The Undomestic Goddess (18 page)

God, how awful, I say in horror.

Eamonn resumes hefting crates. Worst thing was, after Ben died they had to sell off one of
the pubs. To pay the legal bills.

Im aghast.

The last lawyer came in this pub... Eamonn leans conspiratorially across the bar.
Nathaniel punched him.

He punched him? My voice comes out a petrified squeak. It was on the day of his dads funeral. Eamonn
lowers his voice. One of his dads

lawyers came in here and Nathaniel socked him one. We tease him about it now.

He turns away to serve someone and I take another drink of wine, my heart hammering with
nerves.

Lets not freak out here. So he doesnt like lawyers. That doesnt mean me . Of course it doesnt. I can still be honest with him. I can still tell him about my past.
He wont take it against me. Surely.

But... what if he does?

What if he punches me?

Sorry about that. All of a sudden Nathaniel is in front of me. Are you OK?

Im fine! I say over-brightly. Having a lovely time!

Hey, Nathaniel, says Eamonn, polishing a glass. He winks at me. What do you call five
thousand lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?

A start! The words jump out of my mouth before I can stop them. They should all... rot.
Away. Into hell.

Theres a surprised silence. I can see Eamonn and Nathaniel exchanging raised eyebrows.

OK. Change the subject. Now.

So! Er... I quickly turn to a group standing by the bar. Can I serve anyone?

By the end of the evening Ive pulled about forty pints. Ive had a plate of cod and chips
and half a dish of sticky toffee puddingand beaten Nathaniel at darts, to loud cheers

and whoops from everyone watching around.

You said you hadnt played before! he says in disbelief after I nail my winning triple
eight.

I havent, I say innocently. Theres no need to mention that I did archery at school for
five years.

At last Nathaniel rings Last Orders with a resounding clang of the bell, and a good hour
later the last few stragglers make it to the door, each pausing to say good-bye as they
leave. He must know every single person in this village.

Well clear up, says Eamonn firmly, as Nathaniel starts picking up glasses, five at a time.
Give those here. Youll want to be enjoying the rest of the evening.

Well... OK. Nathaniel claps him on the back. Thanks, Eamonn. He looks at me. Ready to go?

Almost reluctantly I slide down off my bar stool. Its been an amazing evening, I say to
Eamonn. Brilliant to meet you.

Likewise. He grins. Send us your invoice.

Im still buoyed by the atmosphere; by my win at darts; by the satisfaction of having spent
the evening actually doing something. Ive never had an evening out like this in my life.

No one inLondon ever took me to a pub for a datelet alone to the other side of the bar. On
my first evening out with Jacob he took me to Les Sylphides atCovent Garden , then left after twenty minutes to take a call from the States and never
returned. The next day he said he was so bound up in a point of commercial contract law,
he forgot I was there.

And the worst thing is, instead of saying You bastard! and punching him, I asked what
point of commercial contract law.

After the beery warmth of the pub, the summer night feels fresh and cool. I can hear the
faint laughter of pub-goers up ahead, and a car starting in the distance. There are no
street lamps; the only light comes from a big full moon and curtained cottage windows.

I really, really loved tonight, I say with enthusiasm. Its a great pub. And I cant get
over how friendly it is. The way everyone knows you! And the village spirit. Everyone
cares about each other. You can tell.

How can you tell that?

From the way everyone claps each other on the back, I explain. Like, if someone were in
trouble, everyone would rally round in a heartwarming way. You can just see it.

I hear Nathaniel stifle a laugh.

We did get the MostHeartwarmingVillage award last year, he says.

You can laugh, I retort. But inLondon , no ones heartwarming. If you fell over dead in the
street theyd just push you into the gutter. After emptying your wallet and stealing your
identity. That wouldnt happen here, would it?

Well, no, says Nathaniel, straight-faced. If you die here, the entire village gathers
round your bed and sings the village lament.

My mouth twists into a smile. I knew it. Strewing flower petals?

Naturally. He nods. And making ceremonial corn dollies.

A small animal runs across the road, stops, and regards us with two tiny yellow headlamps,
then skitters into the hedgerow.

How does the lament go, then? I say.

It goes something like this. Nathaniel clears his throat, then sings in a low, mournful
monotone. Oh, no. Hes gone.

What about if its a woman? I match his deadpan manner.

Good point. Then we sing a different lament. He draws a deep breath and sings again, on
exactly the same tuneless note: Oh, no. Shes gone.

