“What did the insurers say? Will they—”
“They haven’t said anything yet.”
“Right.” I wipe my sweaty face, screwing up my courage to ask the next question. “And what about … me?”
Guy is silent.
There’s my answer. I open my eyes to see two small boys on bikes staring at me.
“It’s over, isn’t it? My career’s over.”
“I … I don’t know that. Listen, Samantha, you’re freaked out. It’s natural. But you can’t hide. You have to come back—”
“I can’t.” Ketterman’s face looms in my mind. And what will Arnold think of me now? “I can’t face everyone.”
“Samantha, be rational!”
“I need some time!”
“Saman—” I flip my phone shut.
I feel a bit faint. I must get some water. But I can’t face going into a noisy pub, and I can’t see any shops.
I totter along the road until I reach a pair of tall carved pillars decorated with lions. Here’s a house. I’ll ring the bell and ask for some aspirin and a glass of water. And ask if there’s a hotel nearby.
I push open the elaborate wrought-iron gate and crunch over the gravel toward the heavy oak front door. It’s a rather grand old house made out of honey-colored stone, set well back from the road, with steep gables and tall chimneys and two Porsches on the drive. I raise a hand and tug the bellpull.
There’s silence. The whole house seems dead. I’m about to give up and trudge back down the drive—when all of a sudden the door swings open.
Before me stands a woman with blond lacquered hair to her shoulders and long, dangly earrings. She has lots of makeup, long silk trousers in a weird shade of peach, a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other.
“Hello.” She drags on her cigarette and looks at me a bit suspiciously. “Are you from the agency?”
Six
I have no idea what this woman’s talking about. My head’s hurting so much, I can barely look at her, let alone take in what she’s saying.
“Are you all right?” She peers at me. “You look terrible!”
“I’ve got a rather bad headache,” I manage. “Could I possibly have a glass of water?”
“Of course! Come in!” She waves her cigarette in my face and beckons me into a huge, impressive hall with a vaulted ceiling. There’s a circular oak table in the middle, bearing a vase of huge lilies, and a medieval-style bench at the side. “You’ll want to see the house, anyway. Eddie?” Her voice rises to a shriek. “Eddie, another one’s here! I’m Trish Geiger,” she adds to me. “You may call me Mrs. Geiger. This way …”
She leads me down a short passage into a luxurious maple kitchen and tries a few drawers, apparently at random, before crying “Aha!” and pulling out a plastic box. She opens it to reveal about fifty assorted bottles of pain-relief tablets, vitamins, and bottles of something called Hollywood Skin Glow Supplement, and starts rootling about with her lacquered fingernails.
“I’ve got aspirin … paracetamol … ibuprofen … very mild Valium …” She holds up a livid red pill. “This one’s from America,” she says brightly. “Illegal in this country.”
“Um … lovely.”
She hands me three green tablets and after a few attempts locates a cupboard full of glasses. “Here we are. Migraine relief. They’ll zap any headache. Eddie!” She runs me some iced water from the fridge. “Drink that up.”
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the tablets down with a wince. “I’m so grateful. My head’s just so painful. I can barely think straight.”
“Your English is very good.” She gives me a close, appraising look. “Very good indeed!”
“Oh,” I say, thrown. “Right. Well, I’m English. That’s … you know, probably why.”
“You’re English?” Trish Geiger seems galvanized by this news. “Well! Come and sit down. Those’ll kick in, in a minute. If they don’t we’ll get you some more.”
She sweeps me out of the kitchen and back through the hall. “This is the drawing room,” she says, pausing by a door. She gestures around the large, grand room, dropping ash on the carpet. It’s decorated with what look like antiques, several big velvet sofas, and lots of lamps and ornaments everywhere. “As you’ll see, there’s quite a lot of hoovering … dusting … silver to be kept clean …” She looks at me expectantly.
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea why this woman is telling me about her housework, but she seems to be waiting for a reply.
