“How very bizarre,” she says crisply. “Your birthday was almost two months ago.”
“I know it was.” I sigh. “Look, Mum, I’ve made up my mind.” The cooker suddenly pings, and I reach for an oven glove. “I’ve got to go.”
“Samantha, this conversation is not over!” she snaps furiously. “We have not finished.”
“We have, OK? We have!” I switch off the phone and dump it on the table. “Thanks a lot, Guy,” I say shortly. “Any other nice little surprises for me?”
“Samantha …” He spreads his hands apologetically. “I was just trying to get through to you—”
“I don’t need ‘getting through to.’ ” I turn away. “And now I have to work. This is my job.”
I open the bottom oven, take out my trays of tartlets, and start transferring them onto small warmed plates.
“I’ll help,” says Guy after a moment.
“You can’t help.” I roll my eyes.
“Of course I can.” To my astonishment he takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and puts on an apron adorned with cherries. “What do I do?”
I can’t help but laugh. He looks so incongruous.
“Fine.” I hand him a tray. “You can take in the starters with me.”
As we enter the white-canopied room, the babble of chatter breaks off and fifteen dyed, lacquered heads turn. Trish’s guests are seated around the table, sipping champagne, each wearing a suit of a different pastel color. It’s like walking into a Dulux paint chart.
“And this is Samantha!” says Trish, whose cheeks are a bright shade of pink. “You all know Samantha, our housekeeper—and also top lawyer!”
To my embarrassment a spattering of applause breaks out.
“We saw you in the papers!” says a woman in cream.
“I need to talk to you.” A woman in blue leans forward with an intense expression. “About my divorce settlement.”
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.
“This is Guy, who’s helping me out today,” I say, beginning to serve the mushroom tarts.
“He’s also a partner at Carter Spink,” adds Trish proudly.
I can see impressed glances being exchanged across the table. An elderly woman at the end turns to Trish, looking bewildered.
“Are all your help lawyers?”
“Not all,” says Trish airily, taking a deep gulp of champagne. “But you know, having had a Cambridge-educated housekeeper … I could never go back.”
“Where do you get them from?” a red-haired woman asks avidly. “Is there a special agency?”
“It’s called Oxbridge Housekeepers,” says Guy, placing a mushroom tart in front of her. “Very choosy. Only those with first-class honors can apply.”
“Goodness!” The red-haired woman gazes up, agog.
“I, on the other hand, went to Harvard,” he continues. “So I’m with Harvard Help. Our motto is: ‘Because that’s what an Ivy League education is for.’ Isn’t that right, Samantha?”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “Just serve the food.”
At last all the ladies are served and we retreat to the empty kitchen.
“Very funny,” I say, plonking the tray down with a crash. “You’re so witty.”
“Well, for God’s sake, Samantha. Do you expect me to take all this seriously? Jesus.” He takes off the apron and throws it down on the table. “Serving food to a bunch of airheads. Letting them patronize you.”
“I have a job to do,” I say tightly, opening the oven to check on the salmon. “So if you’re not going to help me—”
“This is not the job you should be doing!” he suddenly explodes. “Samantha, this is a fucking travesty. You have more brains than anyone in that room, and you’re serving them? You’re curtsying to them? You’re cleaning their bathrooms?”
He sounds so passionate, I turn round. All traces of teasing have gone from his face.
“Samantha, you’re one of the most brilliant people I know.” His voice is jerky with anger. “You have the best legal mind any of us has ever seen. I cannot let you throw away your life on this … deluded crap.”
“It’s not deluded crap!” I reply, incensed. “Just because I’m not ‘using my degree,’ just because I’m not in some office, I’m wasting my life? Guy, I’m happy. I’m enjoying life in a way I’ve never done before. I like cooking. I like running a house. I like picking strawberries from the garden—”