The Undomestic Goddess
Page 118
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“Me either! That part of my life is over. Nathaniel … I’m so sorry. I never meant any of this to happen.” A bay leaf falls into his hair from the tree behind and I pick it out, automatically rubbing it to release the sweet scent.
“So what happens now?” says Nathaniel.
“Nothing. The media interest will die down. They’ll get bored.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m happy in my job. I’m happy in this village. I’m happy with you. I just want everything to stay the same.”
Twenty-four
I’m wrong. The media interest doesn’t die down. I wake up the next morning to find twice as many reporters as yesterday camped outside, plus two TV vans. My mobile is so jammed with messages from journalists who have got hold of the number, I’ve given up listening to them. As I enter the kitchen, Melissa and Eddie are sitting at the table, which is covered in newspapers.
“You’re in every single paper,” Melissa informs me. “Uncle Eddie went down to the shop for them. Look.” She shows me a double-page spread in the Sun. There’s a picture of me superimposed on the background of a loo, and someone’s drawn a toilet brush in one of my hands. “i’d rather clean loos!” is in huge letters next to my face.
“Oh, my God.” I sink into a chair and stare at the picture. “Why?”
“It’s August,” says Eddie, flicking through the Telegraph. “Nothing else in the news. Says here you’re a casualty of today’s work-obsessed society.” He turns the paper around to show me a small item topped with the headline carter spink high-flyer chooses drudgery after rumors of scandal.
“It says here you’re a Judas to career women everywhere.” Melissa is reading the Herald. “This columnist Mindy Morrell is really angry with you.”
“Angry?” I echo, bewildered. “Why would anyone be angry with me?”
“But in the Daily World you’re a savior of traditional values.” Melissa reaches for the paper and opens it. “Samantha Sweeting believes women should return to the hearthside for the sake of their own health and that of society.”
“What? I never said that!” I grab the paper and scan the text in disbelief. “Why are they all so obsessed?”
“Silly season,” says Eddie, reaching for the Express. “Is it true you single-handedly uncovered Mafia connections at your law firm?”
“No!” I look up. “Who said that?”
“Can’t remember where I saw it now,” he says, riffling through the pages. “There’s a picture of your mother in this one. Nice-looking lady.”
“My mother?” I stare in dismay.
“High-flying daughter of a high-flying mother,” Eddie reads aloud. “Was the pressure to succeed too much?”
Oh, God. Mum is going to kill me.
“This one has a poll, look.” Eddie has opened another paper. “Samantha Sweeting: Heroine or Fool? Phone or text your vote. Then they give a number to call.” He reaches for the phone and frowns. “Which shall I vote for?”
“Fool,” says Melissa, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it.”
“Samantha! You’re up!”
I raise my head to see Trish coming into the kitchen, holding a bundle of newspapers under her arm. As she looks at me she has the same shell-shocked expression of awe that she had yesterday, as though I’m a priceless work of art that has suddenly pitched up in her kitchen. “I’ve just been reading about you!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Geiger.” I put down the Daily World and hastily get to my feet. “Um, what can I get you for breakfast? Some coffee to begin with?”
“Don’t you make the coffee, Samantha!” she replies, looking flustered. “Eddie, you can make the coffee!”
“I’m not making the coffee!” objects Eddie.
“Then … Melissa!” says Trish. “Make us all some nice coffee. Samantha, you sit down for once! You’re our guest!” She gives an unnatural laugh.
“I’m not your guest!” I protest. “I’m your housekeeper!”
I can see Eddie and Trish exchanging doubtful looks. What do they think? That I’m going to leave?
“Nothing’s different!” I insist. “I’m still your housekeeper! I just want to carry on my job as usual.”
“Are you crazy?” demands Melissa. “Have you seen how much Carter Spink wants to pay you?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I retort. “Mr. and Mrs. Geiger … you’ll understand. I’ve learned a lot living here. I’ve changed as a person. And I’ve found a fulfilling way of life. Yes, I could make a lot more money being a lawyer in London. Yes, I could have some high-powered, pressurized career. But it’s not what I want.” I spread my arms around the kitchen. “This is what I want to do. This is where I want to be.”
