I spend the afternoon in the kitchen, pretending to have selective deafness. Whenever Melissa calls me, I turn the blender on, or the radio up, or clatter around with baking trays. If she wants me she can find me herself.
At last, she appears at the kitchen door, her cheeks flushed with annoyance. “Samantha, I’ve been calling you!”
“Really?” I look up innocently from the butter I’m chopping to make pastry. “I didn’t hear.”
“We need a bell system or something.” She exhales in impatience. “This is ridiculous, me having to stop what I’m doing.”
“What did you want?”
“My water jug is empty. And I need some kind of snack. To keep my energy levels up.”
“You could have brought your jug into the kitchen,” I suggest mildly. “Or made your own snack?”
“Look, I don’t have time to be making snacks, OK?” snaps Melissa. “I’m under a great deal of time pressure right now. I have piles of work, I have exam deadlines … you have no idea what my life is like.”
I’m silent for a moment, trying to get my resentment under control.
“I’ll bring you out a sandwich,” I say at last.
“Thank you,” she says sarcastically, then stands with her arms folded, as though she’s waiting for something.
“What?” I say.
“Go on.” She gestures with her head. “Curtsy.”
What? She can’t be serious. “I’m not curtsying to you!” I say, almost laughing.
“You curtsy to my aunt. And my uncle.”
“They’re my employers,” I retort tightly. “It’s different.” And believe me, if I could turn back the clock, curtsying would not be featured in any of our lives.
“I’m living in this house. So I’m your employer too. You should show me the same respect.”
I want to slap this girl. If she was my junior at Carter Spink I would … annihilate her.
“Right.” I put my knife down. “I’ll go and ask Mrs. Geiger, shall I?” Before she can reply I stride out of the kitchen. I cannot tolerate this. If Trish takes her side, that’s it. I’m leaving.
I can’t see Trish anywhere downstairs, so I head upstairs, heart racing. I arrive outside her room and knock. “Mrs. Geiger? I’d like a word.”
A few moments later, Trish opens the door a crack and pokes her head out, looking a little ruffled. “Samantha! What do you want?”
“I’m not happy with the current situation,” I say, attempting a calm, civilized voice. “I’d like to discuss it, please.”
“What situation?” She wrinkles her brow.
“With Melissa. And her … her constant needs. I’m being taken away from my regular duties. The housekeeping will suffer if I have to keep attending to her.”
Trish doesn’t seem to have heard a word.
“Oh, Samantha … not now.” She waves a distracted, dismissive hand. “We’ll talk about this later.”
I can hear Eddie mumbling something from inside the room. Great. They were probably having sex. She probably wants to get back to Turkish style.
“Right.” I try to control my frustration. “So I’ll just … get on, then, shall I?”
“Wait.” Trish suddenly seems to focus on me. “Samantha, we’ll be having champagne on the terrace in half an hour with some … ahm … friends. I’d like you to wear something other than your uniform.” Her eyes run over it with slight distaste. “It’s not the most flattering garment you possess.”
You bloody chose it! I want to yell back at her. But instead, I curtsy, turn away, and walk to my room, fuming.
Bloody Trish. Bloody Melissa. If she’s waiting for a sandwich, she can just wait.
I close the door, slump down on my bed, and look down at my hands, red and raw from hand-washing Melissa’s delicate garments.
What am I doing here?
I can feel disappointment and disillusionment spreading through me. Maybe I was being naive—but I honestly thought Trish and Eddie had come to respect me. Not just as their housekeeper but as a person. But the way Trish behaved just now … it’s plain I’m just “staff” to them. Like some sort of useful object, one notch above the Hoover. I almost feel like packing my bags and walking out.
I have a sudden vision of myself flouncing down the stairs, flinging open the door, shooting over my shoulder to Melissa, “And by the way, I’ve got a law degree too, and mine is better than yours.”
But that would be petulant. No, worse. It would be pathetic.
I massage my temples, gradually getting things in perspective.
