Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

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 souffle 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.

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…

His silence…

My career is wrecked. My life as I knew it is over.

At last I push back the covers and get out of bed, feeling weak and spacey. This time yesterday I was in my kitchen, getting ready for work, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. In another world―in a parallel universe to this one―I would be waking up today a partner of Carter Spink. I’d be surrounded by messages of congratulation.

I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to escape the sickening if-only thoughts. If I’d seen the memo earlier―if I had a tidier desk―if Arnold hadn’t given me that loan agreement― But there’s no point. I walk to the window and take deep gulps of fresh air. What happened happened. All I can do is deal with it. Until this moment in time my whole life has been mapped out to the hour. Through exams, through holiday internships, the rungs of the career ladder… I thought I knew exactly where I was headed. And now I find myself in a strange room in the middle of the countryside, my career in ruins.

Plus… there’s something else. Something’s nagging at me. A final piece of the jigsaw still missing in my dazed brain. It’ll come to me in a minute.

I lean against the windowsill and watch a man on the distant horizon walking his dog.

Maybe things are salvageable. Maybe it’s not all as bad as I thought. Guy didn’t actually say I’d lost my job. I have to call him―and find out just how bad it is. I take a deep breath and run my hands through my tangled hair. God, I flipped out yesterday.

When I consider the way I acted, running out of the office, jumping on a train… I was really on another planet. If it weren’t for the Geigers being so understanding― My train of thought halts abruptly.

The Geigers.

Something about the Geigers. Something I’m not remembering… something that’s ringing slight alarm bells…

I turn round and focus on a blue dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Some kind of uniform, with piping. Why would there be a― The alarm bells are getting louder. They’re starting to clang wildly. It’s coming back to me like some kind of terrible, drunken dream.

Did I take a job as a housekeeper?

For a few instants I cannot move. Oh, God. What have I done? What have I done?

My heart starts to thump as I take in my situation properly for the first time. I am staying in a strange couple’s house under completely false pretenses. I’ve slept in their bed. I’m wearing one of Trish’s old T-shirts. They even gave me a toothbrush, after I invented a suitcase-stolen-on-the-train story. The last thing I remember is hearing Trish gloating on the phone. “She’s English!” she was saying. “Yes, speaks English perfectly! Super girl. Cordon Bleu trained!”

I’ll have to tell them it was all lies.

There’s a rapping at my bedroom door and I jump in fright.

“Samantha?” Trish’s voice comes through the door. “May I come in?”

“Oh! Urn…yes!”

The door opens and Trish appears, wearing pale pink exercise clothes with a diamante logo.

“I’ve made you a cup of tea,” she says, handing me the mug with a formal smile. “Mr.