The Undomestic Goddess (16 page)

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 hes trying to let me know hes not interested.

Im mortified. I have to get away from here. From him.

Youre right, I say, flustered. Its... far too soon to think about anything like that. In
fact, it would be a terrible idea. Im 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. Ill 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 dont care. Its 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. Im being paid to do a job here and Im going to do it.

By midmorning Ive ironed ten shirts, put a load of laundry on, and hoovered the
conservatory. By lunchtime, Ive dusted and hoovered all the downstairs rooms and polished
all the mirrors with vinegar. By teatime, Ive 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 oclock Ive thrown away one lot of burned filo cases, baked another four, topped
them with strawberries, and finished with heated-up apricot jam. Ive pan-fried the
vegetable shreds in olive oil and garlic till theyre soft. Ive blanched my French beans.
Ive put the sea bream in the oven. Ive also taken more than a few sips of vermouth meant
for the coulis, but thats neither here nor there.

My face is bright red and my heart is beating fast and Im 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 ownand Im just about on top of it! Apart from the
mushroom fiasco. But theyre safely in the bin.

Ive laid the dining table with the Minton china and put candles in the silver
candlesticks. Ive got a bottle of Prosecco waiting in the fridge and heated plates waiting
in the oven, and Ive even put Irishs CD of Enrique Iglesias love songs in the player. I
feel like Im 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.

Theres absolutely no reply. I would have thought theyd 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 theyre all empty. Cautiously, I
advance

up the stairs.

Maybe theyre having a Joy of Sex moment. Should I retreat?

Er...Mrs. Geiger? I call hesitantly. Dinners 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. Whats money for ? comes Trishs shrill voice. Just tell me that! I dont need to tell you what moneys for!
Eddie is yelling back. Never have!

If you understood anything

I understand! Eddie sounds apoplectic. Dont tell me I dont understand!

Ooooookay. So probably not a Joy of Sex moment. I start backing away silently on tiptoe but its 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... dinners 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.

Its my bloody room too! says Eddie furiously, but the door has already banged shut.

Erm... Ive made dinner... I venture, but Eddie stalks to the stairs, ignoring me.

I feel a swell of dismay. If the sea bream isnt eaten soon itll get all shriveled.

Mrs. Geiger? I knock on her door. Im just worried the dinner will spoil

So what? comes back her muffled voice. Im not in the mood for eating.

I stare at the door in disbelief. Ive spent all bloody day cooking dinner for them. Its
all ready. The candles are lit, the plates are in the oven. They cant 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. Its 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.

Im 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. Dont you ever say that. He grips her shoulders and looks her fiercely in the eye. Weve always been a
partnership. You know that. Ever since Sydenham.

FirstPortugal , 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.

Shes 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. Its
like witnessing a chemical reaction in a test tube.

Lets 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, lets. Trish sniffs. Samantha, well be out to dinner tonight.

My smile freezes on my face.

Dont worry about cooking for us, puts in Eddie, giving me a jovial pat. You can have a
night off!

What? But... Ive cooked! I say quickly. Its 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 its 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 Im left on the landing.

My dinner partys ruined.

When theyve roared out of the drive in Eddies 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, theres 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. Im not hungry.

A whole wasted afternoon. And tomorrow Ive 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 toLondon ?

As Im 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 mornings
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-Im-interested-in-you-youre- much -mistaken shrug. I thought Id come and see if you needed any help. His eyes travel around
the kitchen,

at the dishes of untouched food. What happened?

They didnt 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?

Its their food. Their house. They can do what they like.

Im 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 Im 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 . Ill 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. Ive
already learned so much since then.

Well, of course, Id have been OK that night, I say nonchalantly. If you hadnt 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.

AndIm 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
havent got over this mornings 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 youre quite right about relationships. Obviously Im not ready for anything new yet.
Or even interested. At all.

There. At least Ive 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 doesnt actually notice Im backtracking.

Oh, bugger it, Ill just be inconsistent. Im a woman, Im allowed to be. Nathaniel, I force
myself to say calmly. Id love to go out with you. Good. He looks unperturbed. Hows Friday
night? Perfect.

As I grin back, I suddenly realize Im hungry. I pull my plate of sea bream toward me, pick
up my knife and fork, and begin to eat.

