The Undomestic Goddess

  Eamonn grins. “And there’s a drink or two waiting for you behind the bar if you want to come along?”

  “Well … er …” I glance at Trish. “Maybe later …”

  “You go!” says Trish. “Enjoy yourselves! Don’t think about work! We’ll put the dirty glasses in the kitchen,” she adds, “and you can deal with them tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Geiger.” I force myself to remain straight-faced. “That’s very … good of you.”

  “Oh, and Samantha.” She beckons me over with her glass. “I was thinking about what you said to me the other day. About finding myself a little project of my own. Not that my life isn’t extremely busy already …”

  “Of course.” I nod.

  “Anyway.” She pauses momentously. “I’ve decided I’m going to hold a charity lunch for Save The Children.”

  “Good idea!” I say with enthusiasm.

  “And you can help me organize it! After all your experience running such events for Lady Edgerly, you must be an expert!”

  “Absolutely,” I gulp. “I look forward to it!”

  The only experience I have with charity events is attending them with clients and being forced to watch drunken, highly paid bankers outbid each other in the auction.

  “I must go too,” says Iris, getting up. “Good night, and thanks.”

  “We can’t tempt you to the pub, Iris?” says Eamonn.

  “Not tonight.” She smiles, her face illuminated by the twinkling fairy lights. “Good night, Samantha. Night, Nathaniel.”

  “Good night, Mum.”

  “Night, Eamonn.”

  “Night, Iris.”

  “Night, Grandpa,” I say.

  It comes out before I can stop myself. I’m hot with embarrassment, hoping no one picked it up. But Nathaniel is slowly swiveling toward me. Trust him to have heard.

  “Good night, Mary Ellen.” He lifts his eyebrows.

  “Good night, Jim Bob,” I retort nonchalantly.

  “I see myself as more of a John Boy.”

  “Hmmm.” I look him up and down. “OK, you can be John Boy.”

  I had a total crush on John Boy when I was a child. Not that I’ll mention this fact to Nathaniel.

  “C’mon.” Nathaniel holds out his hand. “Let’s get to Ike’s Tavern.”

  “Ike had the store.” I roll my eyes. “Do you know nothing?”

  As we head up to the house we pass Melissa and Eddie on the terrace, sitting at the garden table, which is covered in papers and brochures.

  “It’s just sooo difficult,” Melissa is saying. “I mean, this is a decision that will affect my whole life. It’s, like, how are you supposed to know?”

  “Mr. Geiger?” I interrupt awkwardly. “I just wanted to thank you very much for this evening. It’s been absolutely incredible.”

  “It was fun!” says Eddie.

  “Have a nice evening,” says Melissa, heaving an enormous sigh. “I’ve still got work to do.”

  “It’ll be worth it, love.” Eddie pats her hand reassuringly. “When you’re at …” He picks up a brochure from the table and peers at it through his reading glasses. “Carter Spink.”

  Melissa is going for a job at Carter Spink?

  “Is that …” I try to speak naturally. “Is that the name of the law firm where you’re applying?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says Melissa, looking sulky. “It’s the top one. But it’s incredibly competitive. Hardly anyone gets a place.”

  “Looks very swanky!” says Eddie, flipping over the glossy pages, each illustrated with a photograph. “Look at these offices!”

  As he flips through, I’m transfixed. There’s a picture of the foyer. There’s one of the floor I used to work on. I can’t tear my eyes away—but at the same time I don’t want to look. That’s my old life. It doesn’t belong here. And then suddenly, as Eddie flips another page over, I feel a jolt of disbelief.

  It’s a picture of me. Me.

  I’m in my black suit, my hair pinned up, sitting at a meeting-room table along with Ketterman, David Elldridge, and a guy who was over from the States. I remember that picture being taken. Ketterman was absolutely livid at being disturbed.

  I look so pale. I look so serious.

  “And it’s like … do I want to give up all my time?” Melissa is jabbing the page. “These people work every night! What about a social life?”

  My face is right there in full view. I’m just waiting for someone to frown in recognition, to say, “Hang on a moment …”

  But no one does. Melissa is still rabbiting on, gesturing to the brochure; Eddie is nodding. Nathaniel is staring upward, obviously bored.

