The Undomestic Goddess (8 page)

What was I thinking ? I dont even know what eggs Benedict is . Are you... sure thats what you want? I try to sound relaxed.

I wouldnt miss your specialty! Eddie rubs his stomach in anticipation. Its my favorite
breakfast. The best eggs Benedict Ive ever tasted were at the Carlyle inNew York , but Ill
take a bet yours are even better!

I dont know about that!

OK, think. It must be simple enough. Eggs and... something.

Eddie leans against the counter with an expectant look. I have a nasty suspicion hes
waiting for me to start cooking. Hesitantly, I get down a gleaming pan from the rack, just
as Trish bustles in with the newspaper. She eyes me with bright curiosity.

How will you be using the asparagus steamer, Samantha?

Shit.

I just wanted to... examine it. Yes. I nod briskly, as though the pan has confirmed my
suspicions, then carefully hang it back on the rack again.

Could I quickly look it up in a cookbook?

But its supposed to be my specialty. Why would I need a cookbook?

Im feeling hotter and hotter. I have no idea even how to begin. Do I... crack the eggs?
Boil them?

Here you are. Eddie takes a huge box of eggs out of the fridge, plonks them on the
counter, and lifts the lid. Should be enough there, Id imagine!

Before me are rows and rows of brown eggs. What do I think Im doing? I cant make bloody
eggs Benedict. I cant make these people breakfast. Im going to have to confess.

I turn round and take a deep breath.

Mr. Geiger... Mrs. Geiger...

Eggs ? Trishs voice cuts across mine. Eddie, you cant have eggs! Remember what the doctor said!
Her eyes bore into me. What did he ask you for, Samantha? Boiled eggs?

Er... Mr. Geiger ordered eggs Benedict. But the thing is

Youre not eating eggs Benedict! Trish practically shrieks at Eddie. Its foil of
cholesterol!

Ill eat what I like! Eddie protests.

The doctor gave him an eating plan. Trish is dragging furiously on her cigarette as she
speaks. Hes already had a bowl of cornflakes this morning!

I was hungry! says Eddie, defensive. You had a chocolate muffin!

Trish gasps as though hes hit her. Small red dots appear in her cheeks.

We will have a cup of coffee each, Samantha, she announces at last in a dignified voice.
You may serve it in the lounge. Use the pink china. Come along, Eddie. And she sweeps out
before I can respond.

Im not sure if I want to laugh or cry. This is ridiculous. I cant carry on with this
charade. I have to tell the Geigers the truth. Now. I walk decisively out of the kitchen
into the hall, but then behind the closed door of the sitting room I can hear the shrill,
indistinct voice of Trish angrily berating Eddie, and Eddies defensive rumbles in return.
Hastily I back away again into the kitchen and switch the kettle on.

A quarter of an hour later Ive arranged a silver tray with a French press coffeepot, pink
cups, creamer, sugar, and a sprig of pink flowers I snipped from a hanging basket outside
the kitchen window. Fifteen minutes, just to make a cup of coffee.

At Carter Spink I would have earned the firm £125 in that time.

Of course, I would have been quicker if I hadnt had to work out how to use the French
press first. And if my first batch of coffee hadnt tasted like dishwater.

I approach the sitting-room door, put the tray down on the table in the hall, and knock
cautiously.

Come in! Trish calls.

As I enter, shes sitting in an overstuffed striped velvet chair by the window, holding a
magazine at a rather artificial angle. Eddie is on the other side of the room, examining a
wooden carving.

Thank you, Samantha. Trish inclines her head graciously as I pour out the coffee. That
will be all for the moment.

I feel as though Ive stumbled into some bizarre Merchant Ivory costume drama, except

the costumes are pink yoga wear and golfing sweaters.

Er... very good, madam, I say, playing my part. Then, without meaning to, I bob a curtsy.

Theres a staggered pause. Both Geigers just gape at me in astonishment.

Samantha... did you just... curtsy ? says Trish at last.

I stare back, frozen.

What was I thinking ? Why did I curtsy? Housekeepers dont bloody curtsy. This isnt GosfordPark .

Theyre still goggling at me. I have to say something.

The Edgerlys liked me to... curtsy. My face is prickling all over. Its a habit I got into.
Im sorry, madam, I wont do it again.

