Chapter Nine

Itll be all right.

If I say it often enough to myself, it must be true.

Ive opened my phone several times to call Guy. But each time, humiliation has stopped me. Even though hes my friend, even though hes the person closest to me in the company. Im the one whos fired. Im the one in disgrace. And hes not.

At last I sit up and rub my cheeks, trying to get my spirits back. Come on. This is Guy . Hell want to hear from me. Hell want to help. I flip open my phone and dial his direct line. A moment later I hear footsteps clopping along the wooden floor of the hall.

Trish.

I shut the phone, pocket it, and reach for a clump of broccoli.

How are you getting on? Trishs voice greets me. Making progress?

As she enters the kitchen she looks a little surprised to see me still sitting in the exact same spot she left me. Everything all right?

Im just... assessing the ingredients, I improvise. Getting the feel of them.

Just then a thin red-​haired woman appears round the door, next to Trish. Shes wearing diamante sunglasses on her head and regards me with an avid interest.

Im Petula, she announces. How do you do. Petulas just eaten some of your sandwiches, puts in Trish. She thought they

were marvelous . And Ive heard about the foie gras with an apricot glaze! Petula raises her eyebrows.

Very impressive!

Samantha can cook anything! boasts Trish, pink with pride.She trained with Michel dela Roux dela Blanc !The master himself!

So how exactly will you be glazing the foie gras, Samantha? asks Petula with interest.

The kitchen is silent. Both women are waiting, agog.

Well. I clear my throat several times. I expect Ill use the... usual method. The word glaze , obviously, comes from the transparent nature of the... er... finish... and complements the... gras. Foie, I amend. De gras. The... blend of the flavors.

I am making absolutely no sense here, but neither Trish nor Petula seems to have noticed. In fact they both seem totally impressed.

Where on earth did you find her? says Petula to Trish in what she clearly imagines to be a discreet undertone. My girl is hopeless . Cant cook and doesnt understand a word I say.

She just applied out of the blue! Trish murmurs back, still flushed with pleasure. Cordon Bleu! English! We couldnt believe it!

They both eye me as though Im some rare animal with horns sprouting out of my head. I cant bear this anymore.

Shall I make you some tea and bring it through to the conservatory? I ask. Anything to get them out of the kitchen.

No, were popping out to have our nails done, says Trish. Ill see you later, Samantha.

Theres an expectant pause. Suddenly I realize Trish is waiting for my curtsy. I start to prickle all over in embarrassment. Why did I curtsy? Why did I curtsy?

Very good, Mrs. Geiger. I bow my head and make an awkward bob. When I look up, Petulas eyes are like saucers.

As the two women leave, I can hear Petula hissing, She curtsies ? She curtsies to you? Its a simple mark of respect, I hear Trish replying airily. But very effective. You

know, Petula, you should really try it with your girl...

Oh, God. What have I started?

I wait until the sound of tapping heels has completely disappeared. Then, moving into the larder to be on the safe side, I flip open my phone and redial Guys number. After three rings he answers.

Samantha. He sounds guarded. Hi. Have you... Its OK, Guy. Ive spoken to Ketterman. I know. Oh, Christ, Samantha. Im so sorry this has happened. So sorry... I cannot stand his pity. If he says anything else Ill burst into tears. Its fine, I say, cutting him off. Really. Lets not talk about it. Lets just... look

forward. I have to get my life on track.

Jesus, youre focused! Theres a note of admiration in his voice. You dont let anything faze you, do you?

I push my hair back off my face. I just have to... get on with things. Somehow I keep my voice even and steady. I need to get back toLondon . But I cant go home. Ketterman bought a flat in my building. He lives there.

Ouch. Yes, I heard about that. Theres a wince in his voice. Thats unfortunate.

I just cant face him, Guy. I feel the threat of tears again and force myself to hold them back. So... I was wondering. Could I come and stay with you for a while? Just for a few days?

Theres silence. I wasnt expecting silence. Samantha... Id love to help, says Guy at last. But Ill have to check withCharlotte . Of course, I say, a little taken aback. Just stay on the line for a sec. Ill call her.

