The Undomestic Goddess

Chapter Ten

The only thing is, now I actually have to be a housekeeper.

The next morning my alarm goes off at six fifteen and I arrive downstairs in the kitchen before seven, in my uniform. The garden is misty and there are no sounds, except a couple of magpies chacking at each other on the lawn. I feel as though I’m the only person awake in the world.

As quietly as I can, I empty the dishwasher and put everything away in the cupboards.

I straighten the chairs under the table. I make a cup of coffee. Then I look around at the gleaming granite counters.

My domain.

It doesn’t feel like my domain. It feels like someone else’s scary kitchen.

So… what do I do now? I feel twitchy, just standing here. I should be occupied. My mind flashes back to London before I can stop it, to my regular routine. If I were still at Carter Spink, I would be queuing for a cappuccino by now. Or maybe on the tube, answering e-mails. I wonder how many e-mails are stacked up, unanswered, in my BlackBerry? The thought makes me feel slightly ill.

No. Don’t think about it. There’s an old copy of The Economist in the magazine rack by the table and I pick it up. I flip through and start reading a piece on international monetary controls, sipping my coffee.

Then, as I hear a sound from upstairs, I hastily put it down again. Housekeepers aren’t supposed to read articles on international monetary controls. They’re supposed to be making breakfast. But how can I do that until I know what the Geigers want?

Then all of a sudden I remember yesterday morning. Trish made me a cup of tea.

Maybe today I’m supposed to make her a cup of tea. Maybe they’re waiting upstairs, tapping their fingers impatiently, saying “Where’s the damn tea?”

Quickly I boil the kettle and make a teapot full. I put it on a tray with cups and saucers and after a moment’s thought add a couple of biscuits. Then I head upstairs, venture along the silent corridor to Trish and Eddie’s bedroom… and stop outside the door.

Now what?

What if they’re asleep and I wake them up?

I lift a hand to knock―but the tray’s too heavy to hold in one hand and there’s an alarming chinking as the whole thing starts tilting sideways. In horror, I grab it just before the teapot slides off. Sweating, I put the whole lot on the ground, raise a hand, and knock very quietly, then pick up the tray again.

There’s no answer.

Hesitantly I tap again.

“Eddie! Stop that!” Trish’s raised voice filters faintly through the door.

Oh, God. Why can’t they hear me?

I’m hot all over. This tray is bloody heavy. I can’t stand outside their room with a cup of tea all morning. Shall I just… retreat?

I’m about to turn round and creep away. Then determination comes over me. No.

Don’t be so feeble. I’ve made the tea. They can always tell me to leave.

I grip the tray tightly and bang the corner hard against the door. They have to have heard that.

After a moment, Trish’s voice rises up. “Come in!”

I feel a swell of relief. They’re expecting me. I knew they would be. Somehow I turn the doorknob while balancing the tray against the door. I push the door open and walk into the room.

Trish looks up from the canopied mahogany bed, where she’s sprawled on a pile of lace pillows, alone. She’s wearing a silky nightie, her hair is disheveled, and makeup is smudged about her eyes. For a moment she looks startled to see me.

“Samantha,” she says sharply. “What do you want? Is everything all right?”

I have an immediate, horrible feeling I’ve done the wrong thing. My gaze doesn’t move from hers, but my peripheral vision starts to register a few details in the room. I can see a book called Sensual Enjoyment on the floor. And a bottle of musk-scented massage oil. And…

A well-worn copy of The Joy of Sex. Right by the bed. Open at “Turkish Style.”

OK. So they weren’t expecting tea.

I swallow, trying to keep my composure, desperately pretending I haven’t seen anything.

“I… brought you a cup of tea,” I say, my voice cracking with nerves. “I thought you might… like one.”

Do not look at The Joy of Sex. Keep your eyes up.

Trish’s face relaxes. “Samantha! You treasure! Put it down!” She waves an arm vaguely at a bedside table.

I’m just starting to move toward it when the bathroom door opens and Eddie emerges, naked except for a pair of too-tight boxer shorts, displaying a quite staggeringly hairy chest.

