Clasping the bundle more tightly, I turn on my heel, step over the wall, managing not to bash my foot this time, and stride back along the gravel path up to the house.
I am beyond embarrassed. So much for a whole new Samantha.
That is the last time I ever go after a man, ever. My original strategy of waiting politely, being ignored, and then being passed over for someone else was a million times better.
Anyway. I don’t care. It’s for the best, really. Because I do have to concentrate on my work. As soon as I get back to the house I set up the ironing board, plug in the iron, turn on the radio, and make a nice strong cup of coffee. This is going to be my focus from now on. Getting my tasks for the day done. Not some ridiculous crush on the gardener. I’m being paid to do a job here and I’m going to do it.
By midmorning I’ve ironed ten shirts, put a load of laundry on, and hoovered the conservatory. By lunchtime, I’ve dusted and hoovered all the downstairs rooms and polished all the mirrors with vinegar. By teatime, I’ve put on another load of laundry, shredded my vegetables in the food processor, measured out the wild rice to be steamed, and carefully prepared four filo pastry cases for my tartes de fruits, as Iris taught me.
By seven o’clock I’ve thrown away one lot of burned filo cases, baked another four, topped them with strawberries, and finished with heated-up apricot jam. I’ve pan-fried the vegetable shreds in olive oil and garlic till they’re soft. I’ve blanched my French beans. I’ve put the sea bream in the oven. I’ve also taken more than a few sips of vermouth meant for the coulis, but that’s neither here nor there.
My face is bright red and my heart is beating fast and I’m moving round the kitchen in a kind of speeded-up reality—but I kind of feel OK. In fact, I almost feel exhilarated. Here I am, actually cooking a meal all on my own—and I’m just about on top of it! Apart from the mushroom fiasco. But they’re safely in the bin.
I’ve laid the dining table with the Minton china and put candles in the silver candlesticks. I’ve got a bottle of Prosecco waiting in the fridge and heated plates waiting in the oven, and I’ve even put Trish’s CD of Enrique Iglesias love songs in the player. I feel like I’m throwing my first dinner party.
With a pleasant flutter in my stomach, I smooth down my apron and push open the kitchen door. “Mrs. Geiger? Mr. Geiger?”
What I need is a big gong.
“Mrs. Geiger?” I try again.
There’s absolutely no reply. I would have thought they’d be hovering around the kitchen by now. I fetch a glass and a fork and tinkle one loudly in the other.
Nothing. Where are they?
I investigate the rooms on the ground floor, but they’re all empty. Cautiously, I advance up the stairs.
Maybe they’re having a Joy of Sex moment. Should I retreat?
“Er … Mrs. Geiger?” I call hesitantly. “Dinner’s served.”
I can hear voices from the end of the corridor, as I take a few more steps forward. “Mrs. Geiger?”
Suddenly the bedroom door is violently flung open.
“What’s money for?” comes Trish’s shrill voice. “Just tell me that!”
“I don’t need to tell you what money’s for!” Eddie is yelling back. “Never have!”
“If you understood anything—”
“I understand!” Eddie sounds apoplectic. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand!”
Ooooookay. So probably not a Joy of Sex moment. I start backing away silently on tiptoe—but it’s too late.
“What about Portugal?” Trish shrieks. “Do you remember that?” She strides out of the room in a whirlwind of pink and stops short as she sees me.
“Um … dinner’s ready,” I mumble, my eyes fixed on the carpet. “Madam.”
“If you mention bloody Portugal one more bloody time—” Eddie comes marching out of the room.
“Eddie!” Trish cuts him off savagely, then gives a tiny nod toward me. “Pas devant.”
“What?” says Eddie, scowling.
“Pas devant! Les … les …” She wheels her hands, as though trying to conjure the missing word.
“Domestiques?” I offer awkwardly.
Trish shoots me a flinty look, then draws herself up with dignity. “I shall be in my room.”
“It’s my bloody room too!” says Eddie furiously, but the door has already banged shut.
“Erm … I’ve made dinner …” I venture, but Eddie stalks to the stairs, ignoring me.
I feel a swell of dismay. If the sea bream isn’t eaten soon it’ll get all shriveled.
