Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

I’m a housekeeper. I must behave like a housekeeper.

“Welcome, Samantha!” says Eddie as I arrive down in the hall. He’s wearing a polo shirt with some crested logo, and golfing trousers. “Sleep all right?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Geiger,” I reply demurely.

“That’s good!” Eddie rocks back and forth on the soles of his feet. He seems just a little awkward. In fact… they both seem awkward. Underneath the makeup, the tans, the expensive clothes… there seems a hint of uncertainty about the Geigers.

I walk over to the bench seat and straighten a cushion, trying to look as though I know what I’m doing.

“You’ll be wanting to get to know your new kitchen!” says Trish brightly.

“Of course!” I say with a confident smile. “I’m…looking forward to it!”

It’s only a kitchen. It’s only one morning. I can do this.

Trish leads the way into the vast maple kitchen, and this time I try to take in the details. There’s a huge hob set into the granite counter to my left. A bank of ovens built into the wall.

Everywhere I look I can see shiny chrome gadgets plugged into sockets. Racks of saucepans and implements of all descriptions are hanging overhead in a jumble of stainless steel.

“You’ll want to get it the way you like it, of course,” says Trish, gesturing around.

“Just change anything you like. Knock it into shape. You’re the professional!”

They’re both looking at me expectantly.

“Absolutely,” I say in a businesslike way. “Obviously I have my own… um… systems. That shouldn’t be there, for example.” I point randomly at a small metal gadget resembling a torpedo. “The… um…”

“Juice extractor,” supplies Trish.

“Exactly. I’ll have to move it.”

“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “Why’s that?”

There’s a beat of silence. Even Eddie looks interested.

“Kitchen… ergonomic… theory,” I improvise. “So, you’d like toast for breakfast?” I add quickly.

“Toast for both of us,” says Trish. “Whole wheat. And coffee with skim milk.”

“Coming up.” I smile, feeling slight relief.

I can make toast. And the bread bin is helpfully marked Bread.

“So, I’ll just bring that through in a moment,” I add, trying to chivvy them out.

“Would you like to eat in the dining room?”

There’s a small crash from the hall.

“That’ll be the newspaper,” says Trish. “Yes, you may serve breakfast in the dining room.” She hurries out, but Eddie loiters in the kitchen.

“You know, I’ve changed my mind.” He gives me a jovial smile. “Forget the toast, Samantha. I’ll have your famous eggs Benedict. You whetted my appetite last night!”

Last night? What did I say last―

Oh, Jesus. Eggs Benedict. My famous signature dish as beloved by Lord Edgerly.

What was I thinking?

I don’t even know what eggs Benedict is.

“Are you… sure that’s ‘what you want?” I try to sound relaxed.

“I wouldn’t miss your specialty!” Eddie rubs his stomach in anticipation. “It’s my favorite breakfast. The best eggs Benedict I’ve ever tasted were at the Carlyle in New York, but I’ll take a bet yours are even better!”

“I don’t know about that!”

OK, think. It must be simple enough. Eggs and… something.

Eddie leans against the counter with an expectant look. I have a nasty suspicion he’s waiting for me to start cooking. Hesitantly, I get down a gleaming pan from the rack, just as Trish bustles in with the newspaper. She eyes me with bright curiosity.

“How will you be using the asparagus steamer, Samantha?”

Shit.

“I just wanted to… examine it. Yes.” I nod briskly, as though the pan has confirmed my suspicions, then carefully hang it back on the rack again.

Could I quickly look it up in a cookbook?

But it’s supposed to be my specialty. Why would I need a cookbook?

I’m feeling hotter and hotter. I have no idea even how to begin. Do I… crack the eggs? Boil them?

“Here you are.” Eddie takes a huge box of eggs out of the fridge, plonks them on the counter, and lifts the lid. “Should be enough there, I’d imagine!”

Before me are rows and rows of brown eggs. What do I think I’m doing? I can’t make bloody eggs Benedict. I can’t make these people breakfast. I’m going to have to confess.

I turn round and take a deep breath.

“Mr. Geiger… Mrs. Geiger…”

“Eggs?” Trish’s voice cuts across mine. “Eddie, you can’t have eggs! Remember what the doctor said!” Her eyes bore into me. “What did he ask you for, Samantha? Boiled eggs?”

“Er… Mr. Geiger ordered eggs Benedict. But the thing is―”

“You’re not eating eggs Benedict!” Trish practically shrieks at Eddie. “It’s foil of cholesterol!”

“I’ll eat what I like!” Eddie protests.

“The doctor gave him an eating plan.” Trish is dragging furiously on her cigarette as she speaks. “He’s already had a bowl of cornflakes this morning!”

“I was hungry!” says Eddie, defensive. “You had a chocolate muffin!”

Trish gasps as though he’s hit her. Small red dots appear in her cheeks.

“We will have a cup of coffee each, Samantha,” she announces at last in a dignified voice. “You may serve it in the lounge. Use the pink china. Come along, Eddie.” And she sweeps out before I can respond.

I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry. This is ridiculous. I can’t carry on with this charade. I have to tell the Geigers the truth. Now. I walk decisively out of the kitchen into the hall, but then behind the closed door of the sitting room I can hear the shrill, indistinct voice of Trish angrily berating Eddie, and Eddie’s defensive rumbles in return. Hastily I back away again into the kitchen and switch the kettle on.

A quarter of an hour later I’ve arranged a silver tray with a French press coffeepot, pink cups, creamer, sugar, and a sprig of pink flowers I snipped from a hanging basket outside the kitchen window. Fifteen minutes, just to make a cup of coffee.

At Carter Spink I would have earned the firm ￡125 in that time.

Of course, I would have been quicker if I hadn’t had to work out how to use the French press first. And if my first batch of coffee hadn’t tasted like dishwater.

I approach the sitting-room door, put the tray down on the table in the hall, and knock cautiously.

“Come in! ”Trish calls.

As I enter, she’s sitting in an overstuffed striped velvet chair by the window, holding a magazine at a rather artificial angle. Eddie is on the other side of the room, examining a wooden carving.

“Thank you, Samantha.” Trish inclines her head graciously as I pour out the coffee.

“That will be all for the moment.”

I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some bizarre Merchant Ivory costume drama, except the costumes are pink yoga wear and golfing sweaters.

“Er… very good, madam,” I say, playing my part. Then, without meaning to, I bob a curtsy.

There’s a staggered pause. Both Geigers just gape at me in astonishment.

“Samantha… did you just… curtsy?” says Trish at last.

I stare back, frozen.

What was I thinking? Why did I curtsy? Housekeepers don’t bloody curtsy. This isn’t Gosford Park.

They’re still goggling at me. I have to say something.

“The Edgerlys liked me to… curtsy.” My face is prickling all over. “It’s a habit I got into. I’m sorry, madam, I won’t do it again.”

Trish is squinting at me as though she’s trying to make me out. She must realize I’m a fake, she must…

“I like it,” she pronounces at last, and nods her head in satisfaction. “Yes, I like it.