“That’s Samantha,” says Trish, looking perplexed. “The housekeeper.”
“You’re Samantha Sweeting, I take it?” The woman brings out her reporter’s pad. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“You want to interview the housekeeper?” says Melissa, with a sarcastic laugh. The journalist ignores her.
“You are Samantha Sweeting, aren’t you?” she persists.
“I … yes,” I admit at last. “But I don’t want to do an interview. I don’t have any comment.”
“Comment?” Trish’s eyes dart around uncertainly. “Comment on what?”
“What’s going on, Samantha, love?” Eddie looks anxious. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“You haven’t told them?” The Daily Mail journalist looks up from her notepad. “They have no idea?”
“Told us what?” says Trish, agitated. “What?”
“She’s an illegal immigrant!” says Melissa in tones of triumph. “I knew it! I knew there was something—”
“Your ‘housekeeper’ is a top City lawyer.” The woman throws down a copy of the Daily World onto the kitchen table. “And she’s just turned down a six-figure partnership to work for you.”
It’s as though someone’s thrown a grenade into the kitchen. Eddie visibly reels. Trish totters on her high-heeled clogs and grabs a chair for balance. Melissa’s face looks like a popped balloon.
“I meant to tell you.” I bite my lip awkwardly as I look round the faces. “I was … getting round to it …”
Trish’s eyes are bulging as she reads the Daily World headline. Her mouth is opening and closing, but no sound is coming out.
“You’re a … a lawyer?” she stutters at last.
“Not just any old lawyer,” chimes in the journalist, consulting her notes. “Highest law degree of her year … youngest ever partner of Carter Spink—”
“You’re a partner at Carter Spink?” stutters Melissa.
“No!” I say. “I mean … well … kind of … Can I make anyone a cup of tea?” I add desperately.
No one is interested in tea.
“Did you have any idea your housekeeper has an IQ of 158?” The journalist is clearly loving this. “She’s a genius.”
“We knew she was bright!” says Eddie, defensive. “We spotted that! We were helping her with her—” He breaks off, looking foolish. “With her English GCSE.”
“And I’m really grateful!” I put in hurriedly. “Really.”
Eddie mops his brow with a tea towel. Trish is still clutching the chair as though she might keel over any minute.
“I don’t understand.” Eddie suddenly puts the tea towel down and turns to me. “How did you combine being a lawyer with the housekeeping?”
“Yes!” exclaims Trish, coming to life. “Exactly. How on earth could you be a City lawyer … and still have time to train with Michel de la Roux de la Blanc?”
Oh, God. They still don’t get it.
“I’m not really a housekeeper,” I say desperately. “I’m not really a Cordon Bleu cook. Michel de la Roux de la Blanc doesn’t exist. I have no idea what this thing is really called.” I pick up the truffle beater, which is lying on the side. “I’m a … a fake.”
I can’t look at either of them. Suddenly I feel terrible. “I’ll understand if you want me to leave,” I mumble. “I took the job under false pretenses.”
“Leave?” Trish looks horrified. “We don’t want you to leave! Do we, Eddie?”
“Absolutely not!” he says, rallying himself. “You’ve done a fine job, Samantha. You can’t help it if you’re a lawyer.”
“ ‘I’m a fake,’ ” says the journalist, writing it carefully down on her notepad. “Do you feel guilty about that, Ms. Sweeting?”
“Stop it!” I say. “I’m not doing an interview!”
“Ms. Sweeting says she’d rather clean loos than be a partner at Carter Spink,” says the journalist, turning to Trish. “Could I see the loos in question?”
“Our loos?” Spots of pink appear on Trish’s cheeks and she gives me an uncertain glance. “Well! We did have the bathrooms refitted recently; they’re all Royal Doulton.”
“How many are there?” The journalist looks up from her notepad.
“Stop this!” I clutch my hair. “Look, I’ll … I’ll make a statement to the press. And then I want you all to leave me and my employers alone.”
