The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

I approach the sitting-room door, put the tray down on the table in the hall, and knock cautiously.

“Come in! ”Trish calls.

As I enter, she’s sitting in an overstuffed striped velvet chair by the window, holding a magazine at a rather artificial angle. Eddie is on the other side of the room, examining a wooden carving.

“Thank you, Samantha.” Trish inclines her head graciously as I pour out the coffee. “That will be all for the moment.”

I feel as though I’ve stumbled into some bizarre Merchant Ivory costume drama, except the costumes are pink yoga wear and golfing sweaters.

“Er… very good, madam,” I say, playing my part. Then, without meaning to, I bob a curtsy.

There’s a staggered pause. Both Geigers just gape at me in astonishment.

“Samantha… did you just… curtsy?” says Trish at last.

I stare back, frozen.

What was I thinking? Why did I curtsy? Housekeepers don’t bloody curtsy. This isn’t Gosford Park.

They’re still goggling at me. I have to say something.

“The Edgerlys liked me to… curtsy.” My face is prickling all over. “It’s a habit I got into. I’m sorry, madam, I won’t do it again.”

Trish is squinting at me as though she’s trying to make me out. She must realize I’m a fake, she must…

“I like it,” she pronounces at last, and nods her head in satisfaction. “Yes, I like it. You can curtsy here too.”

What? I

This is the twenty-first century. And I am being asked to curtsy to a woman called Trish? I

I take a breath to protest—then close my mouth again. It i doesn’t matter. It’s not real. I can curtsy for a morning. I

I

Chapter Eight

As soon as I’m out of the room, I dash upstairs, along the corridor, and into my bedroom to check my mobile. But it’s only half charged and I have no idea where I’m going to find a signal. If Trish could get one, I must be able to. I wonder what network she’s on—

“Samantha?”

Trish’s voice rises from the ground floor.

“Samantha?” She sounds annoyed. Now I can hear her footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Madam?” I hurry back along the corridor.

“There you are!” She frowns slightly. “Kindly do not disappear to your room while on duty. I don’t want to have to be calling you like that.”

“Er… yes, Mrs. Geiger,” I say. As we arrive down in the hall my stomach flips over. Beyond Trish, I can see the Times lying on the table. It’s open at the business pages and a headline reads //sc glazerbrooks calls in receivers.

My eyes run down the text as Trish starts rootling around in a huge white Chanel bag—but I can’t see any mention of Carter Spink. Thank God for that. The PR department must have managed to keep a lid on the story.

“Where are my keys?” Trish sounds fretful. “Where are they?” She

rummages more and more violently in her Chanel bag. A gold lipstick goes flying through the air and lands at my feet. “Why do things disappear?”

I pick up the lipstick and hand it to her. “Do you remember where you lost them, Mrs. Geiger?”

“I didn’t lose them.” She inhales sharply. “They’ve been stolen. It’s obvious. We’ll have to change all the locks. Our identities will be taken.” She clutches her head. “This is what these fraudsters do, you know. There was a huge article about it in the Mail—”

“Is this them?” I’ve suddenly noticed a Tiffany key fob glinting on the windowsill. I pick it up and hold out the bunch of keys.

“Yes!” Trish looks utterly amazed. “Yes, that’s them! Samantha, you’re marvelous! How did you find them?”

“It was… no trouble.” I shrug modestly.

“Well! I’m very impressed!” She gives me a significant look. “I will be telling Mr. Geiger.”

“Yes, madam,” I say, trying to inject the right note of overwhelming gratitude into my voice. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Geiger and I will be going out in a minute,” she continues, producing a scent spray and spritzing herself. “Kindly prepare a light sandwich lunch for one o’clock, and get on with the downstairs cleaning. We’ll talk about dinner later.” She swivels round. “I might tell you, we

were both very impressed by your seared foie gras menu.”

“Oh… um… good!”

It’s fine. I’ll be gone by dinnertime.

“Now.” Trish pats her hair one final time. “Come in the drawing room, Samantha.”

I follow her into the room and over to the fireplace.

“Before you start dusting in here,” Trish says, “I wanted to show you the arrangement of the ornaments.” She gestures to a row of china figurines on the mantelpiece. “This can be tricky to remember. For some reason, cleaners never get it right. So kindly pay attention!‘

Obediently, I turn with her to face the mantelpiece.

“It’s very important, Samantha, that these china dogs face each other.” Trish points to a pair of King Charles spaniels. “Do you see? They don’t face out. They face each other!‘

“Each other,” I echo, nodding. “Yes. I see.”

“And the shepherdesses face very slightly out. You see? They face out.”

She’s speaking slowly and clearly, as though I have the IQ of a rather thick three-year-old.

“Out,” I repeat dutifully.

“Now, have you got that?” Trish steps back from the fireplace. “Let’s see.

Which way do the china dogs go?” She lifts an arm to block my view of the mantelpiece.

I don’t believe it. She’s testing me.

“The china dogs,” she prompts. “Which way?”

Oh, God, I cannot resist this.

“Er…” I ponder hard for a few moments. “They face… out?”

“Each other!” Trish cries in exasperation. “They face each other!”

“Oh, right,” I say apologetically. “Yes. Sorry. I’ve got that now.”

Trish has closed her eyes and is holding two fingers to her forehead as though the stress of stupid help is too much to bear.