“I really, really loved tonight,” I say with enthusiasm. “It’s a great pub. And I can’t get over how friendly it is. The way everyone knows you! And the village spirit. Everyone cares about each other. You can tell.”
“How can you tell that?”
“From the way everyone claps each other on the back,” I explain. “Like, if someone were in trouble, everyone would rally round in a heartwarming way. You can just see it.”
I hear Nathaniel stifle a laugh.
“We did get the ‘Most Heartwarming Village’ award last year,” he says.
“You can laugh,” I retort. “But in London, no one’s heartwarming. If you fell over dead in the street they’d just push you into the gutter. After emptying your wallet and stealing your identity. That wouldn’t happen here, would it?”
“Well, no,” says Nathaniel, straight-faced. “If you die here, the entire village gathers round your bed and sings the village lament.”
My mouth twists into a smile. “I knew it. Strewing flower petals?”
“Naturally.” He nods. “And making ceremonial corn dollies.”
A small animal runs across the road, stops, and regards us with two tiny yellow headlamps, then skitters into the hedgerow.
“How does the lament go, then?” I say.
“It goes something like this.” Nathaniel clears his throat, then sings in a low, mournful monotone. “ ‘Oh, no. He’s gone.’ ”
“What about if it’s a woman?” I match his deadpan manner.
“Good point. Then we sing a different lament.” He draws a deep breath and sings again, on exactly the same tuneless note: “ ‘Oh, no. She’s gone.’ ”
I can’t help but laugh. “Well … we don’t have laments in London. We move on. Big on moving, Londoners. Big on staying ahead.”
“I know about Londoners.” Nathaniel runs his hand along a hedge. “I lived in London for a time.”
Nathaniel lived in London? I try, and fail, to picture him straphanging on the tube, reading Metro.
“When?”
“I was a waiter on my year off before uni. My flat was opposite a twenty-four-hour supermarket. It was lit up all night, with these bright fluorescent strips. And the noise …” He winces. “In ten months of living there, I never had a single moment of total darkness or total quiet. I never heard a bird. I never saw the stars.”
Instinctively I tilt my head back to look up at the clear night sky. Slowly, as my eyes adjust to the blackness, the tiny pinpricks begin to appear, forming whorls and patterns that I can’t begin to decipher. He’s right. I never saw the stars in London either.
“My dad taught me the constellations,” Nathaniel says, looking up too. “He had a telescope up in the attic.”
“Nathaniel … what happened with your dad?” I speak tentatively. “Eamonn told me there was a court case with the council?”
“Yes.” His voice tightens. “There was.”
“Was he suing them? Or … or …” I trail off.
“It was all so bloody pointless.” He exhales. “It started when the council dug up the road outside one of our pubs for eight months. They ruined access to it, and business went down. So Dad sued them. And lost. That’s when he had his first heart attack. That should have been the end of it.”
I bite my lip. “So … what went wrong?”
“Then some other lawyers made contact. More expensive.” I can hear the bitterness in Nathaniel’s voice. “They persuaded Dad he would win on appeal. They kept whipping him up, pressing the right buttons. They knew he was ill. Mum and I tried to talk him out of it … but he just called us negative. Dad always believed he was in the right. He kept saying justice would prevail. He trusted those bastards.” Nathaniel is silent for a moment, then adds, “He had the next heart attack a week after they lost the second appeal. It killed him.”
“Nathaniel … I’m really sorry. That’s awful.”
“Thanks,” he says after a pause. “It was a pretty bad time.”
I feel chastened after hearing his story. This is a side of the law I have no experience of. Genuine concerns and people. At Carter Spink the deals may have been huge—but I was pretty much cushioned from real life.
“How about you?” His voice brings me back to earth. “You were going to tell me how you came to be here.”
“Oh.” I feel a spasm of nerves. “Yes, right. So I was.”
This is impossible. I want to tell him. But … how on earth can I now? How can I admit that I’m a lawyer?
