The Undomestic Goddess

  Clive has already bolted for the door. People are on their mobile phones all over the room, discussing dinner, films, uncanceling previous arrangements. There’s a joyful lift to the proceedings. I have a sudden urge to yell “Yay!”

  But that wouldn’t be partnerlike.

  I gather up my papers, stuff them into my briefcase, and push back my chair.

  “Samantha. I forgot.” Guy is making his way across the room. “I have something for you.”

  As he hands me a simple white package, I feel a ridiculous rush of joy. A birthday present. He’s the only one in the whole company who remembered my birthday. I can’t help glowing as I undo the cardboard envelope.

  “Guy, you really shouldn’t have!”

  “It was no trouble,” he says, clearly satisfied with himself.

  “Still!” I laugh. “I thought you’d—”

  I break off abruptly as I uncover a corporate DVD in a laminated case. It’s a summary of the European Partners presentation we had the other day. I mentioned that I’d like a copy.

  I turn it over in my hands, making sure my smile is completely intact before I look up. Of course he didn’t remember my birthday. Why would he? He probably never even knew it.

  “That’s … great,” I say at last. “Thanks!”

  “No problem.” He’s picking up his briefcase. “Have a good evening. Anything planned?”

  I can’t tell him it’s my birthday. He’ll think—he’ll realize—

  “Just … a family thing.” I smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  The main thing is, I’m going to make dinner after all. And I won’t even be late! Last time I had dinner with Mum, about three months ago now, I was an hour late after my plane from Amsterdam was delayed. Then she had to take a conference call halfway through the main course. It wasn’t exactly a success.

  As my taxi edges through the traffic on Cheapside, I quickly rifle in my bag for my new makeup case. I nipped into Selfridges in my lunch hour the other day when I realized I was still using the old gray eyeliner and mascara I bought for a Law Society dinner a year ago. I didn’t have time for a demonstration, but I asked the girl at the counter if she could just quickly sell me everything she thought I should have.

  I didn’t really listen as she explained each item, because I was on the phone to Elldridge about the Ukrainian contract. But the one thing I do remember is her insistence I should use something called “bronzer powder.” She said it might give me a glow and stop me looking so dreadfully—

  Then she stopped herself. “Pale,” she said at last. “You’re just a bit … pale.”

  I take out the compact and huge blusher brush and start sweeping the powder onto my cheeks and forehead. Then, as I peer at my reflection in the mirror, I stifle a laugh. My face stares back at me, freakishly golden and shiny. I look ridiculous.

  I mean, who am I kidding? A City lawyer who hasn’t been on holiday for two years doesn’t have a tan. I might as well walk in with beads in my hair and pretend I’ve just flown in from Barbados.

  I look at myself for a few more seconds, then take out a cleansing wipe and scrub the bronzer off until my face is white again, with shades of gray. Back to normal. The makeup girl kept mentioning the dark shadows under my eyes too, and there they are.

  Thing is, if I didn’t have shadows under my eyes, I’d probably get fired.

  I’m wearing a black suit, as I always do. My mother gave me five almost identical black suits for my twenty-first birthday, and I’ve never really broken the habit. The only item of color about me is my bag, which is red. Mum gave that to me as well, two years ago. At least … she gave me a black one originally. But on the way home I saw it in a shop window in red, had a total brainstorm, and exchanged it. I’m not convinced she’s ever forgiven me.

  I free my hair from its elastic band, quickly comb it out, then twist it back into place. My hair has never exactly been my pride and joy. It’s mouse-color, medium length, with a medium wave. At least, it was last time I looked. Most of the time it lives screwed up into a knot.

  “Nice evening planned?” says the taxi driver, who’s been watching me in his mirror.

  “It’s my birthday, actually.”

  “Happy birthday!” He eyes me in the mirror. “You’ll be partying, then. Making a night of it.”

  “Er … kind of.”

  My family and wild parties don’t exactly go together. But even so, it’ll be nice for us to see one another and catch up. It doesn’t happen very often.

  It’s not that we don’t want to see one another. We just all have very busy careers. There’s my mother, who’s a barrister. She’s quite well-known, in fact. She started her own chambers ten years ago and last year she won an award for Women in Law. And then there’s my brother Daniel, who is thirty-six and head of investment at Whittons. He was named by Money Management Weekly last year as one of the top deal-makers in the city.

  There’s also my other brother, Peter, but like I said, he had a bit of a breakdown. He lives in France now and teaches English at a local school and doesn’t even have an answering machine. And my dad, of course, who lives in South Africa with his third wife. I haven’t seen much of him since I was three. But I’ve made my peace about this. My mother’s got enough energy for two parents.

