One of the journalists peers under the brim of Trish’s hat. “It’s her,” he says scornfully. “Ned, it’s her! Come over here!”
“She’s there! She’s come out!”
“It’s her!”
I hear voices from across the street—and, aghast, I see another load of journalists suddenly appear, hurrying down the road toward the gates, bearing cameras and Dictaphones.
Fuck. Where did they come from?
“Ms. Sweeting, Angus Watts. Daily Express.” Black-glasses guy lifts up his microphone. “Do you have a message for young women of today?”
“Do you really enjoy cleaning toilets?” chimes in someone else, snapping a camera in my face. “What brand of toilet cleaner do you use?”
“Stop it!” I say, flustered. “Leave me alone!” I haul at the iron gates until they’re closed, then turn and run up the drive, into the house and into the kitchen.
What am I going to do? What?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored fridge. My face is flushed and my expression wild. I’m also still wearing Trish’s floppy straw hat.
I grab it off my head and dump it on the table, just as Trish comes into the kitchen. She’s holding a book called Your Elegant Luncheon Party and an empty coffee cup.
“Do you know what’s going on, Samantha?” she says. “There seems a bit of a commotion outside in the road.”
“Is there?” I say. “I … I hadn’t noticed.”
“It looks like a protest.” She wrinkles her brow. “I do hope they’re not still there tomorrow. Protesters are so selfish …” Her eye falls on the counter. “Haven’t you finished the mousses yet? Samantha, really! What have you been doing?”
“Um … nothing!” I reach for the bowl and start doling out chocolate mixture into molds. “I’m just getting on with them, Mrs. Geiger.”
I feel like I’m in some kind of parallel reality. Everything’s going to come out. It’s a matter of time. What do I do?
“Have you seen this protest?” Trish demands as Eddie saunters into the kitchen. “Outside our gates! I think we should tell them to move on.”
“It’s not a protest,” he says, opening the fridge and peering inside. “It’s journalists.”
“Journalists?” Trish peers at him. “What on earth would journalists be doing here?”
“Maybe we have a new celebrity neighbor?” suggests Eddie, pouring his beer into a glass. At once Trish claps her hand over her mouth.
“Joanna Lumley! I heard a rumor she was buying in the village! Samantha, have you heard anything about this?”
“I … er … no,” I mumble, my face burning.
I have to say something. But what? Where do I start?
“Samantha, I need this shirt ironed by tonight.” Melissa comes wandering into the kitchen, holding a sleeveless print shirt. “And be really careful with the collar, OK? What’s going on outside?”
“Nobody knows,” says Trish, looking beside herself. “But we think it’s Joanna Lumley!”
Suddenly the doorbell rings. For a moment I consider bolting out the back door.
“I wonder if that’s them!” exclaims Trish. “Eddie, go and answer it. Samantha, put on some coffee.” She looks at me in impatience. “Come on!”
I need to explain but I’m totally paralyzed.
“Samantha?” She peers at me. “Are you all right?”
With an almighty effort I look up.
“Um … Mrs. Geiger …” My voice comes out a nervous husk. “There’s … there’s something … I ought to—”
“Melissa!” Eddie’s voice interrupts me. He’s hurrying into the kitchen, a huge smile spread across his face. “Melissa, love! They want you!”
“Me?” Melissa looks up in surprise. “What do you mean, Uncle Eddie?”
“It’s the Daily Mail. They want to interview you!” Eddie turns to Trish, glowing with pride. “Did you know that our Melissa has one of the finest legal brains in the country?”
Oh, no. Oh, no.
“What?” Trish nearly drops her copy of Your Elegant Luncheon Party.
“That’s what they said!” Eddie nods. “They said it might come as quite a surprise to me to learn we had such a high-flying lawyer in the house. I said, nonsense!” He puts an arm around Melissa. “We’ve always known you were a star!”
“Mrs. Geiger …” I say urgently. No one takes any notice of me.