The Undomestic Goddess (5 page)

I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. Er... no. She didnt.

In my day, says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, all well-educated girls were taught how to
sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.

None of this means anything to me. Turn a collar . Its gibberish.

Well, in my day... we werent, I reply politely. We were taught to study for our exams and
get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use our brains , I cant resist adding.

Mrs. Farley doesnt seem impressed. Its a shame, she says at last, and pats me

sympathetically.

Im trying to keep my temper, but Ive worked for hours, Ive had a nonexistent birthday, I
feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above meand now this old womans
telling me to sew on a button ?

Its not a shame, I say tightly.

All right, dear, says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her
flat.

Somehow this goads me even more.

How is it a shame? I demand, stepping out of my doorway. How? OK, maybe I cant sew on a
button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty
million pounds. Thats what I can do.

Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. Its a shame, she repeats, as though she didnt
even hear me. Good night, dear. She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation.

Did you never hear of feminism? I cry at her door.

But theres no answer.

Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial
the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle
Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting
room and flick on the telly.

A workbox . What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom? I sink down
onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering

vaguely at the images. News... a French film... some animal documentary...

Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions.

The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years .

Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need.

On the screen the whole familys gathered round the table; Grandmas saying grace.

I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. Ive always secretly loved The Waltons , ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out

and pretend I lived on Waltons Mountain too.

And now its the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in
darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole
huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the
screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close.

Good night,Elizabeth ! Good night, Grandma, I reply aloud. Its not like theres anyone to
hear. Night, Mary Ellen! Good night, John Boy, I say in unison with Mary Ellen. Good
night. Night. Night.

I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and
saying out loud, What? What?

Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or
something. Last Christmas at Mums house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a
drink of waterto find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging
a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.

I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all
the studying, all the late nights... its all been for this day.

Partner. Or not Partner.

Oh, God. Stop it. Dont think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge.
Dammit. Im out of milk.

And coffee. I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman.

I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery /milkman ? at the bottom of my TO DO list.

My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful
reminder of things Im intending to do. Its yellowing a bit now, actuallyand the ink at the
top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But its a good way to keep
myself organized.

I should really cross off some of the early entries, it occurs to me. I mean, the original
list dates from when I first moved into my flat, three years ago. I must have done some of
this stuff by now. I pick up a pen and squint at the first few faded entries.

1. Find milkman 2. Food deliveryorganize? 3. How switch on oven?

Oh. Right.

Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And Ill get to grips with
the oven. Ill read the manual and everything.

I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.

16. Sort out milkman

17. Have friends over?

18. Take up hobby??

The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.

I look down to even later entriesmaybe a year old where the ink is still blue @. 41. Go on
holiday?

42. Give dinner party?

42. MILKMAN??

I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn onthe kettle, resisting the temptation
to rip the list into bits.

Thekettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup ofweird herbal tea I was once given
by a client. I reach for anapple from the fruit bowlonly to discover its gone allmoldy.
With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin andnibble a few Shreddies out of the
packet.

The truth is, I dont care about the list. Theres only onething I care about.

I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. Ill just keep my head down and geton with my work. But as I travel up
in the lift, three people murmur Good luck, and walking along the corridor a guyfrom Tax
grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.

Best of luck, Samantha.

How does he know my name?

I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, tryingto ignore the fact that through
the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.

I really shouldnt have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.

Anyway. Its fine. Ill just start on some work, like any other day. I open Kettermans file,
find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share
transfer.

Samantha?

I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.

Hi, he says. How are you doing?

Fine, I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. Im fine. Just... normal. In fact, I
dont know what all the fuss is.

Guys amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my
pointand somehow knock the entire file to the floor.

Thank God for paper clips.

Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.

Uh-huh. Guy nods gravely. Well, its a good thing youre not nervous or jumpy or anything.

Yes, I say, refusing to take the bait. Isnt it?

See you later. He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my
watch.

Only eight fifty-three. The partners decision meeting starts in seven minutes. Im not sure
I can bear this.

Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Kettermans file and make a start at my
report. Im halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.

Hi, I say without looking up. Im fine, OK? And I havent heard anything.

Guy doesnt reply.

At last I lift my head. Hes right in front of my desk, looking down at me with the
strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together
under his poker-straight face.

I should not be doing this, he murmurs, then leans in closer. You did it, Samantha. Youre
a partner. Youll hear officially in an hour.

For an instant I cant breathe.

You didnt hear it from me, OK? Guys face creases briefly in a smile. Well done.

I made it. I made it.

Thanks... I manage.

Ill see you later. Congratulate you properly. He turns and strides away, and Im left
staring unseeingly at my computer.

I made partner. Oh, my God. Oh, my God . Oh, my GOD!

Im feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out YES! How do I survive an hour?
How can I just sit here calmly? I cant possibly concentrate on Kettermans report. It isnt
due until tomorrow, anyway.

I shove the file away from meand a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other
side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and
files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal.

Kettermans right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesnt look like a partners desk. Ill tidy
it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour. 12:06-1:06: office administration. We
even have a code for it on the computer time sheet.

I had forgotten how much I detest tidying.

All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company
letters... contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing... old invitations...
memos... a Pilates pamphlet... a CD that I bought three months ago and thought Id lost...
last years Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume... I
smile at the sight, and put it into the things to find a place for pile.

There are tombstones toothe engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big
deal. And... oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didnt finish eating at one time or
another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers.

They shouldnt give us such big desks. I cant believe how much stuff is on here.

Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework. PARTNER !

Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old
copy of The Lawyer and wonder why on earth Im keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I
reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing.
Its a memo fromArnold .

