The Undomestic Goddess

Chapter Nine

It’ll be all right.

If I say it often enough to myself, it must be true.

I’ve opened my phone several times to call Guy. But each time, humiliation has stopped me. Even though he’s my friend, even though he’s the person closest to me in the company. I’m the one who’s fired. I’m the one in disgrace. And he’s not.

At last I sit up and rub my cheeks, trying to get my spirits back. Come on. This is Guy. He’ll want to hear from me. He’ll want to help. I flip open my phone and dial his direct line. A moment later I hear footsteps clopping along the wooden floor of the hall.

Trish.

I shut the phone, pocket it, and reach for a clump of broccoli.

“How are you getting on?” Trish’s voice greets me. “Making progress?”

As she enters the kitchen she looks a little surprised to see me still sitting in the exact same spot she left me. “Everything all right?”

“I’m just… assessing the ingredients,” I improvise. “Getting the feel of them.”

Just then a thin red-haired woman appears round the door, next to Trish. She’s wearing diamante sunglasses on her head and regards me with an avid interest.

“I’m Petula,” she announces. “How do you do.”

“Petula’s just eaten some of your sandwiches,” puts in Trish. “She thought they were marvelous.”

“And I’ve heard about the foie gras with an apricot glaze!” Petula raises her eyebrows. “Very impressive!”

“Samantha can cook anything!” boasts Trish, pink with pride. “She trained with Michel de la Roux de la Blanc! The master himself!”

“So how exactly will you be glazing the foie gras, Samantha?” asks Petula with interest.

The kitchen is silent. Both women are waiting, agog.

“Well.” I clear my throat several times. “I expect I’ll use the… usual method. The word glaze, obviously, comes from the transparent nature of the… er… finish… and complements the… gras. Foie,” I amend. “De gras. The… blend of the flavors.”

I am making absolutely no sense here, but neither Trish nor Petula seems to have noticed. In fact they both seem totally impressed.

“Where on earth did you find her?” says Petula to Trish in what she clearly imagines to be a discreet undertone. “My girl is hopeless. Can’t cook and doesn’t understand a word I say.”

“She just applied out of the blue!” Trish murmurs back, still flushed with pleasure.

“Cordon Bleu! English! We couldn’t believe it!”

They both eye me as though I’m some rare animal with horns sprouting out of my head. I can’t bear this anymore.

“Shall I make you some tea and bring it through to the conservatory?” I ask. Anything to get them out of the kitchen.

“No, we’re popping out to have our nails done,” says Trish. “I’ll see you later, Samantha.”

There’s an expectant pause. Suddenly I realize Trish is waiting for my curtsy. I start to prickle all over in embarrassment. Why did I curtsy? Why did I curtsy?

“Very good, Mrs. Geiger.” I bow my head and make an awkward bob. When I look up, Petula’s eyes are like saucers.

As the two women leave, I can hear Petula hissing, “She curtsies? She curtsies to you?”

“It’s a simple mark of respect,” I hear Trish replying airily. “But very effective. You know, Petula, you should really try it with your girl…”

Oh, God. What have I started?

I wait until the sound of tapping heels has completely disappeared. Then, moving into the larder to be on the safe side, I flip open my phone and redial Guy’s number. After three rings he answers.

“Samantha.” He sounds guarded. “Hi. Have you…”

“It’s OK, Guy. I’ve spoken to Ketterman. I know.”

“Oh, Christ, Samantha. I’m so sorry this has happened. So sorry…”

I cannot stand his pity. If he says anything else I’ll burst into tears.

“It’s fine,” I say, cutting him off. “Really. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s just… look forward. I have to get my life on track.”

“Jesus, you’re focused!” There’s a note of admiration in his voice. “You don’t let anything faze you, do you?”

I push my hair back off my face. “I just have to… get on with things.” Somehow I keep my voice even and steady. “I need to get back to London. But I can’t go home.

Ketterman bought a flat in my building. He lives there.”

“Ouch. Yes, I heard about that.” There’s a wince in his voice. “That’s unfortunate.”

“I just can’t face him, Guy.” I feel the threat of tears again and force myself to hold them back. “So… I was wondering. Could I come and stay with you for a while? Just for a few days?”

There’s silence. I wasn’t expecting silence.

“Samantha… I’d love to help,” says Guy at last. “But I’ll have to check with Charlotte.”

“Of course,” I say, a little taken aback.

“Just stay on the line for a sec. I’ll call her.”

