The Undomestic Goddess

I’m half expecting Trish and Eddie to look moved by my little speech. Instead, they both peer at me in total incomprehension, then glance at each other again.

“I think you should consider the offer,” says Eddie. “It says in the paper they’re desperate to woo you back.”

“We won’t be at all offended if you leave,” adds Trish, nodding emphatically. “We’ll completely understand.”

Is that all they can say? Aren’t they glad I want to stay? Don’t they want me as their housekeeper?

“I don’t want to leave!” I say, almost crossly. “I want to stay here and enjoy a fulfilling life at a different pace.”

“Right,” says Eddie after a pause, then surreptitiously pulls a “What?” face at Trish.

The telephone rings and Trish picks it up.

“Hello?” She listens for a moment. “Yes, of course, Mavis. And Trudy. See you later!” She puts the receiver down. “Two more guests for the charity lunch!”

“Right.” I glance at my watch. “I’d better get going on the starters.”

As I’m getting out my pastry the phone rings again and Trish sighs. “If this is more late guests … Hello?” As she listens, her expression changes and she puts her hand over the receiver.

“Samantha,” she hisses. “It’s an ad company. Are you willing to appear in a TV commercial for Toilet Duck? You’d wear a barrister’s wig and gown, and you’d have to say—”

“No!” I say, recoiling. “Of course not!”

“You should never turn down television,” says Eddie reprovingly. “Could be a big opportunity.”

“No, it couldn’t! I don’t want to be in any commercials!” I can see Eddie opening his mouth to argue. “I don’t want to do any interviews,” I add quickly. “I don’t want to be a role model. I just want everything to go back to normal.”

But by lunchtime everything is even more surreal than before.

I’ve had three more requests to appear on TV and one to do a “tasteful” photo shoot for the Sun in a French maid’s uniform. Trish has given an exclusive interview to the Mail. Callers to a radio phone-in that Melissa insisted on listening to have described me as “an antifeminist moron,” a “Martha Stewart wannabe,” and “a parasite on the taxpayers who paid for my education.” I was so furious I almost phoned up myself.

But instead I switched the radio off and took three deep breaths. I’m not going to let myself get hassled. I have other things to think about. Fourteen guests have arrived for the charity lunch and are milling around on the lawn. I have wild-mushroom tartlets to bake, asparagus sauce to finish, and salmon fillets to roast.

I desperately wish Nathaniel were here to keep me calm. But he’s gone off to Buckingham to pick up some koi carp for the pond, which Trish has suddenly decided she must have. Apparently they cost hundreds of pounds and all the celebrities have them. It’s ridiculous. No one ever even looks in the pond.

The doorbell rings just as I’m opening the oven, and I sigh. Not another guest. We’ve had four late acceptances this morning, which has totally thrown my schedule. Let alone the journalist from the Mirror who dressed up in a pink floral suit and tried to tell Eddie she was new to the village.

I put the tray of tarts in the oven, gather up the remaining scraps of pastry, and start to wipe down my rolling pin.

“Samantha?” Trish taps at the door. “We have another guest!”

“Another one?” I turn round, wiping flour off my cheek. “But I’ve just put the starters in the oven—”

“It’s a friend of yours. He says he needs to speak to you urgently. About business?” Trish raises her eyebrow at me significantly—then steps aside.

It’s Guy. Standing in Trish’s kitchen. In his immaculate Jermyn Street suit and starched cuffs.

I’m utterly flabbergasted. Judging by his expression, he’s pretty gobsmacked too.

“Oh, my God,” he says slowly, his eyes running over my uniform, my rolling pin, my floury hands. “You really are a housekeeper.”

“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I really am.”

“Samantha …” says Trish from the door. “Not that I want to interrupt, but … starters in ten minutes?”

“Of course, Mrs. Geiger.” I automatically bob a curtsy as Trish leaves, and Guy’s eyes nearly fall out of his head.

“You curtsy?”

“The curtsying was a bit of a mistake,” I admit, catching his appalled expression. “Guy, what are you doing here?”