Somehow I manage not to drop the entire tray on the floor.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing away. “I didn’t realize…”

“Don’t be silly! Come in!” exclaims Trish gaily. She now seems completely reconciled to me being in her bedroom. “We’re not prudish!‘

OK, I’m really wishing they were. Cautiously I edge further toward the bed, stepping over a mauve lace bra. I find a place for the tray on Trish’s bedside cabinet by pushing aside a photo of her and Eddie sitting in a Jacuzzi, holding up glasses of champagne.

I pour out the tea as fast as I can and hand a cup to each of them. I cannot look Eddie in the eye. In what other job do you see your boss naked?

Only one other occupation springs immediately to mind. Which isn’t that encouraging.

“Well… I’ll go now,” I mumble, head down.

“Don’t rush off!” Trish sips her tea with relish. “Mmm. Now you’re here, I wanted to have a little chat! See where we are with things.”

“Er… right.” Her nightie is gaping and I can see the edge of her nipple. I hastily look away and find myself catching the eye of the bearded guy in The Joy of Sex as he contorts himself.

I can feel my face flaming with embarrassment. What kind of surreal weirdness is this, that I am standing in the bedroom of two people, pretty much strangers to me, being practically shown how they have sex? And they don’t seem remotely bothered…

And then it comes to me. Of course. I’m staff. I don’t count.

“So, is everything all right, Samantha?” Trish puts her cup down and gives me a beady look. “You’ve got your routine sorted? All under control?”

“Absolutely.” I grope for a competent-sounding phrase. “I’m pretty much… on top of everything.” Aaargh. “I mean… getting to grips with it all.”

Aaaargh.

She takes a sip of tea. “I expect you’ll be tackling the laundry today.”

The laundry. I hadn’t even thought about the laundry.

“Only I’d like you to change the sheets when you make the beds,” she adds.

Make the beds?

I feel a slight twinge of panic.

“Obviously I have my own… er… established routine,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“But it might be an idea if you give me a list of duties.”

“Oh.” Trish looks a little irritated. “Well… if you really think you need it…”

“And I, Samantha, must go through your terms and conditions later on,” says Eddie.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, holding a dumbbell. “Let you know what you’ve got yourself into.” He guffaws, then with a slight grunt lifts the weight above his head. His stomach is rippling with the effort. And not in a good way.

“So… I’ll get on with… things.” I start backing toward the door.

“See you later, then, at breakfast.” Trish gives me a cheery little wave from the bed.

“Ciao ciao!”

I cannot keep up with Trish’s mood shifts. We seemed to have lurched straight from employer-employee to people-enjoying-a-luxury-cruise-together.

“Er…bye then!” I say, matching her chirpy tone. I bob a curtsy, step over her bra again, and exit the room as quickly as I can.

Breakfast is a bit of a nightmare. It takes me three failed attempts before I realize how you’re supposed to cut a grapefruit in half. You’d think they’d make it clearer. They could draw guidelines round them, or have perforations, or something. Meanwhile the milk for the coffee boils over―and when I plunge down the cafetiere, the coffee explodes everywhere. Luckily Trish and Eddie are so busy arguing about where to go on their next holiday, they don’t seem to notice what’s going on in the kitchen.

When they’ve finished, I stack the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and am desperately trying to remember how I made it work yesterday, when Trish comes into the kitchen.

“Samantha, Mr. Geiger would like to see you in his study,” she says. “To discuss your pay and conditions. Don’t keep him waiting!”

“Er… very good, madam.” I curtsy, then smooth down my uniform and head out into the hall. I approach the door of Eddie’s study and knock twice.

“Come in!” replies a jovial voice. I walk in to find Eddie sitting behind his desk―a huge affair of mahogany and tooled leather―with an expensive-looking laptop in front of him. He’s fully clothed by now, thank God, in tan trousers and a sports shirt.

“Ah, Samantha. Ready for our little meeting?” Eddie gestures to an upright wooden chair, and I sit down. “Here we are! The document you’ve been waiting for!”