“So what happens now?” says Nathaniel.
“Nothing. The media interest will die down. They’ll get bored.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m happy in my job. I’m happy in this village. I’m happy with you. I just want everything to stay the same.”
Twenty-four
I’m wrong. The media interest doesn’t die down. I wake up the next morning to find twice as many reporters as yesterday camped outside, plus two TV vans. My mobile is so jammed with messages from journalists who have got hold of the number, I’ve given up listening to them. As I enter the kitchen, Melissa and Eddie are sitting at the table, which is covered in newspapers.
“You’re in every single paper,” Melissa informs me. “Uncle Eddie went down to the shop for them. Look.” She shows me a double-page spread in the Sun. There’s a picture of me superimposed on the background of a loo, and someone’s drawn a toilet brush in one of my hands. “i’d rather clean loos!” is in huge letters next to my face.
“Oh, my God.” I sink into a chair and stare at the picture. “Why?”
“It’s August,” says Eddie, flicking through the Telegraph. “Nothing else in the news. Says here you’re a casualty of today’s work-obsessed society.” He turns the paper around to show me a small item topped with the headline carter spink high-flyer chooses drudgery after rumors of scandal.
“It says here you’re a Judas to career women everywhere.” Melissa is reading the Herald. “This columnist Mindy Morrell is really angry with you.”
“Angry?” I echo, bewildered. “Why would anyone be angry with me?”
“But in the Daily World you’re a savior of traditional values.” Melissa reaches for the paper and opens it. “Samantha Sweeting believes women should return to the hearthside for the sake of their own health and that of society.”
“What? I never said that!” I grab the paper and scan the text in disbelief. “Why are they all so obsessed?”
“Silly season,” says Eddie, reaching for the Express. “Is it true you single-handedly uncovered Mafia connections at your law firm?”
“No!” I look up. “Who said that?”
“Can’t remember where I saw it now,” he says, riffling through the pages. “There’s a picture of your mother in this one. Nice-looking lady.”
“My mother?” I stare in dismay.
“High-flying daughter of a high-flying mother,” Eddie reads aloud. “Was the pressure to succeed too much?”
Oh, God. Mum is going to kill me.
“This one has a poll, look.” Eddie has opened another paper. “Samantha Sweeting: Heroine or Fool? Phone or text your vote. Then they give a number to call.” He reaches for the phone and frowns. “Which shall I vote for?”
“Fool,” says Melissa, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it.”
“Samantha! You’re up!”
I raise my head to see Trish coming into the kitchen, holding a bundle of newspapers under her arm. As she looks at me she has the same shell-shocked expression of awe that she had yesterday, as though I’m a priceless work of art that has suddenly pitched up in her kitchen. “I’ve just been reading about you!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Geiger.” I put down the Daily World and hastily get to my feet. “Um, what can I get you for breakfast? Some coffee to begin with?”
“Don’t you make the coffee, Samantha!” she replies, looking flustered. “Eddie, you can make the coffee!”
“I’m not making the coffee!” objects Eddie.
“Then … Melissa!” says Trish. “Make us all some nice coffee. Samantha, you sit down for once! You’re our guest!” She gives an unnatural laugh.
“I’m not your guest!” I protest. “I’m your housekeeper!”
I can see Eddie and Trish exchanging doubtful looks. What do they think? That I’m going to leave?
“Nothing’s different!” I insist. “I’m still your housekeeper! I just want to carry on my job as usual.”
“Are you crazy?” demands Melissa. “Have you seen how much Carter Spink wants to pay you?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I retort. “Mr. and Mrs. Geiger … you’ll understand. I’ve learned a lot living here. I’ve changed as a person. And I’ve found a fulfilling way of life. Yes, I could make a lot more money being a lawyer in London. Yes, I could have some high-powered, pressurized career. But it’s not what I want.” I spread my arms around the kitchen. “This is what I want to do. This is where I want to be.”
