The Undomestic Goddess

  As the train pulls out of the station I feel a painful stab and close my eyes for a moment, trying to stay composed. I’m doing the right thing. Everyone’s agreed. I take a sip of cappuccino, then another. If I drink enough coffee maybe it’ll jolt me alive. Maybe I’ll stop feeling as though I’m in a dream.

  Wedged in the corner opposite me is the TV cameraman for the news documentary, together with the producer, Dominic, a guy with trendy glasses and a denim jacket. I can feel the camera lens on me, following every move, zooming in and out, catching every expression. I could really do without this.

  “And so lawyer Samantha Sweeting leaves the village where she was known only as domestic help,” Dominic is saying into his microphone in a low, TV-commentary voice. “The question is—does she have any regrets?” He gives me a questioning glance.

  “I thought you were supposed to be fly-on-the-wall,” I snap with a baleful look.

  “Here you go!” Guy dumps a heavy set of contracts on my lap. “Here’s the Samatron deal. Get your teeth into that.”

  I look at the piles of paper, inches thick. Once upon a time, seeing a brand-new, fresh contract gave me a rush of adrenaline. I always wanted to be first to spot an anomaly, first to raise a query. But now I feel blank.

  Everyone else in the carriage is working away. I leaf through the contract, trying to summon up some enthusiasm. Come on. This is my life now. Once I get back into the swing of it I’ll start to enjoy it again, surely.

  But the words are jumbling in front of my eyes. I can’t concentrate. All I can think about is Nathaniel. I’ve tried calling him but he isn’t answering. Or replying to texts. It’s like he doesn’t want to know anymore.

  How can everything be over? How can he have just left?

  My eyes are starting to blur with tears again and I furiously blink them away. I can’t cry. I’m a partner. Partners do not cry. Trying to get a grip, I look out the window instead. We seem to be slowing down, which is a bit weird.

  “An announcement for all passengers.” A voice suddenly comes crackling out of the loudspeakers. “This train has been rescheduled as a slow train. It will be stopping at Hitherton, Marston Bridge, Bridbury …”

  “What?” Guy looks up. “A slow train?”

  “Jesus Christ.” David Elldridge scowls. “How much longer will it take?”

  “ … and will arrive at Paddington half an hour after the scheduled time,” the voice is saying. “Apologies for any—”

  “Half an hour?” David Elldridge whips out his mobile phone, looking livid. “I’m going to have to reschedule my meeting.”

  “I’ll have to put off the Pattinson Lobb people.” Guy looks equally pissed off, and is already jabbing at the speed-dial on his phone. “Hi Mary? Guy. Listen, total cock-up on this train. I’m going to be half an hour late—”

  “Rearrange Derek Tomlinson—” David’s instructing.

  “We’ll have to push back Pattinson Lobb, cancel that guy from The Lawyer—”

  “Davina,” Greg Parker is saying into his phone. “Fucking train’s slow. Tell the rest of the team I’ll be half an hour late, I’m sending an e-mail—” He puts down his phone and immediately starts typing into his BlackBerry. A moment later Guy is doing the same.

  I’m watching all this frenzied action incredulously. They all look so stressed. So the train’s going to be late. It’s half an hour. It’s thirty minutes. How can anyone get so het up over thirty minutes?

  Is this what I’m supposed to be like? Because I’ve forgotten how. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to be a lawyer altogether.

  The train pulls into Hitherton station and slowly comes to a halt. I glance out the window—then gasp aloud. A huge hot-air balloon is hovering just a few feet above the station building. It’s bright red and yellow, with people waving from a basket. It looks like something out of a fairy tale.

  “Hey, look!” I exclaim. “Look at that!”

  No one moves their head. They’re all frantically tapping at their keyboards.

  “Look!” I try again. “It’s amazing!” There’s still no response. No one is interested in anything except the contents of their BlackBerry. And now the balloon’s soared away again. In a moment it’ll be out of sight. They all missed it.

  I look at them, the cream of the legal world, dressed in their thousand-pound handmade suits, holding state-of-the-art computers. Missing out. Not even caring that they’re missing out. Living in their own world.