I cant help but laugh. Well... we dont have laments inLondon . We move on. Big on moving,
Londoners. Big on staying ahead.

I know about Londoners. Nathaniel runs his hand along a hedge. I lived inLondon for a time.

Nathaniel lived inLondon ? I try, and fail, to picture him straphanging on the tube,
reading Metro .

When?

I was a waiter on my year off before uni. My flat was opposite a twenty-four-hour
supermarket. It was lit up all night, with these bright fluorescent strips. And the
noise... He winces. In ten months of living there, I never had a single moment of total
darkness or total quiet. I never heard a bird. I never saw the stars.

Instinctively I tilt my head back to look up at the clear night sky. Slowly, as my eyes
adjust to the blackness, the tiny pinpricks begin to appear, forming whorls and patterns
that I cant begin to decipher. Hes right. I never saw the stars inLondon either.

My dad taught me the constellations, Nathaniel says, looking up too. He had a telescope up
in the attic.

Nathaniel... what happened with your dad? I speak tentatively. Eamonn told me there was a
court case with the council?

Yes. His voice tightens. There was.

Was he suing them? Or... or... I trail off.

It was all so bloody pointless ! He exhales. It started when the council dug up the road outside one of our pubs for
eight months. They ruined access to it, and business went down. So Dad sued them. And
lost. Thats when he had his first heart attack. That should have been the end of it.

I bite my lip. So... what went wrong?

Then some other lawyers made contact. More expensive. I can hear the bitterness in
Nathaniels voice. They persuaded Dad he would win on appeal. They kept whipping him up,
pressing the right buttons. They knew he was ill. Mum and I tried to talk him out of it... but he just called us negative. Dad
always believed he was in the right. He kept saying justice would prevail. He trusted those bastards. Nathaniel is silent for a moment, then adds, He had the next heart attack
a week after they lost the second appeal. It killed him.

Nathaniel... Im really sorry. Thats awful.

Thanks, he says after a pause. It was a pretty bad time.

I feel chastened after hearing his story. This is a side of the law I have no experience
of. Genuine concerns and people. At Carter Spink the deals may have been hugebut I was
pretty much cushioned from real life.

How about you? His voice brings me back to earth. You were going to tell me how you came
to be here.

Oh. I feel a spasm of nerves. Yes, right. So I was.

This is impossible. I want to tell him. But... how on earth can I now? How can I admit
that Im a lawyer?

Well, I say at last. I was inLondon . In this... this...

Relationship, he prompts.

Er... yes. I pause, racking my brains for a way to continue. Well. Things went wrong. I
got on a train... and I ended up here.

Theres an expectant silence. Thats it, I add. Thats it ? Nathaniel sounds incredulous. Thats the long story? Oh, God.

Look. I turn to face him in the moonlight. I know I was going to tell you more. But are
the details really important? Does it matter, what I used to do... or be? The point is, Im
here. And Ive just had the best evening of my life. Ever.

I can see he wants to challenge me; he even opens his mouth to speak. Then he relents and
turns away.

I feel a plunge of despair. Maybe Ive ruined everything. Maybe I should have told the
truth anyway. Or made up some convoluted story about a nasty boyfriend.

We walk on again into the night without speaking. Nathaniels shoulder brushes against
mine. Then I feel his hand. His fingers graze against my own casually at first, as though
by accidentthen, slowly, entwine round mine.

I feel an arching inside as my entire body responds, but somehow force myself not to catch
my breath. Theres no sound except our footsteps on the road and the hooting of an owl.
Nathaniels hand is sure and firm round my own. I can feel the roughened calluses on his
skin, his thumb rubbing over mine.

We come to a stop at the entrance to the Geigers drive. He looks down at me silently, his
expression almost grave. I can feel my breath thickening. I dont care if its obvious I
want him.

I was never any good at the rules, anyway.

He releases my hand and puts both hands round my waist. Now hes slowly pulling me toward
him. I close my eyes.

For goodness sake! comes an unmistakable voice. Arent you going to kiss her?

I jump backward. Nathaniel looks equally shocked; his arms have dropped to his sides. I
turn roundand to my utter horror, Trish is leaning out of an upstairs window, holding a
cigarette.

Im not a prude , you know, she says. You are allowed to kiss!

I shoot furious daggers at her. Has she never heard the word privacy ?

Carry on! Her cigarette end glows as she waves it. Dont mind me!

Dont mind her? Im sorry, but Nathaniel and I are not having our first kiss with Trish as a
spectator. I glance uncertainly at Nathaniel, who looks as nonplussed as I feel.