“That’s a beautiful table,” I offer at last, gesturing at a shiny mahogany side table.
“It needs polishing.” Her eyes narrow. “Regularly. I do notice these things.”
“Of course.” I nod, bemused.
“We’ll go in here …” She’s leading me through another huge, grand room into an airy glassed conservatory furnished with opulent teak sun-loungers, frondy plants, and a well-stocked drinks tray.
“Eddie! Come in here!” She bangs on the glass and I look up to see a dark-haired man in golfing slacks walking over the large, well-manicured lawn. He’s tanned and affluent-looking, probably in his late forties.
Trish is probably in her late forties too, I think, glimpsing her crow’s feet as she turns away from the window.
“Lovely garden,” I say.
“Oh.” Her eyes sweep over it without much interest. “Yes, our gardener is very good. Has all sorts of ideas. Now, sit down!” She makes a flapping motion with her hands and, feeling a little awkward, I sit down on a lounger. Trish sinks into a basket chair opposite and drains her cocktail.
“Can you make a good Bloody Mary?” she asks abruptly.
I stare at her, bewildered.
“No matter.” She drags on her cigarette. “I can teach you.”
“Teach me …?”
“How’s your head?” she demands before I’m able to finish. “Better? Ah, here’s Eddie!”
“Greetings!” The door opens and Mr. Geiger comes into the conservatory. He doesn’t look quite as impressive close up as he did striding over the lawn. His blue eyes are a little bloodshot, and he has the beginnings of a beer belly.
“Eddie Geiger,” he says, holding out his hand jovially. “Master of the house.”
“Eddie, this is …” Trish looks at me in surprise. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha,” I explain. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had the most terrible headache …”
“I gave Samantha some of those wonderful migraine tablets!” puts in Trish.
“Good choice!” Eddie unscrews a Scotch bottle and pours himself a drink.
“I’m very grateful, really.” I manage a half smile. “You’ve been very kind, letting me trespass on your evening.”
“Her English is good, isn’t it?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at Trish.
“She’s English!” says Trish triumphantly, as though she’s pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Understands everything I say!”
I am really not getting something here. Do I look foreign?
“Shall we do the tour of the house?” Eddie turns to Trish.
“Really, it’s not necessary,” I begin. “I’m sure it’s absolutely beautiful—”
“Of course it’s necessary!” Trish stubs out her cigarette. “Come on … bring your glass!”
This woman cannot have a life. All she seems interested in is housework. As we trail round the first floor, viewing one splendid room after another, she keeps pointing out things that need special dusting and polishing, and how careful you have to be with the soft furnishings. I’m sure silk drapes do need special treatment—but why tell me?
“Now upstairs!” She sweeps out of the dining room.
Oh, God. There’s more?
“You come from London, Samantha?” says Eddie Geiger as we head up the stairs. A huge oil painting of Trish in a long blue evening dress with astonishingly sparkly eyes and teeth gazes down at us, and I can see the real Trish waiting for a reaction.
?
??Yes, I do. That’s a … lovely painting,” I add. “So vivid!”
“We were rather pleased with it.” Trish looks complacent.
“And you have a full-time job there?” I’m sure Eddie’s only asking to be polite—but for a few moments I can’t bring myself to answer. Do I have a job?
“I did,” I say at last. “To be honest … I don’t know what my situation is at the moment.”
“What sort of hours did you work?” Trish seems suddenly interested in the conversation.
“All hours.” I shrug. “I’m used to working all day and into the night. Through the night, sometimes.”
The Geigers look absolutely stunned at this revelation. People just have no idea what the life of a lawyer is like.
“You used to work through the night?” Trish seems stupefied. “On your own?
“Me and the other staff. Whoever was needed.”
“So you come from … a big setup?”
“One of the biggest in London.”
Trish and Eddie are darting glances at each other. They really are the oddest people.
