The Undomestic Goddess

by Sophie Kinsella

  The trainees are all staring at me as though I’m the Ghost of Failed Lawyers Future.

  “It’s not so bad.” I attempt an upbeat smile. “You get free canapés!”

  “So you make one mistake—and that’s it?” gulps the girl who dropped her éclair. “Your legal career is ruined forever?”

  “Er … pretty much.” I nod. “Can I offer you another?”

  But no one seems hungry anymore. In fact, they all look rather green about the gills.

  “I might just … pop back to my desk,” stammers the guy with rimless glasses. “Just check I haven’t got anything outstanding …”

  “Me too,” says the girl, thrusting down her glass.

  “Samantha Sweeting is here!” I suddenly hear another of the trainees hissing to a group of junior associates. “Look! She’s a waitress!”

  “No!” I gasp. “Don’t tell anyone else—”

  It’s too late. I can see all the people in the group turning to look at me with identical expressions of embarrassed horror.

  For an instant I’m so mortified I want to curl up on the spot. These are people I used to work with. These are people who respected me. And now I’m dressed up in stripes, serving them.

  But then, slowly, I begin to feel defiant.

  Fuck you, I find myself thinking. Why shouldn’t I work as a waitress?

  “Hi,” I say, shaking back my hair. “Care for a dessert?”

  More and more people are turning to gasp at me. I can hear the whispering round the room. The other waitstaff are all clustered together, goggling at me. Heads are swiveling everywhere now, like iron filings in a magnetic field. There isn’t one friendly face among them.

  “Jesus Christ!” I hear someone murmur. “Look at her.”

  “Should she be here?” exclaims someone else.

  “No,” I say, trying to sound composed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t.”

  I make to leave, but the melee is all around me now. I can’t find a way out. And then my stomach plunges. Through a gap in the throng, I spot a familiar shock of woolly hair. Familiar ruddy cheeks. A familiar jovial smile.

  Arnold Saville.

  Our eyes meet across the room, and although he keeps smiling, there’s a hardness to his gaze that I’ve never seen before. A special anger, just for me.

  I feel sick. Almost scared. Not of his anger—but of his duplicity. He’s fooled everyone. To everyone else in this room, Arnold Saville is on a par with Father Christmas. A way has parted in the crowd, and he’s coming toward me, a glass of champagne in his hand.

  “Samantha,” he says, in pleasant tones. “Is this appropriate?”

  “You had me banned from the building,” I hear myself bite back. “I didn’t have much choice.”

  Oh, God. Wrong answer. Too chippy.

  I have to get control of myself, or I’m going to lose this confrontation. I’m already at enough of a disadvantage, standing here in waitress gear, being peered at by the entire room as if I’m something the dog dragged in. I need to be calm and steely and inspired. But seeing Arnold in the flesh after all this time has thrown me off balance. As hard as I try to stay calm, I can’t. My face is burning, my chest feels tight. All the traumas of the last few weeks are suddenly erupting inside me in a whoosh of hatred.

  “You had me fired.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “You lied.”

  “Samantha, I know this must have been a very difficult time for you.” Arnold has the air of a headmaster dealing with a wayward pupil. “But really …” He turns to a man I don’t recognize and rolls his eyes. “Former employee,” he says in an undertone. “Mentally unstable.”

  What? What?

  “I’m not mentally unstable!” I cry. “I just want to know the answer to one simple question. When exactly did you put that memo on my desk?”

  Arnold laughs, seemingly incredulous.

  “Samantha, I’m retiring. Is this really the time? Could someone get rid of her?” he adds as an aside.

  “That’s why you didn’t want me to come back to the office, isn’t it?” My voice is trembling with indignation. “Because I might start asking tricky questions. Because I might work it out.”

  A little frisson travels around the room. But not in a good way. I can hear people murmuring, “For God’s sake,” and “How did she get in here?” If I want to retain any credibility or dignity at all I have to stop talking right now. But I can’t stop.