  “Although, you know, the money is really good.…” Melissa sighs, and flips the page.

  The picture’s gone. I’m gone.

  “Shall we go?” Nathaniel’s warm hand tugs mine and I clasp it tightly back.

  “Yes.” I smile up at him. “Let’s.”

  Nineteen

  I don’t see the Carter Spink brochure again for two weeks, when I’m drifting into the kitchen to make lunch.

  I don’t know what happened to time. I barely recognize it anymore. The minutes and hours don’t march past in rigid chunks, they ebb and flow and swirl around. I don’t even wear a watch anymore. Yesterday I lay in a hay field all afternoon with Nathaniel, watching dandelion seeds float by, and the only ticking sound came from the crickets.

  I barely recognize myself anymore either. I’m tanned from lying in the sun at lunchtimes. There are golden streaks in my hair. My cheeks are full. My arms are gaining muscles from all the polishing and kneading and carting heavy saucepans around.

  The summer is in full throttle and each day is hotter than the last. Every morning, before breakfast, Nathaniel walks me back through the village to the Geigers’ house from his flat above the pub—and even at that hour the air is already warming up. I stay there most nights now, and it’s almost got to feel like home. It’s surprisingly spacious, with old sofas covered with cotton throws, and a tiny roof terrace that Nathaniel built himself.

  We often sit up there as evening turns into night, listening to the babble of pub-leavers down below. Sometimes Nathaniel’s doing the pub accounts, but he talks to me as he works: about the backgrounds of everyone in the village, about the plants he wants to put into the Geigers’ garden, once explaining the entire geology of the local landscape. I tell him about the day I’ve had with the Geigers and entertain him with stories about the latest catering job I’ve done for Eamonn. It’s become quite a regular event for me—driving off in his scruffy Honda with a couple of other girls from the village, changing into black waitress outfits and serving canapés at some posh party or other.

  Everything seems slow and lazy, these days. Everyone’s in holiday mood—except Trish, who is in full frenzy. She’s holding her charity lunch next week, and from the fuss she’s making, you’d think it was a royal wedding.

  I’m tidying away the papers that Melissa has left littered on the table when I spot the Carter Spink brochure underneath a folder. I can’t resist picking it up and leafing through the familiar pictures. There are the steps I went up every day of my life for seven years. There’s Guy, looking as dazzling as ever. There’s that girl Sarah from the litigation department, who was up for partnership too. I never even heard if she got it.

  “What are you doing?” Melissa has come into the kitchen without me hearing. She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s mine.”

  Right. Like I’m going to steal a brochure.

  “Just tidying your things,” I say pointedly, putting the brochure down. “I’ve got to use this table.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Melissa rubs her face. She looks haggard. There are shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks seem sunken. Could I have looked that stressed out even at her age?

  “You’re working hard,” I volunteer.

  “Yah, well.” She lifts her chin. “It’ll be worth it in the end. They work you really hard to start, but af
ter you qualify, it calms down.”

  I look at her tired, pinched, arrogant little face. Even if I could tell her what I know, she wouldn’t believe me.

  “Yup,” I say after a pause. “I’m sure you’re right.” The Carter Spink brochure is open at a picture of Arnold. He’s wearing a bright blue spotted tie and matching handkerchief and is beaming out at the world. Of all the people at Carter Spink, he’s the one I’d like to see again.

  “So are you applying to this law firm?” I ask, stacking the papers on the counter.

  “Yup. They’re the best.” Melissa is getting a Diet Coke from the fridge. “That’s the guy who was supposed to be interviewing me.” She points to the picture of Arnold. “But he’s leaving.”

  I’m astonished. Arnold’s leaving Carter Spink?

  “Are you sure?” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Yes.” Melissa regards me quizzically. “What’s it to you?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say, throwing down the brochure. “I just meant … he doesn’t look old enough to retire.”

  “Well, he’s going.” She grabs the brochure and wanders out of the kitchen.

