The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“Samantha’s going to take some qualifications!” With a flourish Eddie pulls two workbooks from the bag. Both are brightly colored, with big jazzy letters and illustrations. I can see the words Math and English and Adult Learning.

I’m totally speechless.

“I’m sure Melissa will be delighted to help with anything tricky,” chips in Trish. “Won’t you, love?”

“Of course,” says Melissa with a patronizing smile. “Well done you, Samantha! It’s never too late.” She pushes her full cup of coffee toward me. “Make me another coffee, will you? This one’s too weak.”

By the middle of the following day I have had just about enough of Melissa. I’ve made her about fifty cups of coffee, half of which she hasn’t bothered to drink. I’ve brought her chilled water. I’ve rustled up sandwiches. I’ve washed all the dirty laundry, which it turned out her suitcase contained. I’ve ironed her a white shirt to wear in the evening. Every time I try to start on one of my regular jobs I hear Melissa’s high-pitched voice summoning me.

Meanwhile, Trish is tiptoeing around as though we have

Cherie Blair herself in the garden, working on some vital human-rights case. As I dust the living room, she’s watching Melissa, sitting at a table set up on the lawn.

“She’s working so hard. Such an intelligent girl, Melissa.”

“Mmm,” I grunt, noncommittally.

“You know, it’s not easy to get into law school, Samantha. Especially the best one! Melissa had to beat hundreds of people just to get the place!”

“Fantastic.” I flick my cloth roughly over the TV. “That’s great. So… how long is she staying?” I try to ask the question casually.

“It depends,” replies Trish. “Her exams are in a few weeks, and I’ve said she’s welcome to stay as long as she likes!”

A few weeks? It’s only been one day, and already she’s driving me mad.

I spend the afternoon in the kitchen, pretending to have selective deafness. Whenever Melissa calls me, I turn the blender on, or the radio up, or clatter around with baking trays. If she wants me she can find me herself.

At last, she appears at the kitchen door, her cheeks flushed with annoyance. “Samantha, I’ve been calling you!”

“Really?” I look up innocently from the butter I’m chopping to make pastry. “I didn’t hear.”

“We need a bell system or something.” She exhales in impatience. “This is ridiculous, me having to stop what I’m doing.”

“What did you want?”

“My water jug is empty. And I need some kind of snack. To keep my energy levels up.”

“You could have brought your jug into the kitchen,” I suggest mildly. “Or made your own snack?”

“Look, I don’t have time to be making snacks, OK?” snaps Melissa. “I’m under a great deal of time pressure right now. I have piles of work, I have exam deadlines… you have no idea what my life is like.”

I’m silent for a moment, trying to get my resentment under control.

“I’ll bring you out a sandwich,” I say at last.

“Thank you,” she says sarcastically, then stands with her arms folded, as though she’s waiting for something.

“What?” I say.

“Go on.” She gestures with her head. “Curtsy.”

What? She can’t be serious. “I’m not curtsying to you!” I say, almost laughing.

“You curtsy to my aunt. And my uncle.”

“They’re my employers,” I retort tightly. “It’s different.” And believe me, if I could turn back the clock, curtsying would not be featured in any of our lives.

“I’m living in this house. So I’m your employer too. You should show me the same respect.”

I want to slap this girl. If she was my junior at Carter Spink I would… annihilate her.

“Right.” I put my knife down. “I’ll go and ask Mrs. Geiger, shall I?” Before she can reply I stride out of the kitchen. I cannot tolerate this. If Trish takes her side, that’s it. I’m leaving.

I can’t see Trish anywhere downstairs, so I head upstairs, heart racing. I arrive outside her room and knock. “Mrs. Geiger? I’d like a word.”

A few moments later, Trish opens the door a crack and pokes her head out, looking a little ruffled. “Samantha! What do you want?”

“I’m not happy with the current situation,” I say, attempting a calm,

civilized voice. “I’d like to discuss it, please.”

“What situation?” She wrinkles her brow.

“With Melissa. And her… her constant needs. I’m being taken away from my regular duties. The housekeeping will suffer if I have to keep attending to her.”

Trish doesn’t seem to have heard a word.

“Oh, Samantha… not now.” She waves a distracted, dismissive hand. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I can hear Eddie mumbling something from inside the room. Great. They were probably having sex. She probably wants to get back to Turkish style.

“Right.” I try to control my frustration. “So I’ll just… get on, then, shall I?”

“Wait.” Trish suddenly seems to focus on me. “Samantha, we’ll be having champagne on the terrace in half an hour with some… ahm… friends. I’d like you to wear something other than your uniform.” Her eyes run over it with slight distaste. “It’s not the most flattering garment you possess.”

You bloody chose it! I want to yell back at her. But instead, I curtsy, turn away, and walk to my room, fuming.

Bloody Trish. Bloody Melissa. If she’s waiting for a sandwich, she can just wait.

I close the door, slump down on my bed, and look down at my hands, red and raw

from hand-washing Melissa’s delicate garments.

What am I doing here?

I can feel disappointment and disillusionment spreading through me. Maybe I was being naive—but I honestly thought Trish and Eddie had come to respect me. Not just as their housekeeper but as a person. But the way Trish behaved just now… it’s plain I’m just “staff” to them. Like some sort of useful object, one notch above the Hoover. I almost feel like packing my bags and walking out.

I have a sudden vision of myself flouncing down the stairs, flinging open the door, shooting over my shoulder to Melissa, “And by the way, I’ve got a law