  “I didn’t make that mistake, did I?” I walk toward him. “You used me. You wrecked my career, you watched my whole life go into free fall—”

  “Really,” snaps Arnold, turning away. “This is getting beyond a joke.”

  “Just answer the question!” I yell at his back. “When did you put that memo on my desk, Arnold? Because I don’t believe it was ever there before the deadline.”

  “Of course it was there.” Arnold turns briefly, bored and dismissive. “I came into your office on May twenty-eighth.”

  May 28th?

  Where did May 28th come from? Why does that feel wrong?

  “I don’t believe you,” I say with a helpless anger. “I just don’t believe you. I think you set me up. I think—”

  “Samantha?” Someone pokes me on the shoulder and I wheel round to see Ernest the security guard. His familiar, gnarled face is awkward. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

  They’re seriously throwing me out of the offices? After practically living here for seven years of my life? I can feel my last shreds of composure disappearing. Hot tears of rage and humiliation are pressing against my eyes.

  “Just leave, Samantha,” says Oliver Swan pityingly. “Don’t embarrass yourself any further.”

  I stare at him for a few seconds, then transfer my gaze to each of the senior partners in turn, searching for a shred of empathy. But there’s none.

  “I was a good lawyer,” I say, my voice shaking. “I did a good job. You all know it. But you just wiped me out, like I never existed.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Well, your loss.”

  The room is totally silent as I put the tray of éclairs down on a nearby table and stalk out of the room. The moment I’m out the door I can hear an animated conversation breaking out behind me. I’m even more of a joke than I was before.

  I travel down in the lift with Ernest in total silence. If I opened my mouth, I might burst into tears.

  When I get out of the building I check my mobile. There’s a text from Nat on my phone, asking how things went. I read it several times, but I can’t bring myself to reply. Nor can I bring myself to go back to the Geigers’ house. Even though I could probably still catch a train, I can’t face them tonight.

  On automatic pilot, I head down to the Underground and onto a tube. I can see my face in the window opposite, pale and expressionless. And all the way, my mind is buzzing. May 28th. May 28th.

  I don’t hit on the answer until I’m arriving at my building. May 28th. Chelsea Flower Show. Of course. We were at Chelsea all day on May 28th. Arnold, Ketterman, Guy, and I, doing some corporate entertaining. Arnold arrived straight from Paris and afterward he was driven home. He wasn’t even in the office.

  He lied. Of course he did. I feel a wave of weary anger rising inside me. But there’s nothing I can do now. No one will ever believe me. I’ll live the rest of my life with everyone convinced it was my mistake.

  I get out at my floor, already fumbling for the key, hoping against hope that Mrs. Farley won’t hear me, already planning a long, hot bath. And then, as I’m almost at my door, I stop dead, thinking hard.

  Slowly I turn and head back to the lift. There’s one more chance. I have nothing to lose.

  I rise up two floors and come out of the lift. It’s almost identical to my floor—same carpet, same wallpaper, same lamps. Just different numbers on the apartment doors. 31 and 32. I can’t remember which one I want, so in the end I plump for 31. It has a softer doormat. I sink down on the floor, put my bag down, lean a
gainst the door, and wait.

  By the time Ketterman appears out of the lift doors I’m drained. I’ve been sitting here for three solid hours without anything to eat or drink. I feel wan and exhausted. But at the sight of him I scramble to my feet, clutching the wall as I feel a wash of fatigue.

  For a moment Ketterman looks shocked. Then he resumes his usual stony expression.

  “Samantha. What are you doing here?”

  As I stand there I wonder if he’s heard about me going to the offices. He must have. He’ll have heard the whole gory tale. Not that he’s giving anything away.

  “What are you doing here?” he repeats. He’s holding an enormous metal briefcase in one hand and his face is shadowed under the artificial lights. I take a step forward.

  “I know I’m the last person you want to see.” I rub my aching neck. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. Out of all the people in the world I could turn to for help … you would be the last. You are the last.”

  I break off for a moment. Ketterman hasn’t even flickered.