The next moment Ive been put on hold. I sit waiting, listening to the tinny harpsichord music, trying not to feel discomfited. It was unreasonable to expect him to say yes straightaway. Of course he has to clear it with his girlfriend.

At last Guy comes onto the line again. Samantha, Im not sure its possible.

I feel slammed. Right. I try to sound natural, as though this is no big deal. Well... never mind. It doesnt matter...

Charlottes very busy right now... were having some work done to the bedrooms... its just not a good time...

He sounds halting, as if he wants to get off the line. And suddenly I realize. This isnt aboutCharlotte . This is all about him. He doesnt want to be near me. Its as though my disgrace is contagious, as though his career might get blighted too.

Yesterday I was his best friend. Yesterday, when I was about to become a partner, he was hanging around my desk, full of smiles and quips. And today he doesnt want to be associated with me at all.

I know I should stay quiet, keep my dignity, but I just cant contain myself. You dont want to be associated with me, do you? I burst out.

Samantha! His voice is defensive. Dont be ridiculous.

Im still the same person . I thought you were my friend

I am your friend! But you cant expect me to... I haveCharlotte to consider... we dont have that much space... Look, call me in a couple of days, maybe we can meet up for a drink

Really, dont worry. I try to control my voice. Im sorry to have bothered you.

Wait! he exclaims. Dont go! What are you going to do?

Oh, Guy. I manage a little laugh.

I switch off my phone. Everythings changed. Or maybe he hasnt changed. Maybe this was what Guy was always like and I just never realized it.

I stare down at the tiny display of my phone, watching the seconds of each minute tick by. Wondering what to do next. When it suddenly vibrates in my hand, I nearly jump out of my skin. Tennyson , my display reads.

Mum.

I feel a clutch of dread. She can only be ringing for one thing. Shes heard the news. I guess I should have known this was coming. I could go and stay with her, it occurs to me. How weird. I didnt even think of that before. I open up the phone and steel myself.

Hi, Mum.

Samantha. Her voice pierces my ear with no preamble. Exactly how long were you going to wait before you told me about your debacle? I have to find out about my own daughters disgrace from an Internet joke ! She utters the words with revulsion.

An... Internet joke? I echo faintly. What do you mean?

You didnt know? Apparently in certain legal circles the new term for fifty million pounds is a Samantha. Take it from me, I was not amused.

Mum, Im so sorry

At least the story has been contained within the legal world. Ive spoken to Carter Spink and they assure me that it wont be going further. You should be grateful for that.

I... I suppose so...

Where are you? she cuts across my faltering words. Where are you right now? Im standing in a larder, surrounded by packets of cereal. Im... at someones house. Out ofLondon . And what are your plans?

I dont know. I rub my face. I need to... get myself together. Find a job.

A job, she says scathingly. You think any top law firm is going to touch you now?

I flinch at her tone. I... I dont know. Mum, Ive only just heard about being fired. I cant just

You can. Thankfully, I have acted for you.

Shes acted for me?

What do you

Ive called in all my favors. It wasnt an easy job. But the senior partner at Fortescues will see you tomorrow at ten.

Im almost too stupefied to reply. Youve... organized me a job interview?

Assuming all goes well, you will enter at senior associate level. Her voice is crisp. Youre being given this chance as a personal favor to me. As you can imagine, there are... reservations. So if you want to progress, Samantha, you are going to have to perform. Youre going to have to give this job every hour you have.

Right. I shut my eyes, my thoughts whirling. I have a job interview. A fresh start. Its the solution to my nightmare.

Why dont I feel more relieved?

You will have to give more than you did at Carter Spink, Mum continues in my ear. No slacking. No complacency. You will have to prove yourself doubly . Do you understand?

Yes, I say automatically.

More hours. More work. More late nights.

Its almost as if I can feel the concrete blocks being loaded onto me again. More and more of them. Heavier and heavier.

I mean... no, I hear myself saying. No. Its too much. I... dont want that now. I need some time.

The words come out of my mouth all by themselves. I wasnt planning them; Ive never even thought them before. But now that theyre out in the air they somehow feel... true.

Im sorry ? Mums voice is sharp. Samantha, what on earth are you saying? I dont know. Im kneading my forehead, trying to make sense of my own confusion.

I was thinking... I could take a break, maybe.