“Well,” I say at last. “I was in London. In this … this …”
“Relationship,” he prompts.
“Er … yes.” I pause, racking my brains for a way to continue. “Well. Things went wrong. I got on a train … and I ended up here.”
There’s an expectant silence. “That’s it,” I add.
“That’s it?” Nathaniel sounds incredulous. “That’s the long story?”
Oh, God.
“Look.” I turn to face him in the moonlight. “I know I was going to tell you more. But are the details really important? Does it matter, what I used to do … or be? The point is, I’m here. And I’ve just had the best evening of my life. Ever.”
I can see he wants to challenge me; he even opens his mouth to speak. Then he relents and turns away.
I feel a plunge of despair. Maybe I’ve ruined everything. Maybe I should have told the truth anyway. Or made up some convoluted story about a nasty boyfriend.
We walk on again into the night without speaking. Nathaniel’s shoulder brushes against mine. Then I feel his hand. His fingers graze against my own casually at first, as though by accident—then, slowly, entwine round mine.
I feel an arching inside as my entire body responds, but somehow force myself not to catch my breath. There’s no sound except our footsteps on the road and the hooting of an owl. Nathaniel’s hand is sure and firm round my own. I can feel the roughened calluses on his skin, his thumb rubbing over mine.
We come to a stop at the entrance to the Geigers’ drive. He looks down at me silently, his expression almost grave. I can feel my breath thickening. I don’t care if it’s obvious I want him.
I was never any good at the rules, anyway.
He releases my hand and puts both hands round my waist. Now he’s slowly pulling me toward him. I close my eyes.
“For goodness sake!” comes an unmistakable voice. “Aren’t you going to kiss her?”
I jump backward. Nathaniel looks equally shocked; his arms have dropped to his sides. I turn round—and to my utter horror, Trish is leaning out of an upstairs window, holding a cigarette.
“I’m not a prude, you know,” she says. “You are allowed to kiss!”
I shoot furious daggers at her. Has she never heard the word privacy?
“Carry on!” Her cigarette end glows as she waves it. “Don’t mind me!”
Don’t mind her? I’m sorry, but Nathaniel and I are not having our first kiss with Trish as a spectator. I glance uncertainly at Nathaniel, who looks as nonplussed as I feel.
“Should we—” I’m not even sure what I’m about to suggest.
“Isn’t it a lovely summer’s night?” adds Trish conversationally.
“Lovely,” calls back Nathaniel politely.
This is disastrous. The mood is totally broken.
“Um … thanks for a great evening,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I had a great time.”
“Me too.” His eyes are almost indigo in the shadows. “So. Are we going to give Mrs. Geiger her kicks? Or leave her in an unbearable frenzy of frustration?”
Trish is still leaning avidly out the window, as if we’re the floor show.
“Oh … I think she probably deserves the unbearable frenzy of frustration,” I say with a tiny smile.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be at your mum’s at ten o’clock.”
He holds out his hand and we barely brush fingertips before he turns and walks away. I watch him disappear
into the darkness, then turn and head down the drive to the house, my whole body still pulsating.
It’s all very well, getting one over on Trish. But what about my unbearable frenzy of frustration?
Sixteen
I’m woken the next day by Trish banging sharply on my door. “Samantha! I need to speak to you! Now!”
It’s not even eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Where’s the fire?
“OK! Hang on a sec!” I call blearily.
I get out of bed and put on a dressing gown, my head filled with delicious memories of last night. Nathaniel’s hand in mine … Nathaniel’s arms around me …
“Yes, Mrs. Geiger?” I open my door to see Trish standing there in a white robe. She puts her hand over the cordless phone in her hand.
“Samantha.” There’s a strange note of triumph in her voice. “You’ve fibbed to me, haven’t you?”
I feel a white flash of shock. How did she—how could she—
“Haven’t you?” She gives me a penetrating look. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about?”
