The Undomestic Goddess

  You’re making the biggest mistake of your entire existence. As I sit on the train back to Gloucestershire, Guy’s words keep ringing in my ears.

  Once upon a time, just that thought would have sent me into a tailspin. But not anymore. He has no idea.

  If I’ve learned one lesson from all that’s happened to me, it’s that there is no such thing as the biggest mistake of your existence. There’s no such thing as ruining your life. Life’s a pretty resilient thing, it turns out.

  When I arrive at Lower Ebury I head straight to the pub. Nathaniel is behind the bar, wearing a chambray shirt I’ve never seen before, talking to Eamonn. For a few moments I just watch him from the doorway. His strong hands; the slant of his neck; the way his brow furrows as he nods. I can tell at once he disagrees with whatever Eamonn is saying. But he’s waiting, wanting to be tactful about making his point. He knows how people work.

  As if he can sense me watching him, he looks up and his face jolts. He smiles in welcome—but I can see the tension underneath. This last couple of days can’t have been easy for him. Maybe he thought I’d get suckered in to my old relationship, that I wasn’t coming back.

  A roar goes up from the dartboard. Bill, a local farmer I’ve gotten to know, turns and spots me walking toward the bar.

  “Samantha!” he shouts. “At last! We need you on our team!”

  “In a sec!” I call over my shoulder. “Hi,” I say as I reach Nathaniel. “Nice shirt.”

  “Hi,” he says casually. “Good trip?”

  “Not bad.” I nod. Nathaniel lifts up the bar for me to come through, his eyes searching my face as though for clues.

  “So … is it over?”

  “Yes.” I put my arms around him and hug him tight. “It’s over.”

  And at that moment, I truly believe it is.

  Twenty-three

  Nothing happens until lunchtime the next day.

  I make the breakfast for Trish and Eddie as usual. I hoover and dust as usual. Then I put on Iris’s apron, get out the chopping board, and start squeezing oranges. I’m going to make bitter chocolate and orange mousse for the charity lunch tomorrow. We’re going to serve it on a bed of crystallized orange slices, and each plate is going to be garnished with a real silver-leaf angel from a Christmas-decoration catalog.

  This was Trish’s idea. As are the angels hanging from the ceiling.

  “How are we doing?” Trish comes tapping into the kitchen, looking flustered. “Have you made the mousses yet?”

  “Not yet,” I say, briskly squeezing an orange. “Mrs. Geiger, don’t worry. It’s all under control.”

  “Do you know what I’ve been through, the last few days?” She clutches her head. “More and more people keep accepting. I’ve had to change the seating plan …”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say soothingly. “Try to relax.”

  “Yes.” She sighs, holding her head between two lacquered fingernails. “You’re right. I’ll just go and check the goody bags …”

  I cannot believe how much Trish is spending on this lunch. Every time I question whether we really need to canopy the dining room in white silk or give every guest an orchid buttonhole, she shrills, “It’s all in a good cause!”

  Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask her for quite a while now.

  “Er … Mrs. Geiger,” I say casually. “Are you charging your guests for entrance to the lunch?”

  “Oh, no!” she says. “I think that’s rather tacky, don’t you?”

  “Are you holding a raffle?”

  “I don’t think so.” She wrinkles her nose. “People loathe raffles.”

  I hardly dare ask this next question.

  “So … um … how exactly are you planning on making money for Save The Children?”

  There’s silence in the kitchen. Trish has frozen, her eyes wide.

  “Bugger,” she says at last.

  I knew it. She hadn’t given it a thought. Somehow I manage to keep my respectful housekeeper’s expression.

  “Perhaps we could ask for voluntary donations?” I suggest. “We could hand round a little bag with the coffee and mints?”

  “Yes. Yes.” Trish peers at me as though I’m a genius. “That’s the answer.” She exhales sharply. “This is really very stressful, Samantha. I don’t know how you stay so calm.”

  “Oh … I don’t know.” I feel a sudden wave of fondness for her. When I arrived back at the house last night it was like coming home. Even though Trish had left a mountain of dirty crockery on the counter for my return, and a note saying, Samantha, please polish all silver for luncheon.

