The Undomestic Goddess
Page 31
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Fuck.
I’ll patch them together. No one’ll notice.
I fling open a cupboard door and frantically root through pots of mustard … mint sauce … strawberry jam. Jam sandwiches it is. An English classic. I hastily smother one piece of bread with jam, spread some more butter on the other, and sandwich the two together. Then I stand back and consider the result.
Total disaster. Jam is oozing out of the cracks and it still isn’t completely square. I’ve never seen a more revolting sandwich in my life.
Slowly I put the knife down in defeat. So this is it. Time for my resignation. Two jobs potentially lost in one day. As I stare at the jammy mess I feel strangely disappointed in myself. I would have thought I could last a morning.
The sound of someone knocking breaks me out of my reverie and I whip round to see a girl in a blue velvet hair band peering through the kitchen window.
“Hi!” she calls. “Did you order sandwiches for twenty?”
It all happens so fast. One minute I’m standing there looking at my botch of jam and crumbs. The next, two girls in green aprons are trooping into the kitchen with plate after plate of professionally made sandwiches.
Clean-cut white and brown sandwiches, stacked in neat pyramids, garnished with sprigs of herbs and slices of lemon. They even have little handwritten paper flags describing the fillings.
Tuna, mint, and cucumber. Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and caviar. Thai chicken with wild rocket.
“I’m so sorry about the numbers mix-up,” the girl in the hair band says as I sign for them. “It honestly looked like a twenty. And we don’t often get an order for sandwiches for just two people—”
“It’s fine!” I say, edging her toward the door. “Really. Whatever. Just put it on my card.…”
The door finally closes and I look around the kitchen, totally dazed. I’ve never seen so many sandwiches. There are plates of them everywhere. On every surface. I’ve even had to put some on the cooker.
“Samantha?” I can hear Trish approaching.
“Um … hold on!” I hurry to the door, trying to block her view.
“It’s already five past one,” I can hear her saying a little sharply. “And I did ask, most clearly, for …”
Her voice trails off into silence as she reaches the kitchen door, and her whole face sags in astonishment. I turn and follow her gaze as she surveys the endless plates of sandwiches.
“My goodness!” At last Trish finds her voice. “This is … this is very impressive!”
“I wasn’t sure what fillings you’d prefer,” I say. “Obviously next time I won’t make quite so many.…”
“Well!” Trish appears totally at a loss. She picks up one of the little flags and reads it out loud. “Rare beef, lettuce, and horseradish.” She looks up in astonishment. “I haven’t bought any beef for weeks! Where did you find it?”
“Er … in the freezer?”
I looked in the freezer earlier. The amount of food crammed into it would probably feed an entire small African country for a week.
“Of course!” Trish clicks her tongue. “And you thawed it in the microwave! Aren’t you clever!”
“I’ll put a selection on a plate for you,” I suggest. “And bring it out to the conservatory.”
“Marvelous. Nathaniel!” Trish raps on the kitchen window. “Come in and have a sandwich!”
I stop dead. No. Not him again.
“We don’t want to waste them, after all.” She arches her eyebrows. “If I did have a criticism, Samantha, it would be that you were a little profligate—Not that we’re poor,” she adds suddenly. “It isn’t that.”
“Er … no, madam.”
“I don’t like to talk about money, Samantha.” Trish lowers her voice a little. “It’s very vulgar. However—”
“Mrs. Geiger?”
Nathaniel has appeared in the kitchen doorway again, holding a muddy garden spade.
“Have one of Samantha’s delicious sandwiches!” exclaims Trish, gesturing around the kitchen. “Just look! Isn’t she clever?”
There’s total silence as Nathaniel surveys the endless mounds of sandwiches. I can’t bring myself to meet his eye. I feel I could be losing my grip on sanity here. I’m standing in a kitchen in the middle of nowhere. In a blue nylon uniform. Masquerading as a housekeeper who can magically make sandwiches out of thin air.
“Extraordinary,” he says at last.
I finally risk looking up. He’s gazing at me, his brow deeply furrowed as if he really can’t make me out.