A break would finish your legal career. Her voice snaps dismissively. Finish it.

I could... do something else.

You wouldnt last more than two minutes in anything else! She sounds affronted. Samantha, youre a lawyer . Youve been trained as a lawyer.

There are other things in the world than being a lawyer! I cry, rattled.

Theres an ominous silence. I cant believe Im standing up to her. I dont think Ive ever challenged my mother in my life. I feel shaky as I grip the phone. But at the same time, I know I cant do what she wants.

Samantha, if youre having some kind of breakdown like your brother

Im not having a breakdown! My voice rises in distress. I never asked you to find me another job. I dont know what I want. I need a bit of time... to... to think...

You will be at that job interview, Samantha. Mums voice is like a whip. You will be there tomorrow at ten oclock.

I wont! Tell me where you are! Im sending a car straightaway. No! Leave me alone.

I switch off my phone, come out of the larder, and almost savagely throw it down onto the table. Shes my mother. And she didnt express one word of sympathy. Not one jot of kindness. My face is burning and tears are pressing hotly at the back of my eyes. The phone starts vibrating angrily on the table, but I ignore it. Im not going to answer it. Im not going to talk to anyone. Im going to have a drink. And then Im going to cook this bloody dinner.

I slosh some white wine into a glass and take several gulps. Then I address myself to the pile of raw ingredients waiting on the table.

I can cook. I can cook this stuff. Even if everything else in my life is in ruins, I can do this. I have a brain, I can work it out.

Without delay I rip the plastic coverings off the lamb. This can go in the oven. In some kind of dish. Simple. And the chickpeas can go in there too. Then Ill mash them and that will make the hummus.

I open a cupboard and pull out a whole load of gleaming baking dishes and trays. I select a baking tray and scatter the chickpeas onto it. Some bounce onto the floor, but I dont care. I grab a bottle of oil from the counter and drizzle it over the top. Already Im feeling like a cook.

I shove the tray into the oven and turn it on full blast. Then I put the lamb in an oval dish and shove that in too.

So far so good. Now all I need to do is leaf through all Trishs recipe books and find instructions for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze.

OK. I didnt find a single recipe for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze. I found apricot and raspberry flan, turkey with chestnut and apricot stuffing, and almond pithivier with apricot filling and Prosecco sabayon.

I stare at the page blindly. I have just turned down what may be my only opportunity to start over. Im a lawyer. Thats what I am . What else am I going to do? Whats happened to me?

Oh, God. Why is smoke coming out of the oven?

By seven oclock Im still cooking.

At least I think thats what Im doing. Both ovens are roaring with heat. Pots are bubbling on the hob. The electric whisk is whirring busily. Ive burned my right hand twice taking things out of the oven. Eight recipe books are open around the kitchen, one drenched with spilled oil and another with egg yolk. Im puce in the face, sweating hard, and trying every so often to run my hand under cold water.

Ive been going for three hours. And I havent yet made anything that could actually be eaten. So far Ive discarded a collapsed chocolate souffle, two pans of burned onions, and a saucepan of congealed apricots that made me feel sick just to look at them.

I cant work out whats going wrong. I havent got time to work out whats going wrong. Theres no scope for analysis. Every time theres a disaster I just dump it and start again, quickly thawing food from the freezer, changing tack, trying to cobble something together.

The Geigers meanwhile are drinking sherry in the drawing room. They think everything is going splendidly. Trish tried to come into the kitchen about half an hour ago, but I managed to head her off.

In less than an hour she and Eddie are going to be sitting down at the table expecting a gourmet meal. Shaking out their napkins with anticipation, pouring out their mineral water and wine.

A kind of frenzied hysteria has come over me. I know I cannot do this, but somehow I cant give up either. I keep thinking a miracle will happen. Ill pull it all together. Ill manage it somehow

Oh, God, the gravys bubbling over.

I shove the oven door shut, grab a spoon, and start stirring it. It looks like revolting lumpy brown water. Frantically I start searching in the cupboards for something to chuck in. Flour. Cornstarch. Something like that. Thisll do. I grab a small pot and shake in vigorous amounts of the white powder, then wipe the sweat off my brow. OK. What now?