The next moment I’ve been put on hold. I sit waiting, listening to the tinny harpsichord music, trying not to feel discomfited. It was unreasonable to expect him to say yes straightaway. Of course he has to clear it with his girlfriend.

At last Guy comes onto the line again. “Samantha, I’m not sure it’s possible.”

I feel slammed. “Right.” I try to sound natural, as though this is no big deal. “Well… never mind. It doesn’t matter…”

“Charlotte’s very busy right now… we’re having some work done to the bedrooms… it’s just not a good time…”

He sounds halting, as if he wants to get off the line. And suddenly I realize. This isn’t about Charlotte. This is all about him. He doesn’t want to be near me. It’s as though my disgrace is contagious, as though his career might get blighted too.

Yesterday I was his best friend. Yesterday, when I was about to become a partner, he was hanging around my desk, full of smiles and quips. And today he doesn’t want to be associated with me at all.

I know I should stay quiet, keep my dignity, but I just can’t contain myself.

“You don’t want to be associated with me, do you?” I burst out.

“Samantha!” His voice is defensive. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m still the same person. I thought you were my friend―”

“I am your friend! But you can’t expect me to… I have Charlotte to consider… we don’t have that much space… Look, call me in a couple of days, maybe we can meet up for a drink―”

“Really, don’t worry.” I try to control my voice. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Wait!” he exclaims. “Don’t go! What are you going to do?”

“Oh, Guy.” I manage a little laugh.

I switch off my phone. Everything’s changed. Or maybe he hasn’t changed. Maybe this was what Guy was always like and I just never realized it.

I stare down at the tiny display of my phone, watching the seconds of each minute tick by. Wondering what to do next. When it suddenly vibrates in my hand, I nearly jump out of my skin. Tennyson, my display reads.

Mum.

I feel a clutch of dread. She can only be ringing for one thing. She’s heard the news. I guess I should have known this was coming. I could go and stay with her, it occurs to me. How weird. I didn’t even think of that before. I open up the phone and steel myself.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Samantha.” Her voice pierces my ear with no preamble. “Exactly how long were you going to wait before you told me about your debacle? I have to find out about my own daughter’s disgrace from an Internet joke!‘ She utters the words with revulsion.

“An… Internet joke?” I echo faintly. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t know? Apparently in certain legal circles the new term for fifty million pounds is ‘a Samantha.’ Take it from me, I was not amused.”

“Mum, I’m so sorry―”

At least the story has been contained within the legal world. I’ve spoken to Carter Spink and they assure me that it won’t be going further. You should be grateful for that.“

“I… I suppose so…”

“Where are you?” she cuts across my faltering words. “Where are you right now?”

I’m standing in a larder, surrounded by packets of cereal.

“I’m… at someone’s house. Out of London.”

“And what are your plans?”

“I don’t know.” I rub my face. “I need to… get myself together. Find a job.”

“A job,” she says scathingly. “You think any top law firm is going to touch you now?”

I flinch at her tone. “I… I don’t know. Mum, I’ve only just heard about being fired. I can’t just―”

“You can. Thankfully, I have acted for you.”

She’s acted for me?

“What do you―”

“I’ve called in all my favors. It wasn’t an easy job. But the senior partner at Fortescues will see you tomorrow at ten.”

I’m almost too stupefied to reply. “You’ve… organized me a job interview?”

“Assuming all goes well, you will enter at senior associate level.” Her voice is crisp.

“You’re being given this chance as a personal favor to me. As you can imagine, there are… reservations. So if you want to progress, Samantha, you are going to have to perform. You’re going to have to give this job every hour you have.”

“Right.” I shut my eyes, my thoughts whirling. I have a job interview. A fresh start.

It’s the solution to my nightmare.

Why don’t I feel more relieved?

“You will have to give more than you did at Carter Spink,” Mum continues in my ear.

“No slacking. No complacency. You will have to prove yourself doubly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

More hours. More work. More late nights.

It’s almost as if I can feel the concrete blocks being loaded onto me again. More and more of them. Heavier and heavier.

“I mean… no,” I hear myself saying. “No. It’s too much. I… don’t want that now. I need some time.”

The words come out of my mouth all by themselves. I wasn’t planning them; I’ve never even thought them before. But now that they’re out in the air they somehow feel… true.

“I’m sorry?” Mum’s voice is sharp. “Samantha, what on earth are you saying?”

