The Undomestic Goddess
Page 112
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This was Trish’s idea. As are the angels hanging from the ceiling.
“How are we doing?” Trish comes tapping into the kitchen, looking flustered. “Have you made the mousses yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, briskly squeezing an orange. “Mrs. Geiger, don’t worry. It’s all under control.”
“Do you know what I’ve been through, the last few days?” She clutches her head. “More and more people keep accepting. I’ve had to change the seating plan …”
“It’ll be fine,” I say soothingly. “Try to relax.”
“Yes.” She sighs, holding her head between two lacquered fingernails. “You’re right. I’ll just go and check the goody bags …”
I cannot believe how much Trish is spending on this lunch. Every time I question whether we really need to canopy the dining room in white silk or give every guest an orchid buttonhole, she shrills, “It’s all in a good cause!”
Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask her for quite a while now.
“Er … Mrs. Geiger,” I say casually. “Are you charging your guests for entrance to the lunch?”
“Oh, no!” she says. “I think that’s rather tacky, don’t you?”
“Are you holding a raffle?”
“I don’t think so.” She wrinkles her nose. “People loathe raffles.”
I hardly dare ask this next question.
“So … um … how exactly are you planning on making money for Save The Children?”
There’s silence in the kitchen. Trish has frozen, her eyes wide.
“Bugger,” she says at last.
I knew it. She hadn’t given it a thought. Somehow I manage to keep my respectful housekeeper’s expression.
“Perhaps we could ask for voluntary donations?” I suggest. “We could hand round a little bag with the coffee and mints?”
“Yes. Yes.” Trish peers at me as though I’m a genius. “That’s the answer.” She exhales sharply. “This is really very stressful, Samantha. I don’t know how you stay so calm.”
“Oh … I don’t know.” I feel a sudden wave of fondness for her. When I arrived back at the house last night it was like coming home. Even though Trish had left a mountain of dirty crockery on the counter for my return, and a note saying, Samantha, please polish all silver for luncheon.
Trish heads out of the kitchen and I start whisking up egg whites for the mousse. Then I notice a man sidling down the drive. He’s wearing jeans and an old polo shirt and has a camera slung round his neck. He disappears from view and I frown in puzzlement. Maybe he’s a deliveryman. I measure out the caster sugar, with half an ear out for the doorbell, and start folding it into the egg whites, just the way Iris taught me. Then suddenly the man is standing at the kitchen door, peering in through the window.
I’m not ruining my mixture for some door-to-door salesman. He can wait a few moments. I finish folding in the sugar—then head to the door and open it.
“Can I help?” I say politely.
“Are you Samantha Sweeting?” he says, glancing down at a folded-up tabloid newspaper in his hand.
I look back at him warily. “Why?”
“I’m from the Cheltenham Gazette.” He flashes an ID card at me. “I’m after an exclusive interview with you. ‘Why I Chose the Cotswolds as My Secret Hideaway.’ That kind of thing.”
I look at him blankly for a few seconds.
“Er … what are you talking about?”
“You haven’t seen it?” He looks surprised. “Haven’t your friends been on the phone?”
“No. At least, I don’t know,” I say, confused. My mobile phone’s upstairs in my bedroom. If it has been ringing, I haven’t heard it.
“I take it this is you?” He turns the newspaper round and my stomach seizes up.
It’s a picture of me. In the Daily World. A national tabloid.
It’s my official Carter Spink portrait. I’m wearing a black suit and my hair is screwed up. Above it, in bold black letters, is the headline: “i’d rather clean loos than be a partner at carter spink.”
What the hell is going on?
With trembling hands I grab the paper from the guy and scan the text.
They are the Masters of the Universe, the envy of their peers. Top law firm Carter Spink is the most prestigious in the country. But yesterday one young woman turned down a high-ranking post as partner in order to work as a humble housekeeper.
GET A LIFE
Partners were left with egg on their faces as star £500-an-hour lawyer Samantha Sweeting rejected their offer, which carried a substantial six-figure salary. Having previously been fired, the high-flyer apparently uncovered a financial scandal at the firm. However, when offered full equity partnership, Sweeting cited the pressure and lack of free time as reason for her decision.
