The Undomestic Goddess

It’s fine. I’ll 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.

“It’s very important, Samantha, that these china dogs face each other.” Trish points to a pair of King Charles spaniels. “Do you see? They don’t 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.”

She’s 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. “Let’s see. Which way do the china dogs go?” She lifts an arm to block my view of the mantelpiece.

I don’t believe it. She’s 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. I’ve 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. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I’ll take the coffee tray out,” I suggest humbly. As I pick it up I glance again at my watch. Ten twelve. I wonder if they’ve started the meeting.

By eleven-thirty my nerves are really beginning to fray. My mobile’s charged and I’ve finally found a signal in the kitchen, but it hasn’t rung. And there are no messages. I’ve checked it every minute.

I’ve stacked the dishwasher and at last managed to turn it on. And I’ve dusted the china dogs with a tissue. Other than that all I’ve 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 bread—and 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. It’s 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 I’m just sitting on a chair, my hand clasped tight over the mobile in my pocket, desperately willing it to ring.

At the same time I’m 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. I’m about to take another when I feel a tingling on the nape of my neck.

As if … I’m being watched.

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

He’s tall and broad, and deeply tanned, with intense blue eyes. His wavy hair is golden brown with bleached-blond tips. He’s wearing old jeans and a torn T-shirt and the muddiest boots I’ve 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. “I’m the new housekeeper, Samantha. Hello.”

“I’m Nathaniel.” He holds out his hand and after a pause I take it. His skin is so hard and rough, it’s like shaking a piece of tree bark. “I do the garden for the Geigers. You’ll 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 can’t help noticing how massive and strong his forearms are. I’ve 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. I’ll be wanting some of those. Definitely.”