The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella
.pdfHastily I duck back into the laundry and start busily shoving clothes into the drum at random. If Trish comes in, she’ll see me dutifully at work, impervious to her conversation. I shake some washing powder into the little tray at the top and close the door firmly. Now what?
WASH? the machine is still flashing at me. WASH?
“Er…yes!” I mutter. “Wash them.” I jab randomly at a button.
ENTER PROGRAM? it flashes back.
My eyes dart about for clues, and I spot a manual tucked behind a spray bottle. I grab it and start leafing through.
The half-load option for small washes is only available for pre-wash programs
A3-E2 and superrinse programs G2-L7 not including H4.
…What?
OK, let’s forget the manual. Let’s just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in my best housekeeper manner.
PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3?
I don’t like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret government plot.
“No,” I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. “I want something else.”
YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY PROGRAM.
Heavy duty? Upholstery?
“Stop it,” I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. “Stop!” I kick the machine in desperation. “Stop!”
“Everything all right, Samantha?” Trish appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are gone and she’s applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But it’s hardly my place to ask.
“Er… fine! Just… getting some washing on.”
“Well done.” She holds out a stripy shirt to me. “Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this shirt, if you would be so kind.”
“Absolutely!” I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesn’t show on my face.
“And here’s your list of duties!” She hands me a sheet of paper. “It’s by no means complete, but it should get you started”
As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.
Make beds… sweep and clean front steps… arrange flowers… polish all mirrors… store cupboards tidy… laundry… clean bathrooms daily…
“Now, there’s nothing here that should present you with a problem, is there?” adds Trish.
“Er… no!” My voice is a little strangled. “No, it should all be fine!”
“But make a stab at the ironing first.” she continues firmly. “There is quite a lot,
I’m afraid, as you’ll have seen. It does tend to mount up rather…” For some reason, Trish is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack. At least thirty.
As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I can’t iron a shirt. I’ve never used an iron in my life. What am I going to do?
“I expect you’ll whip through these in no time!” she says gaily. “The ironing board’s just there,” she adds with a nod.
“Um, thanks!” I manage.
I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it won’t move. I try another one
with no luck. I’m pulling harder and harder, till I’m hot with the effort, but the bloody thing won’t budge. How am I supposed to open it up?
“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.
Chapter 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.