I get to Friday morning without any major calamities. At least, none that the Geigers know
about.

There was the vegetable-risotto disaster on Tuesdaybut 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 Darting-ton vase that I broke
while trying to dust with the vacuum-cleaner attachment. But no one seems to have noticed
its 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.

Im putting Eddies damp underwear in the dryer, averting my eyes as best I can, when I hear
Trish calling me.

Samantha! Where are you? She doesnt sound pleased. Whats she discovered? I cant have you walking around like that anymore. Trish arrives at the door of the utility room,
shaking her head vigorously.

Im 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

Youre having it done now, she cuts across me. My super hairdressers here.

Now? I stare at her. But... Ive got vacuuming to do.

Im not having you walk around like a fright anymore. You can make up the hours later. Come
on. Annabels waiting!

I guess I have no choice. I dump the rest of Eddies underpants in the dryer, switch it on,
and follow her up the stairs.

Now, Ive been meaning to mention my cashmere cardigan, Trish adds sternly as we reach the
top. The cream one?

Shit. Shit. Shes found out I replaced it. Of course she has. I should have known she
couldnt be that stupid

I dont know what youve done to it. Trish pushes open her bedroom door. But it looks marvelous . That little ink stain on the hem has completely disappeared! Its 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 shes about sixty years old.
Samantha. Ive heard all about you.

Her voice is gravelly, her mouth is pursed with lines, and her makeup looks like its been
welded to her skin. She comes forward, surveys my hair, and winces.

Whats all this? Thought youd 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 cant stay
this color. Wed better go a nice blond. You dont mind going blond, do you, dear?

Blond?

Ive never been blond, I say in alarm. Im not really sure

Youve got the coloring for it. Shes brushing my hair out.

Well, as long as its 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 dont think Im
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. Youll 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

Bucks Fizz, and reading glossy magazines.

I havent read any magazines except The Lawyer since I was about thirteen. Normally I spend my hairdressers appointments typing e-mails
or reading contracts.

But I simply cant relax. By the time Annabel is blow-drying my hair, my entire body is
seized up in fear.

I cant be blond. Its just not who I am.

There we are! Annabel gives a final blast and switches the hair dryer off. Theres silence.
I cant open my eyes.

Much better! Trish says approvingly.

I slowly open one eye. Then the other.

My hair isnt blond. Its caramel. Its 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 didnt believe me, did you? Annabel raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror, a
satisfied smile at her lips. Thought I didnt know what I was doing?

She can so obviously read my mind, I feel abashed.

Its wonderful, I say, finding my voice. Im... Thank you so much.

Im entranced by my reflection, by my new, glowing, caramel, honey self. I look alive. I
look colorful .

Im never going back to the way I looked before. Never.

My pleasure doesnt fade. Even when Ive gone downstairs again and am pushing theHoover
round the drawing room, Im 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.
Im having a meeting in the dining room. Id 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 didnt 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 its 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 Im

doing so I cant help glancing at the papers on the tableand immediately recognize them as
contracts.

Er... white or black? I say to a burly, red-haired guy in a blazer.

White, thanks. He doesnt 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.

Im 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 facebut I know him. I worked with people like this for seven
years. And I know instinctively that this man doesnt 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?

Lets just have a look, replies Martin. He starts perusing the document, nodding every so
often. I guess he must be Eddies lawyer.

Were as concerned about security as you are, says the chiseled man, with a smile. When it
comes to money, who isnt? 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. Its 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?

Im 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?

Im not at Carter Spink. Im in a housekeepers 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. Hasnt 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 dont believe this. Hes 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.

Hes 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 youd 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. Im 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. Im 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.

Its very urgent, I say. It wont 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 Ive 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.

Its 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 couldnt remember, I mumble. And I didnt 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 something else. It looks like youre signing some papers in there.

Thats 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 dont need to worry. Im not a fool. I do have a lawyer!

Um... yes, sir. I think quickly for another way. Only I couldnt 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 shed 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. Hes 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!

Theres 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!

Im really sorry, I say in my most flustered voice. Im 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. Well 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 its all shipshape. Might even get another opinion, to be on the safe
side. No offense, Martin!