Trish is squinting at me as though shes trying to make me out. She must realize Im a fake,
she must ...

I like it, she pronounces at last, and nods her head in satisfaction. Yes, I like it. You
can curtsy here too.

What?

This is the twenty-first century. And I am being asked to curtsy to a woman called Trish?

I take a breath to protestthen close my mouth again. It doesnt matter. Its not real.I can
curtsy for a morning.

As soon as Im out of the room, I dash upstairs, along the corridor, and into my bedroom to
check my mobile. But its only half charged and I have no idea where Im going to find a
signal. If Trish could get one, I must be able to. I wonder what network shes on

Samantha? Trishs voice rises from the ground floor.

Samantha? She sounds annoyed. Now I can hear her footsteps coming up the stairs.

Madam? I hurry back along the corridor.

There you are! She frowns slightly. Kindly do not disappear to your room while on duty. I dont want to have to be calling you like that.

Er... yes, Mrs. Geiger, I say. As we arrive down in the hall my stomach flips over. Beyond
Trish, I can see the Times lying on the table. Its open at the business pages and a headline reads: Sc glazerbrooks
calls in receivers.

My eyes run down the text as Trish starts rootling around in a huge white Chanel bag but I
cant see any mention of Carter Spink. Thank God for that. The PR department must have
managed to keep a lid on the story.

Where are my keys? Trish sounds fretful. Where are they? She rummages more and more violently in her Chanel bag. A gold lipstick goes flying
through the air and lands at my feet. Why do things disappear ?

I pick up the lipstick and hand it to her. Do you remember where you lost them, Mrs.
Geiger?

I didnt lose them. She inhales sharply. Theyve been stolen. Its obvious. Well have to change all the
locks. Our identities will be taken. She clutches her head. This is what these fraudsters
do, you know. There was a huge article about it in the Mail

Is this them? Ive suddenly noticed a Tiffany key fob glinting on the windowsill. I pick it
up and hold out the bunch of keys.

Yes! Trish looks utterly amazed. Yes, thats them! Samantha, youre marvelous! How did you find them?

It was... no trouble. I shrug modestly.

Well! Im very impressed! She gives me a significant look. I will be telling Mr. Geiger.

Yes, madam, I say, trying to inject the right note of overwhelming gratitude into my
voice. Thank you.

Mr. Geiger and I will be going out in a minute, she continues, producing a scent spray and
spritzing herself. Kindly prepare a light sandwich lunch for one oclock, and get on with
the downstairs cleaning. Well talk about dinner later. She swivels round. I might tell
you, we were both very impressed by your seared foie gras menu.

Oh... um... good!

Its fine. Ill be gone by dinnertime. Now . Trish pats her hair one final time. Come in the drawing room, Samantha. I follow her
into the room and over to the fireplace.

Before you start dusting in here, Trish says, I wanted to show you the arrangement of the
ornaments. She gestures to a row of china figurines on the mantelpiece. This can be tricky
to remember. For some reason, cleaners never get it right. So kindly pay attention !

Obediently, I turn with her to face the mantelpiece. Its very important, Samantha, that
these china dogs face each other. Trish points to a

pair of King Charles spaniels. Do you see? They dont face out. They face each other !

Each other, I echo, nodding. Yes. I see.

And the shepherdesses face very slightly out . You see? They face out .

Shes speaking slowly and clearly, as though I have the IQ of a rather thick three-year-
old.

Out, I repeat dutifully.

Now, have you got that? Trish steps back from the fireplace. Lets see. Which way do the
china dogs go? She lifts an arm to block my view of the mantelpiece.

I dont believe it. Shes testing me.

The china dogs, she prompts. Which way?

Oh, God, I cannot resist this.

Er... I ponder hard for a few moments. They face... out?

Each other ! Trish cries in exasperation. They face each other !

Oh, right, I say apologetically. Yes. Sorry. Ive got that now.

Trish has closed her eyes and is holding two fingers to her forehead as though the stress
of stupid help is too much to bear.

Never mind, she says at last. Well try again tomorrow.

Ill take the coffee tray out, I suggest humbly. As I pick it up I glance again at my
watch. Ten twelve. I wonder if theyve started the meeting.

By eleven-thirty my nerves are really beginning to fray. My mobiles charged and Ive
finally found a signal in the kitchen, but it hasnt rung. And there are no messages. Ive
checked it every minute.

