The Undomestic Goddess

  “I don’t want to bring that world into this one,” I say at last. “I just don’t.” Nathaniel opens his mouth again, but I turn away before he can speak. I stare out at the idyllic view, blinking against the rays of the sun, my mind in total turmoil.

  Maybe I should just give up on the whole nightmare. Forget about it. Let it go. The chances are I’ll never be able to prove anything. Arnold has all the power; I have none. The chances are if I try to stir things up again all I’ll get is more humiliation and disgrace.

  I could so easily do nothing. I could just put it from my mind, as I’ve tried to do all this time. Close the door on my old life and leave it behind forever. I have a job. I have Nathaniel. I have a possible future here.

  But even as I’m thinking it—I know that’s not what I’m going to do. I can’t forget about it. I can’t let go.

  Twenty-one

  The city isn’t the way I remember it. I can’t believe how dirty it is. How rushed it is. As I arrived at Paddington Station this afternoon I felt almost bewildered by the commuter crowds moving like a swarm of ants over the concourse. I could smell the fumes. I saw the litter. Things I never even noticed before. Did I just filter them out? Was I so used to them, they faded into the background?

  But at the same time, the minute my feet hit the ground I felt the buzz. By the time I reached the Underground station I’d already picked up my pace: matching the stride of everyone else; feeding my travel card into the machine at exactly the right angle; whipping it out with not a second to spare.

  And now I’m in the Starbucks around the corner from Carter Spink, sitting at the counter in the window, watching City-suited businesspeople walking past, talking and gesticulating and making phone calls. The adrenaline is catching. My heart’s already beating more quickly—and I haven’t even got inside the building yet.

  I glance at my watch yet again. Nearly time. The last thing I want to do is arrive early. The less time I spend in there, the better.

  As I drain my latte, my phone bleeps, but I ignore it. It’ll be yet another message from Trish. She was livid when I told her I had to go away for a couple of days; in fact, she tried to stop me. So I told her I had a foot complaint that needed urgent attention from my specialist in London.

  In hindsight this was a huge mistake, as she wanted to know every single gory detail. She even demanded I take off my shoe and show her. I had to spend ten minutes improvising about “bone misalignment” while she peered at my foot and said, “It looks perfectly normal to me,” in tones of great suspicion.

  She looked at me with mistrust for the rest of the day. Then she left a copy of Marie-Claire casually open at the Pregnant? Need Confidential Advice? advertisements. Honestly. I have to knock that one on the head or it’ll be all over the village and Iris will be knitting booties.

  I told Nathaniel in private that I had a situation to sort out with my old relationship. I could tell he wanted to know more details, that he was finding it hard being shut out, but he didn’t press me. I think he saw how strained I was already.

  I look at my watch again. Time to go. I head for the Ladies, face the mirror, and check my appearance. Unfamiliar blond hair: check. Tinted glasses: check. Magenta lipstick: check. I look nothing like my former self.

  Apart from the face, of course. If you looked really closely.

  But the point is, no one’s going to look closely at me. This is what I’m counting on, anyway.

  “Hi,” I practice in a low, guttural voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

  I sound like a drag queen. But never mind. At least I don’t sound like a lawyer.

  Keeping my head down, I leave Starbucks and walk along the street, until I round the corner and see the distinctive granite steps and glass doors of Carter Spink. I feel unreal being back here. The last time I saw those doors I was pushing my way out of them, gibbering with panic, convinced I’d wrecked my own career, convinced my life was over.

  Fury starts boiling up again and I close my eyes briefly, trying to keep my emotions in line. I don’t have any proof yet. I have to stay focused on what I’m doing. Come on. I can do this.

  I know my plan is slightly insane; I know my chances aren’t great. It’s unlikely Arnold has left proof of his misdemeanors just lying about. But I couldn’t just give up, tamely stay in Lower Ebury, and let him get away with it. My anger is like a huge driving force inside me. I had to come here and at least try to find out what I can.

  And if they won’t let me in the building as a lawyer … then I’ll just have to go in as something else.

