“Do what?” I give a startled laugh. “I can’t come to India!”
“Take a month off. Why not? They’re not going to fire you. Come to the airport, we’ll get you a ticket.…”
“Freya, you’re crazy. Seriously.” I squeeze her arm. “I love you—but you’re crazy.”
Slowly, Freya’s grip on my arm loosens.
“Same,” she says. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”
Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.
“Here.” She thrusts it at me.
“Freya.” I turn it over in my fingers. “It’s amazing.”
“I thought you’d like it.” She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. “Hi!” she says impatiently into it. “Look, Lord, I’ll be there, OK?”
Freya’s husband’s full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freya’s nickname for him started as a joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married in Las Vegas. He’s tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. He’s also amazingly witty once you get past the deadpan exterior. Technically, their marriage makes her Lady Edgerly—but her family can’t quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys.
“Thanks for coming. Thanks for this.” I hug her. “Have a fabulous time in India.”
“We will.” Freya is climbing back into her taxi. “And if you want to come out, just let me know. Invent a family emergency … anything. Give them my number. I’ll cover for you. Whatever your story is.”
“Go,” I say, laughing, and give her a little push. “Go to India.”
The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window.
“Sam … good luck for tomorrow.” She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. “If it’s really what you want—then I hope you get it.”
“It’s what I want more than anything else.” As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated nonchalance disappears. “Freya … I can’t tell you how much I want it.”
“You’ll get it. I know you will.” She kisses my hand, then waves good-bye. “And don’t go back to the office! Promise!” she shouts over the roar of her taxi.
“OK! I promise!” I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another.
“Carter Spink, please,” I say as it pulls up.
I was crossing my fingers. Of course I’m going back to the office.
I arrive home at eleven o’clock, exhausted and brain-dead, having got through only about half of Ketterman’s file. Bloody Ketterman, I’m thinking, as I push open the main front door of the 1930s-mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman. Bloody … bloody …
“Good evening, Samantha.”
I nearly jump a mile. It’s Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase. For an instant I’m transfixed in horror. What’s he doing here?
“Someone told me you lived here.” His eyes glint through his spectacles. “I’ve bought number thirty-two as a pied-à-terre. We’ll be neighbors during the week.”
Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here?
“Er … welcome to the building!” I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean it. The lift doors open and we both get in.
Number 32. That means he’s only two floors above me. I feel like my headmaster has moved in. Why did he have to choose this building?
The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I attempt small talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?
“I made some headway on that file you gave me,” I say at last.
“Good,” he says curtly, and nods.
So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.
Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?
“Well … good night,” I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.
“Good night, Samantha.”
The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. I’m going to have to move.
I’m about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack.
“Samantha?”
As if I haven’t had enough this evening. It’s Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusiveness.
“Another delivery arrived for you, dear,” she says. “Dry cleaning this time. I’ll just fetch it for you.”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway. I’m planning to recycle them when I get a moment. It’s on my list.
“You’re late home again.” Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered shirts. “You girls are so busy!” She clicks her tongue. “You haven’t been home before eleven this week!”
This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book.
“Thanks very much.” I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me into the flat, exclaiming, “I’ll carry it in for you!”
“Er … excuse the … er … mess,” I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped against the wall. “I keep meaning to put those up.…”
I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall table. Then I wish I hadn’t. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets, together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals:
DEAR SAMANTHA
1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY?
2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY.
3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST IN CASE.
YOUR CLEANER JOANNE
I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didn’t take five minutes to slice a carrot, did it?
I really wouldn’t know.
“So … thanks.” I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. “It’s really kind of you.”
“It’s no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blouses very well at home and save on all that money.”
I look at her blankly. If I did that I’d have to dry them. And iron them.
“And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button,” she adds. “The pink and white stripe.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Well … that’s OK. I’ll send it back. They won’t charge.”
“You can pop a button on yourself, dear!” Mrs. Farley is shocked. “It won’t take you two minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?”
My what?
“I don’t have a workbox,” I explain as politely as I can. “I don’t really do sewing.”
“You can sew a simple button on, surely!” she exclaims.
“No,” I say, a bit rankled at her expression. “But it’s no problem. I’ll send it back to the dry cleaners.”
Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?”
I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er … no. She didn’t.”
“In my day,” says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, “all well-educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.”
None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar. It’s gibberish.