Re Third Union Bank. Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd. Please attend to
registration at Companies House.

I peer at it without great interest. Third Union Bank isArnold s client, and Ive only
dealt with them once. The bank has agreed to loan £50 million to Glazerbrooks, a big
building-materials company, and all I have to do is register the security document within
twenty-one days at Companies House. Its just another of the mundane jobs that partners are
always dumping on my desk. Well, not anymore, I think with a surge of determination. In
fact, I think Ill delegate this to someone else, right now. I glance automatically at the
date.

Then I look again. The security document is dated May 26th.

Five weeks ago? That cant be right.

Puzzled, I flip quickly through the papers, looking to see if theres been a typo. There must be a typobut the date is consistent throughout. May 26th.

May 26th?

I sit, frozen, staring at the document. Has this thing been on my desk for five weeks ?

But... it cant. I mean... it couldnt. That would mean

It would mean Ive missed the deadline.

I cant have made such a basic mistake. I cannot possibly have failed to register a charge
before the deadline. I always register charges before the deadline.

I close my eyes and try to remain calm. Its the excitement of being partner. Its addled my
brain. OK. Lets look at this again, carefully.

But the memo says exactly the same thing as before. At-tend to registration. Dated May
26th. Which would mean Ive exposed Third Union Bank to an unsecured loan. Which would mean
Ive made about the most elementary mistake a lawyer can make.

Theres a kind of iciness about my spine. Im trying desperately to remember ifArnold said
anything about the deal to me. I cant even remember him mentioning it. But then why would
he mention a simple loan agreement? We do loan agreements in our sleep. He would have
assumed Id carried out his instructions. He would have trusted me.

Oh, Jesus.

I leaf through the pages again, searching desperately for some loophole. Some miracle
clause that will have me exclaiming Oh, of course ! in relief. But of course its not there.

How could this have happened? Did I even notice this? Did I sweep it aside, meaning to

do it later?

What am I going to do? A wall of panic hits me as I take in the consequences. Third Union
Bank has lent Glazerbrooks £50 million. Without the charge being registered, this loanthis
multimillion-pound loanis unsecured. If Glazerbrooks went bust tomorrow, Third Union Bank
would go to the back of the queue of creditors. And probably end up with nothing.

Samantha! says Maggie at the door. Instinctively I plant my hand over the memo even though
she wouldnt realize the significance, anyway.

I just heard! she says in a stage whisper. Guy let it slip! Congratulations! Um... thanks!
Somehow I force my mouth into a smile. Im just getting a cup of tea. Dyou want one? Thatd
be... great. Thanks.

Maggie disappears and I bury my head in my hands. Im trying to keep calm, but inside is a
great well of terror. I have to face it. Ive made a mistake.

I have made a mistake.

What am I going to do? I cant think straight

Then suddenly Guys words from yesterday ring in my ears, and I feel an almost painful
flood of relief. A mistake isnt a mistake unless it cant be put right .

Yes. The point is, I can put this right. I can still register a charge.

The process will be excruciating. Ill have to tell the bank what Ive doneand
GlazerbrooksandArnold and Ketterman. Ill have to have new documentation drawn up. And,
worst of all, live with everyone knowing Ive made the kind of stupid, thoughtless error a
trainee would make.

It might mean an end to my partnership. I feel sickbut theres no other option. I have to
put the situation right.

Quickly I log on to the Companies House Web site and enter a search for Glazerbrooks. As
long as no other charges have been registered against Glazerbrooks in the meantime, it
will all come to the same thing...

I stare at the page in disbelief. No.

It cant be.

Theres a new debenture in Glazerbrooks charge register, securing £50 million owed to some
company called BLLC Holdings. It was registered last week. Third Union Bank has been
bumped down the creditors queue.

My mind is helter-skeltering. This isnt good. Its not good. I have to talk to someone
quickly. I have to do something about this now, before any more charges are made. I have
to... to tellArnold .

Just the thought paralyzes me with horror.

I cant do it. I just cant go out and announce Ive made the most basic, elementary error
and put £50 million of our clients money at risk. What Ill do is... is start sorting out
the mess first, before I tell anyone here. Have the damage limitation under way. Yes. Ill
call the bank first. The sooner they know the better

Samantha?

What? I practically leap out of my chair.

Youre nervy today! Maggie laughs and comes toward the desk with a cup of tea. Feeling on
top of the world?

For an instant I honestly have no idea what shes talking about. My world has been reduced
to me and my mistake and what Im going to do about it.

Oh! Right. Yes! I try to grin back and surreptitiously wipe my damp hands on a tissue.

I bet you havent come down off your high yet! She leans against the filing cabinet. Ive
got some champagne in the fridge, all ready...

Er... great! Actually, Maggie, Ive really got to get on...

Oh. She looks hurt. Well, OK. Ill leave you.

As she walks out I can see indignation in the set of her shoulders. She probably thinks Im
a total cow. But every minute is another minute of risk. I have to call the bank.
Immediately.

I search through the attached contact sheet and find the name and number of our contact at
Third Union. Charles Conway.

This is the man I have to call. This is the man whose day I have to disturb and admit that
Ive totally messed up. With trembling hands I pick up the phone. I feel as though Im

psyching myself up to dive into a noxious swamp.

For a few moments I just sit there, staring at the keypad, willing myself to punch in the
number. At last, I reach out and dial. As it rings, my heart begins to pound.

Charles Conway.

Hi! I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Its Samantha Sweeting from Carter Spink. I dont
think weve met.

Hi, Samantha. He sounds friendly enough. How can I help?

I was phoning on a... a technical matter. Its about... I can hardly bear to say it.
Glazerbrooks.