  I cross the road and resolutely head up the steps. I can almost see myself that day, a ghostlike figure, running down them in a state of bewildered shock. It all seems like a lifetime ago now. I don’t just look like a different person, I feel like a different person. I feel like I’ve been rebuilt.

  With a deep breath, I pull my mac around me and push open the glass doors. As I step into the foyer I feel a sudden giddy wave of disbelief. Am I actually doing this? Am I actually trying to blag my way, incognito, into the Carter Spink offices?

  My legs are wobbling and my hands feel damp, but I’m walking steadily forward over the shiny marble floor, my eyes fixed downward. I head toward the new receptionist, Melanie, who started only a couple of weeks before I left.

  “Hi,” I say in my drag-queen voice.

  “Can I help you?” Melanie smiles at me. There’s not a glimmer of recognition in her face. I can’t believe this is so easy.

  In fact, I feel a tad insulted. Was I so nondescript before?

  “I’m here for the party?” I mumble, my head down. “I’m waitressing. Bertram’s Caterers,” I add for good measure.

  “Oh, yes. That’s all happening up on the fourteenth floor.” She taps on her computer. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s … Trish,” I say. “Trish Geiger.” Melanie peers at the computer screen, frowning and tapping her pen on her teeth.

  “You’re not on my list,” she says at last.

  “Well, I should be there.” I keep my head well down. “There must be a mistake.”

  “Let me call up.…” Melanie taps on her phone and has a brief conversation with someone called Jan, then looks up.

  “She’ll be down to see you.” She gestures to the leather sofas with a smile. “Please take a seat.”

  I head toward the seating area—then veer in a sharp U-turn as I see David Spellman from Corporate sitting on one of the sofas with a client. Not that he seems to have recognized me. I walk toward a rack of glossy leaflets on Carter Spink’s philosophy and bury my head in one on Dispute Resolution.

  I’ve never actually read any of these leaflets before. God, they really are a load of meaningless crap.

  “Trish?”

  “Er … yes?” I swivel round to see a woman in a tuxedo with a raddled face. She’s holding some typed sheets and regarding me with a frown.

  “Jan Martin, head of waiting staff. You’re not on my list. Have you worked for us before?”

  “I’m new,” I say, keeping my voice low. “But I’ve worked for Ebury Catering. Down in Gloucestershire.”

  “Don’t know it.” She consults her paper again and flips to the second page, her brow creased in impatience. “Love, you’re not on the list. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

  “I spoke to a guy,” I say without flickering. “He said you could do with extra.”

  “A guy?” She looks perplexed. “Who? Tony?”

  “I don’t remember his name. But he said to come here.”

  “He couldn’t have said—”

  “This is Carter Spink, isn’t it?” I look around. “95 Cheapside? A big retirement party?”

  “Yes.” I see the beginnings of doubt on the woman’s face.

  “Well, I was told to come here.” I allow just the faintest belligerence into my voice.

  I can see the calculation going on in this woman’s head: if she turns me away I might cause a scene, she’s got other
pressing stuff to think about, what’s one extra waitress …

  “All right!” she says at last, with an irritated noise. “But you’ll have to change. What’s your name again?”

  “Trish Geiger.”

  “That’s right.” She scribbles it down. “Well you’d better come up, Trish.”

  I feel almost elated as I travel up in the service elevator with Jan, a plastic label reading Trish Geiger attached to my lapel. Now all I need is to keep my head down, bide my time, and, when the moment is right, get onto the eleventh floor.

  We come out in the kitchens attached to the executive function rooms, and I look around in surprise. I had no idea there was all this back here. It’s like going backstage at a theater. Chefs are working busily at the cooking stations, and waiting staff are milling around in distinctive green and white striped uniforms.

  “The outfits are in there.” Jan points to a huge wicker basket full of folded uniforms. “You’ll need to get changed.”

  “OK.” I rummage around for an outfit in my size and take it off to the Ladies to change. I touch up my magenta lipstick and pull my hair further round my face, then look at my watch.