I chose to do this. No one forced me. And maybe it wasn’t the most rational move in the world, and maybe I won’t stay here forever. But it’s up to me to make the most of it while I am here. It’s up to me to be professional.
Or at least … as professional as I can be, bearing in mind I still haven’t a clue what a savarin mold is.
At last I summon some energy and get up off the bed. I change out of my uniform, into a dress, and brush out my hair. I even add some lipstick for good measure. Then I reach for my mobile and text Nathaniel:
hi! RU there? sam
I wait for a reply but none comes. He hasn’t been around all afternoon, I realize. I wonder what he’s up to.
As I descend the stairs into the hall, the house is still and silent. I don’t know what time Trish’s friends are coming, but there’s no sign of them yet. Maybe I’ve got time to finish my pastry quickly. I might even get the vegetables peeled.
I’m hurrying toward the kitchen when Nathaniel appears out the door.
“There you are.” He puts his arms round me and kisses me, pulling me under the stairs, which we’ve discovered is quite a convenient hiding place. “Mmm. I’ve missed you.”
“Nathaniel—” I protest, but his grip around me only gets tighter. After a few moments I manage to wriggle free.
“Nathaniel, I’ve got pastry to make. I’m already behind schedule, and apparently I’ve got to serve drinks to some people—”
“Wait.” Nathaniel tugs me back, glancing at his watch. “One more minute. Then we can go.”
I peer at him uncertainly.
“Nathaniel, what are you talking about?”
“Samantha …” He shakes his head in amusement. “Did you really think you could fool us? Sweetheart, your secret’s out. We know.”
I feel a plunging dread. They know? What do they know?
“What exactly—” I begin, but Nathaniel puts a finger to my lips.
“No, no, no. You’re going to get your surprise.”
“Surprise?” I falter.
“Now come out. They’re waiting for you. Close your eyes …” He puts one arm around my waist and the other hand over my eyes. “Come this way … I’ll lead you.…”
As I walk forward in darkness, guided only by Nathaniel’s arm, I feel almost sick with fear. My mind is ranging wildly about, trying to work out what might have been going on behind my back. Who’s waiting for me out there?
Please, please, don’t say they’ve tried to fix my life up. Please don’t say they’ve arranged some kind of reunion. I have a sudden image of Ketterman standing on the lawn, his steel glasses glinting in the sunlight. Or Arnold. Or my mother.
“Here she is!” Nathaniel guides me out of the French doors and down the steps into the garden. I can feel sun on my face and hear some kind of flapping sound and … jazz? “All right! Open your eyes!”
I can’t open my eyes. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.
“It’s OK!” Nathaniel’s laughing. “No one’s going to eat you! Open them!”
I open my eyes and blink several times, wondering if I’m dreaming.
What … what’s going on?
An enormous banner reading happy birthday, samantha! is tied between two trees. That’s what’s making the flapping noise. The garden table is laid with a white tablecloth, a bouquet of flowers, several bottles of champagne, and a bowl of strawberries. A bunch of shiny helium balloo
ns reading Samantha is tethered to a chair. Eddie and Trish are standing on the grass, together with Iris, Eamonn, and Melissa—and they’re all beaming at me, apart from Melissa, who’s pouting.
I feel as though I’ve lurched into some parallel universe.
“Surprise!” they all cry out in unison. “Happy birthday!”
I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I’m too poleaxed to speak. Why do the Geigers think it’s my birthday?
“Look at her,” says Trish. “She’s stunned! Aren’t you, Samantha?”
“Um … yes,” I stutter.
“She had no idea,” confirms Nathaniel with a grin.
“Happy birthday, sweetie.” Iris comes over, clasps me tightly, and gives me a kiss.
“Eddie, open the champagne!” I can hear Trish exclaiming impatiently behind me. “Come on!”
What do I do? What do I say? How do you break it to the people who have organized your surprise birthday party that actually … it’s not your birthday?
Why would they think it’s my birthday? Did I give them some made-up date of birth at the interview? But I don’t remember doing that—
“Champagne for the birthday girl!” Eddie pops open a bottle and the champagne froths into a glass.