  Arnold is leaving Carter Spink? But he’s always said he’d never retire. He’s always boasted about lasting another twenty years. Why would he be leaving now?

  I’m totally out of touch. For more than a month I’ve been living in a bubble. I haven’t seen The Lawyer, I’ve barely even seen a normal paper. I don’t know any of the gossip, and I haven’t cared a bit. But now, as I look at Arnold’s familiar face, I can feel my curiosity rise.

  So that afternoon, when I’ve cleared up lunch, I slip into Eddie’s study, switch on the computer, and click on Google. I search for Arnold Saville—and sure enough on the second page I come across a little diary item about his early retirement. I read the fifty-word piece over and over, trying to glean clues. Why would Arnold retire early? Is he ill?

  I search for further items, but that’s the only one I can find. Next I go to the search box and—telling myself I shouldn’t—type in Samantha Sweeting. Immediately a zillion stories about me pop up again on the screen. I don’t feel so freaked out this time, though. The person in these stories doesn’t feel like me anymore.

  I scan entry after entry, seeing the same details replayed. After clicking through about five pages I add Third Union Bank to my search, and scan the resulting entries. Then I type in Third Union Bank, BLLC Holdings, then Third Union Bank, Glazerbrooks. Then, with a beat of apprehension, I type in Samantha Sweeting, £50 million, career over, and wait for all the really nasty stories to appear. It’s like watching my own car crash on action replay.

  God, Google is addictive. I sit there, totally absorbed, clicking and typing and reading, gorging on endless Web pages, automatically using the Carter Spink password wherever I need to. After an hour I’m slumped in Eddie’s chair like a zombie. My back is aching and my neck is stiff, and the words are all running into one another. I’d forgotten what it was like to sit at a computer. Did I really used to do this all day?

  I rub my tired eyes and glance at the Web page open in front of me, wondering how I even got to it. It’s some obscure list of guests at a lunch held earlier this year at the Painters Hall. About halfway down is the name BLLC Holdings, which must have been the link. On autopilot, I move the cursor along the page—and into view comes the name Nicholas Hanford Jones, Director.

  Something chimes inside my addled brain. Nicholas Hanford Jones. Why do I know that name? Why am I somehow associating it with Ketterman?

  Is BLLC Holdings a client of Ketterman? No. It can’t be. I’d have heard of it before.

  I screw my eyes up tight and concentrate as hard as I can. Nicholas Hanford Jones. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye. I’m grasping at an association … an image … come on, think …

  This is the trouble with having a nearly photographic memory. People think it must be useful, when in fact all it does is drive you insane.

  And then suddenly it comes to me. The swirly writing of a wedding invitation. It was stuck up on the pin board in Ketterman’s office about three years ago. It was there for weeks. I used to see it every time I went in.

  Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Saville

  request the pleasure of your company

  at the wedding of their daughter Fiona

  to Mr. Nicholas Hanford Jones

  Nicholas Hanford Jones is Arnold Saville’s son-in-law? Arnold has a family connection with BLLC Holdings?

  I sit up in my chair, totally disconcerted. How come he never mentioned that?

  And then another thought strikes me. I was on the BLLC Holdings Companies House page a minute ago. Why wasn’t Nicholas Hanford Jones listed as a director? That’s illegal, for a start.

  I rub my brow, then out of curiosity type in Nicholas Hanford Jones. A moment later the screen is full of entries, and I lean forward.

  Oh, for God’s sake. The Internet is crap. I’m looking at other Nicholases and other Hanfords and other Joneses, mentioned in all sorts of different contexts. I peer at them in total frustration. Doesn’t Google realize that’s not what I’m interested in? Why would I want to read about some Canadian rowing team list containing a Greg Hanford, a Dave Jones, and a Chip Nicholas?

  I’m never going to find anything here.

  Even so, I start picking my way down, skimming each chunk of text, clicking onto the next page and the next. And then, just as I’m about to give up, my eye falls on an entry tucked away at the bottom of the page. William Hanford Jones, Finance Director of Glazerbrooks, thanked Nicholas Jenkins for his speech …

  This is incredible. The finance director at Glazerbrooks is called Hanford Jones too? Are they from the same family? Feeling like some kind of private detective, I log onto Friends-Reunited, and two minutes later I have my answer. They’re brothers.