Suddenly I remember the egg whites, still whisking up in their bowl. I grab the recipe book, running my finger down the page. I changed the dessert course to pavlova after I chanced upon the line in a recipe book: Meringues are so easy to make .

So far so good. What next? Form the stiff meringue mixture into a large circle on your baking parchment .

I peer at my bowl. Stiff meringue mixture? Mines liquid.

It has to be right, I tell myself feverishly. It has to be. I followed the instructions. Maybe its thicker than it looks. Maybe once I start pouring it out, itll stiffen up by some weird culinary law of physics.

Slowly I start to pour it onto the tray. It doesnt stiffen up. It spreads in a white oozing lake and starts dripping off the tray onto the floor.

Something tells me this is not going to make white chocolate pavlova for eight.

A splodge lands on my foot and I give a frustrated cry, near tears. Why didnt it work? I followed the sodding recipe and everything. A pent-​up rage is rising inside me: rage at myself, at my defective crappy egg whites, at cookery books, at cooks, at food... and most of all at whoever wrote that meringues were so easy to make .

Theyre not! I hear myself yelling. Theyre bloody not! I hurl the book across the kitchen, where it smashes against the kitchen door.

What the hell a male voice exclaims in surprise.

The door flies open and Nathaniel is standing there, a rucksack hefted over his shoulder; he looks like hes on his way home. Is everything OK?

Its fine, I say, rattled. Everythings fine. Thank you. Thank you so much. I make a dismissive motion with my hand, but he doesnt move.

I heard you were cooking a gourmet dinner tonight, he says slowly, surveying the mess.

Yes. Thats right. Im just in the... most complex stage of the... um... I glance down at the hob and give an involuntary scream. Fuck! The gravy!

I dont know whats happened. Brown bubbles are expanding out of my gravy saucepan, all over the cooker, and down the sides on the floor. It looks like the porringer in the story of the magic pot that wouldnt stop making porridge.

Get it off the heat, for Gods sake! exclaims Nathaniel, throwing his rucksack aside. He snatches up the pan and moves it to the counter. What on earth is in that?

Nothing! I say. Just the usual ingredients...

Nathaniel has noticed the little pot on the counter. He grabs it and takes a pinch between his fingers. Baking soda ? You put baking soda in gravy? Is that what they taught you at He breaks off and sniffs the air. Hang on. Is something burning?

I watch helplessly as he opens the bottom oven, grabs an oven glove with a practiced air, and hauls out a baking tray covered in what look like tiny black bullets.

Oh, no. My chickpeas.

What are these supposed to be? he says incredulously. Rabbit droppings?

Theyre chickpeas, I retort. My cheeks are naming but I lift my chin, trying to regain some kind of dignity. I drizzled them in olive oil and put them in the oven so they could... melt.

Nathaniel stares at me. Melt ? Soften, I amend hurriedly.

Nathaniel puts down the tray and folds his arms. Do you know anything about cooking?

Before I can answer, theres the most almighty BANG from the microwave.

Oh, my God! I shriek in terror. Oh, my God ! What was that? Nathaniel is peering through the glass door.

What the hell was in there? he demands. Somethings exploded. My mind races frantically. What on earth did I put in the microwave? Its all a blur. The eggs! I suddenly remember. I was hard-​boiling the eggs for the canapes. In a microwave ? he expostulates. To save time! I practically yell back. I was being efficient!

Nathaniel yanks the plug of the microwave from the wall socket and turns round to face me, his face working with disbelief. You know bugger all about cooking! Youre not a housekeeper. I dont know what the hell youre up to

Im not up to anything! I reply, in shock.

The Geigers are good people. He faces me square on. I wont have them exploited.

Oh, God. What does he think? That Im some kind of confidence trickster?

Look... please. I rub my sweaty face. Im not trying to rip anyone off. OK, I cant cook. But I ended up here because of... a misunderstanding.

What kind of misunderstanding?

I sink down onto a chair and massage my aching lower back. I hadnt realized how exhausted I was. I was running away from... something. I needed a place to stay for the night. I stopped here for some water and directions to a hotel and the Geigers assumed I was a housekeeper. And then this morning I felt terrible. I thought Id do the job for the morning. But Im not planning to stay. And I wont take any money from them, if thats what youre thinking.