Should we Im not even sure what Im about to suggest. Isnt it a lovely summers night? adds
Trish conversationally. Lovely, calls back Nathaniel politely. This is disastrous. The
mood is totally broken.

Um... thanks for a great evening, I say, trying to keep a straight face. I had a great
time.

Me too. His eyes are almost indigo in the shadows. So. Are we going to give Mrs. Geiger
her kicks? Or leave her in an unbearable frenzy of frustration?

Trish is still leaning avidly out the window, as if were the floor show.

Oh... I think she probably deserves the unbearable frenzy of frustration, I say with a
tiny smile.

So Ill see you tomorrow?

Ill be at your mums at ten oclock.

He holds out his hand and we barely brush fingertips before he turns and walks away. I
watch him disappear into the darkness, then turn and head down the drive to the house, my
whole body still pulsating.

Its all very well, getting one over on Trish. But what about my unbearable frenzy of frustration?

Im woken the next day by Trish banging sharply on my door. Samantha! I need to speak to
you! Now!

Its not even eight oclock on a Saturday morning. Wheres the fire?

OK! Hang on a sec! I call blearily.

I get out of bed and put on a dressing gown, my head filled with delicious memories of
last night. Nathaniels hand in mine... Nathaniels arms around me...

Yes, Mrs. Geiger? I open my door to see Trish standing there in a white robe. She puts her
hand over the cordless phone in her hand.

Samantha. Theres a strange note of triumph in her voice. Youve fibbed to me, havent you?

I feel a white flash of shock. How did shehow could she

Havent you? She gives me a penetrating look. Im sure you know what Im talking about?

My mind frantically runs over all the fibs Ive ever told Trish, up to and including Im a
housekeeper. It could be anything. It could be something small and insignificant. Or she
could have found out the whole lot.

I dont know what youre referring to, I say in a throaty voice. Madam.

Well. Trish walks toward me, swishing her silk dressing gown crossly. As you can imagine,
Im rather upset that you never told me youd cooked paella for the Spanish ambassador.

My mouth hangs open.

I specifically asked in your interview if you had cooked for any notable persons. Trish
arches her eyebrows in reproof. You never even mentioned the banquet for three hundred at the Mansion House.

OK, has she been bipolar all this time? That would explain a lot. Mrs. Geiger, I say, a
little nervous. Would you like to sit down? No, thank you! she says crisply. Im still on
the phone with Lady Edgerly. Freyas on the phone? Lady Edgerly... Trish lifts the phone to
her ear. Youre quite right Jar too

unassuming... She looks up. Lady Edgerly would like to have a word with you.

She hands me the phone and in a blur of incredulity I lift it to my ear.

Hello?

Samantha? Freyas familiar, raspy voice erupts into my ear through a sea of static. Are you
OK? What the fuck is going on?

Im... fine! I glance at Trish, who is standing approximately two meters away. Ill just...
go somewhere a bit more...

Ignoring Trishs laserlike eyes, I hurry into my bedroom and close the door tight. Then I
lift the phone to my ear again.

Im fine! I feel a rush of joy to be talking to Freya again. Its so amazing to hear from
you!

What on earths going on? she demands again. I got this message but it made no sense! Youre
a housekeeper ? Is this some huge windup?

No. I glance at the door, then move into the bathroom and turn the fan on. Im a full- time
housekeeper, I say in a lower voice. Ive left my job at Carter Spink.

Youve quit ? says Freya. Just like that?

I didnt quit. I was... thrown out. I made a mistake and they fired me.

Its still hard to say it. Or even to think about it.

You were thrown out for a simple mistake ? Freya sounds outraged. Jesus H. Christ, these people

It wasnt a simple mistake, I cut her off in mid-flow. It was... a really big, important
mistake. Anyway, thats what happened. And I decided to do something different. Become a
housekeeper for a bit.

You decided to become a housekeeper, echoes Freya slowly. Samantha, did you totally lose
your mind?

Why not? I say defensively. You were the one who said I should have a break. But a housekeeper ? You cant cook! Well, I know.

I mean, you really cant cook! Shes giggling now. Ive seen your cooking. And your nonexistent cleaning.

I know! It was a bit of a nightmare to begin with. But Im kind of... learning. Youd be
surprised.

Do you have to wear an apron?

Ive got this hideous nylon uniform. Im snuffling with laughter now. And I call them
Madam... and Sir... and I curtsy.

