The Undomestic Goddess

She plonks the bags down and switches on the kettle, then rootles around for the green painkillers.

“These are the ones you like, aren’t they?”

“I’d rather just have an aspirin,” I say quickly. “If that’s OK?”

“Are you quite sure?” She runs me a glass of water and gives me a couple of aspirin. “Now. You just sit there. Relax. Don’t even think of doing anything else! Until it’s time to make the supper,” she adds as an afterthought.

“You’re … very kind,” I manage.

As I say the words I have the dim realization that I mean them. Trish’s kindness may be a bit warped, but it’s real.

“Here we are …” Trish puts a cup of tea down and scrutinizes me. “Are you homesick?” She sounds triumphant, as though she may have cracked the mystery. “Our girl from the Philippines did get rather blue from time to time … but I used to say to her, cheer up, Manuela!” Trish pauses thoughtfully. “Then I found out her name was Paula. Extraordinary.”

“I’m not homesick,” I say, gulping my tea.

My mind is beating like a butterfly’s wings. What am I going to do?

Go home.

But the thought of returning to that flat, with Ketterman living two floors above, makes me sick. I can’t face him. I can’t do it.

Phone Guy. He’ll have me to stay. He and Charlotte have that huge house in Islington with all those spare rooms. I’ve stayed the night before. Then I’ll … sell my flat. Find a job.

What job?

“This will cheer you up.” Trish’s voice breaks my thoughts. She pats the shopping bags with suppressed glee. “After your stunning performance at lunch … I’ve been shopping. And I’ve got a surprise for you! This will make your day!”

“A surprise?” I look up, bewildered, as Trish starts producing packets from the bag.

“Foie gras … chickpeas … shoulder of lamb …” She hefts a joint of meat onto the table and looks at me expectantly. Then she clicks her tongue at my bewildered expression. “It’s ingredients! Your dinner-party menu! We’ll eat at eight, if that’s OK?”

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 diamanté 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.”