My mind frantically runs over all the fibs I’ve ever told Trish, up to and including “I’m a housekeeper.” It could be anything. It could be something small and insignificant. Or she could have found out the whole lot.
“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I say in a throaty voice. “Madam.”
“Well.” Trish walks toward me, swishing her silk dressing gown crossly. “As you can imagine, I’m rather upset that you never told me you’d cooked paella for the Spanish ambassador.”
My mouth hangs open.
“I specifically asked in your interview if you had cooked for any notable persons.” Trish arches her eyebrows in reproof. “You never even mentioned the banquet for three hundred at the Mansion House.”
OK, has she been bipolar all this time? That would explain a lot.
“Mrs. Geiger,” I say, a little nervous. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No, thank you!” she says crisply. “I’m still on the phone with Lady Edgerly.”
Freya’s on the phone?
“Lady Edgerly …” Trish lifts the phone to her ear. “You’re quite right, far too unassuming …” She looks up. “Lady Edgerly would like to have a word with you.”
She hands me the phone and in a blur of incredulity I lift it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Samantha?” Freya’s familiar, raspy voice erupts into my ear through a sea of static. “Are you OK? What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m … fine!” I glance at Trish, who is standing approximately two meters away. “I’ll just … go somewhere a bit more …”
Ignoring Trish’s laserlike eyes, I hurry into my bedroom and close the door tight. Then I lift the phone to my ear again.
“I’m fine!” I feel a rush of joy to be talking to Freya again. “It’s so amazing to hear from you!”
“What on earth’s going on?” she demands again. “I got this message but it made no sense! You’re a housekeeper? Is this some huge windup?”
“No.” I glance at the door, then move into the bathroom and turn the fan on. “I’m a full-time housekeeper,” I say in a lower voice. “I’ve left my job at Carter Spink.”
“You’ve quit?” says Freya. “Just like that?”
“I didn’t quit. I was … thrown out. I made a mistake and they fired me.”
It’s still hard to say it. Or even to think about it.
“You were thrown out for a simple mistake?” Freya sounds outraged. “Jesus H. Christ, these people—”
“It wasn’t a simple mistake,” I cut her off in mid-flow. “It was … a really big, important mistake. Anyway, that’s what happened. And I decided to do something different. Become a housekeeper for a bit.”
“You decided to become a housekeeper,” echoes Freya slowly. “Samantha, did you totally lose your mind?”
“Why not?” I say defensively. “You were the one who said I should have a break.”
“But a housekeeper? You can’t cook!”
“Well, I know.”
“I mean, you really can’t cook!” She’s giggling now. “I’ve seen your cooking. And your nonexistent cleaning.”
“I know! It was a bit of a nightmare to begin with. But I’m kind of … learning. You’d be surprised.”
“Do you have to wear an apron?”
“I’ve got this hideous nylon uniform.” I’m snuffling with laughter now. “And I call them Madam … and Sir … and I curtsy.”
“Samantha, this is insane,” says Freya. “Absolutely insane. You cannot stay there. I’m going to rescue you. I’ll fly back tomorrow—”
“No!” I say with more vehemence than I intended. “No! I’m … having a good time. I’ve met—”
I halt abruptly. But Freya’s too quick off the mark for me.
“A man?” she exclaims in delight.
“Well … yes.”
“That’s fantastic! About time too. Only he’d better not be another dreary lawyer—”
“Don’t worry.” I feel an unwilling grin come to my face. “He’s not.”
“Details?”
“It’s early days. But he’s … you know. Nice.”
“Well, even so. If you want to escape, you know I’m only a phone call away. You can stay at our place.”
“Thanks, Freya.” I feel a tug of affection for her.
“No problem. Samantha?”
“Yes?” There’s a long silence, until I think the line must have cut out.
“What about the law?” says Freya at last. “What about partnership? I know I gave you a hard time about it. But it was your dream. Are you just going to abandon it?”
I push down a twinge of deep, buried grief.