  I don’t belong here. This is not my world anymore. I’m not one of them.

  I suddenly know it, with the deepest certainty I’ve ever felt. I don’t fit; I don’t relate. Maybe I did once, but not anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t spend my life in meeting rooms. I can’t obsess about every little chunk of time. I can’t miss out on any more.

  As I sit there, the contracts still piled on my lap, I feel tension rising inside me. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t what I want from my life. This isn’t what I want to do. This isn’t who I want to be.

  I have to get out. Now.

  Up and down the train, people are stepping in and out, banging doors, hefting bags. As calmly as I can I reach for my suitcase, pick up my bag, and stand up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I made a mistake. I’ve only just realized.”

  “What?” Guy looks up.

  “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.” My voice wavers slightly. “But … I can’t stay. I can’t do this.”

  “Jesus.” He clutches his head. “Not this again, Samantha—”

  “Don’t try and talk me round,” I cut across him. “I’ve decided. I can’t be like the rest of you. It’s just not right for me. I’m sorry, I should never have come.”

  “Is this to do with the gardener?” He sounds exasperated. “Because quite frankly—”

  “No! It’s to do with me! I just …” I hesitate, searching for the words. “Guy … I don’t want to be someone who doesn’t look out the window.”

  Guy’s face doesn’t register an iota of understanding. I didn’t expect it to.

  “Good-bye.” I open the train door and step out, but Guy grabs me roughly.

  “Samantha, for the last time, stop this crap! I know you. And you’re a lawyer.”

  “You don’t know me, Guy!” My words burst out in a surge of sudden anger. I pull my arm out of his and slam the door shut, shaking all over. The next moment it opens again and Dominic and the cameraman pile out after me.

  “And so!” Dominic is murmuring excitedly into his microphone. “In a shocking turn of events, Samantha Sweeting has rejected her glittering legal career!”

  As the train pulls out of the station I can see Guy and the other partners on their feet staring out at me in consternation. I guess I’ve ruined all my chances of a comeback now.

  The other passengers start melting away from the platform, leaving me all alone. All alone on Hitherton station with only a suitcase for company. I don’t even know where Hitherton is. The TV camera is still trained on me, and as people pass by they give me curious glances.

  What am I going to do now?

  “As she gazes down onto the railway tracks, Samantha finds herself at a low ebb.” Dominic’s voice is low and sympathetic.

  “I don’t,” I mutter back.

  “This morning she was devastated to lose the man she loved. Now … she has no career either.” He pauses, then adds in sepulchral tones, “Who knows what dark thoughts are going through her mind?”

  What’s he trying to imply? That I’m going to throw myself under the next train? He’d love that, wouldn’t he? He’d probably win an Emmy.

  “I’m fine.” I lift my chin and clutch my suitcase more tightly. “I’m going to be fine. I’ve … I’ve done the right thing.”

  But as I look around the empty station I feel flurries of panic as I take in my situation properly. I have no idea when the next train will be. I have no idea where I want to go even.

  “
Do you have a plan, Samantha?” asks Dominic, thrusting his microphone at me. “A goal?”

  Into my mind come Iris’s words that day we made the bread.

  “Sometimes you don’t need a goal in life,” I reply, lifting my chin. “You don’t need to know the big picture. You just need to know what you’re going to do next.”

  “And what are you going to do next?”

  “I’m … I’m … working on it.” I turn and march away from the camera, toward the waiting room. As I near it, I see a guard coming out.

  “Um, hello,” I say. “I’d like to know how to get to …” I trail off, uncertainly. Where am I going? “To … um …”

  “To …” prompts the guard helpfully.

  “To … Cornwall,” I hear myself saying.

  “Cornwall?” He looks taken aback. “Whereabouts in Cornwall?”

  “I don’t know.” I swallow. “Not exactly. But I need to get there as quickly as possible.”

  There can’t be that many nurseries for sale in Cornwall. I’ll track down the right one. I’ll find him. Somehow.

