Runaway Lawyer Falls in Love with Billionaire

Chapter 12

“Er … yes!” I mutter. “Wash them.” I jab randomly at a button.

ENTER PROGRAM? it flashes back.

My eyes dart about for clues, and I spot a manual tucked behind a spray bottle. I grab it and start leafing through.

The half-load option for small washes is only available for prewash programs A3-E2 and superrinse programs G2-L7 not including H4.

… What?

OK, let’s forget the manual. Let’s just use common sense. I briskly press at the keypad in my best housekeeper manner.

PROGRAM K3? the machine flashes at me. PROGRAM K3?

I don’t like the sound of program K3. It sounds sinister. Like a cliff face or secret government plot.

“No,” I say aloud, jabbing at the machine. “I want something else.”

YOU HAVE CHOSEN K3, it flashes back. HEAVY-DUTY UPHOLSTERY PROGRAM.

Heavy duty? Upholstery?

“Stop it,” I say under my breath, and start banging all the buttons. “Stop!” I kick the machine in desperation. “Stop!”

“Everything all right, Olivia?” Tanya appears at the laundry door. All signs of tears are gone and she’s applied fresh lipstick. I wonder what she was so upset about. But it’s hardly my place to ask.

“Er … fine! Just … getting some washing on.”

“Well done.” She holds out a stripy shirt to me. “Now, Mr. Geiger needs a button sewn on this shirt, if you would be so kind.”

“Absolutely!” I take it from her, praying my trepidation doesn’t show on my face.

“And here’s your list of duties!” She hands me a sheet of paper. “It’s by no means complete, but it should get you started.”

As I run my eyes down the endless list, I feel a bit faint.

Make beds … sweep and clean front steps … arrange flowers … polish all mirrors … store cupboards tidy … laundry … clean bathrooms daily …

“Now, there’s nothing here that should present you with a problem, is there?” adds Tanya.

“Er … no!” My voice is a little strangled. “No, it should all be fine!”

“But make a stab at the ironing first,” she continues firmly. “There is quite a lot, I’m afraid, as you’ll have seen. It does tend to mount up rather …” For some reason, Tanya is looking upward. With a slight foreboding, I follow her gaze. There, above us, is a mountain of crumpled shirts hanging on a wooden drying rack. At least thirty.

As I stare up at them, I feel wobbly. I can’t iron a shirt. I’ve never used an iron in my life. What am I going to do?

“I expect you’ll whip through these in no time!” she says gaily. “The ironing board’s just there,” she adds with a nod.

“Um, thanks!” I manage.

I reach for the ironing board, trying to look matter-of-fact, as if I do this all the time. I tug briskly at one of the metal legs, but it won’t move. I try another one with no luck. I’m pulling harder and harder, till I’m hot with the effort, but the bloody thing won’t budge. How am I supposed to open it up?

“It’s got a catch,” Tanya says, watching me in surprise. “Underneath.” She takes the board from me, and in two movements has opened it up to exactly the right height. “I expect you’re used to a different model,” she adds wisely as she clicks it shut. “They all have their own little tricks.”

“Absolutely!” I say, seizing on this excuse in relief. “Of course! I’m far more used to working with a … a … a Nimbus 2000.”

Tanya peers at me in surprise. “Isn’t that the broomstick out of Harry Potter?”

Damn. I knew I’d heard it somewhere.

“Yes … it is,” I say at last, my face flaming. “And also a well-known ironing board. In fact, I think the broomstick was named … er … after the ironing board.”

“Really?” Tanya looks fascinated. “I never knew that!” To my horror she leans expectantly against the door and lights a cigarette. “Don’t mind me!” she adds, her voice muffled. “Just carry on!”

Carry on?

“There’s the iron,” she adds with a gesture. “Behind you.”

“Er … great! Thanks!” I take the iron and plug it in, as slowly as possible, my heart banging in fright. I cannot do this. I need a way out. But I can’t think of one. My brain is totally blank.

“I expect the iron’s hot enough now!” says Tanya helpfully.

“Right!” I give her a sick smile.

I have no choice. I reach for one of the shirts overhead and spread it out awkwardly on the ironing board. Unable to believe what I’m doing, I pick up the iron. It’s far heavier than I imagined and emits a terrifying cloud of steam. Very gingerly, I start lowering it toward the cotton fabric. I have no idea which bit of the shirt I’m aiming for. I think my eyes might be shut.

Suddenly there’s a trilling from the kitchen. The phone. Thank God … thank God … thank God …

“Oh, who’s that?” says Tanya, frowning. “Sorry, Olivia. I should get this …”

“That’s fine!” My voice is shrill. “No worries! I’ll just get on—”

As soon as Tanya is out of the room I put the iron down with a crash and bury my head in my hands. I must have been mad. This isn’t going to work. I’m not made to be a housekeeper. The iron puffs steam in my face and I give a little scream of fright. I switch it off and collapse against the wall. It’s only nine twenty and I’m already a total wreck.

And I thought being a lawyer was stressful.

By the time Tanya comes back into the kitchen I’m a little more composed. I can do this. Of course I can. It’s not quantum physics. It’s housework.

“Olivia, I’m afraid we’re going to desert you for the day,” says Tanya, looking concerned. “Mr. Geiger is off to golf and I’m going to see a very dear friend’s new Mercedes. Will you be all right on your own?”

