The Undomestic Goddess (Page 23)

“Samantha, I’m sorry about that.” I open my eyes and struggle up to see Trish coming back in, followed by a pink-faced Eddie. “Before we continue, did you have any questions about the post?”

I stare back at her, my head swirling. This is the moment where I have to explain there’s been a big mistake. That I’m not a housekeeper, I’m a lawyer.

But … nothing comes out of my mouth.

I could stay here one night, flashes through my brain. Just one night. I could sort out the misunderstanding tomorrow.

“Um … would it be possible to start tonight?” I hear myself saying.

“I don’t see why not—” begins Eddie.

“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves,” Trish interrupts pointedly. “We have had quite a few promising applicants for this post, Samantha. Several quite dazzling. One girl even had a diploma in French Cordon Bleu cookery!”

Something inside me stiffens, like an automatic reflex.

Is she suggesting—

Is she implying that I might not get this job?

I regard Trish silently. Somewhere, down inside my bruised state of shock, I can feel a tiny flicker of the old Samantha returning. I can beat some French Cordon Bleu cookery girl.

I have never failed an interview in my life.

I’m not about to start now.

“So.” Trish consults her list. “You’re experienced in all forms of laundry?”

“Naturally.” I nod.

“And are you Cordon Bleu trained?” It’s clear from her expression that nothing less will pass the test.

“I trained under Michel de la Roux de la Blanc.” I pause. “His name obviously speaks for itself.”

“Absolutely!” says Trish, glancing uncertainly at Eddie.

We’re sitting in the conservatory again, ten minutes later, and I’m sipping a cup of coffee, which Eddie made for me. Trish is firing a series of questions at me that sound like they come from a how-to-hire-your-housekeeper pamphlet. And I’m answering every single one with total confidence.

Deep down in my brain I can hear a little voice calling out, What are you doing? Samantha, what the hell are you DOING?

But I’m not listening. I don’t want to listen. Somehow I’ve managed to block out real life, the mistake, my ruined career, the whole nightmare of a day—everything else in the world except this interview.

“Could you give us a sample menu?” Trish lights another cigarette. “For a dinner party, say?”

Food … impressive food …

Suddenly I remember Maxim’s last night. The souvenir birthday menu.

“I’ll just consult my … notes.” I unzip my bag and surreptitiously scan the Maxim’s menu. “For a formal dinner, I would serve … er … seared foie gras with an apricot glaze … lamb with minted hummus … followed by orange-chocolate soufflé with two homemade sorbets.”

Take that, Cordon Bleu girl.

“Well!” Trish looks astounded. “I must say, that’s … very impressive.”

“Marvelous!” Eddie looks like he’s salivating. “Seared foie gras! You couldn’t knock some up for us now?”

Trish shoots him an annoyed look. “I’m assuming you have a reference, Samantha?”

A reference?

“We will need a reference.…” Trish begins to frown.

“My reference is Lady Freya Edgerly,” I say, in sudden inspiration.

“Lady Edgerly?” Trish’s eyebrows rise and a pink flush starts slowly creeping up her neck.

“I have been associated with Lord and Lady Edgerly for many years,” I reply gravely. “I know Lady Edgerly will vouch for me.”

Trish and Eddie are both staring at me, agog.

“You cooked for them, did you?” inquires Eddie. “Breakfasts and so forth?”

“Naturally. Lord Edgerly was very fond of my signature dish, eggs Benedict.” I take a sip of water.

I can see Trish pulling what she clearly imagines are cryptic faces at Eddie, who is surreptitiously nodding back. They might as well have Let’s Have Her! tattooed on their foreheads.

“One final thing.” Trish takes a deep drag on her cigarette. “You will be answering the phone when Mr. Geiger and myself are out. Our image in society is very important. Please, would you demonstrate how you will do it?” She nods at a phone on a nearby table.

They cannot be serious. Except … I think they are.

“You should say, ‘Good afternoon, the Geiger residence,’ ” prompts Eddie.

Obediently I get up, walk across the room, and lift the receiver.

“Good afternoon,” I say in my most charming, head-school-prefect tones. “The Geiger residence. How may I help?”