  It’s five-forty now. The party’s at six. By about ten past, the eleventh floor should be clearing. Arnold is a very popular partner; no one’s going to miss his farewell speech if they can help it. Plus, at Carter Spink parties, the speeches always happen early on, so people can get back to work if they need to.

  And while everyone’s listening I’ll slip down to Arnold’s office. It should work. It has to work. As I stare at my own bizarre reflection, I feel a grim resolve hardening inside me. He’s not going to get away with everyone thinking he’s a cheery, harmless old teddy bear. He’s not going to get away with it.

  At ten to six we all gather in one of the kitchens and receive our orders. Hot canapés … cold canapés … I barely listen to any of it. It’s not like I’m intending to do any actual waiting. After Jan’s lecture is over, I follow the herd of waiting staff out of the kitchen. I’m given a tray of champagne glasses to carry, which I put down as soon as I can, then head back to the kitchen and grab an open bottle of champagne and a napkin. As soon as I’m sure no one’s looking, I escape to the Ladies.

  OK. This is the difficult bit. I lock myself in a cubicle and wait for fifteen minutes in utter silence. I don’t clatter anything and I don’t sneeze and I don’t giggle when I hear a girl rehearsing her breakup speech to someone called Mike. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

  At last I cautiously unbolt the door, make my way out, and peer round the corner. From where I’m standing I can see the entrance to the big function room. A crowd has already gathered and I can hear laughter and lots of loud talking. People are still coming down the corridor in a steady stream. I recognize the girls from PR … a couple of trainees … Oliver Swan, a senior partner. They all head into the party, taking a glass as they do so.

  The corridor’s clear. Go.

  With trembling legs I walk straight past the entrance to the function room, toward the lifts and the door to the stairwell. Within thirty seconds I’m safely through the door and walking as quietly as I can down the stairs. No one ever uses the stairs at Carter Spink, but still.

  I reach the eleventh floor and peer out of the glass panel in the door. I can’t see anyone. But that doesn’t mean there’s no one there. There could be a whole crowd of them, just out of my line of vision.

  Well, that’s a risk I’ll have to take. I take a few deep breaths, trying to psych myself up. No one will ever recognize me in my green-and-white waitress gear. And I even have a story if anyone challenges me: I’m on this floor to place this bottle of champagne in Mr. Saville’s room as a surprise.

  Come on. I can’t waste any more time.

  Slowly I push the door open, step out onto the blue carpeted corridor, and exhale in relief. It’s empty. The whole floor is pretty much dead. Everyone must have gone up to the party. I can hear someone on the phone a few yards away—but as I start nervously walking toward Arnold’s office, all the surrounding workstations are empty. All my senses are on red alert.

  The crucial thing is to use my time efficiently. I’ll start with the computer and take it from there. Or maybe I should start with the filing cabinet. Have a quick look while the computer is warming up. Or I’ll search his desk drawers. His BlackBerry could be in there. I hadn’t thought of that.

  Suddenly I can hear voices behind me, coming out of the lifts. In panic, I pick up my pace. I reach Arnold’s office, wrench the door open, slam it behind me, and duck down underneath the glass panel. I can hear the voices getting closer. David Elldridge and Keith Thompson and someone I don’t recognize. They pass by the door, and I don’t move a muscle. Then they’re receding into the distance. Thank God.

  I let out my breath, slowly rise to my feet, and peep through the glass. I can’t see anyone. I’m safe. Only then do I turn around and survey the office.

  It’s empty.

  It’s been cleared out.

  Bewildered, I take a few steps into the room. The desk is empty. The shelves are empty. There are faint squares on the walls where framed photos have been taken down. There’s nothing in this office apart from one piece of industrial tape on the floor and some drawing pins still stuck into the pin board.

  I can’t believe it. After all this effort. After making it this far. There’s nothing to bloody search?

  There must be boxes, I think in sudden inspiration. Yes. It’s all been put into boxes to be moved, and they’ll all be stacked outside. I hurry out of the office and look around wildly. But I can’t see any boxes. No crates. Nothing. I’m too late. I’m too fucking late. I feel like punching something with frustration.