“Many happy returns!” Eamonn proffers the bowl of strawberries. “Ah, you should have seen your face just now!”
“Priceless!” agrees Trish. “Now, let’s have a toast!”
I can’t let this go on any longer.
“Um … Mr. and Mrs. Geiger … everyone … this is lovely, and I’m really touched.” I swallow hard, screwing myself up to say it. “But … it’s not my birthday.”
Everyone bursts into laughter.
“I told you this would happen!” Trish says in delight. “She said you’d deny it!”
“It’s not that bad, getting a year older,” teases Nathaniel. “Now, face it, we know. So have your champagne and enjoy yourself.”
I’m totally confused. “Who said I’d deny it?”
“Lady Edgerly, of course!” says Trish. “She’s the one who gave away your little secret!”
Freya? Freya is behind this?
“What—what exactly did she say? Lady Edgerly.”
“She told me that your birthday was coming up,” says Trish, looking pleased. “And she warned me you’d try to keep it secret. Naughty, naughty!”
I do not believe Freya. I do not believe her.
“She also told me,” Trish lowers her voice sympathetically, “your last birthday was rather a letdown? She said we simply had to make it up to you. In fact, she was the one who suggested we should do it as a big surprise!” Trish raises her glass. “So here’s to Samantha! Happy birthday!”
“Happy birthday!” the others echo, lifting their glasses.
I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. Or both. I look around at the banner and silvery balloons, bobbing in the breeze; at the champagne bottles; at everyone’s smiling faces. There’s nothing I can say. I’ll have to go with it.
“Well … thank you,” I say, looking around. “I … I really appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry I was a little short with you this afternoon,” says Trish cheerfully. “We were rather struggling with the helium balloons. We’d already lost one bunch this afternoon.” She darts a baleful glance at Eddie.
“Have you ever tried to get helium balloons into a car boot?” Eddie retorts hotly. “I’d like to see you do it! I haven’t got three bloody hands, you know.”
An image comes to me of Eddie battling with a load of shiny balloons, trying to stuff them into the Porsche, and I bite my lip hard.
“We didn’t put your age on the balloons, Samantha,” Trish adds in a breathy whisper. “As one woman to another, I thought you’d appreciate that gesture.”
I look from her vivid, over-made-up face to Eddie’s fleshy pink one and suddenly feel so moved I don’t know what to say. All the time, they were planning this. They were doing a banner. They were ordering balloons.
“Mr. Geiger, Mrs. Geiger, I’m … I’m so bowled over …”
“It’s not over yet!” says Trish, nodding over my shoulder.
“Happy birthday to you …” A voice behind me is singing and after a moment the others join in. I look over my shoulder to see Iris coming forward over the lawn, holding the most enormous, two-tier birthday cake. It’s iced all over in palest pink, with sugar roses and raspberries and one elegant white candle. As she gets near I see, in silver writing: Happy Birthday Dear Samantha From Us All.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My throat is tight. No one’s ever made a cake for me in my life before.
“Blow out your candle!” calls out Eamonn as the singing comes to an end. Somehow I puff feebly at the flame, and everyone cheers.
“You like it?” Iris smiles.
“It’s … wonderful,” I manage to say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Happy birthday, chicken.” She pats my hand. “You deserve it, if anyone does.”
As Iris sets the cake down and begins to slice it up, Eddie tinkles his glass with the end of a pen.
“If I could have your attention.” He takes a step up onto the terrace and clears his throat. “Samantha, we’re all very glad you’ve come into our family. You’re doing a marvelous job and we all appreciate it.” Eddie raises his glass to me. “Er … well done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Geiger,” I falter. I look around at all the friendly faces, framed by blue sky and summer leaves. “I’m … I’m glad I’ve come here too. You’ve all been really welcoming and kind to me.” Oh, God, I’m starting to well up. “I couldn’t wish for better employers—”
“Oh, stop!” Trish flaps her hands and dabs her eye with a napkin.