  I glance at my watch as we speed along the Strand. Seven forty-two. I’m starting to feel quite excited. The street outside is still bright and warm and tourists are walking along in T-shirts and shorts, pointing at the High Court. It must have been a gorgeous summer’s day. Inside the air-conditioned Carter Spink building you have no idea what the weather in the real world is doing.

  We come to a halt outside Maxim’s and I pay the taxi driver, adding a large tip.

  “Have a great evening, love!” he says. “And happy birthday!”

  “Thanks!”

  As I hurry into the restaurant, I’m looking all around for Mum or Daniel, but I can’t spot either of them.

  “Hi!” I say to the maître d’. “I’m meeting Ms. Tennyson.”

  That’s Mum. She disapproves of women taking the name of their husband. She also disapproves of women staying at home, cooking, cleaning, or learning to type, and thinks all women should earn more than their husbands because they’re naturally brighter.

  The maître d’—a dapper man who is a good six inches shorter than me—leads me to an empty table in the corner and I slide into the suede banquette.

  “Hi!” I smile at the waiter who approaches. “I’d like a Buck’s Fizz, a gimlet, and a martini, please. But don’t bring them over until the other guests arrive.”

  Mum always drinks gimlets. And I’ve no idea what Daniel’s on these days, but he won’t say no to a martini.

  The waiter nods and disappears, and I shake out my napkin, looking all around at the other diners. Maxim’s is a pretty cool restaurant, all wenge floors and steel tables and mood lighting. It’s very popular with lawyers; in fact, Mum has an account here. Two partners from Linklaters are at a distant table, and I can see one of the biggest libel lawyers in London at the bar. The noise of chatter, corks popping, and forks against oversize plates is like the huge roar of the sea, with occasional tidal waves of laughter making heads turn.

  As I scan the menu I suddenly feel ravenous. I haven’t had a proper meal for a week, and it all looks so good. Glazed foie gras. Lamb on minted hummus. And on the specials board is chocolate-orange soufflé with two homemade sorbets. I just hope Mum can stay long enough for pudding. I’ve heard her say plenty of times that half a dinner party is enough for anybody. The trouble is, she’s not really interested in food. She’s also not that interested in most people, as they’re generally less intelligent than her. Which rules out most potential dinner guests.

  But Daniel will stay. Once my brother starts on a bottle of wine, he feels obliged to see it through to the end.

  “Miss Sweeting?” I look up to see the maître d’. He’s holding a mobile phone. “I have a message. Your mother has be
en held up at her chambers.”

  “Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment. But I can hardly complain. I’ve done the same thing to her enough times. “So … what time will she be here?”

  I think I see a flash of pity in his eyes.

  “I have her here on the telephone. Her secretary will put her through.… Hello?” he says into the phone. “I have Ms. Tennyson’s daughter.”

  “Samantha?” comes a crisp, precise voice in my ear. “Darling, I can’t come tonight, I’m afraid.”

  “You can’t come at all?” My smile falters. “Not even … for a drink?”

  Her chambers is only five minutes away in a cab, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  “Far too much on. I have a very big case on and I’m in court tomorrow—No, get me the other file,” she adds to someone in her office. “These things happen,” she resumes. “But have a nice evening with Daniel. Oh, and happy birthday. I’ve wired three hundred pounds to your bank account.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “I assume you haven’t heard about the partnership yet.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I heard your presentation went well.…” I can hear her tapping her pen on the phone. “How many hours have you put in this month?”

  “Um … probably about two hundred …”

  “Is that enough? Samantha, you don’t want to be passed over. You’ve been working toward this for a long time.”

  Like I don’t know that.

  Still, I suppose I should be glad she’s not badgering me about whether I’ve got a boyfriend. Mum never asks me about my personal life. She expects me to be as focused and driven as she is, if not more so. And even though we don’t talk very often anymore, even though she’s less controlling than she was when I was younger, I still feel apprehensive whenever she rings.

  “There will be younger lawyers coming up behind,” she continues. “Someone in your position could easily go stale.”

  “Two hundred hours is quite a lot …” I try to explain. “Compared to the others—”

  “You have to be better than the others!” Her voice cuts across mine as though she’s in a courtroom. “You can’t afford for your performance to slip below excellent. This is a crucial time—Not that file!” she adds impatiently to whoever it is. “Hold the line, Samantha—”

  “Samantha?”

  I look up in confusion from the phone to see a girl with long swishy blond hair, wearing a powder-blue suit, approaching the table. She’s holding a gift basket adorned with a bow, and has a wide smile.