Nathaniel is leaning against the counter, his arms folded. His wary frown has eased a little. He reaches into his rucksack and takes out a bottle of beer. He offers it to me and I shake my head.

What were you running from? he says, cracking the bottle open.

I feel a painful wrench inside. I cannot face telling the whole dreadful story.

It was... a situation. I look down.

He takes a drink of beer. A bad relationship?

For a moment Im silenced. I think back over all my years at Carter Spink. All the hours I gave them, everything I sacrificed. Finished in a three-​minute phone call.

Yes, I say slowly. A bad relationship.

How long were you in it?

Seven years. To my horror I can feel tears seeping out of the corners of my eyes. I have no idea where they came from. Im sorry, I gulp. Its been quite a stressful day.

Nathaniel tears off a piece of kitchen towel from the wall-​mounted roll behind him and hands it to me. If it was a bad relationship, youre well out of it, he says in calm tones. No point staying. No point looking back.

Youre right. I wipe my eyes. Yes. I just have to decide what to do with my life. I cant stay here. I reach for the bottle of Cointreau, which was supposed to go in the chocolate-​orange souffle, pour some into a handy eggcup, and take a gulp.

The Geigers are good employers, says Nathaniel with a tiny shrug. You could do worse.

Yeah. I raise a half smile. Unfortunately, I cant cook.

He puts his bottle of beer down and wipes his mouth. His hands look scrubbed clean, but I can still see the traces of earth ingrained around his nails, in the seams of his weather- beaten skin.

I could speak to my mum. She can cook. She could teach you the basics.

I look at him in astonishment, almost laughing. You think I should stay ? I thought I was supposed to be a confidence trickster. I shake my head, wincing at the taste of the Cointreau. I have to go.

Shame. He shrugs. It would have been nice to have someone around who speaks English. And makes such great sandwiches, he adds, totally deadpan.

I cant help smiling back. Caterers. Ah. I wondered.

A faint rapping at the door makes us both look up.

Samantha? Trishs voice outside is hushed and urgent. Can you hear me?

Er... yes?

Dont worry, I wont come in. I dont want to disturb anything! Youre probably at a very crucial stage.

Kind of...

I catch Nathaniels eye and a sudden wave of hysteria rises through me.

I just wanted to ask, Trishs voice continues, if you will be serving any kind of sorbet between the courses?

I look at Nathaniel. His shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. I cant stop a tiny snort escaping. I clamp my hand over my mouth, trying to get control of myself.

Samantha?

Er... no, I manage at last. There wont be any sorbet.

Nathaniel has picked up one of my pans of burned onions. He mimes taking a spoonful and eating it. Yummy , he mouths.

Well! See you later!

Trish tip-​taps away and I collapse into helpless laughter. Ive never laughed so hard in my life. My ribs hurt; Im coughing; I almost feel like Ill be sick.

At last I wipe my eyes and blow my runny nose on the kitchen towel. Nathaniels stopped laughing too and is looking around the bombshelled kitchen.

Seriously, he says. What are you going to do about this? Theyre expecting a fancy dinner.

I know. I know they are. Ill just have to... think of something.

Theres silence in the kitchen. Nathaniel is curiously eyeing the white splodges of meringue on the floor. I cast my mind back to all the times Ive had to go into a room at Carter Spink and bluff my way out of a tricky spot. There has to be a way.

OK. I take a deep breath and push back my damp hair. Im going to rescue the situation.

Youre going to rescue the situation? He looks skeptical.

In fact, I think this might solve everyones problems. I get to my feet and start busily sweeping packets into the bin. First I need to clear up the kitchen a bit...

Ill help. Nathaniel stands up. This I have to see.

Companionably, we empty pans and pots and packets into the bin. I scrub all the smeared surfaces while Nathaniel mops up the meringue.

How long have you worked here? I ask as he rinses out the mop in the sink.

Three years. I worked for the people who lived here before the Geigers, the Ellises. Then Trish and Eddie moved in two years ago and kept me on.

I digest this. Why did the Ellises move? Its such a beautiful house.

The Geigers made them an offer they couldnt refuse. Nathaniels mouth is twitching with... amusement?

