The Undomestic Goddess
Page 45
“It’s got a catch,” Trish says, watching me in surprise. “Underneath.” She takes the board from me, and in two movements has opened it up to exactly the right height. “I expect you’re used to a different model,” she adds wisely as she clicks it shut. “They all have their own little tricks.”
“Absolutely!” I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. “Of course! I’m far more used to working with a … a … a Nimbus 2000.”
Trish peers at me in surprise. “Isn’t that the broomstick out of Harry Potter?”
Damn. I knew I’d heard it somewhere.
“Yes … it is,” I say at last, my face flaming. “And also a well-known ironing board. In fact, I think the broomstick was named … er … after the ironing board.”
“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “I never knew that!” To my horror she leans expectantly against the door and lights a cigarette. “Don’t mind me!” she adds, her voice muffled. “Just carry on!”
Carry on?
“There’s the iron,” she adds with a gesture. “Behind you.”
“Er … great! Thanks!” I take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart banging in fright. I cannot do this. I need a way out. But I can’t think of one. My brain is totally blank.
“I expect the iron’s hot enough now!” says Trish helpfully.
“Right!” I give her a sick smile.
I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on the ironing board. Unable to believe what I’m doing, I pick up the iron. It’s far heavier than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt I’m aiming for. I think my eyes might be shut.
Suddenly there’s a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God … thank God … thank God …
“Oh, who’s that?” says Trish, frowning. “Sorry, Samantha. I should get this …”
“That’s fine!” My voice is shrill. “No worries! I’ll just get on—”
As soon as Trish is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in my hands. I must have been mad. This isn’t going to work. I’m not made to be a housekeeper. The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and collapse against the wall. It’s only nine twenty and I’m already a total wreck.
And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.
Eleven
By the time Trish comes back into the kitchen I’m a little more composed. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s not quantum physics. It’s housework.
“Samantha, I’m afraid we’re going to desert you for the day,” says Trish, looking concerned. “Mr. Geiger is off to golf and I’m going to see a very dear friend’s new Mercedes. Will you be all right on your own?”
“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Don’t you worry about me. Really. I’ll just get on with things.…”
“Is the ironing done already?” She glances at the laundry room, impressed.
Done?
“Actually, I thought I’d leave the ironing for now and tackle the rest of the house,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “That’s my normal routine.”
“Absolutely.” She nods vigorously. “Whatever suits you. Now, I won’t be here to answer any questions, I’m afraid, but Nathaniel will!” She beckons out the door. “You’ve met Nathaniel, of course?”
“Oh,” I say as he walks in, wearing ripped jeans, his hair disheveled. “Er … yes. Hi, again.”
It feels a bit strange seeing him this morning, after all the dramas of last night.
“Hi,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say lightly. “Really well.”
“Nathaniel knows all there is to know about this house,” puts in Trish, who is doing her lipstick. “So if you can’t find anything—need to know how a door unlocks or whatever—he’s your man.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say. “Thanks.”
“But, Nathaniel, I don’t want you disturbing Samantha,” adds Trish, giving him a severe look. “Obviously she has her own established routine.”
“Obviously,” says Nathaniel. As Trish turns away, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and I feel my color rise.
What’s that supposed to mean? How does he know I don’t have a routine? Just because I can’t cook, it doesn’t follow I can’t do anything.
“Absolutely!” I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. “Of course! I’m far more used to working with a … a … a Nimbus 2000.”
Trish peers at me in surprise. “Isn’t that the broomstick out of Harry Potter?”
Damn. I knew I’d heard it somewhere.
“Yes … it is,” I say at last, my face flaming. “And also a well-known ironing board. In fact, I think the broomstick was named … er … after the ironing board.”
“Really?” Trish looks fascinated. “I never knew that!” To my horror she leans expectantly against the door and lights a cigarette. “Don’t mind me!” she adds, her voice muffled. “Just carry on!”
Carry on?
“There’s the iron,” she adds with a gesture. “Behind you.”
“Er … great! Thanks!” I take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart banging in fright. I cannot do this. I need a way out. But I can’t think of one. My brain is totally blank.
“I expect the iron’s hot enough now!” says Trish helpfully.
“Right!” I give her a sick smile.
I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on the ironing board. Unable to believe what I’m doing, I pick up the iron. It’s far heavier than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt I’m aiming for. I think my eyes might be shut.
Suddenly there’s a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God … thank God … thank God …
“Oh, who’s that?” says Trish, frowning. “Sorry, Samantha. I should get this …”
“That’s fine!” My voice is shrill. “No worries! I’ll just get on—”
As soon as Trish is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in my hands. I must have been mad. This isn’t going to work. I’m not made to be a housekeeper. The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and collapse against the wall. It’s only nine twenty and I’m already a total wreck.
And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.
Eleven
By the time Trish comes back into the kitchen I’m a little more composed. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s not quantum physics. It’s housework.
“Samantha, I’m afraid we’re going to desert you for the day,” says Trish, looking concerned. “Mr. Geiger is off to golf and I’m going to see a very dear friend’s new Mercedes. Will you be all right on your own?”
“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Don’t you worry about me. Really. I’ll just get on with things.…”
“Is the ironing done already?” She glances at the laundry room, impressed.
Done?
“Actually, I thought I’d leave the ironing for now and tackle the rest of the house,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “That’s my normal routine.”
“Absolutely.” She nods vigorously. “Whatever suits you. Now, I won’t be here to answer any questions, I’m afraid, but Nathaniel will!” She beckons out the door. “You’ve met Nathaniel, of course?”
“Oh,” I say as he walks in, wearing ripped jeans, his hair disheveled. “Er … yes. Hi, again.”
It feels a bit strange seeing him this morning, after all the dramas of last night.
“Hi,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say lightly. “Really well.”
“Nathaniel knows all there is to know about this house,” puts in Trish, who is doing her lipstick. “So if you can’t find anything—need to know how a door unlocks or whatever—he’s your man.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say. “Thanks.”
“But, Nathaniel, I don’t want you disturbing Samantha,” adds Trish, giving him a severe look. “Obviously she has her own established routine.”
“Obviously,” says Nathaniel. As Trish turns away, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and I feel my color rise.
What’s that supposed to mean? How does he know I don’t have a routine? Just because I can’t cook, it doesn’t follow I can’t do anything.