“I don’t know.” I’m kneading my forehead, trying to make sense of my own confusion. “I was thinking… I could take a break, maybe.”

“A break would finish your legal career.” Her voice snaps dismissively. “Finish it.”

“I could… do something else.”

“You wouldn’t last more than two minutes in anything else!” She sounds affronted.

“Samantha, you’re a lawyer. You’ve been trained as a lawyer.‘’

“There are other things in the world than being a lawyer!” I cry, rattled.

There’s an ominous silence. I can’t believe I’m standing up to her. I don’t think I’ve ever challenged my mother in my life. I feel shaky as I grip the phone. But at the same time, I know I can’t do what she wants.

“Samantha, if you’re having some kind of breakdown like your brother―”

“I’m not having a breakdown!” My voice rises in distress. “I never asked you to find me another job. I don’t know what I want. I need a bit of time… to… to think…”

“You will be at that job interview, Samantha.” Mum’s voice is like a whip. “You will be there tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

“I won’t!”

“Tell me where you are! I’m sending a car straightaway.”

No! Leave me alone.

I switch off my phone, come out of the larder, and almost savagely throw it down onto the table. She’s my mother. And she didn’t express one word of sympathy. Not one jot of kindness. My face is burning and tears are pressing hotly at the back of my eyes. The phone starts vibrating angrily on the table, but I ignore it. I’m not going to answer it. I’m not going to talk to anyone. I’m going to have a drink. And then I’m going to cook this bloody dinner.

I slosh some white wine into a glass and take several gulps. Then I address myself to the pile of raw ingredients waiting on the table.

I can cook. I can cook this stuff. Even if everything else in my life is in ruins, I can do this. I have a brain, I can work it out.

Without delay I rip the plastic coverings off the lamb. This can go in the oven. In some kind of dish. Simple. And the chickpeas can go in there too. Then I’ll mash them and that will make the hummus.

I open a cupboard and pull out a whole load of gleaming baking dishes and trays. I select a baking tray and scatter the chickpeas onto it. Some bounce onto the floor, but I don’t care. I grab a bottle of oil from the counter and drizzle it over the top. Already I’m feeling like a cook.

I shove the tray into the oven and turn it on full blast. Then I put the lamb in an oval dish and shove that in too.

So far so good. Now all I need to do is leaf through all Trish’s recipe books and find instructions for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze.

OK. I didn’t find a single recipe for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze. I found apricot and raspberry flan, turkey with chestnut and apricot stuffing, and almond pithivier with apricot filling and Prosecco sabayon.

I stare at the page blindly. I have just turned down what may be my only opportunity to start over. I’m a lawyer. That’s what I am. What else am I going to do? What’s happened to me?

Oh, God. Why is smoke coming out of the oven?

By seven o’clock I’m still cooking.

At least I think that’s what I’m doing. Both ovens are roaring with heat. Pots are bubbling on the hob. The electric whisk is whirring busily. I’ve burned my right hand twice taking things out of the oven. Eight recipe books are open around the kitchen, one drenched with spilled oil and another with egg yolk. I’m puce in the face, sweating hard, and trying every so often to run my hand under cold water.

I’ve been going for three hours. And I haven’t yet made anything that could actually be eaten. So far I’ve discarded a collapsed chocolate souffle, two pans of burned onions, and a saucepan of congealed apricots that made me feel sick just to look at them.

I can’t work out what’s going wrong. I haven’t got time to work out what’s going wrong. There’s no scope for analysis. Every time there’s a disaster I just dump it and start again, quickly thawing food from the freezer, changing tack, trying to cobble something together.

The Geigers meanwhile are drinking sherry in the drawing room. They think everything is going splendidly. Trish tried to come into the kitchen about half an hour ago, but I managed to head her off.

In less than an hour she and Eddie are going to be sitting down at the table expecting a gourmet meal. Shaking out their napkins with anticipation, pouring out their mineral water and wine.

A kind of frenzied hysteria has come over me. I know I cannot do this, but somehow I can’t give up either. I keep thinking a miracle will happen. I’ll pull it all together. I’ll manage it somehow― Oh, God, the gravy’s 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. This’ll 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? Mine’s liquid.

It has to be right, I tell myself feverishly. It has to be. I followed the instructions.

Maybe it’s thicker than it looks. Maybe once I start pouring it out, it’ll stiffen up by some weird culinary law of physics.