  “Excuse me?”

  I freeze. Shit. Shit.

  “Yes?” I turn round, pulling my hair over my face and gazing firmly downward.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  It’s a trainee. Bill … what’s his name? He used to do occasional bits of work for me.

  It’s all right. He hasn’t recognized me.

  “I was delivering a bottle of champagne, sir,” I mumble in my best drag-queen voice, nodding to the bottle where I left it on the floor. “Surprise for the gentleman. I was just wondering where to put it.”

  “I’d just leave it on the desk,” says Bill curtly. “And you shouldn’t be in here.”

  “I was just going back. Sir.” I dump the bottle on the desk, bow my head, and scuttle out. Bloody hell. That was close.

  I head to the stairwell and hurry up the stairs, flustered. It’s time to exit this building, before anyone else sees me.

  The party’s still in full swing as I creep out of the stairwell door and hurry toward the room where I left my clothes. I won’t bother to change. I can always mail the waitress gear back—

  “Trish?” Jan’s voice hits the back of my head. “Is that you?”

  Fuck. Reluctantly I turn round to face her. She looks hopping mad. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Um … serving?”

  “No, you haven’t. I haven’t seen you in there once!” she snaps. “You’re not working for me again, I can tell you. Now, take these and pull your weight.” She thrusts a plate of tiny little éclairs into my arms and pushes me roughly toward the doors of the party.

  No. I can’t go in there. No way.

  “Absolutely! I just have to … get some cocktail napkins.…” I try to back away, but she grabs me.

  “No, you don’t! You wanted this job! Now work!”

  She shoves me hard, and I stagger into the crowded room. I feel like a gladiator being pushed into the arena. Jan’s standing at the door, her arms folded. There’s no way out. I’m going to have to do this. I grip the tray more tightly, lower my head—and advance slowly into the crowded room.

  I can’t walk naturally. My legs feel like boards. The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing on end; I can feel the blood pulsating through my ears.
I edge past expensive suits, not daring to look up, not daring to pause in case I attract attention. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m dressed up in a green-and-white uniform, serving mini-éclairs to my former colleagues.

  But one thing I’ve learned from doing parties with Eamonn is, the waiting staff are invisible. And sure enough, no one seems to have noticed.

  Several hands have plucked éclairs from the tray, without even glancing at me. Everyone’s too busy laughing and chatting. The din is tremendous.

  I can’t see Arnold anywhere. But he has to be here somewhere. I’m compelled to look for him, to raise my head and search him out. But I can’t risk it. Instead, I keep on moving steadily around the room. Familiar faces are everywhere. Snatches of conversation are making my ears prick up.

  “Where’s Ketterman?” someone is asking as I pass by.

  “In Dublin for the day,” replies Oliver Swan. “But he’ll be at the partners’ farewell dinner tomorrow night.” I breathe out in relief. If Ketterman were here I’m sure his laser eyes would pick me up at once.

  “Éclairs. Fab!”

  About eight hands dive into my tray at once and I come to a standstill. It’s a group of trainees. Hoovering food, as trainees always do at parties.

  I’m starting to feel edgy. The longer I stand here without moving, the more exposed I feel. But I can’t get away. Their hands keep plunging in for more.

  “Are there any more of the strawberry tarts, do you know?” a guy with rimless glasses asks me.

  “Um … I don’t know,” I mutter, staring down.

  Shit. Now he’s peering at me more closely. He’s bending down to get a good look. And I can’t pull my hair over my face because both hands are holding the tray.

  “Is that … Samantha Sweeting?” He looks agog. “Is that you?”

  “Samantha Sweeting?” One of the girls drops her éclair. Another gasps and claps her hand over her mouth.

  “Um … yes,” I whisper at last, my face boiling. “It’s me. But please, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep a low profile.”

  “So … this is what you do now?” The rimless-glasses guy looks aghast. “You’re a waitress?”