I’ll patch them together. No one’ll notice.
I fling open a cupboard door and frantically root through pots of mustard … mint sauce … strawberry jam. Jam sandwiches it is. An English classic. I hastily smother one piece of bread with jam, spread some more butter on the other, and sandwich the two together. Then I stand back and consider the result.
Total disaster. Jam is oozing out of the cracks and it still isn’t completely square. I’ve never seen a more revolting sandwich in my life.
Slowly I put the knife down in defeat. So this is it. Time for my resignation. Two jobs potentially lost in one day. As I stare at the jammy mess I feel strangely disappointed in myself. I would have thought I could last a morning.
The sound of someone knocking breaks me out of my reverie and I whip round to see a girl in a blue velvet hair band peering through the kitchen window.
“Hi!” she calls. “Did you order sandwiches for twenty?”
It all happens so fast. One minute I’m standing there looking at my botch of jam and crumbs. The next, two girls in green aprons are trooping into the kitchen with plate after plate of professionally made sandwiches.
Clean-cut white and brown sandwiches, stacked in neat pyramids, garnished with sprigs of herbs and slices of lemon. They even have little handwritten paper flags describing the fillings.
Tuna, mint, and cucumber. Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and caviar. Thai chicken with wild rocket.
“I’m so sorry about the numbers mix-up,” the girl in the hair band says as I sign for them. “It honestly looked like a twenty. And we don’t often get an order for sandwiches for just two people—”
“It’s fine!” I say, edging her toward the door. “Really. Whatever. Just put it on my card.…”
The door finally closes and I look around the kitchen, totally dazed. I’ve never seen so many sandwiches. There are plates of them everywhere. On every surface. I’ve even had to put some on the cooker.
“Samantha?” I can hear Trish approaching.
“Um … hold on!” I hurry to the door, trying to block her view.
“It’s already five past one,” I can hear her saying a little sharply. “And I did ask, most clearly, for …”
Her voice trails off into silence as she reaches the kitchen door, and her whole face sags in astonishment. I turn and follow her gaze as she surveys the endless plates of sandwiches.
“My goodness!” At last Trish finds her voice. “This is … this is very impressive!”
“I wasn’t sure what fillings you’d prefer,” I say. “Obviously next time I won’t make quite so many.…”
“Well!” Trish appears totally at a loss. She picks up one of the little flags and reads it out loud. “Rare beef, lettuce, and horseradish.” She looks up in astonishment. “I haven’t bought any beef for weeks! Where did you find it?”
“Er … in the freezer?”
I looked in the freezer earlier. The amount of food crammed into it would probably feed an entire small African country for a week.
“Of course!” Trish clicks her tongue. “And you thawed it in the microwave! Aren’t you clever!”
“I’ll put a selection on a plate for you,” I suggest. “And bring it out to the conservatory.”
“Marvelous. Nathaniel!” Trish raps on the kitchen window. “Come in and have a sandwich!”
I stop dead. No. Not him again.
“We don’t want to waste them, after all.” She arches her eyebrows. “If I did have a criticism, Samantha, it would be that you were a little profligate—Not that we’re poor,” she adds suddenly. “It isn’t that.”
“Er … no, madam.”
“I don’t like to talk about money, Samantha.” Trish lowers her voice a little. “It’s very vulgar. However—”
“Mrs. Geiger?”
Nathaniel has appeared in the kitchen doorway again, holding a muddy garden spade.
“Have one of Samantha’s delicious sandwiches!” exclaims Trish, gesturing around the kitchen. “Just look! Isn’t she clever?”
There’s total silence as Nathaniel surveys the endless mounds of sandwiches. I can’t bring myself to meet his eye. I feel I could be losing my grip on sanity here. I’m standing in a kitchen in the middle of nowhere. In a blue nylon uniform. Masquerading as a housekeeper who can magically make sandwiches out of thin air.
“Extraordinary,” he says at last.
I finally risk looking up. He’s gazing at me, his brow deeply furrowed as if he really can’t make me out.