  “So the fact that I’m here, coming to you … should prove it to you.” I look at him desperately. “I’m serious. I have something to tell you, and you have to listen. You have to.”

  I can hear a car braking in the street outside and someone laughing raucously. Ketterman’s face is still rigid. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then, at last, he reaches in his pocket for a key. He walks past me, unlocks the door to flat 32—and finally turns.

  “Come in.”

  Twenty-two

  I wake up to the view of a cracked, grubby ceiling. My eye runs along to a huge cobweb in the corner of the room, then down the wall to a rickety bookshelf stuffed with books, tapes, letters, old Christmas decorations, and the odd bit of discarded underwear.

  How did I live in this mess for seven years?

  How did I not notice it?

  I push back the bedcover, get out of bed, and look around blearily. The carpet feels gritty under my feet and I wince. It needs a good Hoover. I guess the cleaner stopped coming after the money stopped appearing.

  There are clothes lying all over the floor, and I search around until I find a dressing gown. I wrap it around myself and head out to the kitchen. I’d forgotten how bare and cold and spartan it was in here. There’s nothing in the fridge, of course. But I find a chamomile tea bag and fill the kettle, and perch on a bar stool, looking out at the brick wall opposite.

  It’s already nine-fifteen. Ketterman will be at the office. He’ll be taking whatever action he’s going to take. In spite of everything, I feel weirdly calm. Matters are out of my hands now; there’s nothing further I can do.

  He listened to me. He actually listened, and asked questions, and even made me a cup of tea. I was there for over an hour. He didn’t tell me what he thought or what he was going to do. He didn’t even say whether he believed me or not. But the fact that he took me seriously made all the difference.

  The kettle’s coming to the boil when the doorbell rings. I pull my dressing gown around me and pad out to the hall. Through the spy-hole I can see Mrs. Farley peering back at me, her arms laden with packages.

  Of course. Who else?

  I open the door. “Hello, Mrs. Farley.”

  “Samantha, I thought it was you!” she exclaims. “After all this time! I had no idea … I didn’t know what to think …”

  “I’ve been away.” I muster a neighborly smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was going away. But I didn’t really have any warning myself.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Farley’s eyes are darting all around, at my blond hair, at my face, and past me into the flat, as though searching for clues.

  “Thanks for taking in my parcels.” I hold out my hands. “Shall I …”

  “Oh! Of course.” She hands over a couple of Jiffy bags and a cardboard box, still obviously avid with curiosity. “I suppose these high-powered jobs do send you girls abroad with no notice—”

  “I haven’t been abroad.” I put the boxes down. “Thanks again.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble! I know what it’s like when you’ve had a … a difficult family time?” she hazards.

  “I haven’t had a difficult family time,” I say politely.

  “Of course not!” She clears her throat. “Well, anyway. You’re back now. From … whatever you’ve been doing.”

  “Mrs. Farley.” I try to keep a straight face. “Would you like to know where I’ve been?”

  Mrs. Farley recoils.

  “Dear me! No! It’s absolutely none of my business! Really, I wouldn’t dream of … I must be getting on.…” She starts backing away.

  “Thanks again!” I call as she disappears back into her flat.

  I’m just closing the door as the phone rings. I pick up the receiver, suddenly wondering how many people must have rung this number over the last few weeks. The machine is crammed with messages, but after listening to the first three, all from Mum and each more furious than the last, I gave up.

  “Hello?”

  “Samantha,” comes a businesslike voice. “John Ketterman here.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly my calmness is replaced by a serious case of nerves. “Hi.”

  “I’d like to ask that you keep yourself available today. It may be necessary for you to speak to some people.”

  “People?”

  There’s a slight pause, then Ketterman says, “Investigators.”

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I feel like punching the air or bursting into tears. But somehow I keep my composure.

  “So have you found something out?”

  “I can’t say anything at the moment.” Ketterman sounds as distant and formal as ever. “I just need to know that you’ll be available.”