I hurry out of the kitchen, the Daily Mail woman following behind, and fling open the front door. The crowd of journalists is still there, behind the gate. Is it my imagination or are there more than before?
“It’s Sarah,” says the guy in black glasses sardonically as I approach them.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” I begin. “I would be grateful if you would leave me alone. There isn’t any story here.”
“Are you going to stay as a housekeeper?” calls a fat guy in jeans.
“Yes, I am.” I lift my chin. “I’ve made a personal choice, for personal reasons, and I’m very happy here.”
“What about feminism?” demands a young girl. “Women have fought for years to gain an equal foothold. Now you’re telling them they should go back to the kitchen?”
“I’m not telling women anything!” I say, taken aback. “I’m just leading my own life.”
“But you think there’s nothing wrong with women being chained to the kitchen sink?” A gray-haired woman glares at me.
“I’m not chained! I get paid for what I do, and I choose to—” My answer is drowned out by a barrage of questions and flashing cameras.
“Was Carter Spink a sexist hellhole?”
“Is this a bargaining ploy?”
“Do you think women should have careers?”
“We’d like to offer you a regular column on household hints!” says a chirpy blond girl in a blue mac. “We want to call it ‘Samantha Says.’ ”
“What?” I gape at her. “I don’t have any household hints!”
“A recipe, then?” She beams. “Your favorite dish?”
“Could you pose for us in your pinny?” calls out the fat guy, with a lascivious wink.
“No!” I say in horror. “I have nothing else to say! No comment! Go away!”
Ignoring the cries and shouts of “Samantha!” I turn and run with trembling legs back up the drive to the house.
The world is mad.
I burst into the kitchen, to find Trish, Eddie, and Melissa transfixed in front of the Daily World.
“Oh, no,” I say, my heart plunging. “Don’t read it. Honestly. It’s just … stupid … tabloid …”
All three of them raise their heads and regard me as though I’m some kind of alien.
“You charge … five hundred pounds an hour?” Trish doesn’t seem quite in control of her voice.
“They offered you full equity partnership?” Melissa looks green. “And you said no? Are you crazy?”
“Don’t read this stuff!” I try to grab the paper. “Mrs. Geiger, I just want to carry on as usual. I’m still your housekeeper—”
“You’re one of the country’s top legal talents!” Trish jabs the paper hysterically. “It says so, here!”
“Samantha?” There’s a rapping at the door and Nathaniel comes into the kitchen, holding an armful of newly picked potatoes. “Will this be enough for the lunch?”
I stare at him dumbly, feeling a clutch at my heart. He has no idea. He knows nothing. Oh, God.
I should have told him. Why didn’t I tell him? Why didn’t I tell him?
“What are you?” says Trish, turning to him wildly. “A top rocket scientist? A secret government agent?”
“I’m sorry?” Nathaniel shoots me a quizzical look.
“Nathaniel …”
I trail off, unable to continue. Nathaniel looks from face to face, a crease of uncertainty deepening in his brow.
“What’s going on?” he says at last. “Is something up?”
I have never made such a hash of anything as I make of
telling Nathaniel. I stammer, I stutter, I repeat myself and go round in circles.
Nathaniel listens in silence. He’s leaning against an old stone pillar in front of the secluded bench where I’m sitting. His face is in profile, shadowed in the afternoon sun, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
At last I come to a finish and he slowly lifts his head. If I was hoping for a smile, I don’t get it. I’ve never seen him look so shell-shocked.
“You’re a lawyer,” he says at last. All the light seems to have gone out of his eyes.
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe you’re a lawyer.” There’s a hostility to his tone that I’ve never heard before.
“Nathaniel.” I swallow hard. “I know you had a bad experience with lawyers. I’m really sorry about your dad. But … I’m not like that. You know I’m not—”
“How do I?” he retorts with sudden aggression. “How do I know who you are anymore? You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie! I just … didn’t tell you everything.”