What? I say, intrigued. What happened?

Well... He puts the mop down. It was fairly comical. The house was used as a location in a BBC period drama, all set in the Cotswolds. Two weeks after it was aired, Trish and Eddie arrived on the doorstep waving a check. Theyd seen it on television, decided they wanted it, and tracked it down.

Wow. I laugh. Presumably they paid a good price.

God knows what they paid. The Ellises would never say.

Do you know how the Geigers made all their money?

They built up a road haulage company from nothing and sold it off. Made a bundle. He starts mopping up the final patch of meringue.

And how about you? Before the Ellises? I tip the congealed apricots down the waste disposal with a shudder.

I was working at Marchant House, Nathaniel replies. Its a stately home nearOxford . Before that, university.

University? I say, my ears pricking up. I didnt know

I halt, reddening. I was about to say, I didnt know gardeners went to university.

I did natural sciences. Nathaniel gives me a look that makes me think he knew exactly what I was thinking.

I open my mouth to ask him where and when he was at universitythen on second thought, close it and switch the waste disposal on. I dont want to start getting into details, going down the do we know anyone in common? road. Right now, I could do without remembering the particulars of my life.

At last the kitchen looks a bit more normal. I pick up the eggcup, drain the rest of the Cointreau, and take a deep breath.

OK. Showtime.

Good luck. Nathaniel raises his eyebrows.

I open the kitchen door to see Trish and Eddie loitering in the hall, holding their sherry glasses.

Ah, Samantha! Everything ready? Trishs face is all lit up with anticipation, and 1 reel a huge twinge of guilt tor what Im about to do.

But I cant see any other way.

I take a deep breath and put on my best breaking-​bad-​news-​to-​a-​client face.

Mr. and Mrs. Geiger. I look from one face to the other, making sure I have their attention. I am devastated.

I close my eyes and shake my head.

Devastated? echoes Trish nervously.

I have done my best. I open my eyes. But Im afraid I cannot work with your equipment. The dinner I created was not up to my own professional standards. I could not allow it out of the kitchen. I will of course reimburse all your costs and offer my resignation. I will leave in the morning.

There. Done. And no casualties.

I cant help glancing at Nathaniel, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He gives me the thumbs-​up.

Leave ? Trish puts her sherry glass down on a side table with a little crash. You cant leave! Youre the best housekeeper weve ever had! Eddie, do something!

Mrs. Geiger, after tonights performance, I feel I have no choice, I say. To be frank, the dinner was inedible.

That wasnt your fault! she says in consternation. It was our fault! Well order you new equipment at once.

But

Just give us a list of what you need. Spare no expense! And well give you a pay rise! Shes suddenly gripped by a new idea. How much do you want? Name your price!

This is not going the way I planned. Not at all.

Well... we never discussed pay, I begin. And really I cant accept

Eddie ! Trish rounds on him savagely. This is your fault! Samanthas leaving because youre not paying her enough!

Mrs. Geiger, thats not the case

And she needs new kitchen pots and pans. From the best place. She digs Eddie in the ribs with her elbow and mutters, Say something!

Ah... Samantha. Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. Wed be very happy if you would consider staying with us. Weve been delighted with your performance, and whatever your salary expectations are... well match them. Trish digs him in the ribs again. Exceed them.

And health care, adds Trish.

Theyre both gazing at me with a kind of eager hope.

I glance over at Nathaniel, who cocks his head as though to say, Why not?

The strangest feeling is coming over me. Three people. All telling me they want me within the space often minutes.

I could stay. Its as simple as that. For however long it takes to... work myself out. Im miles away fromLondon . No one knows Im here. Ill be safe.

I cant cook, a little voice reminds me . I cant clean. Im not a housekeeper . But I could learn. I could learn it all. The silence is growing in tension. Even Nathaniel is watching me closely from the door.

Well... OK. I feel a smile coming to my lips. OK. If you want me to... Ill stay.

Later that night, after weve all eaten a Chinese take-​away, I take out my mobile phone, call my mothers office, and wait till Im put through to voice mail.

Its all right, Mum, I say. You dont need to call in any favors. Ive got a job. And I click the mobile shut.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 606