  “Of course. Where will I have to go?”

  “We’d like you to come here, to the Carter Spink offices,” he says, without any trace of irony.

  I look at the phone, almost wanting to laugh. Would that be the same Carter Spink offices I was thrown out of yesterday? I feel like saying. The same Carter Spink offices I’ve been banned from?

  “I’ll call you,” adds Ketterman. “Keep your mobile with you. It could be a few hours.”

  “OK. I will.” I take a deep breath. “And please, just tell me. You don’t have to go into specifics, but … was my theory right?”

  There’s a crackling silence down the phone. I can’t breathe.

  “Not in every detail,” says Ketterman at last, and I feel a painful thrill of triumph. That means I was right with some details, at least.

  The phone goes dead. I put the receiver down and look at my reflection in the hall mirror, my eyes bright.

  I was right. And they know it.

  They’ll offer me my job back, it suddenly hits me. They’ll offer me partnership. At the thought I’m seized with excitement—and at the same time, a kind of fear.

  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  I walk into the kitchen, keyed up, unable to stand still. What the hell am I going to do for the next few hours? I pour hot water onto my chamomile tea bag and stir it round with a spoon. And then I have an idea.

  It takes only twenty minutes to pop out and get what I need. Butter, eggs, flour, vanilla, icing sugar. Baking tins. Mixers. A set of scales. Everything, in fact. I cannot believe how badly equipped my kitchen is. How did I ever do any cooking in here?

  Well. I didn’t.

  I don’t have an apron so I improvise with an old shirt. I don’t have a mixing bowl and I forgot to buy one—so I use the plastic basin given to me as part of an aromatherapy kit. Two hours of whisking and baking later, I’ve produced a cake. Three tiers of vanilla sponge, sandwiched with buttercream, iced with lemon glacé, and decorated with sugar flowers.

  I take it in with a glow of satisfaction. This is my fifth cake ever, and the first time I’ve done more than two tiers. I take off my old shirt, check that my mobile is in my pocket, pick up the cake, and head out of the flat.


  As Mrs. Farley answers the doorbell, she looks startled to see me.

  “Hi!” I say. “I’ve brought you something. To say thank you for looking after my post.”

  “Oh!” She looks at the cake in astonishment. “Samantha! That must have been expensive!”

  “I didn’t buy it,” I say proudly. “I made it.”

  Mrs. Farley looks staggered.

  “You … made it?”

  “Uh-huh.” I beam. “Shall I bring it in and make you some coffee?”

  Mrs. Farley looks too thunderstruck to answer, so I head past her into the flat. To my shame I realize I haven’t been in here before. In three years of knowing her, I never once set foot over the threshold. The place is immaculately kept, full of little side tables and antiques and a bowl of rose petals on the coffee table.

  “You sit down,” I say. “I’ll find what I need in the kitchen.” Still looking dazed, Mrs. Farley sinks into an upholstered wing chair.

  “Please,” she says faintly. “Don’t break anything.”

  “I’m not going to break anything! Would you like frothy milk? And do you have any nutmeg?”

  Ten minutes later I emerge from the kitchen, bearing two coffees and the cake.

  “Here.” I cut Mrs. Farley a slice. “See what you think.”

  Mrs. Farley takes the plate.

  “You made this,” she says at last.

  “Yes!”

  Mrs. Farley takes the slice to her mouth. Then she pauses, an anxious expression on her face.

  “It’s safe!” I say, and take a bite of my own slice. “See? I know how to cook! Honestly!”

  Mrs. Farley takes a tiny bite. As she’s chewing, her eyes meet mine in astonishment.

  “It’s … delicious! So light! You really made this?”

  “I whisked the egg whites separately,” I explain. “It keeps cakes really light. I can give you the recipe if you like. Have some coffee.” I hand her a cup. “I used your electric beater for the milk, if that’s OK. It works fine, if you get it to just the right temperature.”

  Mrs. Farley is gazing at me as though I’m talking gobbledygook.