  “I’m Lorraine, Daniel’s PA,” she says in a singsong voice I suddenly recognize from calling Daniel’s office. “He couldn’t make it tonight, I’m afraid. But I’ve got a little something for you—plus he’s here on the phone to say hello.…”

  She holds out a lit-up mobile phone. In total confusion, I take it and press it to my other ear.

  “Hi, Samantha,” comes Daniel’s businesslike drawl. “Look, babe, I’m snowed under. I can’t be there.”

  Neither of them is coming?

  “I’m really sorry,” Daniel’s saying. “One of those things. But have a great time with Mum, won’t you?”

  I take a deep breath. I can’t admit she blew me off too. I can’t admit that I’m sitting here all on my own.

  “OK!” Somehow I muster a breezy tone. “We will!”

  “I’ve transferred some money to your account. Buy something nice. And I’ve sent some chocolates along with Lorraine,” he adds proudly. “Picked them out myself.”

  I look at the gift basket Lorraine is proffering. It isn’t chocolates, it’s soap.

  “That’s really lovely, Daniel,” I manage. “Thanks very much.”

  “Happy birthday to you …”

  There’s sudden chorusing behind me. I swivel round to see a waiter carrying over a cocktail glass with a sparkler. Happy Birthday Samantha is written in caramel on the steel tray, next to a miniature souvenir menu signed by the chef. Three waiters are following behind, all singing in harmony.

  After a moment, Lorraine awkwardly joins in. “Happy birthday to you …”

  The waiter puts the tray down in front of me, but my hands are full with phones.

  “I’ll take that for you,” says Lorraine, relieving me of Daniel’s phone. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. “He’s singing!” she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly.

  “Samantha?” Mum is saying in my ear. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m just … they’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’ …”

  I put the phone on the table. After a moment’s thought, Lorraine puts the other phone carefully down on the other side of me.

  This is my family birthday party.

  Two cell phones.

  I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see I’m sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. I’m trying to keep my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

  Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. He’s carrying three cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion.

  “Who is the martini for?”

  “It was … supposed to be for my brother …”

  “That would be the Nokia,” says Lorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.

  There’s a pause—then, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together with a cocktail napkin.

  I want to laugh—except there’s a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. There’s an awkward pause.

  “So anyway …” Lorraine retrieves Daniel’s mobile phone and pops it into her bag. “Happy birthday—and have a lovely evening!”

  As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye—but Mum’s already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. It’s just me and a basket of soap.

  “Did you wish to order?” The maître d’ has reappeared at my chair. “I can recommend the risotto,” he says in kind tones. “Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?”

  “Actually …” I force myself to smile. “I’ll just get the bill, thanks.”

  It doesn’t matter.

  We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldn’t even have tried to set the date. We’re all busy, we all have careers, that’s just the way my family is.

  As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair …

  “Stay here,” she’s instructing the taxi driver. “I can only be five minutes—”

  “Freya?” I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.

  “Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?”

  “What are you doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going to India.”

  “I’m on my way! I’m meeting Lord at the airport in about …” She looks at her watch. “Ten minutes.”

  She pulls a guilty face, and I can’t help laughing. I’ve known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants from Staines. Even then she was unabashed and said she’d lied to cover up the real truth—which was that they were spies.

  She’s taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth I’ve ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.


  “I’m here to gate-crash your birthday dinner.” Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. “But I thought I was late. What happened?”

  “Well …” I hesitate. “The thing was … Mum and Daniel …”

  “Left early?” As she peers at me, Freya’s expression changes to one of horror. “Didn’t turn up? Jesus Christ, the bastards. Couldn’t they just for once put you first instead of their frigging—” She stops her tirade; she knows I’ve heard it all before. “Sorry. I know. They’re your family. Whatever.”

  Freya and my mum don’t exactly get on.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging ruefully. “Really. I’ve got a pile of work to get through anyway.”

  “Work?” Freya looks appalled. “Now? Are you serious? Doesn’t it ever stop?”

  “We’re busy at the moment. It’s just a blip—”

  “There’s always a blip! There’s always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun—”

  “That’s not true—”

  “Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does!” Her eyes are filled with concern. “Samantha … what happened to your life?”

  I’m silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I can’t remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya in Italy, the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over.

  “I want to be a partner of Carter Spink,” I say at last. “That’s what I want. You have to make … sacrifices.”

  “And what happens when you make partner?” she persists. “Does it get easier?”

  The truth is, I haven’t thought beyond making partner. It’s like a dream. Like a shiny ball in the sky.

  “You’re twenty-nine years old, for Christ’s sake!” Freya gestures with a bony, silver-ringed hand. “You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing the world!” She grabs my arm. “Samantha, come to India. Now!”