  Trish heads out of the kitchen and I start whisking up egg whites for the mousse. Then I notice a man sidling down the drive. He’s wearing jeans and an old polo shirt and has a camera slung round his neck. He disappears from view and I frown in puzzlement. Maybe he’s a deliveryman. I measure out the caster sugar, with half an ear out for the doorbell, and start folding it into the egg whites, just the way Iris taught me. Then suddenly the man is standing at the kitchen door, peering in through the window.

  I’m not ruining my mixture for some door-to-door salesman. He can wait a few moments. I finish folding in the sugar—then head to the door and open it.

  “Can I help?” I say politely.

  “Are you Samantha Sweeting?” he says, glancing down at a folded-up tabloid newspaper in his hand.

  I look back at him warily. “Why?”

  “I’m from the Cheltenham Gazette.” He flashes an ID card at me. “I’m after an exclusive interview with you. ‘Why I Chose the Cotswolds as My Secret Hideaway.’ That kind of thing.”

  I look at him blankly for a few seconds.

  “Er … what are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t seen it?” He looks surprised. “Haven’t your friends been on the phone?”

  “No. At least, I don’t know,” I say, confused. My mobile phone’s upstairs in my bedroom. If it has been ringing, I haven’t heard it.

  “I take it this is you?” He turns the newspaper round and my stomach seizes up.

  It’s a picture of me. In the Daily World. A national tabloid.

  It’s my official Carter Spink portrait. I’m wearing a black suit and my hair is screwed up. Above it, in bold black letters, is the headline: “i’d rather clean loos than be a partner at carter spink.”

  What the hell is going on?

  With trembling hands I grab the paper from the guy and scan the text.

  They are the Masters of the Universe, the envy of their peers. Top law firm Carter Spink is the most prestigious in the country. But yesterday one young woman turned down a high-ranking post as partner in order to work as a humble housekeeper.

  GET A LIFE

  Partners were left with egg on their faces as star £500-an-hour lawyer Samantha Sweeting rejected their offer, which carried a substantial six-figure salary. Having previously been fired, the high-flyer apparently uncovered a financial scandal at the firm. However, when offered full equity partnership, Sweeting cited the pressure and lack of free time as reason for her decision.

  “I’ve got used to having a life,” she said, as partners begged her to stay.

  A former Carter Spink employee who declined to be named confirmed the brutal working conditions of the legal firm. “They expect you to sell your soul,” he said. “I had to resign from stress. No wonder she prefers manual labor.”

  A spokeswoman for Carter Spink defended the firm’s practices. “We are a flexible, modern firm with a sympathetic working ethos. We would like to talk to Samantha about her views and would certainly not expect employees to ‘sell their soul.’ ”

  VANISHED

  She confirmed that Ms. Sweeting’s job offer is still open and Carter Spink partners are anxious to talk to her. However, in a further extraordinary twist, this modern-day Cinderella has not been seen since running away from the offices.

  WHERE IS SHE?

  See comment, page 34.

&nb
sp; I peer at it in a daze. See comment? There’s more?

  With fumbling hands I turn to page 34.

  THE PRICE OF SUCCESS—TOO HIGH?

  A high-flying lawyer with everything ahead of her gives up a six-figure salary and turns to domestic drudgery instead. What does this story say about today’s high-pressure society? Are our career women being pushed too hard? Are they burning out? Does this extraordinary story herald the start of a new trend?

  One thing is for certain. Only Samantha Sweeting can answer.

  I stare at the page, numb. How did—what did—How?

  A flash interrupts me and I lift my head to see the guy pointing his camera at me.

  “Stop!” I say, putting my hands up in front of my face.

  “Can I have a picture of you holding a toilet brush, love?” he says, zooming his lens in. “It was a waitress in Cheltenham pointed me in the right direction. Reckoned she’d worked with you. Quite a scoop!” The camera flashes again and I flinch.

  “No! You … you’ve made a mistake!” I shove the paper back at him in a mess of pages. “My name’s Sarah. I’m not a lawyer. Whatever that waitress said … she was wrong.”

