The Undomestic Goddess (10 page)

A kind of frenzied hysteria has come over me. I know I cannot do this, but somehow I cant
give up either. I keep thinking a miracle will happen. Ill pull it all together. Ill
manage it somehow

Oh, God, the gravys bubbling over.

I shove the oven door shut, grab a spoon, and start stirring it. It looks like revolting
lumpy brown water. Frantically I start searching in the cupboards for something to chuck
in. Flour. Cornstarch. Something like that. Thisll do. I grab a small pot and shake in
vigorous amounts of the white powder, then wipe the sweat off my brow. OK. What now?

Suddenly I remember the egg whites, still whisking up in their bowl. I grab the recipe
book, running my finger down the page. I changed the dessert course to pavlova after I
chanced upon the line in a recipe book: Meringues are so easy to make .

So far so good. What next? Form the stiff meringue mixture into a large circle on your baking parchment .

I peer at my bowl. Stiff meringue mixture? Mines liquid.

It has to be right, I tell myself feverishly. It has to be. I followed the instructions.
Maybe its thicker than it looks. Maybe once I start pouring it out, itll stiffen up by
some weird culinary law of physics.

Slowly I start to pour it onto the tray. It doesnt stiffen up. It spreads in a white
oozing lake and starts dripping off the tray onto the floor.

Something tells me this is not going to make white chocolate pavlova for eight.

A splodge lands on my foot and I give a frustrated cry, near tears. Why didnt it work? I
followed the sodding recipe and everything. A pent-up rage is rising inside me: rage at
myself, at my defective crappy egg whites, at cookery books, at cooks, at food... and most
of all at whoever wrote that meringues were so easy to make .

Theyre not! I hear myself yelling. Theyre bloody not! I hurl the book across the kitchen,
where it smashes against the kitchen door.

What the hell a male voice exclaims in surprise.

The door flies open and Nathaniel is standing there, a rucksack hefted over his shoulder;
he looks like hes on his way home. Is everything OK?

Its fine, I say, rattled. Everythings fine. Thank you. Thank you so much. I make a
dismissive motion with my hand, but he doesnt move.

I heard you were cooking a gourmet dinner tonight, he says slowly, surveying the mess.

Yes. Thats right. Im just in the... most complex stage of the... um... I glance down at
the hob and give an involuntary scream. Fuck! The gravy!

I dont know whats happened. Brown bubbles are expanding out of my gravy saucepan, all over
the cooker, and down the sides on the floor. It looks like the porringer in the story of
the magic pot that wouldnt stop making porridge.

Get it off the heat, for Gods sake! exclaims Nathaniel, throwing his rucksack aside. He
snatches up the pan and moves it to the counter. What on earth is in that?

Nothing! I say. Just the usual ingredients...

Nathaniel has noticed the little pot on the counter. He grabs it and takes a pinch between
his fingers. Baking soda ? You put baking soda in gravy? Is that what they taught you at He breaks off and sniffs
the air. Hang on. Is something burning?

I watch helplessly as he opens the bottom oven, grabs an oven glove with a practiced air,
and hauls out a baking tray covered in what look like tiny black bullets.

Oh, no. My chickpeas.

What are these supposed to be? he says incredulously. Rabbit droppings?

Theyre chickpeas, I retort. My cheeks are naming but I lift my chin, trying to regain some
kind of dignity. I drizzled them in olive oil and put them in the oven so they could...
melt.

Nathaniel stares at me. Melt ? Soften, I amend hurriedly.

Nathaniel puts down the tray and folds his arms. Do you know anything about cooking?

Before I can answer, theres the most almighty BANG from the microwave.

Oh, my God! I shriek in terror. Oh, my God ! What was that? Nathaniel is peering through the glass door.

What the hell was in there? he demands. Somethings exploded. My mind races frantically.
What on earth did I put in the microwave? Its all a blur. The eggs! I suddenly remember. I
was hard-boiling the eggs for the canapes. In a microwave ? he expostulates. To save time! I practically yell back. I was being efficient!

Nathaniel yanks the plug of the microwave from the wall socket and turns round to face me,
his face working with disbelief. You know bugger all about cooking! Youre not a
housekeeper. I dont know what the hell youre up to

Im not up to anything! I reply, in shock.

