The Undomestic Goddess
Page 21
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the tablets down with a wince. “I’m so grateful. My head’s just so painful. I can barely think straight.”
“Your English is very good.” She gives me a close, appraising look. “Very good indeed!”
“Oh,” I say, thrown. “Right. Well, I’m English. That’s … you know, probably why.”
“You’re English?” Trish Geiger seems galvanized by this news. “Well! Come and sit down. Those’ll kick in, in a minute. If they don’t we’ll get you some more.”
She sweeps me out of the kitchen and back through the hall. “This is the drawing room,” she says, pausing by a door. She gestures around the large, grand room, dropping ash on the carpet. It’s decorated with what look like antiques, several big velvet sofas, and lots of lamps and ornaments everywhere. “As you’ll see, there’s quite a lot of hoovering … dusting … silver to be kept clean …” She looks at me expectantly.
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea why this woman is telling me about her housework, but she seems to be waiting for a reply.
“That’s a beautiful table,” I offer at last, gesturing at a shiny mahogany side table.
“It needs polishing.” Her eyes narrow. “Regularly. I do notice these things.”
“Of course.” I nod, bemused.
“We’ll go in here …” She’s leading me through another huge, grand room into an airy glassed conservatory furnished with opulent teak sun-loungers, frondy plants, and a well-stocked drinks tray.
“Eddie! Come in here!” She bangs on the glass and I look up to see a dark-haired man in golfing slacks walking over the large, well-manicured lawn. He’s tanned and affluent-looking, probably in his late forties.
Trish is probably in her late forties too, I think, glimpsing her crow’s feet as she turns away from the window.
“Lovely garden,” I say.
“Oh.” Her eyes sweep over it without much interest. “Yes, our gardener is very good. Has all sorts of ideas. Now, sit down!” She makes a flapping motion with her hands and, feeling a little awkward, I sit down on a lounger. Trish sinks into a basket chair opposite and drains her cocktail.
“Can you make a good Bloody Mary?” she asks abruptly.
I stare at her, bewildered.
“No matter.” She drags on her cigarette. “I can teach you.”
“Teach me …?”
“How’s your head?” she demands before I’m able to finish. “Better? Ah, here’s Eddie!”
“Greetings!” The door opens and Mr. Geiger comes into the conservatory. He doesn’t look quite as impressive close up as he did striding over the lawn. His blue eyes are a little bloodshot, and he has the beginnings of a beer belly.
“Eddie Geiger,” he says, holding out his hand jovially. “Master of the house.”
“Eddie, this is …” Trish looks at me in surprise. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha,” I explain. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had the most terrible headache …”
“I gave Samantha some of those wonderful migraine tablets!” puts in Trish.
“Good choice!” Eddie unscrews a Scotch bottle and pours himself a drink.
“I’m very grateful, really.” I manage a half smile. “You’ve been very kind, letting me trespass on your evening.”
“Her English is good, isn’t it?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at Trish.
“She’s English!” says Trish triumphantly, as though she’s pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Understands everything I say!”
I am really not getting something here. Do I look foreign?
“Shall we do the tour of the house?” Eddie turns to Trish.
“Really, it’s not necessary,” I begin. “I’m sure it’s absolutely beautiful—”
“Of course it’s necessary!” Trish stubs out her cigarette. “Come on … bring your glass!”
This woman cannot have a life. All she seems interested in is housework. As we trail round the first floor, viewing one splendid room after another, she keeps pointing out things that need special dusting and polishing, and how careful you have to be with the soft furnishings. I’m sure silk drapes do need special treatment—but why tell me?
“Now upstairs!” She sweeps out of the dining room.
Oh, God. There’s more?
“You come from London, Samantha?” says Eddie Geiger as we head up the stairs. A huge oil painting of Trish in a long blue evening dress with astonishingly sparkly eyes and teeth gazes down at us, and I can see the real Trish waiting for a reaction.
“Your English is very good.” She gives me a close, appraising look. “Very good indeed!”
“Oh,” I say, thrown. “Right. Well, I’m English. That’s … you know, probably why.”
“You’re English?” Trish Geiger seems galvanized by this news. “Well! Come and sit down. Those’ll kick in, in a minute. If they don’t we’ll get you some more.”
She sweeps me out of the kitchen and back through the hall. “This is the drawing room,” she says, pausing by a door. She gestures around the large, grand room, dropping ash on the carpet. It’s decorated with what look like antiques, several big velvet sofas, and lots of lamps and ornaments everywhere. “As you’ll see, there’s quite a lot of hoovering … dusting … silver to be kept clean …” She looks at me expectantly.
“Right.” I nod. I have no idea why this woman is telling me about her housework, but she seems to be waiting for a reply.
“That’s a beautiful table,” I offer at last, gesturing at a shiny mahogany side table.
“It needs polishing.” Her eyes narrow. “Regularly. I do notice these things.”
“Of course.” I nod, bemused.
“We’ll go in here …” She’s leading me through another huge, grand room into an airy glassed conservatory furnished with opulent teak sun-loungers, frondy plants, and a well-stocked drinks tray.
“Eddie! Come in here!” She bangs on the glass and I look up to see a dark-haired man in golfing slacks walking over the large, well-manicured lawn. He’s tanned and affluent-looking, probably in his late forties.
Trish is probably in her late forties too, I think, glimpsing her crow’s feet as she turns away from the window.
“Lovely garden,” I say.
“Oh.” Her eyes sweep over it without much interest. “Yes, our gardener is very good. Has all sorts of ideas. Now, sit down!” She makes a flapping motion with her hands and, feeling a little awkward, I sit down on a lounger. Trish sinks into a basket chair opposite and drains her cocktail.
“Can you make a good Bloody Mary?” she asks abruptly.
I stare at her, bewildered.
“No matter.” She drags on her cigarette. “I can teach you.”
“Teach me …?”
“How’s your head?” she demands before I’m able to finish. “Better? Ah, here’s Eddie!”
“Greetings!” The door opens and Mr. Geiger comes into the conservatory. He doesn’t look quite as impressive close up as he did striding over the lawn. His blue eyes are a little bloodshot, and he has the beginnings of a beer belly.
“Eddie Geiger,” he says, holding out his hand jovially. “Master of the house.”
“Eddie, this is …” Trish looks at me in surprise. “What’s your name?”
“Samantha,” I explain. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I had the most terrible headache …”
“I gave Samantha some of those wonderful migraine tablets!” puts in Trish.
“Good choice!” Eddie unscrews a Scotch bottle and pours himself a drink.
“I’m very grateful, really.” I manage a half smile. “You’ve been very kind, letting me trespass on your evening.”
“Her English is good, isn’t it?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at Trish.
“She’s English!” says Trish triumphantly, as though she’s pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “Understands everything I say!”
I am really not getting something here. Do I look foreign?
“Shall we do the tour of the house?” Eddie turns to Trish.
“Really, it’s not necessary,” I begin. “I’m sure it’s absolutely beautiful—”
“Of course it’s necessary!” Trish stubs out her cigarette. “Come on … bring your glass!”
This woman cannot have a life. All she seems interested in is housework. As we trail round the first floor, viewing one splendid room after another, she keeps pointing out things that need special dusting and polishing, and how careful you have to be with the soft furnishings. I’m sure silk drapes do need special treatment—but why tell me?
“Now upstairs!” She sweeps out of the dining room.
Oh, God. There’s more?
“You come from London, Samantha?” says Eddie Geiger as we head up the stairs. A huge oil painting of Trish in a long blue evening dress with astonishingly sparkly eyes and teeth gazes down at us, and I can see the real Trish waiting for a reaction.