Slowly I start to pour it onto the tray. It doesn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“They’re not!” I hear myself yelling. “They’re 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 he’s on his way home. “Is everything OK?”

“It’s fine,” I say, rattled. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I make a dismissive motion with my hand, but he doesn’t move.

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

“Yes. That’s right. I’m just in the… most complex stage of the… um…” I glance down at the hob and give an involuntary scream. “Fuck! The gravy!”

I don’t know what’s 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 wouldn’t stop making porridge.

“Get it off the heat, for God’s 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?”

“They’re 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, there’s 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. “Something’s exploded.”

My mind races frantically. What on earth did I put in the microwave? It’s 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!

You’re not a housekeeper. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to―”

“I’m not up to anything!” I reply, in shock.

“The Geigers are good people.” He faces me square on. “I won’t have them exploited.”

Oh, God. What does he think? That I’m some kind of confidence trickster?

“Look… please.” I rub my sweaty face. “I’m not trying to rip anyone off. OK, I can’t 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 hadn’t 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 I’d do the job for the morning. But I’m not planning to stay. And I won’t take any money from them, if that’s what you’re 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 I’m 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. “I’m sorry,” I gulp. “It’s 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, you’re well out of it,” he says in calm tones. “No point staying. No point looking back.”

“You’re right.” I wipe my eyes. “Yes. I just have to decide what to do with my life. I can’t 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 can’t 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 can’t help smiling back. “Caterers.”

“Ah. I wondered.”

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

“Samantha?” Trish’s voice outside is hushed and urgent. “Can you hear me?”

“Er… yes?

“Don’t worry, I won’t come in. I don’t want to disturb anything! You’re probably at a very crucial stage.”

“Kind of…”

I catch Nathaniel’s eye and a sudden wave of hysteria rises through me.

“I just wanted to ask,” Trish’s 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 can’t 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 won’t 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. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. My ribs hurt; I’m coughing; I almost feel like I’ll be sick.

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

“Seriously,” he says. “What are you going to do about this? They’re expecting a fancy dinner.”

“I know. I know they are. I’ll just have to… think of something.”

There’s 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 I’ve 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. “I’m going to rescue the situation.”

“You’re going to rescue the situation?” He looks skeptical.

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

“I’ll 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? It’s such a beautiful house.”

“The Geigers made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.” Nathaniel’s 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. They’d 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. “It’s a stately home near Oxford. Before that, university.”

“University?” I say, my ears pricking up. “I didn’t know―”

I halt, reddening. I was about to say, “I didn’t 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 university―then on second thought, close it and switch the waste disposal on. I don’t 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?” Trish’s face is all lit up with anticipation, and 1 reel a huge twinge of guilt tor what I’m about to do.

But I can’t 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 I’m 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 can’t 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 can’t leave! You’re the best housekeeper we’ve ever had! Eddie, do something!”

“Mrs. Geiger, after tonight’s performance, I feel I have no choice,” I say. “To be frank, the dinner was inedible.”

“That wasn’t your fault!” she says in consternation. “It was our fault! We’ll order you new equipment at once.”

“But―”

“Just give us a list of what you need. Spare no expense! And we’ll give you a pay rise!” She’s 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 can’t accept―”

“Eddie!” Trish rounds on him savagely. “This is your fault! Samantha’s leaving because you’re not paying her enough!”

“Mrs. Geiger, that’s 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. “We’d be very happy if you would consider staying with us. We’ve been delighted with your performance, and whatever your salary expectations are… we’ll match them.” Trish digs him in the ribs again. “Exceed them.”

“And health care,” adds Trish.

They’re both gazing at me with a kind of eager hope.

I glance over at Nathaniel, who cocks his head as though to say, “Why not?”

The strangest feeling is coming over me. Three people. All telling me they want me within the space often minutes.

I could stay. It’s as simple as that. For however long it takes to… work myself out.

I’m miles away from London. No one knows I’m here. I’ll be safe.

I can’t cook, a little voice reminds me. I can’t clean. I’m not a housekeeper.

But I could learn. I could learn it all.

The silence is growing in tension. Even Nathaniel is watching me closely from the door.

“Well… OK.” I feel a smile coming to my lips. “OK. If you want me to… I’ll stay.”

Later that night, after we’ve all eaten a Chinese take-away, I take out my mobile phone, call my mother’s office, and wait till I’m put through to voice mail.

“It’s all right, Mum,” I say. “You don’t need to call in any favors. I’ve got a job.” And I click the mobile shut.