Ive stacked the dishwasher and at last managed to turn it on. And Ive dusted the china
dogs with a tissue. Other than that all Ive done is pace up and down the kitchen.

I gave up on the light sandwich lunch almost straightaway. At least, I briefly tried
sawing away at two loaves of breadand ended up with huge, wonky slices, each one more
misshapen than the last, lying in a sea of crumbs.

All I can say is, thank God for yellow pages and caterers. And American Express. Its only
going to cost me £45.50 to provide Trish and Eddie with a gourmet sandwich lunch from
Cotswold Caterers. Less than six minutes of my time at Carter Spink.

Now Im just sitting on a chair, my hand clasped tight over the mobile in my pocket,
desperately willing it to ring.

At the same time Im utterly terrified that it will.

This tension is unbearable. I need something to relieve it. Anything . I wrench open the door of the Geigers enormous fridge and pull out a bottle of white
wine. I pour myself a glass and take an enormous gulp. Im about to take another when I
feel a tingling on the nape of my neck.

As if... Im being watched.

I swivel round and nearly jump out of my skin. Theres a man at the kitchen door.

Hes tall and broad, and deeply tanned, with intense blue eyes. His wavy hair is golden
brown with bleached-blond tips. Hes wearing old jeans and a torn T-shirt and the muddiest
boots Ive ever seen.

His eyes run doubtfully over the ten wonky, crumbly bread slices on the side, then onto my
glass of wine.

Hi, he says at last. Are you the new Cordon Bleu cook?

Er... yes! Absolutely. I smooth my uniform down. Im the new housekeeper, Samantha. Hello.

Im Nathaniel. He holds out his hand and after a pause I take it. His skin is so hard and
rough, its like shaking a piece of tree bark. I do the garden for the Geigers. Youll be

wanting to talk to me about vegetables.

I look at him uncertainly. Why would I want to talk to him about vegetables?

As he leans against the door frame and folds his arms, I cant help noticing how massive
and strong his forearms are. Ive never seen a man with arms like that before.

I can supply pretty much anything, he continues. Seasonal, of course. Just tell me what
you want.

Oh, for cooking , I say, suddenly realizing what he means. Er...yes. Ill be wanting some of those.
Definitely.

They told me you trained with some Michelin-starred chef? He gives a small frown. I dont
know what kind of fancy stuff you use, but Ill do my best. He produces a small,
mud-stained notebook and a pencil. Which brassicas do you like to use?

Brassicas?

What are brassicas? They must be some kind of vegetable. I search my mind frantically but
all I can see is images of brassieres, waving on a washing line.

Id have to consult my menus, I say at last with a businesslike nod. Ill get back to you on
that one.

But just generally. He looks up. Which do you use most? So I know what to plant.

I darent risk naming a single vegetable in case I get it totally wrong.

I use... all sorts, really. I give him an airy smile. You know how it is with brassicas.
Sometimes youre in the mood for one... sometimes another!

Im really not sure how convincing that sounded. Nathaniel looks baffled.

Im about to order leeks, he says slowly. What variety do you prefer? Albinstar or Bleu de
Solaise?

I fiddle with a button on my uniform, my face prickling. I didnt catch either of those.
Oh, God, why did this guy have to come into the kitchen right now?

The... um... first one, I say at last. It has very tasty... qualities.

Nathaniel puts down his notebook and surveys me for a moment. His attention shifts to my
wineglass again. Im not sure I like his expression.

I was just about to put this wine in a sauce, I say hastily. With a nonchalant air, I take
a

saucepan down from the rack, put it on the hob, and pour the wine in. I shake in some
salt, then pick up a wooden spoon and stir.

Then I dart a glance at Nathaniel. Hes regarding me with something approaching incredulity.

Where did you say you trained? he says.

I feel a twinge of alarm. Hes not stupid, this man.

At... Cordon Bleu school. My cheeks are growing rather hot. I shake more salt into the
wine and stir it briskly.

You havent turned the hob on, Nathaniel observes.

Its a cold sauce, I reply, without lifting my head. I keep stirring for a minute, then put
down my wooden spoon. So. Ill just leave that to... marinate now.

At last I look up. Nathaniel is still leaning against the door frame, calmly watching me.
Theres an expression in his blue eyes that makes my throat tighten.