“I’ll be fine!” I say, trying not to sound too joyful. “Don’t you worry about me. Really. I’ll just get on with things.…”

“Is the ironing done already?” She glances at the laundry room, impressed.

Done?

“Actually, I thought I’d leave the ironing for now and tackle the rest of the house,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “That’s my normal routine.”

“Absolutely.” She nods vigorously. “Whatever suits you. Now, I won’t be here to answer any questions, I’m afraid, but Nathaniel will!” She beckons out the door. “You’ve met Nathaniel, of course?”

“Oh,” I say as he walks in, wearing ripped jeans, his hair disheveled. “Er … yes. Hi, again.”

It feels a bit strange seeing him this morning, after all the dramas of last night.

“Hi,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Great!” I say lightly. “Really well.”

“Nathaniel knows all there is to know about this house,” puts in Tanya, who is doing her lipstick. “So if you can’t find anything—need to know how a door unlocks or whatever—he’s your man.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say. “Thanks.”

“But, Nathaniel, I don’t want you disturbing Olivia,” adds Tanya, giving him a severe look. “Obviously she has her own established routine.”

“Obviously,” says Nathaniel. As Tanya turns away, he raises an eyebrow in amusement and I feel my color rise.

What’s that supposed to mean? How does he know I don’t have a routine? Just because I can’t cook, it doesn’t follow I can’t do anything.

“So you’ll be OK?” Tanya picks up her handbag. “You’ve found all the cleaning stuff?”

“Er …” I look around uncertainly.

“In the laundry room!” She disappears through the doorway for a moment, then reappears, holding a gigantic blue tub full of cleaning products. “There you are!” she says, dumping it on the table. “And don’t forget your Marigolds!” she adds merrily.

My what?

“Rubber gloves,” says Nathaniel. He takes a huge pink pair out of the tub and hands them to me with a little bow.

“Yes, thank you,” I say with dignity. “I knew that.”

I have never worn a pair of rubber gloves in my life. Trying not to flinch, I slowly pull them onto my hands.

Oh, my God. I’ve never felt anything quite so rubbery and … revolting. Must I wear these all day?

“Toodle-oo!” calls Tanya from the hall, and the front door bangs shut.

“Right!” I say. “Well … I’ll get on.”

I wait for Nathaniel to leave, but he leans against the table and looks at me quizzically. “Do you have any idea how to clean a house?”

I’m starting to feel quite insulted here. Do I look like someone who can’t clean a house?

“Of course I know how to clean a house.”

“Only I told my mum about you last night.” He smiles, as though remembering the conversation. What could he have said about me? “Anyway. She’s willing to teach you cooking. And I said you’d probably need cleaning advice too—”

“I do not need cleaning advice!” I retort. “I’ve cleaned houses loads of times. In fact, I need to get started.”

“Don’t mind me.” Nathaniel shrugs.

I’ll show him. In a businesslike manner, I pick a can out of the tub and spray it onto the counter.

“So you’ve cleaned lots of houses,” says Nathaniel, watching me.

“Yes. Millions.”

The spray has solidified into crystalline little gray droplets. I rub them briskly with a cloth—but they won’t come off.

I look more closely at the can. do not use on granite. s**t.

“Anyway,” I say, hastily putting the cloth down to hide the droplets. “You’re in my way.” I grab a feather duster from the blue tub and start brushing crumbs off the kitchen table. “Excuse me …”

“I’ll leave you, then,” says Nathaniel, his mouth twitching. He looks at the feather duster. “Don’t you want to be using a dustpan and brush for that?”

I look uncertainly at the feather duster. What’s wrong with this one? Anyway, what is he, the duster police?

“I have my methods,” I say, lifting my chin. “Thank you.”

“OK.” He grins. “See you.”

I’m not going to let him faze me. I just need … a plan. Yes. A time sheet, like at work.

I grab a pen and the pad of paper by the phone and start scribbling a list for the day-. I have an image of myself moving smoothly from task to task, brush in one hand, duster in the other, bringing order to everything. Like Mary Poppins.

9:30–9:36 Make Geigers’ bed

9:36–9:42 Take laundry out of machine and put in dryer

9:42–10:00 Clean bathrooms

I get to the end and read it over with a fresh surge of optimism. At this rate I should be done easily by lunchtime.

9:36 f**k. I cannot make this bed. Why won’t this sheet lie flat?

9:42 And why do they make mattresses so heavy?

9:54 This is sheer torture. My arms have never ached so much in my entire life. The blankets weigh a ton, and the sheets won’t go straight and I have no idea how to do the wretched corners. How do chambermaids do it?

10:16 At last. Forty minutes of hard work and I have made precisely one bed. I’m already way behind. But never mind. Just keep moving. Laundry next.

10:26 No. Please, no.

I can hardly bear to look. It’s a total disaster. Everything in the washing machine has gone pink. Every single thing.

What happened?

With trembling fingers I pick out a damp cashmere cardigan. It was cream when I put it in. It’s now a sickly shade of candy floss. I knew K3 was bad news. I knew it—

There must be a solution, there must be. Frantically I scan the cans of products stacked on the shelves. Stain Away. Vanish. There has to be a remedy.… I just need to think.…

10:38 OK, I have the answer. It may not totally work—but it’s my best shot.