  “Well.” The guard’s brow creases. “I’ll have to consult the book.” He disappears into his room, then emerges, holding a piece of paper covered in pencil. “Six changes, I’m afraid, to Penzance. And it’ll be one hundred and twenty pounds fare. Train’ll be a while,” he adds as I hand over a wodge of cash. “Platform two.”

  “Thanks.” I take my ticket, pick up my suitcase, and head over the footbridge.

  I know this is a crazy plan. I don’t have an address. I don’t have any backup. Nathaniel may not even want to see me again.

  But … I have to try.

  It seems like hours before I hear the sound of the train in the distance. But it’s the wrong side. It’s another train for London. As it pulls in I can hear the slam of doors and people disgorging on the other side.

  “London train!” the guard is shouting. “Train for London, platform one.”

  That’s the train I should be on. If I was sane. If I hadn’t taken leave of my senses. My eyes move idly over the windows, at people in their seats, talking, asleep, reading, listening to iPods—

  And then everything seems to freeze. Am I dreaming?

  It’s Nathaniel. On the London train. He’s three yards away, sitting in a window seat, staring ahead rigidly.

  What—Why is he—

  “Nathaniel!” I try to shout, but my voice has turned into a croak. “Nathaniel!” I wave my arms frantically, trying to get his attention.

  “Jesus, it’s him!” exclaims Dominic, who has followed me onto the platform. “Nathaniel!” he yells, his voice like a foghorn. “Over here, mate!”

  “Nathaniel!” At last my voice is working. “Na-than-iel!”

  At my desperate scream he finally looks up. For a moment his expression is sheer disbelief. Then his whole face seems to expand in a slow explosion of delight.

  I can hear train doors slamming. It’s about to leave.

  “Come on!” I yell, beckoning urgently.

  I can see him getting up inside the train, grabbing his rucksack, squeezing past the woman in the next seat. Then he disappears from view, just as the train starts pulling out of the station.

  I can’t move, or even breathe. All I can do is stare at the departing train, moving past carriage by carriage, speeding up, faster and faster … until finally it’s gone.

  And Nathaniel is standing on the platform. He’s there.

  Without moving my eyes from his I begin to walk along the platform, speeding up as I reach the footbridge. On the opposite side he does the same. We reach the top of the steps, walk forward a way, and both come to a halt, a few feet apart. I feel shell-shocked and exhilarated and uncertain all at the same time.

  “I thought you were going down to Cornwall,” I say at last. “To buy your nursery.”

  “I changed my mind.” Nathaniel looks pretty shell-shocked himself. “Thought I might … visit a friend in London instead.” He glances at my suitcase. “Where were you going?”

  I clear my throat. “I was thinking … Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall?” He stares at me.

  “Uh-huh.” I show him my timetable, suddenly wanting to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

  Nathaniel leans against the barricade, his thumbs in his pockets, and surveys the wooden slats of the bridge. “So … where are your friends?”

  “Dunno. Gone. And they’re not my friends. I hit Guy,” I add proudly.

  Nathaniel throws back his head and laughs. “So they fired you.”

  “I fired them,” I correct him.

  “You did?” says Nathaniel in amazement. He reaches out for my hand but I don’t take it. Underneath my joy I’m still feeling unsettled. The hurt of this morning hasn’t gone. I can’t pretend everything’s OK.

  “I got your note.” I lift my eyes to his and Nathaniel flinches.

  “Samantha … I wrote you a different one on the train. In case you wouldn’t see me in London.”

  He fishes awkwardly in his pocket and pulls out a letter several sheets long, both sides of the paper covered in writing. I hold it for a few moments without reading it.

  “What—what does it say?” I raise my eyes.

  “It’s … long and boring.” His gaze burns into mine. “And badly put.”

  I turn the pages slowly over in my fingers. Here and there I glimpse words that make my eyes fill instantly.

  “So,” I manage.

  “So.” Nathaniel’s arms come round my waist; his warm mouth is on mine. As he holds me tight I can feel the tears spilling onto my cheeks. This is where I belong. This is where I fit. I finally draw away and look up at him, wiping my eyes.