“I thought you were in an abusive relationship.” He bows his head, clenching his hands behind his neck. “I thought that’s why you didn’t want to talk about your past. And you let me believe it. When you went up to London, I was worried about you. Jesus.”
“I’m sorry.” I wince with guilt. “I’m so sorry. I just … didn’t want you to know the truth.”
“Why not? What, you didn’t trust me?”
“No!” I say in dismay. “Of course I trust you! If it had been anything else … Nathaniel, you have to understand. When we first met, how could I tell you? Everyone knows you hate lawyers. You even have a sign in your pub!”
“That sign’s a joke.” He makes an impatient gesture.
“It’s not. Not completely! Come on, Nathaniel. If I’d told you I was a City lawyer when we first met, would you have treated me in the same way?”
Nathaniel doesn’t reply. He’s taken a few steps away and turned to face the house, as if he can’t even bear to look at me anymore.
It’s all ruined between us. Just as I feared. I can feel the tears rising but somehow keep my chin steady.
“Nathaniel, I didn’t tell you the truth about myself because it was incredibly painful,” I say quietly. “And because everything was so wonderful between us, I didn’t want to ruin it. And because … I thought you might look at me differently.”
Nathaniel slowly turns to face me, his face still closed and unforgiving.
“Like you’re looking at me now.” A tear runs down my cheek and I brush it away. “This is what I was afraid of.”
The silence seems to last forever. Then Nathaniel exhales heavily, as though coming to a conclusion.
“Come here.” He holds out his arms. “Come here.”
He wraps them around me and I lean against his chest, almost overcome with relief.
“I’m the same person, you know,” I mumble. “Even if I used to be a lawyer—I’m still me. Samantha.”
“Samantha Sweeting, corporate lawyer.” He surveys me for a few moments. “Nope. I can’t see it.”
“Me either! That part of my life is over. Nathaniel … I’m so sorry. I never meant any of this to happen.” A bay leaf falls into his hair from the tree behind and I pick it out, automatically rubbing it to release the sweet scent.
“So what happens now?” says Nathaniel.
“Nothing. The media interest will die down. They’ll get bored.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m happy in my job. I’m happy in this village. I’m happy with you. I just want everything to stay the same.”
Twenty-four
I’m wrong. The media interest doesn’t die down. I wake up the next morning to find twice as many reporters as yesterday camped outside, plus two TV vans. My mobile is so jammed with messages from journalists who have got hold of the number, I’ve given up listening to them. As I enter the kitchen, Melissa and Eddie are sitting at the table, which is covered in newspapers.
“You’re in every single paper,” Melissa informs me. “Uncle Eddie went down to the shop for them. Look.” She shows me a double-page spread in the Sun. There’s a picture of me superimposed on the background of a loo, and someone’s drawn a toilet brush in one of my hands. “i’d rather clean loos!” is in huge letters next to my face.
“Oh, my God.” I sink into a chair and stare at the picture. “Why?”
“It’s August,” says Eddie, flicking through the Telegraph. “Nothing else in the news. Says here you’re a casualty of today’s work-obsessed society.” He turns the paper around to show me a small item topped with the headline carter spink high-flyer chooses drudgery after rumors of scandal.
“It says here you’re a Judas to career women everywhere.” Melissa is reading the Herald. “This columnist Mindy Morrell is really angry with you.”
“Angry?” I echo, bewildered. “Why would anyone be angry with me?”
“But in the Daily World you’re a savior of traditional values.” Melissa reaches for the paper and opens it. “Samantha Sweeting believes women should return to the hearthside for the sake of their own health and that of society.”
“What? I never said that!” I grab the paper and scan the text in disbelief. “Why are they all so obsessed?”
“Silly season,” says Eddie, reaching for the Express. “Is it true you single-handedly uncovered Mafia connections at your law firm?”
“No!” I look up. “Who said that?”
“Can’t remember where I saw it now,” he says, riffling through the pages. “There’s a picture of your mother in this one. Nice-looking lady.”
“My mother?” I stare in dismay.