He knows.

He knows Im a fake.

Please dont tell the Geigers, I silently transmit to him. Please. Ill be gone soon ,

Samantha? Trishs head pops round the door and I start nervously. Oh, youve met Nathaniel!
Did he tell you about his vegetable garden?

Yes. I cant look at him. He did.

Marvelous! She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head. Well, Mr. Geiger and I are back
now, and wed like our sandwiches in twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes ? But its only ten past twelve. The caterers arent coming till one oclock.

Would you like a drink first, maybe? I suggest.

No, thanks! she says. Just the sandwiches. Were both rather famished, actually, so if you
could hurry up with them...

Right. I swallow. No problem! I automatically bob a curtsy as Trish disappears, and I hear
a kind of snorting sound from

Nathaniel.

You curtsy, he says.

Yes, I curtsy, I say defiantly. Anything wrong with that?

Nathaniels eyes move to the misshapen bread slices lying on the breadboard.

Is that lunch?

No, thats not lunch! I snap, flustered. And please could you get out of my kitchen? I need
a clear space to work in.

He raises his eyebrows. See you around, then. Good luck with the sauce. He nods toward the
pan of wine.

As he closes the kitchen door behind him I whip out my phone and speed-dial the caterers.
But theyve left their machine on.

Hi, I say breathlessly after the bleep. I ordered some sandwiches earlier? Well, I need
them now. As soon as you can. Thanks.

Even as I put the phone down I realize its fruitless. The caterers are never going to turn
up in time. The Geigers are waiting.

OK. I can do this. I can make a few sandwiches.

Quickly I pick up the two least wonky of my bread slices and start cutting off the crusts
until theyre about an inch square but presentable. Theres a butter dish on the side and I
gouge some out with a knife. As I spread butter on the first slice of bread, it tears into
two pieces.

Fuck.

Ill patch them together. No onell notice.

I fling open a cupboard door and frantically root through pots of mustard... mint sauce...
strawberry jam. Jam sandwiches it is. An English classic. I hastily smother one piece of
bread with jam, spread some more butter on the other, and sandwich the two together. Then
I stand back and consider the result.

Total disaster. Jam is oozing out of the cracks and it still isnt completely square. Ive
never seen a more revolting sandwich in my life.

Slowly I put the knife down in defeat. So this is it. Time for my resignation. Two jobs
potentially lost in one day. As I stare at the jammy mess I feel strangely disappointed in

myself. I would have thought I could last a morning.

The sound of someone knocking breaks me out of my reverie and I whip round to see a girl
in a blue velvet hair band peering through the kitchen window.

Hi! she calls. Did you order sandwiches for twenty?

It all happens so fast. One minute Im standing there looking at my botch of jam and
crumbs. The next, two girls in green aprons are trooping into the kitchen with plate after
plate of professionally made sandwiches.

Clean-cut white and brown sandwiches, stacked in neat pyramids, garnished with sprigs of
herbs and slices of lemon. They even have little handwritten paper flags describing the
fillings.

Tuna, mint, and cucumber. Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and caviar. Thai chicken with wild
rocket.

Im so sorry about the numbers mix-up, the girl in the hair band says as I sign for them. It
honestly looked like a twenty. And we dont often get an order for sandwiches for just two
people

Its fine! I say, edging her toward the door. Really. Whatever. Just put it on my card...

The door finally closes and I look around the kitchen, totally dazed. Ive never seen so many sandwiches. There are plates of them everywhere. On every surface. Ive even had to
put some on the cooker.

Samantha? I can hear Trish approaching.

Um... hold on! I hurry to the door, trying to block her view.

Its already five past one, I can hear her saying a little sharply. And I did ask, most clearly, for...

Her voice trails off into silence as she reaches the kitchen door, and her whole face sags
in astonishment. I turn and follow her gaze as she surveys the endless plates of
sandwiches.

My goodness! At last Trish finds her voice. This is... this is very impressive!

I wasnt sure what fillings youd prefer, I say. Obviously next time I wont make quite so
many...

Well! Trish appears totally at a loss. She picks up one of the little flags and reads it
out loud. Rare beef, lettuce, and horseradish. She looks up in astonishment. I havent bought any beef for weeks! Where did you find it?