  The journalist looks at me suspiciously, and down at the photo again. I can see a flicker of doubt cross his face. I do look fairly different now from the way I did then, with my blond hair and everything.

  “Please leave,” I say. “My employers won’t like it.” I wait until he steps off the doorstep, then slam the door shut and turn the key. Then I pull the curtain across the window and lean back against the door, my heart thudding. Fuck. Fuck. What am I going to do?

  OK. The important thing is not to panic. The important thing is to stay rational.

  On the one hand, my entire past has been exposed in a national tabloid. On the other hand, Trish and Eddie don’t read that particular tabloid. Or the Cheltenham Gazette. It’s one silly story in one silly paper and it will die away by tomorrow. There’s no reason to tell them anything. There’s no need to rock the boat. I’ll just carry on making my chocolate-orange mousses as though nothing has happened. Yes. Total denial is the way forward.

  Feeling slightly better, I reach for the chocolate and start breaking chunks into a glass bowl.

  “Samantha! Who was that?” Trish pokes her head round the door.

  “No one.” I look up with a fixed smile. “Nothing. Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee and bring it out to the garden?”

  Keep calm. Denial. It’ll all be fine.

  OK. Denial’s not going to work, because there are three more journalists in the drive.

  It’s twenty minutes later. I’ve abandoned my chocolate mousses and am peering out the hall window in rising dismay. Two blokes and a girl have appeared out of nowhere. They all have cameras and are chatting to the guy in the polo shirt, who’s gesticulating toward the kitchen. Occasionally one of them breaks off and takes a shot of the house. Any minute one of them is going to ring the doorbell.

  I cannot let this develop. I need a new plan. I need …

  Diversion. Yes. At least it might buy me some time.

  I head to the front door, grabbing one of Trish’s floppy straw hats on the way. Then I cautiously step outside and make my way down the gravel drive to the entrance, where the four journalists crowd around me.

  “Are you Samantha Sweeting?” says one, thrusting a tape recorder in my face.

  “Do you regret turning down partnership?” demands another.

  “My name’s Sarah,” I say, keeping my head down. “You’ve got the wrong girl. Kindly leave the premises at once.”

  I wait for the stampede, but no one moves.

  “You’ve all made a mistake!” I try again. “If you don’t leave … I’ll call the police.”

  One of the journalists peers under the brim of Trish’s hat. “It’s her,” he says scornfully. “Ned, it’s her! Come over here!”

  “She’s there! She’s come out!”

  “It’s her!”

  I hear voices from across the street—and, aghast, I see another load of journalists suddenly appear, hurrying down the road toward the gates, bearing cameras and Dictaphones.

  Fuck. Where did they come from?

  “Ms. Sweeting, Angus Watts. Daily Express.” Black-glasses guy lifts up his microphone. “Do you have a message for young women of today?”

  “Do you really enjoy cleaning toilets?” chimes in someone else, snapping a camera in my face. “What brand of toilet cleaner do you use?”

  “Stop it!” I say, flustered. “Leave me alone!” I haul at the iron gates until they’re closed, then turn and run up the drive, into the house and into the kitchen.

  What am I going to do? What?

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored fridge. My face is flushed and my expression wild. I’m also still wearing Trish’s floppy straw hat.

  I grab it off my head and dump it on the table, just as Trish comes into the kitchen. She’s holding a book called Your Elegant Luncheon Party and an empty coffee cup.

  “Do you know what’s going on, Samantha?” she says. “There seems a bit of a commotion outside in the road.”

  “Is there?” I say. “I … I hadn’t noticed.”

  “It looks like a protest.” She wrinkles her brow. “I do hope they’re not still there tomorrow. Protesters are so selfish …” Her eye falls on the counter. “Haven’t you finished the mousses yet? Samantha, really! What have you been doing?”

  “Um … nothing!” I reach for the bowl and start doling out chocolate mixture into molds. “I’m just getting on with them, Mrs. Geiger.”

  I feel like I’m in some kind of parallel reality. Everything’s going to come out. It’s a matter of time. What do I do?

  “Have you seen this protest?” Trish demands as Eddie saunters into the kitchen. “Outside our gates! I think we should tell them to move on.”