“How are we doing?” Trish comes tapping into the kitchen, looking flustered. “Have you made the mousses yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, briskly squeezing an orange. “Mrs. Geiger, don’t worry. It’s all under control.”
“Do you know what I’ve been through, the last few days?” She clutches her head. “More and more people keep accepting. I’ve had to change the seating plan …”
“It’ll be fine,” I say soothingly. “Try to relax.”
“Yes.” She sighs, holding her head between two lacquered fingernails. “You’re right. I’ll just go and check the goody bags …”
I cannot believe how much Trish is spending on this lunch. Every time I question whether we really need to canopy the dining room in white silk or give every guest an orchid buttonhole, she shrills, “It’s all in a good cause!”
Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask her for quite a while now.
“Er … Mrs. Geiger,” I say casually. “Are you charging your guests for entrance to the lunch?”
“Oh, no!” she says. “I think that’s rather tacky, don’t you?”
“Are you holding a raffle?”
“I don’t think so.” She wrinkles her nose. “People loathe raffles.”
I hardly dare ask this next question.
“So … um … how exactly are you planning on making money for Save The Children?”
There’s silence in the kitchen. Trish has frozen, her eyes wide.
“Bugger,” she says at last.
I knew it. She hadn’t given it a thought. Somehow I manage to keep my respectful housekeeper’s expression.
“Perhaps we could ask for voluntary donations?” I suggest. “We could hand round a little bag with the coffee and mints?”
“Yes. Yes.” Trish peers at me as though I’m a genius. “That’s the answer.” She exhales sharply. “This is really very stressful, Samantha. I don’t know how you stay so calm.”
“Oh … I don’t know.” I feel a sudden wave of fondness for her. When I arrived back at the house last night it was like coming home. Even though Trish had left a mountain of dirty crockery on the counter for my return, and a note saying, Samantha, please polish all silver for luncheon.
Trish heads out of the kitchen and I start whisking up egg whites for the mousse. Then I notice a man sidling down the drive. He’s wearing jeans and an old polo shirt and has a camera slung round his neck. He disappears from view and I frown in puzzlement. Maybe he’s a deliveryman. I measure out the caster sugar, with half an ear out for the doorbell, and start folding it into the egg whites, just the way Iris taught me. Then suddenly the man is standing at the kitchen door, peering in through the window.
I’m not ruining my mixture for some door-to-door salesman. He can wait a few moments. I finish folding in the sugar—then head to the door and open it.
“Can I help?” I say politely.
“Are you Samantha Sweeting?” he says, glancing down at a folded-up tabloid newspaper in his hand.
I look back at him warily. “Why?”
“I’m from the Cheltenham Gazette.” He flashes an ID card at me. “I’m after an exclusive interview with you. ‘Why I Chose the Cotswolds as My Secret Hideaway.’ That kind of thing.”
I look at him blankly for a few seconds.
“Er … what are you talking about?”
“You haven’t seen it?” He looks surprised. “Haven’t your friends been on the phone?”
“No. At least, I don’t know,” I say, confused. My mobile phone’s upstairs in my bedroom. If it has been ringing, I haven’t heard it.
“I take it this is you?” He turns the newspaper round and my stomach seizes up.
It’s a picture of me. In the Daily World. A national tabloid.
It’s my official Carter Spink portrait. I’m wearing a black suit and my hair is screwed up. Above it, in bold black letters, is the headline: “i’d rather clean loos than be a partner at carter spink.”
What the hell is going on?
With trembling hands I grab the paper from the guy and scan the text.
They are the Masters of the Universe, the envy of their peers. Top law firm Carter Spink is the most prestigious in the country. But yesterday one young woman turned down a high-ranking post as partner in order to work as a humble housekeeper.
GET A LIFE
Partners were left with egg on their faces as star £500-an-hour lawyer Samantha Sweeting rejected their offer, which carried a substantial six-figure salary. Having previously been fired, the high-flyer apparently uncovered a financial scandal at the firm. However, when offered full equity partnership, Sweeting cited the pressure and lack of free time as reason for her decision.