Samantha, this is insane, says Freya. Absolutely insane. You cannot stay there. Im going
to rescue you. Ill fly back tomorrow

No! I say with more vehemence than I intended. No! Im... having a good time. Ive met

I halt abruptly. But Freyas too quick off the mark for me. A man ? she exclaims in delight. Well... yes. Thats fantastic! About time too. Only hed better
not be another dreary lawyer Dont worry. I feel an unwilling grin come to my face. Hes not.

Details?

Its early days. But hes... you know. Nice.

Well, even so. If you want to escape, you know Im only a phone call away. You can stay at
our place.

Thanks, Freya. I feel a tug of affection for her.

No problem. Samantha?

Yes? Theres a long silence, until I think the line must have cut out.

What about the law? says Freya at last. What about partnership? I know I gave you a hard
time about it. But it was your dream. Are you just going to abandon it?

I push down a twinge of deep, buried grief. That dreams over, I say shortly. Partners dont
make fifty-million-quid mistakes.

Fifty million quid?

Uh-huh.

Jesus. I hear her sharp intake of breath. I had no idea. I cant imagine how youve coped
with all this

Its fine. I cut her off. Ive got over it . Freya sighs. You know, I had a feeling something was up. I tried to send you an e-mail

the other day via the Carter Spink Web site. But your page was gone.

Really? I feel an odd tweak inside.

And then I thought She breaks off, and I can hear some kind of mayhem in the background.
Oh, bugger. Our transports here. Listen, Ill call again soon

Wait! I say urgently. Before you go, Freya, what on earth did you say to Trish about the Spanish ambassador? And the Mansion House?

Oh, that! Well, she kept asking questions, so I thought Id better make some stuff up. I
said you could fold napkins into a scene from SwanLake ... and make ice sculptures... and David Linley once asked for your cheese-straw recipe.

Freya... I close my eyes.

I made quite a lot up, actually. She lapped it up! I have to go, babe. Love you.

Love you too.

The phone goes dead and I stand motionless for a moment, the bathroom suddenly very silent
without Freyas husky voice in my ear.

I look at my watch. Its still early. Ive got time to have a look.

Three minutes later Im sitting at Eddies desk, tapping my fingers as I wait for the
Internet connection to work. I asked Trish if I could possibly send an e-mail of thanks to
Lady Edgerly, and she was only too eager to open up the study for me and loiter behind the
chair, until I politely asked her for some privacy.

Eddies home page opens and I immediately type inwww.carterspink.com .

As the familiar purple logo appears and describes a 360-degree circle on the screen, I can
feel all the old tensions rising, like leaves from the bottom of a pond. Taking a deep
breath, I click swiftly past the introduction, straight to Associates. The list comes up

and Freyas right. The names segue straight from Snell to Taylor . No Sweeting .

I tell myself to be rational. Of course theyve taken me off. Ive been fired, what else did
I expect? That was my old life and Im not concerned with it anymore. I should just close
down, go to Iriss house, and forget about it. Thats what I should do. Instead, I find
myself reaching for the mouse and tapping Samantha Sweeting into the search box. No result pings up a few moments later.

No result? Nowhere on the whole Web site ? But... what about in the Media section? Or News Archives?

I quickly click onto the Done Deals box, and search for Euro-Sal, merger, DanCo . That was a big European deal last year, and I handled the financing. The report appears
on the screen, with the headline CARTER SPINK ADVISES ON £20BN MERGER. My eyes run down
the familiar text. The Carter Spink team was led from London by Arnold Saville, with associates Guy Ashby
and Jane Smilington .

I stop in disbelief, then go back and read the text more carefully, searching for the
missing words: and Samantha Sweeting , it should read. But the words arent there. Im not there. Quickly I click onto another
deal, the Conlon acquisition. I know Im in this report. Ive read it, for Christs sake. I was on the team, Ive got a tombstone
to prove it.

But Im not mentioned here either.

My heart is thudding as I click from deal to deal, tracking back a year. Two years. Five
years. Theyve wiped me out. Someone has gone painstakingly through the entire Web site and
removed my name. Ive been erased from every deal I was involved with. Its as if I never
even existed.

I try to stay calm, but anger is bubbling up, hot and strong. How dare they change
history? How dare they wipe me out? I gave them seven years of my life . They cant just blot me out, pretend I was never even on the payroll.

