The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

Then all of a sudden I remember yesterday morning. Trish made me a cup of tea.

Maybe today I’m supposed to make her a cup of tea. Maybe they’re waiting upstairs, tapping their fingers impatiently, saying “Where’s the damn tea?”

Quickly I boil the kettle and make a teapot full. I put it on a tray with cups and saucers and after a moment’s thought add a couple of biscuits. Then I head upstairs, venture along the silent corridor to Trish and Eddie’s bedroom… and stop outside the door.

Now what?

What if they’re asleep and I wake them up?

I lift a hand to knock—but the tray’s too heavy to hold in one hand and there’s an alarming chinking as the whole thing starts tilting sideways. In horror, I grab it just before the teapot slides off. Sweating, I put the whole lot on the ground, raise a hand, and knock very quietly, then pick up the tray again.

There’s no answer.

Hesitantly I tap again.

“Eddie! Stop that!” Trish’s raised voice filters faintly through the door.

Oh, God. Why can’t they hear me?

I’m hot all over. This tray is bloody heavy. I can’t stand outside their room with a cup of tea all morning. Shall I just… retreat?

I’m about to turn round and creep away. Then determination comes over me. No. Don’t be so feeble. I’ve made the tea.

They can always tell me to leave.

I grip the tray tightly and bang the corner hard against the door. They have to have heard that.

After a moment, Trish’s voice rises up. “Come in!”

I feel a swell of relief. They’re expecting me. I knew they would be. Somehow I turn the doorknob while balancing the tray against the door. I push the door open and walk into the room.

Trish looks up from the canopied mahogany bed, where she’s sprawled on a pile of lace pillows, alone. She’s wearing a silky nightie, her hair is

disheveled, and makeup is smudged about her eyes. For a moment she looks startled to see me.

“Samantha,” she says sharply. “What do you want? Is everything all right?”

I have an immediate, horrible feeling I’ve done the wrong thing. My gaze doesn’t move from hers, but my peripheral vision starts to register a few details in the room. I can see a book called Sensual Enjoyment on the floor. And a bottle of musk-scented massage oil. And…

A well-worn copy of The Joy of Sex. Right by the bed. Open at “Turkish Style.”

OK. So they weren’t expecting tea.

I swallow, trying to keep my composure, desperately pretending I haven’t seen anything.

“I… brought you a cup of tea,” I say, my voice cracking with nerves. “I thought you might… like one.”

Do not look at The Joy of Sex. Keep your eyes up.

Trish’s face relaxes. “Samantha! You treasure! Put it down!” She waves an arm vaguely at a bedside table.

I’m just starting to move toward it when the bathroom door opens and Eddie emerges, naked except for a pair of tootight boxer shorts, displaying a quite staggeringly hairy chest.

Somehow I manage not to drop the entire tray on the floor.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing away. “I didn’t realize…”

“Don’t be silly! Come in!” exclaims Trish gaily. She now seems completely reconciled to me being in her bedroom. “We’re not prudish!‘

OK, I’m really wishing they were. Cautiously I edge further toward the bed, stepping over a mauve lace bra. I find a place for the tray on Trish’s bedside cabinet by pushing aside a photo of her and Eddie sitting in a Jacuzzi, holding up glasses of champagne.

I pour out the tea as fast as I can and hand a cup to each of them. I cannot look

Eddie in the eye. In what other job do you see your boss naked?

Only one other occupation springs immediately to mind. Which isn’t that encouraging.

“Well… I’ll go now,” I mumble, head down.

“Don’t rush off!” Trish sips her tea with relish. “Mmm. Now you’re here, I wanted to have a little chat! See where we are with things.”

“Er… right.” Her nightie is gaping and I can see the edge of her nipple. I hastily look away and find myself catching the eye of the bearded guy in The Joy of Sex as he contorts himself.

I can feel my face flaming with embarrassment. What kind of surreal weirdness is this, that I am standing in the bedroom of two people, pretty much strangers to me, being practically shown how they have sex? And they don’t seem remotely bothered…

And then it comes to me. Of course. I’m staff. I don’t count.

“So, is everything all right, Samantha?” Trish puts her cup down and gives me a beady look. “You’ve got your routine sorted? All under control?”

“Absolutely.” I grope for a competentsounding phrase. “I’m pretty much… on top of everything.” Aaargh. “I mean… getting to grips with it all.”

Aaaargh.

She takes a sip of tea. “I expect you’ll be tackling the laundry today.”

The laundry. I hadn’t even thought about the laundry.

“Only I’d like you to change the sheets when you make the beds,” she adds.

Make the beds?

I feel a slight twinge of panic.

“Obviously I have my own… er… established routine,” I say, trying to sound casual. “But it might be an idea if you give me a list of duties.”

“Oh.” Trish looks a little irritated. “Well… if you really think you need it…”

“And I, Samantha, must go through your terms and conditions later on,” says

Eddie. He’s standing in front of the mirror, holding a dumbbell. “Let you know what you’ve got yourself into.” He guffaws, then with a slight grunt lifts the weight above his head. His stomach is rippling with the effort. And not in a good way.

“So… I’ll get on with… things.” I start backing toward the door.

“See you later, then, at breakfast.” Trish gives me a cheery little wave from the bed. “Ciao ciao!”

I cannot keep up with Trish’s mood shifts. We seemed to have lurched straight from employer-employee to people-enjoying-a-luxury-cruise- together.