“For she’s a jolly good fellow,” Eddie begins gruffly. “For she’s a jolly good fellow—”
“Eddie! Samantha doesn’t want to hear your stupid singing!” interrupts Trish shrilly, still dabbing her eyes. “Open some more champagne, for goodness sake!”
It’s one of the warmest evenings of the year. As the sun slowly lowers in the sky, we all loll on the grass, drinking champagne and talking. Eamonn tells me about his girlfriend, Anna, who works in a hotel in Gloucester. Iris produces tiny feather-light tarts filled with chicken and herbs. Nathaniel rigs up a set of fairy lights in a tree. Melissa announces loudly several times that she can’t sit around, she has to get back to work—then accepts just one more champagne refill.
The sky is an endless, evening blue and there’s the smell of honeysuckle in the air. Music is burbling away gently in the background and Nathaniel’s hand is resting casually on my thigh. I have never felt so content in my life.
“Presents!” says Trish suddenly. “We haven’t done presents!”
I’m pretty sure she’s drunk more champagne than anyone else. She lurches unsteadily over to the table, searches in her bag, and produces an envelope. “This is a little bonus, Samantha,” she says, handing it to me. “To spend on a treat for yourself.”
“Thank you!” I say, taken aback. “That’s … incredibly kind of you!”
“We’re not increasing your pay,” she adds, eyeing me with slight mistrust. “You do understand this isn’t a raise or anything. It’s just a one-off.”
“I understand,” I say, trying not to smile. “It’s very generous of you, Mrs. Geiger.”
“I’ve got something too.” Iris reaches into her basket and produces a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Inside I find four shiny new bread tins and a rose-sprigged, goffered apron. I can’t help laughing out loud.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll put these to good use.”
Trish is peering at the bread tins. “But … surely Samantha has loads of bread tins already?” she says, picking one up in her manicured hand. “And aprons?”
“I took a chance,” Iris says, her eyes twinkling at me.
“Here you are, Samantha.” Melissa hands me a Body Shop shampoo gift set, which I know for
a fact has been sitting in Trish’s bathroom cupboard since I got here.
“Thanks,” I say politely. “You shouldn’t have.”
“And, Melissa,” chimes in Trish, abruptly abandoning interest in the bread tin, “stop making extra work for Samantha! She can’t spend all her time running after you! We can’t afford to lose her, you know.”
Melissa opens her mouth to retort.
“And this is from me,” says Nathaniel, stepping in quickly. He hands me a tiny present wrapped in white tissue paper, and everyone turns to see what it is.
I unwrap the little parcel, and a pretty silver charm bracelet falls into my hand. There’s only one charm on it: a tiny wooden spoon. I give another snuffle of laughter. A frilly apron, and now a wooden spoon.
Neither Nathaniel nor Iris knows the details of my real life—and yet in some ways I feel they know me better than anyone else in the world. They’ve seen me frazzled and incompetent, at my most vulnerable. I haven’t had to put on a front or act efficient or pretend I know everything.
“It reminded me of the first time we met,” says Nathaniel, his mouth curving into a smile.
“It’s … fantastic.” I put my arms round him and kiss him. “Thank you so much,” I murmur into his ear.
Trish is watching with avid eyes as we draw apart.
“Well, it’s obvious what drew you to Samantha,” she says to Nathaniel. “It was her cooking, wasn’t it?”
“It was her chickpeas,” agrees Nathaniel gravely.
Eamonn has been up on the terrace. Now he bounds down the steps and hands me a bottle of wine. “This is from me,” he says. “It’s not much, but—”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” I say, touched. “Thanks, Eamonn.”
“And I was going to ask, would you be interested in waitressing ever?”
“At the pub?” I say in surprise, but he shakes his head.
“Private functions. We have a little concern going in the village. It’s not really a business, more like passing on work to friends. Make a little extra money, that kind of thing.”
Passing on work to friends. I suddenly feel a little warm glow inside.
“I’d love to. Thanks for thinking of me.”
The Undomestic Goddess Page 23