<
br /> “Well, in my day … we weren’t,” I reply politely. “We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains,” I can’t resist adding.
Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically.
I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me—and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on a button?
“It’s not a shame,” I say tightly.
“All right, dear,” says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.
Somehow this goads me even more.
“How is it a shame?” I demand, stepping out of my doorway. “How? OK, maybe I can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.”
Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t even hear me. “Good night, dear.” She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.
“Did you never hear of feminism?” I cry at her door.
But there’s no answer.
Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.
A workbox. What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom?
I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News … a French film … some animal documentary …
Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.
The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years.
Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.
On the screen the whole family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace.
I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve always secretly loved The Waltons, ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out and pretend I lived on Walton’s Mountain too.
And now it’s the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.
“Good night, Elizabeth!”
“Good night, Grandma,” I reply aloud. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear.
“Night, Mary Ellen!”
“Good night, John Boy,” I say in unison with Mary Ellen.
“Good night.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
Four
I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, “What? What?”
Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum’s house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water—to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.
I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights … it’s all been for this day.
Partner. Or not Partner.
Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I’m out of milk.
And coffee.
I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery/milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.
My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually—and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized.
I should really cross off some of the early entries, it occurs to me. I mean, the original list dates from when I first moved into my flat, three years ago. I must have done some of this stuff by now. I pick up a pen and squint at the first few faded entries.
1. Find milkman
2. Food delivery—organize?
3. How switch on oven?
Oh. Right.
Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And I’ll get to grips with the oven. I’ll read the manual and everything.
I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.
16. Sort out milkman
17. Have friends over?
18. Take up hobby??
The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.
I look down to even later entries—maybe a year old—where the ink is still blue.
41. Go on holiday?
42. Give dinner party?
43. MILKMAN??
I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn on the kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits.
The kettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup of weird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for an apple from the fruit bowl—only to discover it’s gone all moldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.
The truth is, I don’t care about the list. There’s only one thing I care about.
I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. I’ll just keep my head down and get on with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur “Good luck,” and walking along the corridor a guy from Tax grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.
“Best of luck, Samantha.”
How does he know my name?
I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, trying to ignore the fact that through the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.
I really shouldn’t have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.
Anyway. It’s fine. I’ll just start on some work, like any other day. I open Ketterman’s file, find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share transfer.
“Samantha?”
I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. “I’m fine. Just … normal. In fact, I don’t know what all the fuss is.”
Guy’s amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my point—and somehow knock the entire file to the floor.
Thank God for paper clips.
Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.
“Uh-huh.” Guy nods gravely. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not nervous or jumpy or anything.”
“Yes,” I say, refusing to take the bait. “Isn’t it?”
“See you later.” He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my watch.
Only eight fifty-three. The partners’ decision meeting starts in seven minutes. I’m not sure I can bear this.
Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Ketterman’s file and make a start at my report. I’m halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.
“Hi,” I say without looking up. “I’m fine, OK? And I haven’t heard anything.”
Guy doesn’t reply.
At last I lift my head. He’s right in front of my desk, looking down at me
with the strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together under his poker-straight face.
“I should not be doing this,” he murmurs, then leans in closer. “You did it, Samantha. You’re a partner. You’ll hear officially in an hour.”
For an instant I can’t breathe.
“You didn’t hear it from me, OK?” Guy’s face creases briefly in a smile. “Well done.”
I made it. I made it.
“Thanks …” I manage.
“I’ll see you later. Congratulate you properly.” He turns and strides away, and I’m left staring unseeingly at my computer.
I made partner.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD!
I’m feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out “YES!” How do I survive an hour? How can I just sit here calmly? I can’t possibly concentrate on Ketterman’s report. It isn’t due until tomorrow, anyway.
I shove the file away from me—and a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal.
Ketterman’s right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesn’t look like a partner’s desk.
I’ll tidy it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour. 12:06–1:06: office administration. We even have a code for it on the computer time sheet.
I had forgotten how much I detest tidying.
All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company letters … contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing … old invitations … memos … a Pilates pamphlet … a CD that I bought three months ago and thought I’d lost … last year’s Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume … I smile at the sight, and put it into the things to find a place for pile.
There are tombstones too—the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. And … oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didn’t finish eating at one time or another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers.
They shouldn’t give us such big desks. I can’t believe how much stuff is on here.
The Undomestic Goddess Page 4