“Well, we’re far more relaxed, you’ll be glad to hear!” Trish pushes open a door. “This is the master bedroom … the second bedroom …”
As we walk down the corridor she opens and closes doors and shows me four-poster beds and swishy curtains and matching upholstered ottomans, until my head swims. I don’t know if it’s too much floral wallpaper or whatever was in those migraine pills—but I’m feeling more lightheaded by the minute.
“The green bedroom … As you will know, we don’t have children or pets.… Are you a smoker?” Trish suddenly demands.
“Um … no. Thanks.”
“Not that we mind either way.”
We descend a small flight of stairs and I grab on to the wall to keep myself steady.
“Are you all right?” Eddie catches my arm.
“I think those tablets were a bit strong …” I mumble.
“They can be.” Trish gives me a considering look. “You haven’t drunk any alcohol today, have you?”
“Er … well, yes …”
“Aaah.” She pulls a face. “Well, maybe you should have a little rest before you leave. What a good thing we’ve come to the staff accommodation!” She opens the last door with a flourish.
All the rooms in this house are huge. This one is about the size of my flat, with pale walls and stone mullioned windows overlooking the garden. It has the plainest bed I’ve seen yet in this house, vast and square and made up with crisp white bed linen.
I fight a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to lie down on it and sink into oblivion.
“Lovely,” I say politely. “It’s … a gorgeous room.”
“Good!” Eddie smacks his hands together. “Well, Samantha. I’d say you’ve got the job!”
I look at him dumbly.
Job?
“Eddie!” snaps Trish. “You can’t just offer her the job! We haven’t finished the interview!”
Interview?
“We haven’t even given her a full job description!” Trish is still laying into Eddie. “We haven’t been through any of the details!”
“Well, go through the details, then!” retorts Eddie. Trish shoots him a look of fury and clears her throat.
“So, Samantha,” she says in formal tones. “Your role as full-time housekeeper will comprise—”
“I’m sorry?”
Trish clicks her tongue in exasperation. “Your role as full-time housekeeper,” she says, more slowly, “will comprise all cleaning, laundry, and cooking. You will wear a uniform and maintain a courteous and respectful …”
My role as—
These people think I’m applying to be their housekeeper?
I’m too dumbfounded to speak.
“ … full board and lodging,” Trish is saying, “and four weeks holiday a year.”
“What’s the salary?” says Eddie with interest. “Are we paying her more than the last girl?”
I think Trish might murder him, there and then.
“I’m so sorry, Samantha!” Before I can even open my mouth she’s dragged Eddie out of the room and banged the door, whereupon a furious, muted argument breaks out.
I look around the room, trying to gather my wits.
They think I’m a housekeeper. A housekeeper! This is ridiculous. I have to put them right. I have to explain the misunderstanding.
Another wave of wooziness engulfs me and I sit down on the bed. Then, before I can stop myself, I lie back on the cool white cover and close my eyes. It’s like sinking into a cloud. It’s been a long day. A long, exhausting, painful nightmare of a day. I just want it to be over.
“Samantha, I’m sorry about that.” I open my eyes and struggle up to see Trish coming back in, followed by a pink-faced Eddie. “Before we continue, did you have any questions about the post?”
I stare back at her, my head swirling. This is the moment where I have to explain there’s been a big mistake. That I’m not a housekeeper, I’m a lawyer.
But … nothing comes out of my mouth.
I could stay here one night, flashes through my brain. Just one night. I could sort out the misunderstanding tomorrow.
“Um … would it be possible to start tonight?” I hear myself saying.
“I don’t see why not—” begins Eddie.
“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves,” Trish interrupts pointedly. “We have had quite a few promising applicants for this post, Samantha. Several quite dazzling. One girl even had a diploma in French Cordon Bleu cookery!”
Something inside me stiffens, like an automatic reflex.
Is she suggesting—
Is she implying that I might not get this job?
I regard Trish silently. Somewhere, down inside my bruised state of shock, I can feel a tiny flicker of the old Samantha returning. I can beat some French Cordon Bleu cookery girl.