  I feel a bit dazed. This is a pretty huge connection. The finance director of Glazerbrooks, which went bust owing Third Union Bank £50 million. A director of BLLC Holdings, which lent it £50 million three days before. And Arnold, representing Third Union Bank. All related; all in the same extended family.

  I’m almost certain nobody else knows. Arnold’s never mentioned it. No one at Carter Spink has ever mentioned it. Nor have I seen it brought up in any of the reports on the whole affair. Arnold’s kept all of this very quiet.

  I rub my shoulders, trying to gather my jumbled thoughts. Isn’t this a potential conflict of interest? Shouldn’t he have disclosed the information straightaway? Why on earth would Arnold keep such an important thing secret? Unless—

  No. No.

  I feel a bit light-headed, as though I’ve suddenly swum over the ledge into mile-deep water. My mind is flying ahead, careening onto possibilities and shearing away again in disbelief.

  Did Arnold discover something? Is he hiding something?

  Is this why he’s leaving?

  I get up and thrust my hands through my hair. OK, let’s just … stop all this, right now. This is Arnold I’m talking about. Arnold. I’m turning into some nutty conspiracy theorist. Next I’ll be typing in aliens, Roswell, they live among us.

  With sudden resolution I get out my phone. I’ll call Arnold. I’ll wish him well in his retirement. Then maybe I can get rid of all these ridiculous ideas floating round my head.

  It takes me about six failed attempts before I muster the courage to dial the entire number and wait for a reply. The idea of talking to anyone at Carter Spink—let alone Arnold—makes me feel slightly sick. I keep bottling out before being connected, thrusting the phone down as though I’ve had a narrow escape.

  But at last I steel myself to press the digits and hold the line. I’m never going to know unless I do this. I can talk to Arnold. I can hold my head up.

  After three rings the phone is picked up by Lara. “Arnold Saville’s office.”

  I have a sudden vision of her, plump and shiny-haired, sitting at her pale wooden desk, in the burgundy jacket she always wears, tapping on the
computer. It all seems a million miles away now.

  “Hi, Lara,” I say. “It’s … Samantha. Samantha Sweeting.”

  “Samantha?” Lara sounds poleaxed. “Bloody hell! How are you? What are you up to?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Really good.” I quell a spasm of nerves. “I just rang because I’ve heard that Arnold’s leaving? Is it true?”

  “It’s true!” says Lara with relish. “I was gobsmacked! Apparently, Ketterman took him out to dinner and tried to get him to stay, but he’d made up his mind. Get this, he’s moving to the Bahamas.”

  “The Bahamas?” I say in astonishment.

  “He’s bought a house there! Looks lovely. His retirement party’s next week,” Lara continues. “I’ll be transferring to Derek Green’s office—you remember him? Taxation partner? Very nice guy, though apparently he can have a bit of a temper—”

  “Er … great!” I cut her off, suddenly remembering her ability to gossip for hours. “Lara, I just wanted to give Arnold my best wishes. If you could possibly put me through?”

  “Really?” Lara sounds surprised. “That’s incredibly … generous of you, Samantha. After what happened.”

  “Well, you know,” I say awkwardly. “It wasn’t Arnold’s fault, was it? He did what he could.”

  There’s a strange silence.

  “Yes,” says Lara after a pause. “Well. I’ll put you through.”

  After a few moments Arnold’s familiar voice is booming down the line.

  “Samantha, dear girl! Is it really you?”

  “It’s … really me.” I manage a smile. “I haven’t quite disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “I should hope not! Now, you’re all right, are you?”

  “I’m … fine,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks. I was just surprised to hear you’re retiring.”

  “I was never a glutton for punishment!” He gives an easy laugh. “Thirty-three years at the coal face of law. That’s enough for any human. Let alone any lawyer!”

  Just his jovial voice is reassuring me. I must be crazy. Arnold couldn’t be involved in anything untoward. He couldn’t be hiding anything. He’s Arnold.