Then a new thought hits me. Why have they bothered doing this? Other people have left the
firm and havent disappeared. Am I such an embarrassment? I look at the screen silently for a moment. Then, slowly, I type
inwww.google.com and enter Samantha Sweeting in the box. I add lawyer to be on the safe side, and press enter.

A moment later the screen fills with text. As I scan the entries I feel as though Ive been
hit over the head.

...the Samantha Sweeting debacle ... ... discovery,Samantha Sweetingwent AWOL, leaving colleaguestto...

... heard aboutSamantha Sweeting... ... Samantha Sweeting jokes. What do you call a lawyer who ... ...Samantha Sweetingfired from Carter Spink...

One after another. From lawyers Web sites, legal news services, law students message
boards. Its as if the whole legal world has been talking about me behind my back. In a
daze, I click to the next pageand there are still more. And on the next page, and the next.

I feel as though Im surveying a wrecked bridge. Looking at the damage, realizing for the
first time quite how bad the devastation is.

I can never go back.

I knew that.

But I dont think I really knew it. Not deep down in the pit of my stomach. Not where it counts.

I feel a wetness on my cheek and jump to my feet, shutting all the Web pages down;
clearing History in case Eddie gets curious. I shut down the computer and look around the
silent room. This is where I am. Not there. That part of my life is over.

Iriss cottage is looking as idyllic as ever as I dash up to the front door, out of breath.
In fact, even more idyllic, as a goose is now wandering about with her hens.

Hello. Iris is sitting on the front step with a mug of tea. You seem in a hurry.

I just wanted to get here on time. I glance around the garden, but theres no sign of
Nathaniel.

Nathaniel had to go and sort out a leaking pipe at one of the pubs, says Iris, as though
reading my mind. But hell be back later. Meanwhile, were going to make bread.

Great! I say. I follow her into the kitchen and put on the same stripy apron as last time.

Ive started us off already, says Iris, going over to a large, old-fashioned mixing bowl on
the table. Yeast, warm water, melted butter, and flour. Mix together and you have your
dough. Now, youre going to knead it.

Right, I say, looking blankly at the dough. She shoots me a curious glance.

Are you all right, Samantha? You seem... out of sorts.

Im fine. I will myself to concentrate. Sorry.

I know people have machines to do this for them, she says, hefting the dough onto the
table. But this is how we make it the old-fashioned way. Youll never taste better.

She kneads it briskly a couple of times. You see? Fold it over, make a quarter turn. You
need to use a bit of energy.

Cautiously I plunge my hands into the soft dough and try to imitate her.

Thats it, says Iris, watching carefully. Get into a rhythm and really work it. Kneadings very good for releasing stress, she adds with wry humor. Pretend youre
bashing all your worst enemies.

Ill do that! I manage a cheerful tone.

But theres a knot of tension in my chest, which doesnt dwindle away as I knead. In fact,
the more I fold and turn the dough, the worse it seems to get. I cant stop my mind
flipping back to that Web site.

I did good things for that firm. I won clients. I negotiated deals. I was not nothing.

I was not nothing.

The more you work the dough, the better the bread will be, says Iris, coming over to the
table with a smile. Can you feel it becoming warm and elastic in your hands?

I look at the dough in my fingers, but I cant connect with it. I cant feel what she wants
me to. My senses arent plugged in. My mind is skittering about like a squirrel on ice.

I start kneading again, harder than before, trying to capture it. I want to find that
contentment I had last time I was here, that feeling of simplicity and earthiness. But I
keep losing my rhythm, cursing in frustration as my fingers catch on the dough. My upper
arms are aching; my face is sweating. And the turmoil inside me is only getting worse.

How dare they wipe me out? I was a good lawyer. I was a good fucking lawyer. Would you
like a rest? Iris comes over and touches my shoulder. Its hard work when

youre not used to it.

Whats the point? My words shoot out before I can stop them. I mean, whats the point of all
this? Making bread. You make it and you eat it. And then... its gone.

I break off abruptly, not quite knowing whats come over me. I dont feel totally on top of
myself.

Iris gives me a careful look.

You could say the same of all food, she points out gently. Or life itself.

Exactly. I rub my forehead with my apron. Exactly.

I dont know what Im saying. Why am I picking a fight with Iris? I must calm down.

I think thats enough kneading, she says, taking the dough from me and patting it into a
round shape.

Now what? I say, trying to speak more normally. Shall I put it in the oven?

Not yet. Iris places the dough back in the bowl and puts it on top of the stove. Now we
wait.

Wait? I stare at her. What do you mean, wait?