I have never failed an interview in my life.
I’m not about to start now.
“So.” Trish consults her list. “You’re experienced in all forms of laundry?”
“Naturally.” I nod.
“And are you Cordon Bleu trained?” It’s clear from her expression that nothing less will pass the test.
“I trained under Michel de la Roux de la Blanc.” I pause. “His name obviously speaks for itself.”
“Absolutely!” says Trish, glancing uncertainly at Eddie.
We’re sitting in the conservatory again, ten minutes later, and I’m sipping a cup of coffee, which Eddie made for me. Trish is firing a series of questions at me that sound like they come from a how-to-hire-your-housekeeper pamphlet. And I’m answering every single one with total confidence.
Deep down in my brain I can hear a little voice calling out, What are you doing? Samantha, what the hell are you DOING?
But I’m not listening. I don’t want to listen. Somehow I’ve managed to block out real life, the mistake, my ruined career, the whole nightmare of a day—everything else in the world except this interview.
“Could you give us a sample menu?” Trish lights another cigarette. “For a dinner party, say?”
Food … impressive food …
Suddenly I remember Maxim’s last night. The souvenir birthday menu.
“I’ll just consult my … notes.” I unzip my bag and surreptitiously scan the Maxim’s menu. “For a formal dinner, I would serve … er … seared foie gras with an apricot glaze … lamb with minted hummus … followed by orange-chocolate soufflé with two homemade sorbets.”
Take that, Cordon Bleu girl.
“Well!” Trish looks astounded. “I must say, that’s … very impressive.”
“Marvelous!” Eddie looks like he’s salivating. “Seared foie gras! You couldn’t knock some up for us now?”
Trish shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m assuming you have a reference, Samantha?”
A reference?
“We will need a reference.…” Trish begins to frown.
/>
“My reference is Lady Freya Edgerly,” I say, in sudden inspiration.
“Lady Edgerly?” Trish’s eyebrows rise and a pink flush starts slowly creeping up her neck.
“I have been associated with Lord and Lady Edgerly for many years,” I reply gravely. “I know Lady Edgerly will vouch for me.”
Trish and Eddie are both staring at me, agog.
“You cooked for them, did you?” inquires Eddie. “Breakfasts and so forth?”
“Naturally. Lord Edgerly was very fond of my signature dish, eggs Benedict.” I take a sip of water.
I can see Trish pulling what she clearly imagines are cryptic faces at Eddie, who is surreptitiously nodding back. They might as well have Let’s Have Her! tattooed on their foreheads.
“One final thing.” Trish takes a deep drag on her cigarette. “You will be answering the phone when Mr. Geiger and myself are out. Our image in society is very important. Please, would you demonstrate how you will do it?” She nods at a phone on a nearby table.
They cannot be serious. Except … I think they are.
“You should say, ‘Good afternoon, the Geiger residence,’ ” prompts Eddie.
Obediently I get up, walk across the room, and lift the receiver.
“Good afternoon,” I say in my most charming, head-school-prefect tones. “The Geiger residence. How may I help?”
Eddie and Trish look like all their Christmases have come at once.
Seven
I wake the next morning to an unfamiliar, smooth white ceiling above me. I frown in puzzlement, then lift my head a little. The sheets make a strange rumpling sound as I move. What’s going on? My sheets don’t sound anything like that.
But of course. They’re the Geigers’ sheets.
I sink comfortably back into my pillows—until another thought strikes me.
Who are the Geigers?
I screw up my face, trying to remember. I feel as though I’m both hungover and still drunk. Snatches of yesterday are vivid in my mind, amid a dense fog. I’m not sure what’s real and what’s a dream. I came on the train … yes … I had a headache … Paddington Station … walking out of the office …
Oh, God. Oh, please, no.
With a sickening whoosh the whole nightmare comes rushing back. The memo. Third Union Bank. Fifty million pounds. Asking Guy if I had a job left …