  “It’s not a protest,” he says, opening the fridge and peering inside. “It’s journalists.”

  “Journalists?” Trish peers at him. “What on earth would journalists be doing here?”

  “Maybe we have a new celebrity neighbor?” suggests Eddie, pouring his beer into a glass. At once Trish claps her hand over her mouth.

  “Joanna Lumley! I heard a rumor she was buying in the village! Samantha, have you heard anything about this?”

  “I … er … no,” I mumble, my face burning.

  I have to say something. But what? Where do I start?

  “Samantha, I need this shirt ironed by tonight.” Melissa comes wandering into the kitchen, holding a sleeveless print shirt. “And be really careful with the collar, OK? What’s going on outside?”

  “Nobody knows,” says Trish, looking beside herself. “But we think it’s Joanna Lumley!”

  Suddenly the doorbell rings. For a moment I consider bolting out the back door.

  “I wonder if that’s them!” exclaims Trish. “Eddie, go and answer it. Samantha, put on some coffee.” She looks at me in impatience. “Come on!”

  I need to explain but I’m totally paralyzed.

  “Samantha?” She peers at me. “Are you all right?”

  With an almighty effort I look up.

  “Um … Mrs. Geiger …” My voice comes out a nervous husk. “There’s … there’s something … I ought to—”

  “Melissa!” Eddie’s voice interrupts me. He’s hurrying into the kitchen, a huge smile spread across his face. “Melissa, love! They want you!”

  “Me?” Melissa looks up in surprise. “What do you mean, Uncle Eddie?”

  “It’s the Daily Mail. They want to interview you!” Eddie turns to Trish, glowing with pride. “Did you know that our Melissa has one of the finest legal brains in the country?”

  Oh, no. Oh, no.

  “What?” Trish nearly drops her copy of Your Elegant Luncheon Party.

  “That’s what they said!” Eddie nods. “They said it might come as quite a surprise to me to learn we had such a high-flying lawyer in the house. I sa
id, nonsense!” He puts an arm around Melissa. “We’ve always known you were a star!”

  “Mrs. Geiger …” I say urgently. No one takes any notice of me.

  “It must be that prize I won at law school! They must have heard about it somehow!” Melissa is gasping. “Oh, my God! The Daily Mail!”

  “They want to take photos too!” puts in Eddie. “They want an exclusive!”

  “I need to put on some makeup!” Melissa looks totally flustered. “How do I look?”

  “Here we are!” Trish wrenches open her handbag. “Here’s some mascara … and lipstick.…”

  I have to stop this. I have to break it to them.

  “Mr. Geiger …” I clear my throat. “Are you sure … I mean, did they ask for Melissa by … by name?”

  “They didn’t need to!” He twinkles at me. “Only one lawyer in this house!”

  “Make some coffee, Samantha,” instructs Trish sharply. “And use the pink cups. Quickly! Wash them up.”

  “The thing is … I have … I have something to tell you.”

  “Not now, Samantha! Wash up those cups!” Trish thrusts the rubber gloves at me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you today—”

  “But I don’t think they’ve come to see Melissa,” I say desperately. “There’s something I … I should have told you.”

  No one pays any attention. They’re all focused on Melissa.

  “How do I look?” Melissa smooths her hair back self-consciously.

  “Lovely, darling!” Trish leans forward. “Just a touch more lipstick. Make you look really glamorous …”

  “Is she ready for the interview?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice comes from the kitchen door and everyone freezes in excitement.

  “In here!” Eddie pulls open the door to reveal a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a trouser suit, whose eyes immediately run appraisingly over the kitchen.

  “Here’s our legal star!” Eddie gestures to Melissa with a beam of pride.

  “Hello.” Melissa tosses back her hair, then steps forward with an outstretched hand. “I’m Melissa Hurst.”

  The woman looks at Melissa blankly for a few moments. “Not her,” she says. “Her.” And she points at me.

  In puzzled silence, everyone turns to stare at me. Melissa’s eyes have narrowed to deepest suspicion. I can see the Geigers exchanging glances.