The Geigers are good people. He faces me square on. I wont have them exploited.

Oh, God. What does he think? That Im some kind of confidence trickster?

Look... please. I rub my sweaty face. Im not trying to rip anyone off. OK, I cant cook.
But I ended up here because of... a misunderstanding.

What kind of misunderstanding?

I sink down onto a chair and massage my aching lower back. I hadnt realized how exhausted
I was. I was running away from... something. I needed a place to stay for the night. I
stopped here for some water and directions to a hotel and the Geigers assumed I was a
housekeeper. And then this morning I felt terrible. I thought Id do the job for the
morning. But Im not planning to stay. And I wont take any money from them, if thats what
youre thinking.

Nathaniel is leaning against the counter, his arms folded. His wary frown has eased a
little. He reaches into his rucksack and takes out a bottle of beer. He offers it to me
and I shake my head.

What were you running from? he says, cracking the bottle open.

I feel a painful wrench inside. I cannot face telling the whole dreadful story.

It was... a situation. I look down.

He takes a drink of beer. A bad relationship?

For a moment Im silenced. I think back over all my years at Carter Spink. All the hours I
gave them, everything I sacrificed. Finished in a three-minute phone call.

Yes, I say slowly. A bad relationship.

How long were you in it?

Seven years. To my horror I can feel tears seeping out of the corners of my eyes. I have
no idea where they came from. Im sorry, I gulp. Its been quite a stressful day.

Nathaniel tears off a piece of kitchen towel from the wall-mounted roll behind him and
hands it to me. If it was a bad relationship, youre well out of it, he says in calm tones.
No point staying. No point looking back.

Youre right. I wipe my eyes. Yes. I just have to decide what to do with my life. I cant
stay here. I reach for the bottle of Cointreau, which was supposed to go in the
chocolate-orange souffle, pour some into a handy eggcup, and take a gulp.

The Geigers are good employers, says Nathaniel with a tiny shrug. You could do worse.

Yeah. I raise a half smile. Unfortunately, I cant cook.

He puts his bottle of beer down and wipes his mouth. His hands look scrubbed clean, but I
can still see the traces of earth ingrained around his nails, in the seams of his weather-
beaten skin.

I could speak to my mum. She can cook. She could teach you the basics.

I look at him in astonishment, almost laughing. You think I should stay ? I thought I was supposed to be a confidence trickster. I shake my head, wincing at the
taste of the Cointreau. I have to go.

Shame. He shrugs. It would have been nice to have someone around who speaks English. And
makes such great sandwiches, he adds, totally deadpan.

I cant help smiling back. Caterers. Ah. I wondered.

A faint rapping at the door makes us both look up.

Samantha? Trishs voice outside is hushed and urgent. Can you hear me?

Er... yes?

Dont worry, I wont come in. I dont want to disturb anything! Youre probably at a very crucial stage.

Kind of...

I catch Nathaniels eye and a sudden wave of hysteria rises through me.

I just wanted to ask, Trishs voice continues, if you will be serving any kind of sorbet between the courses?

I look at Nathaniel. His shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. I cant stop a tiny
snort escaping. I clamp my hand over my mouth, trying to get control of myself.

Samantha?

Er... no, I manage at last. There wont be any sorbet.

Nathaniel has picked up one of my pans of burned onions. He mimes taking a spoonful and
eating it. Yummy , he mouths.

Well! See you later!

Trish tip-taps away and I collapse into helpless laughter. Ive never laughed so hard in my
life. My ribs hurt; Im coughing; I almost feel like Ill be sick.

At last I wipe my eyes and blow my runny nose on the kitchen towel. Nathaniels stopped
laughing too and is looking around the bombshelled kitchen.

Seriously, he says. What are you going to do about this? Theyre expecting a fancy dinner.

I know. I know they are. Ill just have to... think of something.

Theres silence in the kitchen. Nathaniel is curiously eyeing the white splodges of
meringue on the floor. I cast my mind back to all the times Ive had to go into a room at
Carter Spink and bluff my way out of a tricky spot. There has to be a way.

