The Undomestic Goddess

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 cafetière, 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 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.