With a self-important air he hands me a folder marked //sc housekeeper’s contract. I open it up to find a title sheet on cream vellum paper.

CONTRACT OF AGREEMENT

Between Samantha Sweeting and Mr. and Mrs.

Edward Geiger, this first day of July in the year of our Lord two thousand and four.

“Wow,” I say in surprise. “Did a lawyer draw this up?”

“I didn’t need a lawyer.” Eddie chuckles knowingly. “Downloaded it from the Internet. And obviously amended it slightly. All you need is a bit of common sense.”

I turn over the title sheet and run my eyes down the printed clauses. I have to bite my lip as I take in phrases here and there, presumably Eddie’s “amendments.”

“Now, I know it looks frightening!” says Eddie, misinterpreting my silence. “But don’t be intimidated by all these long words. Did you have a chance to look at the pay?”

My eye flicks to the figure quoted in bold under Weekly Salary. It’s slightly less than I charged per hour as a lawyer.

“It seems extremely generous,” I say after a pause. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“Is there anything you don’t understand?” He beams jovially. “Just say!”

“Um… this bit.” I point to Clause 7: Hours. “Does this mean I have the whole weekend off? Every weekend?”

“Unless we’re entertaining.” Eddie nods. “In which case you’ll have two days off in lieu… You’ll see in clause nine…”

I’m not listening. Every weekend free. I can’t get my head around this idea. I don’t think I’ve had a totally free weekend since I was about twelve.

“That’s great.” I look up, unable to stop myself smiling. “Thanks very much!”

“Didn’t your previous employers give you weekends off?” Eddie looks taken aback.

“Well, no,” I say truthfully. “Not really.”

“They sound like slave drivers!” He beams. “Now, I’ll leave you alone for a while to study the agreement before you sign.”

“I’ve pretty much read it―” I halt as Eddie raises a hand in reproof.

“Samantha, Samantha, Samantha,” he says in avuncular tones, shaking his head. “I’m going to give you a little tip that will stand you in good stead in life. Always read legal documents very carefully.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, my nose twitching with the effort of staying deadpan. “I’ll try to remember that.”

As Eddie disappears from the room, I look down at the contract again, rolling my eyes. I pick up a pencil and automatically start correcting the text, rephrasing, scoring out, and adding queries in the margin.

What am I doing?

I grab an eraser and hastily erase all my amendments. I reach for a Biro and turn to the bottom of the page.

Name: Samantha Sweeting.

Occupation:

I hesitate for a moment… then put Domestic Help.

I’m really doing this. I’m really committing to this job, miles away from my former life in every sense. And no one knows what I’m doing.

I have a sudden flash on my mother’s face, on the expression she’d have if she knew where I was right now… if she could see me in my uniform… her reaction… It would be as though some seismic world catastrophe had occurred. I’m almost tempted to call her up and tell her what I’m doing.

But I’m not going to. And I haven’t got time to think about her. I have laundry to do.

It takes me two trips to bring down all the washing to the laundry room, just off the kitchen. I dump the overflowing baskets on the tiled floor and look at the hi-tech washing machine. This should be simple enough. Experimentally, I open the door of the machine and at once an electronic display starts flashing at me. WASH? WASH?

Immediately I feel flustered. Obviously I want you to wash, I feel like snapping back.

Just give me a chance to get the bloody clothes in.

Stay calm. One thing at a time. First step: sort the clothes. Feeling pleased with myself for having thought of this, I start sorting out the dirty clothes into piles on the floor, consulting the labels as I go. As I’m peering at one marked Wash with GREAT

CARE, I hear Trish coming into the kitchen, clearly on the phone.

“You’re right,” she’s saying, her voice trembling. “You’re right! But he doesn’t see it like that! And let me tell you, I’ve tried!”

I freeze in embarrassment. Does Trish know I’m in here? Should I cough?

“I don’t want to play golf! Is there nothing else we can do together?” I glance out of the laundry door into the kitchen and to my horror see Trish at the table, dabbing at her eyes with a pink tissue. “It’s all right for him! He has no idea what it’s like for me!”