OK. I take a deep breath and push back my damp hair. Im going to rescue the situation.

Youre going to rescue the situation? He looks skeptical.

In fact, I think this might solve everyones problems. I get to my feet and start busily
sweeping packets into the bin. First I need to clear up the kitchen a bit...

Ill help. Nathaniel stands up. This I have to see.

Companionably, we empty pans and pots and packets into the bin. I scrub all the smeared
surfaces while Nathaniel mops up the meringue.

How long have you worked here? I ask as he rinses out the mop in the sink.

Three years. I worked for the people who lived here before the Geigers, the Ellises. Then
Trish and Eddie moved in two years ago and kept me on.

I digest this. Why did the Ellises move? Its such a beautiful house.

The Geigers made them an offer they couldnt refuse. Nathaniels mouth is twitching with...
amusement?

What? I say, intrigued. What happened?

Well... He puts the mop down. It was fairly comical. The house was used as a location in a
BBC period drama, all set in the Cotswolds. Two weeks after it was aired, Trish and Eddie
arrived on the doorstep waving a check. Theyd seen it on television, decided they wanted
it, and tracked it down.

Wow. I laugh. Presumably they paid a good price.

God knows what they paid. The Ellises would never say.

Do you know how the Geigers made all their money?

They built up a road haulage company from nothing and sold it off. Made a bundle. He
starts mopping up the final patch of meringue.

And how about you? Before the Ellises? I tip the congealed apricots down the waste
disposal with a shudder.

I was working at Marchant House, Nathaniel replies. Its a stately home nearOxford . Before
that, university.

University? I say, my ears pricking up. I didnt know

I halt, reddening. I was about to say, I didnt know gardeners went to university.

I did natural sciences. Nathaniel gives me a look that makes me think he knew exactly what
I was thinking.

I open my mouth to ask him where and when he was at universitythen on second thought,
close it and switch the waste disposal on. I dont want to start getting into details,
going down the do we know anyone in common? road. Right now, I could do without
remembering the particulars of my life.

At last the kitchen looks a bit more normal. I pick up the eggcup, drain the rest of the
Cointreau, and take a deep breath.

OK. Showtime.

Good luck. Nathaniel raises his eyebrows.

I open the kitchen door to see Trish and Eddie loitering in the hall, holding their sherry
glasses.

Ah, Samantha! Everything ready? Trishs face is all lit up with anticipation, and 1 reel a
huge twinge of guilt tor what Im about to do.

But I cant see any other way.

I take a deep breath and put on my best breaking-bad-news-to-a-client face.

Mr. and Mrs. Geiger. I look from one face to the other, making sure I have their
attention. I am devastated.

I close my eyes and shake my head.

Devastated? echoes Trish nervously.

I have done my best. I open my eyes. But Im afraid I cannot work with your equipment. The
dinner I created was not up to my own professional standards. I could not allow it out of
the kitchen. I will of course reimburse all your costs and offer my resignation. I will
leave in the morning.

There. Done. And no casualties.

I cant help glancing at Nathaniel, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He gives me the
thumbs-up.

Leave ? Trish puts her sherry glass down on a side table with a little crash. You cant leave!
Youre the best housekeeper weve ever had! Eddie, do something!

Mrs. Geiger, after tonights performance, I feel I have no choice, I say. To be frank, the
dinner was inedible.

That wasnt your fault! she says in consternation. It was our fault! Well order you new equipment at once.

But

Just give us a list of what you need. Spare no expense! And well give you a pay rise! Shes
suddenly gripped by a new idea. How much do you want? Name your price!

This is not going the way I planned. Not at all.

Well... we never discussed pay, I begin. And really I cant accept

Eddie ! Trish rounds on him savagely. This is your fault! Samanthas leaving because youre not paying her enough!

Mrs. Geiger, thats not the case

And she needs new kitchen pots and pans. From the best place. She digs Eddie in the ribs
with her elbow and mutters, Say something!

Ah... Samantha. Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. Wed be very happy if you would consider
staying with us. Weve been delighted with your performance, and whatever your salary
expectations are... well match them. Trish digs him in the ribs again. Exceed them.