“That dream’s over,” I say shortly. “Partners don’t make fifty-million-quid mistakes.”
“Fifty million quid?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus.” I hear her sharp intake of breath. “I had no idea. I can’t imagine how you’ve coped with all this—”
“It’s fine.” I cut her off. “I’ve got over it.”
Freya sighs. “You know, I had a feeling something was up. I tried to send you an e-mail the other day via the Carter Spink Web site. But your page was gone.”
“Really?” I feel an odd tweak inside.
“And then I thought—” She breaks off, and I can hear some kind of mayhem in the background. “Oh, bugger. Our transport’s here. Listen, I’ll call again soon—”
“Wait!” I say urgently. “Before you go, Freya, what on earth did you say to Trish about the Spanish ambassador? And the Mansion House?”
“Oh, that! Well, she kept asking questions, so I thought I’d better make some stuff up. I said you could fold napkins into a scene from Swan Lake … and make ice sculptures … and David Linley once asked for your cheese-straw recipe.”
“Freya …” I close my eyes.
“I made quite a lot up, actually. She lapped it up! I have to go, babe. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The phone goes dead and I stand motionless for a moment, the bathroom suddenly very silent without Freya’s husky voice in my ear.
I look at my watch. It’s still early. I’ve got time to have a look.
Three minutes later I’m sitting at Eddie’s desk, tapping my fingers as I wait for the Internet connection to work. I asked Trish if I could possibly send an e-mail of thanks to Lady Edgerly, and she was only too eager to open up the study for me and loiter behind the chair, until I politely asked her for some privacy.
Eddie’s home page opens and I immediately type in www.carterspink.com.
As the familiar purple logo appears and describes a 360-degree circle on the screen, I can feel all the old tensions rising, like leaves from the bottom of a pond. Taking a deep breath, I click swiftly past the introduction, straight to Associates. The list comes up—and Freya’s right. The names segue straight from Snell to Taylor. No Sweeting. r />
I tell myself to be rational. Of course they’ve taken me off. I’ve been fired, what else did I expect? That was my old life and I’m not concerned with it anymore. I should just close down, go to Iris’s house, and forget about it. That’s what I should do. Instead, I find myself reaching for the mouse and tapping Samantha Sweeting into the search box. No result pings up a few moments later.
No result? Nowhere on the whole Web site? But … what about in the Media section? Or News Archives?
I quickly click onto the Done Deals box, and search for Euro-Sal, merger, DanCo. That was a big European deal last year, and I handled the financing. The report appears on the screen, with the headline carter spink advises on £20bn merger. My eyes run down the familiar text. The Carter Spink team was led from London by Arnold Saville, with associates Guy Ashby and Jane Smilington.
I stop in disbelief, then go back and read the text more carefully, searching for the missing words: and Samantha Sweeting, it should read. But the words aren’t there. I’m not there. Quickly I click onto another deal, the Conlon acquisition. I know I’m in this report. I’ve read it, for Christ’s sake. I was on the team, I’ve got a tombstone to prove it.
But I’m not mentioned here either.
My heart is thudding as I click from deal to deal, tracking back a year. Two years. Five years. They’ve wiped me out. Someone has gone painstakingly through the entire Web site and removed my name. I’ve been erased from every deal I was involved with. It’s as if I never even existed.
I try to stay calm, but anger is bubbling up, hot and strong. How dare they change history? How dare they wipe me out? I gave them seven years of my life. They can’t just blot me out, pretend I was never even on the payroll.
Then a new thought hits me. Why have they bothered doing this? Other people have left the firm and haven’t disappeared. Am I such an embarrassment? I look at the screen silently for a moment. Then, slowly, I type in www.google.com and enter Samantha Sweeting in the box. I add lawyer to be on the safe side, and press enter.
A moment later the screen fills with text. As I scan the entries I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head.
… the Samantha Sweeting debacle …
… discovery, Samantha Sweeting went AWOL, leaving colleagues to …