Hastily I duck back into the laundry and start busily shoving clothes into the drum at random. If Trish comes in, she’ll see me dutifully at work, impervious to her conversation. I shake some washing powder into the little tray at the top and close the door firmly. Now what?

WASH? the machine is still flashing at me. WASH?

“Er…yes!” I mutter. “Wash them.” I jab randomly at a button.

ENTER PROGRAM? it flashes back.

My eyes dart about for clues, and I spot a manual tucked behind a spray bottle. I grab it and start leafing through.

The half-load option for small washes is only available for pre-wash programs A3-E2 and superrinse programs G2-L7 not including H4.

…What?

OK, let’s forget the manual. Let’s just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in my best housekeeper manner.

PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3?

I don’t like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret government plot.

“No,” I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. “I want something else.”

YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY

PROGRAM.

Heavy duty? Upholstery?

“Stop it,” I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. “Stop!” I kick the machine in desperation. “Stop!”

“Everything all right, Samantha?” Trish appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are gone and she’s applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But it’s hardly my place to ask.

“Er… fine! Just… getting some washing on.”

“Well done.” She holds out a stripy shirt to me. “Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this shirt, if you would be so kind.”

“Absolutely!” I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesn’t show on my face.

“And here’s your list of duties!” She hands me a sheet of paper. “It’s by no means complete, but it should get you started”

As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.

Make beds… sweep and clean front steps… arrange flowers… polish all mirrors… store cupboards tidy… laundry… clean bathrooms daily…

“Now, there’s nothing here that should present you with a problem, is there?” adds Trish.

“Er… no!” My voice is a little strangled. “No, it should all be fine!”

“But make a stab at the ironing first.” she continues firmly. “There is quite a lot, I’m afraid, as you’ll have seen. It does tend to mount up rather…” For some reason, Trish is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack. At least thirty.

As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I can’t iron a shirt. I’ve never used an iron in my life. What am I going to do?

“I expect you’ll whip through these in no time!” she says gaily. “The ironing board’s just there,” she adds with a nod.

“Um, thanks!” I manage.

I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it won’t move. I try another one with no luck.

I’m pulling harder and harder, till I’m hot with the effort, but the bloody thing won’t budge. How am I supposed to open it up?

“It’s got a catch,” Trish says, watching me in surprise. “Underneath.” She takes the board from me, and in two movements has opened it up to exactly the right height. “I expect you’re used to a different model,” she adds wisely as she clicks it shut. “They all have their own little tricks.”

“Absolutely!” I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. “Of course! I’m far more used to working with a… a… a Nimbus 2000.”

Trish peers at me in surprise. “Isn’t that the broomstick out of Harry Potter?”

Damn. I knew I’d heard it somewhere.

“Yes… it is,” I say at last, my face flaming. “And also a well-known ironing board. In fact, I think the broomstick was named… er… after the ironing board.”

“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “I never knew that!” To my horror she leans expectantly against the door and lights a cigarette. “Don’t mind me!” she adds, her voice muffled. “Just carry on!”

Carry on?

“There’s the iron,” she adds with a gesture. “Behind you.”

“Er… great! Thanks!” I take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart banging in fright. I cannot do this.

I need a way out. But I can’t think of one. My brain is totally blank.

“I expect the iron’s hot enough now!” says Trish helpfully.

“Right!” I give her a sick smile.

I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on the ironing board. Unable to believe what I’m doing, I pick up the iron. It’s far heavier than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt I’m aiming for. I think my eyes might be shut.

Suddenly there’s a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God… thank God… thank God…

“Oh, who’s that?” says Trish, frowning. “Sorry, Samantha. I should get this…”

“That’s fine!” My voice is shrill. “No worries! I’ll just get on―”

As soon as Trish is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in my hands. I must have been mad. This isn’t going to work. I’m not made to be a housekeeper. The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and collapse against the wall. It’s only nine twenty and I’m already a total wreck.

And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.