The Undomestic Goddess 34

“They told me you trained with some Michelin-starred chef?” He gives a small frown. “I don’t know what kind of fancy stuff you use, but I’ll do my best.” He produces a small, mud-stained notebook and a pencil. “Which brassicas do you like to use?”

Brassicas?

What are brassicas? They must be some kind of vegetable. I search my mind frantically but all I can see is images of brassieres, waving on a washing line.

“I’d have to consult my menus,” I say at last with a businesslike nod. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”

“But just generally.” He looks up. “Which do you use most? So I know what to plant.”

I daren’t risk naming a single vegetable in case I get it totally wrong.

“I use … all sorts, really.” I give him an airy smile. “You know how it is with brassicas. Sometimes you’re in the mood for one … sometimes another!”

I’m really not sure how convincing that sounded. Nathaniel looks baffled.

“I’m about to order leeks,” he says slowly. “What variety do you prefer? Albinstar or Bleu de Solaise?”

I fiddle with a button on my uniform, my face prickling. I didn’t catch either of those. Oh, God, why did this guy have to come into the kitchen right now?

“The … um … first one,” I say at last. “It has very tasty … qualities.”

Nathaniel puts down his notebook and surveys me for a moment. His attention shifts to my wineglass again. I’m not sure I like his expression.

“I was just about to put this wine in a sauce,” I say hastily. With a nonchalant air, I take a saucepan down from the rack, put it on the hob, and pour the wine in. I shake in some salt, then pick up a wooden spoon and stir.

Then I dart a glance at Nathaniel. He’s regarding me with something approaching incredulity.

“Where did you say you trained?” he says.

I feel a twinge of alarm. He’s not stupid, this man.

“At … Cordon Bleu school.” My cheeks are growing rather hot. I shake more salt into the wine and stir it briskly.

“You haven’t turned the hob on,” Nathaniel observes.

“It’s a cold sauce,” I reply, without lifting my head. I keep stirring for a minute, then put down my wooden spoon. “So. I’ll just leave that to … marinate now.”

At last I look up. Nathaniel is still leaning against the door frame, calmly watching me. There’s an expression in his blue eyes that makes my throat tighten.

He knows.

He knows I’m a fake.

Please don’t tell the Geigers, I silently transmit to him. Please. I’ll be gone soon.

“Samantha?” Trish’s head pops round the door and I start nervously. “Oh, you’ve met Nathaniel! Did he tell you about his vegetable garden?”

“Yes.” I can’t look at him. “He did.”

“Marvelous!” She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head. “Well, Mr. Geiger and I are back now, and we’d like our sandwiches in twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes? But it’s only ten past twelve. The caterers aren’t coming till one o’clock.

“Would you like a drink first, maybe?” I suggest.

“No, thanks!” she says. “Just the sandwiches. We’re both rather famished, actually, so if you could hurry up with them …”

“Right.” I swallow. “No problem!”

I automatically bob a curtsy as Trish disappears, and I hear a kind of snorting sound from Nathaniel.

“You curtsy,” he says.

“Yes, I curtsy,” I say defiantly. “Anything wrong with that?”

Nathaniel’s eyes move to the misshapen bread slices lying on the breadboard.

“Is that lunch?”

“No, that’s not lunch!” I snap, flustered. “And please could you get out of my kitchen? I need a clear space to work in.”

He raises his eyebrows. “See you around, then. Good luck with the sauce.” He nods toward the pan of wine.

As he closes the kitchen door behind him I whip out my phone and speed-dial the caterers. But they’ve left their machine on.

“Hi,” I say breathlessly after the bleep. “I ordered some sandwiches earlier? Well, I need them now. As soon as you can. Thanks.”

Even as I put the phone down I realize it’s fruitless. The caterers are never going to turn up in time. The Geigers are waiting.

OK. I can do this. I can make a few sandwiches.

Quickly I pick up the two least wonky of my bread slices and start cutting off the crusts until they’re about an inch square but presentable. There’s a butter dish on the side and I gouge some out with a knife. As I spread butter on the first slice of bread, it tears into two pieces.