“High-flying daughter of a high-flying mother,” Eddie reads aloud. “Was the pressure to succeed too much?”
Oh, God. Mum is going to kill me.
“This one has a poll, look.” Eddie has opened another paper. “Samantha Sweeting: Heroine or Fool? Phone or text your vote. Then they give a number to call.” He reaches for the phone and frowns. “Which shall I vote for?”
“Fool,” says Melissa, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it.”
“Samantha! You’re up!”
I raise my head to see Trish coming into the kitchen, holding a bundle of newspapers under her arm. As she looks at me she has the same shell-shocked expression of awe that she had yesterday, as though I’m a priceless work of art that has suddenly pitched up in her kitchen. “I’ve just been reading about you!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Geiger.” I put down the Daily World and hastily get to my feet. “Um, what can I get you for breakfast? Some coffee to begin with?”
“Don’t you make the coffee, Samantha!” she replies, looking flustered. “Eddie, you can make the coffee!”
“I’m not making the coffee!” objects Eddie.
“Then … Melissa!” says Trish. “Make us all some nice coffee. Samantha, you sit down for once! You’re our guest!” She gives an unnatural laugh.
“I’m not your guest!” I protest. “I’m your housekeeper!”
I can see Eddie and Trish exchanging doubtful looks. What do they think? That I’m going to leave?
“Nothing’s different!” I insist. “I’m still your housekeeper! I just want to carry on my job as usual.”
“Are you crazy?” demands Melissa. “Have you seen how much Carter Spink wants to pay you?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I retort. “Mr. and Mrs. Geiger … you’ll understand. I’ve learned a lot living here. I’ve changed as a person. And I’ve found a fulfilling way of life. Yes, I could make a lot more money being a lawyer in London. Yes, I could have some high-powered, pressurized career. But it’s not what I want.” I spread my arms around the kitchen. “This is what I want to do. This is where I want to be.”
I’m half expecting Trish and Eddie to look moved by my little speech. Instead, they both peer at me in total incomprehension, then glance at each other again.
“I think you should consider the offer,”
says Eddie. “It says in the paper they’re desperate to woo you back.”
“We won’t be at all offended if you leave,” adds Trish, nodding emphatically. “We’ll completely understand.”
Is that all they can say? Aren’t they glad I want to stay? Don’t they want me as their housekeeper?
“I don’t want to leave!” I say, almost crossly. “I want to stay here and enjoy a fulfilling life at a different pace.”
“Right,” says Eddie after a pause, then surreptitiously pulls a “What?” face at Trish.
The telephone rings and Trish picks it up.
“Hello?” She listens for a moment. “Yes, of course, Mavis. And Trudy. See you later!” She puts the receiver down. “Two more guests for the charity lunch!”
“Right.” I glance at my watch. “I’d better get going on the starters.”
As I’m getting out my pastry the phone rings again and Trish sighs. “If this is more late guests … Hello?” As she listens, her expression changes and she puts her hand over the receiver.
“Samantha,” she hisses. “It’s an ad company. Are you willing to appear in a TV commercial for Toilet Duck? You’d wear a barrister’s wig and gown, and you’d have to say—”
“No!” I say, recoiling. “Of course not!”
“You should never turn down television,” says Eddie reprovingly. “Could be a big opportunity.”
“No, it couldn’t! I don’t want to be in any commercials!” I can see Eddie opening his mouth to argue. “I don’t want to do any interviews,” I add quickly. “I don’t want to be a role model. I just want everything to go back to normal.”
But by lunchtime everything is even more surreal than before.
I’ve had three more requests to appear on TV and one to do a “tasteful” photo shoot for the Sun in a French maid’s uniform. Trish has given an exclusive interview to the Mail. Callers to a radio phone-in that Melissa insisted on listening to have described me as “an antifeminist moron,” a “Martha Stewart wannabe,” and “a parasite on the taxpayers who paid for my education.” I was so furious I almost phoned up myself.