  “Where now?” He looks down over the bridge and I follow his gaze. The railway track extends in both directions, far into the distance. “Which way?”

  I look along the endless line, squinting in the sunshine. I’m twenty-nine years old. I can go anywhere. Do anything. Be anyone I like.

  “There’s no rush,” I say at last, and reach up to kiss him again.

  To Linda Evans

  Acknowledgments

  I am incredibly grateful to the many people who have gone out of their way to help me with this book. To Emily Stokely, domestic goddess extraordinaire, for teaching me how to bake bread. To Roger Barron for being so generous with his time and giving me a wonderful insight into the world of corporate law (not to mention his Jo Malone expertise!). And especially to Abigail Townley, for acting as legal plot consultant, allowing me to shadow her, and patiently answering a million dumb questions.

  A special thank-you to Susan Kamil for so much support and understanding. Many thanks also to Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Barb Burg, Sharon Propson, Susan Corcoran, Carolyn Schwartz, Betsy Hulsebosch, Cathy Paine, and Noah Eaker. To the wonderful Araminta Whitley, whose enthusiasm for this book has known no bounds, to Kim Witherspoon as always, to David Forrer and Lizzie Jones. To Valerie Hoskins, Rebecca Watson, and Brian Siberell. Thanks as ever to the members of the Board and to all my boys, big and small.

  These acknowledgments would not be complete, of course, without a mention of Nigella Lawson, whom I’ve never met—but whose books should be required reading for all undomestic goddesses.

  Watch for Sophie Kinsella’s new novel

  I’VE GOT YOUR NUMBER

  Coming February 14, 2012

  Turn the page for a special preview!

  1

  Perspective. I need to get perspective. It’s not an earthquake or a crazed gunman or a nuclear meltdown, is it? On the scale of disasters, this is not huge. Not huge. One day I expect I’ll look back at this moment and laugh and think, Ha-ha, how silly I was to worry—

  Stop, Poppy. Don’t even try. I’m not laughing—in fact, I feel sick. I’m walking blindly around the hotel ballroom, my heart thudding, looking fruitlessly on the patterned blue carpet, behind gilt chairs, under discarded paper napkins, in places where it couldn’t possibly be.


  I’ve lost it. The only thing in the world I wasn’t supposed to lose. My engagement ring.

  To say this is a special ring is an understatement. It’s been in Magnus’s family for three generations. It’s this stunning emerald with two diamonds, and Magnus had to get it out of a special bank vault before he proposed. I’ve worn it safely every day for three whole months, religiously putting it on a special china tray at night, feeling for it on my finger every thirty seconds … and now, the very day his parents are coming back from the States, I’ve lost it. The very same day.

  Professors Antony Tavish and Wanda Brook-Tavish are, at this precise moment, flying back from six months’ sabbatical in Chicago. I can picture them now, eating honey-roasted peanuts and reading academic papers on their his ’n’ hers Kindles. I honestly don’t know which of them is more intimidating.

  Him. He’s so sarcastic.

  No, her. With all that frizzy hair and always asking you questions about your views on feminism.

  OK, they’re both bloody scary. And they’re landing in about an hour, and of course they’ll want to see the ring—

  No. Do not hyperventilate, Poppy. Stay positive. I just need to look at this from a different angle. Like … what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn’t flap around in panic. He’d stay calm and use his little gray cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to everything.

  I squeeze my eyes tight. Little gray cells. Come on. Do your best.

  Thing is, I’m not sure Poirot had three glasses of pink champagne and a mojito before he solved the Murder on the Orient Express.

  “Miss?” A gray-haired cleaning lady is trying to get round me with a Hoover, and I gasp in horror. They’re Hoovering the ballroom already? What if they suck it up?

  “Excuse me.” I grab her blue nylon shoulder. “Could you just give me five more minutes to search before you start Hoovering?”

  “Still looking for your ring?” She shakes her head doubtfully, then brightens. “I expect you’ll find it safe at home. It’s probably been there all the time!”

  “Maybe.” I force myself to nod politely, although I feel like screaming, “I’m not that stupid!”