The Undomestic Goddess
Page 116

“We knew she was bright!” says Eddie, defensive. “We spotted that! We were helping her with her—” He breaks off, looking foolish. “With her English GCSE.”
“And I’m really grateful!” I put in hurriedly. “Really.”
Eddie mops his brow with a tea towel. Trish is still clutching the chair as though she might keel over any minute.
“I don’t understand.” Eddie suddenly puts the tea towel down and turns to me. “How did you combine being a lawyer with the housekeeping?”
“Yes!” exclaims Trish, coming to life. “Exactly. How on earth could you be a City lawyer … and still have time to train with Michel de la Roux de la Blanc?”
Oh, God. They still don’t get it.
“I’m not really a housekeeper,” I say desperately. “I’m not really a Cordon Bleu cook. Michel de la Roux de la Blanc doesn’t exist. I have no idea what this thing is really called.” I pick up the truffle beater, which is lying on the side. “I’m a … a fake.”
I can’t look at either of them. Suddenly I feel terrible. “I’ll understand if you want me to leave,” I mumble. “I took the job under false pretenses.”
“Leave?” Trish looks horrified. “We don’t want you to leave! Do we, Eddie?”
“Absolutely not!” he says, rallying himself. “You’ve done a fine job, Samantha. You can’t help it if you’re a lawyer.”
“ ‘I’m a fake,’ ” says the journalist, writing it carefully down on her notepad. “Do you feel guilty about that, Ms. Sweeting?”
“Stop it!” I say. “I’m not doing an interview!”
“Ms. Sweeting says she’d rather clean loos than be a partner at Carter Spink,” says the journalist, turning to Trish. “Could I see the loos in question?”
“Our loos?” Spots of pink appear on Trish’s cheeks and she gives me an uncertain glance. “Well! We did have the bathrooms refitted recently; they’re all Royal Doulton.”
“How many are there?” The journalist looks up from her notepad.
“Stop this!” I clutch my hair. “Look, I’ll … I’ll make a statement to the press. And then I want you all to leave me and my employers alone.”
I hurry out of the kitchen, the Daily Mail woman following behind, and fling open the front door. The crowd of journalists is still there, behind the gate. Is it my imagination or are there more than before?
“It’s Sarah,” says the guy in black glasses sardonically as I approach them.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” I begin. “I would be grateful if you would leave me alone. There isn’t any story here.”
“Are you going to stay as a housekeeper?” calls a fat guy in jeans.
“Yes, I am.” I lift my chin. “I’ve made a personal choice, for personal reasons, and I’m very happy here.”
“What about feminism?” demands a young girl. “Women have fought for years to gain an equal foothold. Now you’re telling them they should go back to the kitchen?”
“I’m not telling women anything!” I say, taken aback. “I’m just leading my own life.”
“But you think there’s nothing wrong with women being chained to the kitchen sink?” A gray-haired woman glares at me.
“I’m not chained! I get paid for what I do, and I choose to—” My answer is drowned out by a barrage of questions and flashing cameras.
“Was Carter Spink a sexist hellhole?”
“Is this a bargaining ploy?”
“Do you think women should have careers?”
“We’d like to offer you a regular column on household hints!” says a chirpy blond girl in a blue mac. “We want to call it ‘Samantha Says.’ ”
“What?” I gape at her. “I don’t have any household hints!”
“A recipe, then?” She beams. “Your favorite dish?”
“Could you pose for us in your pinny?” calls out the fat guy, with a lascivious wink.
“No!” I say in horror. “I have nothing else to say! No comment! Go away!”
Ignoring the cries and shouts of “Samantha!” I turn and run with trembling legs back up the drive to the house.
The world is mad.
I burst into the kitchen, to find Trish, Eddie, and Melissa transfixed in front of the Daily World.
“Oh, no,” I say, my heart plunging. “Don’t read it. Honestly. It’s just … stupid … tabloid …”