyes, and a high color.
“So!” she says benevolently. “You’re going out with Nathaniel tonight.”
“That’s right.” I glance at myself in the mirror. I’ve gone for a fairly informal outfit. Jeans, nice simple top, sandals.
“He’s a very attractive young man.” She eyes me inquisitively over the top of her glass. “Very muscular.”
“Er … yes. I suppose so.”
“Is that what you’re wearing?” She runs her eyes over my outfit. “It’s not very jazzy, is it? Let me lend you a little something.”
“I don’t mind not being jazzy—” I begin, feeling a few qualms, but Trish has already disappeared up the stairs. A few moments later she appears, holding a jewel box.
The Undomestic Goddess Page 17