“So you’ll be OK?” Trish picks up her handbag. “You’ve found all the cleaning stuff?”

“Er …” I look around uncertainly.

“In the laundry room!” She disappears through the doorway for a moment, then reappears, holding a gigantic blue tub full of cleaning products. “There you are!” she says, dumping it on the table. “And don’t forget your Marigolds!” she adds merrily.

My what?

“Rubber gloves,” says Nathaniel. He takes a huge pink pair out of the tub and hands them to me with a little bow.

“Yes, thank you,” I say with dignity. “I knew that.”

I have never worn a pair of rubber gloves in my life. Trying not to flinch, I slowly pull them onto my hands.

Oh, my God. I’ve never felt anything quite so rubbery and … revolting. Must I wear these all day?

“Toodle-oo!” calls Trish from the hall, and the front door bangs shut.

“Right!” I say. “Well … I’ll get on.”

I wait for Nathaniel to leave, but he leans against the table and looks at me quizzically. “Do you have any idea how to clean a house?”

I’m starting to feel quite insulted here. Do I look like someone who can’t clean a house?

“Of course I know how to clean a house.”

“Only I told my mum about you last night.” He smiles, as though remembering the conversation. What could he have said about me? “Anyway. She’s willing to teach you cooking. And I said you’d probably need cleaning advice too—”

“I do not need cleaning advice!” I retort. “I’ve cleaned houses loads of times. In fact, I need to get started.”

“Don’t mind me.” Nathaniel shrugs.

I’ll show him. In a businesslike manner, I pick a can out of the tub and spray it onto the counter.

“So you’ve cleaned lots of houses,” says Nathaniel, watching me.

“Yes. Millions.”

The spray has solidified into crystalline little gray droplets. I rub them briskly with a cloth—but they won’t come off.

I look more closely at the can. do not use on granite. Shit.

“Anyway,” I say, hastily putting the cloth down to hide the droplets. “You’re in my way.” I grab a feather duster from the blue tub and start brushing crumbs off the kitchen table. “Excuse me …”

“I’ll leave you, then,” says Nathaniel, his mouth twitching. He looks at the feather duster. “Don’t you want to be using a dustpan and brush for that?”

I look uncertainly at the feather duster. What’s wrong with this one? Anyway, what is he, the duster police?

“I have my methods,” I say, lifting my chin. “Thank you.”

“OK.” He grins. “See you.”

I’m not going to let him faze me. I just need … a plan. Yes. A time sheet, like at work.

I grab a pen and the pad of paper by the phone and start scribbling a list for the day-. I have an image of myself moving smoothly from task to task, brush in one hand, duster in the other, bringing order to everything. Like Mary Poppins.

9:30–9:36 Make Geigers’ bed

9:36–9:42 Take laundry out of machine and put in dryer

9:42–10:00 Clean bathrooms

I get to the end and read it over with a fresh surge of optimism. At this rate I should be done easily by lunchtime.

9:36 Fuck. I cannot make this bed. Why won’t this sheet lie flat?

9:42 And why do they make mattresses so heavy?

9:54 This is sheer torture. My arms have never ached so much in my entire life. The blankets weigh a ton, and the sheets won’t go straight and I have no idea how to do the wretched corners. How do chambermaids do it?

10:16 At last. Forty minutes of hard work and I have made precisely one bed. I’m already way behind. But never mind. Just keep moving. Laundry next.

10:26 No. Please, no.

I can hardly bear to look. It’s a total disaster. Everything in the washing machine has gone pink. Every single thing.

What happened?

With trembling fingers I pick out a damp cashmere cardigan. It was cream when I put it in. It’s now a sickly shade of candy floss. I knew K3 was bad news. I knew it—

There must be a solution, there must be. Frantically I scan the cans of products stacked on the shelves. Stain Away. Vanish. There has to be a remedy.… I just need to think.…

10:38 OK, I have the answer. It may not totally work—but it’s my best shot.

11:00 I’ve just spent £852 replacing all the clothes in the machine as closely as possible. Harrods personal-shopping department was very helpful and will send them all tomorrow, Express Delivery. I just hope to heaven Trish and Eddie won’t notice that their wardrobe has magically regenerated.