The Undomestic Goddess

Chapter Sixteen

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

It’s not even eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Where’s 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. Nathaniel’s hand in mine… Nathaniel’s 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.” There’s a strange note of triumph in her voice. “You’ve fibbed to me, haven’t you?”

I feel a white flash of shock. How did she―how could she― “Haven’t you?” She gives me a penetrating look. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about?”

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

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” I say in a throaty voice. “Madam.”

“Well.” Trish walks toward me, swishing her silk dressing gown crossly. “As you can imagine, I’m rather upset that you never told me you’d 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. “I’m still on the phone with Lady Edgerly.”

Freya’s on the phone?

“Lady Edgerly…” Trish lifts the phone to her ear. “You’re 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?” Freya’s familiar, raspy voice erupts into my ear through a sea of static.

“Are you OK? What the fuck is going on?”

“I’m… fine!” I glance at Trish, who is standing approximately two meters away. “I’ll just… go somewhere a bit more…”

Ignoring Trish’s laserlike eyes, I hurry into my bedroom and close the door tight.

Then I lift the phone to my ear again.

“I’m fine!” I feel a rush of joy to be talking to Freya again. “It’s so amazing to hear from you!”

“What on earth’s going on?” she demands again. “I got this message but it made no sense! You’re a housekeeper? Is this some huge windup?”

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

“You’ve quit?” says Freya. “Just like that?”

“I didn’t quit. I was… thrown out. I made a mistake and they fired me.”

It’s 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 wasn’t a simple mistake,” I cut her off in mid-flow. “It was… a really big, important mistake. Anyway, that’s 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 can’t cook!”

“Well, I know.”

“I mean, you really can’t cook!” She’s giggling now. “I’ve seen your cooking. And your nonexistent cleaning.”

“I know! It was a bit of a nightmare to begin with. But I’m kind of… learning. You’d be surprised.”

“Do you have to wear an apron?”

“I’ve got this hideous nylon uniform.” I’m 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. I’m going to rescue you. I’ll fly back tomorrow―“

“No!” I say with more vehemence than I intended. “No! I’m… having a good time.

I’ve met―”

I halt abruptly. But Freya’s too quick off the mark for me.

“A man?” she exclaims in delight.

“Well… yes.”

“That’s fantastic! About time too. Only he’d better not be another dreary lawyer―”

“Don’t worry.” I feel an unwilling grin come to my face. “He’s not.”

“Details?”

“It’s early days. But he’s… you know. Nice.”

“Well, even so. If you want to escape, you know I’m 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?” There’s 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 dream’s over,” I say shortly. “Partners don’t make fifty-million-quid mistakes.”

“Fifty million quid?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus.” I hear her sharp intake of breath. “I had no idea. I can’t imagine how you’ve coped with all this―”

“It’s fine.” I cut her off. “I’ve 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 transport’s here. Listen, I’ll 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 I’d better make some stuff up.

I said you could fold napkins into a scene from Swan Lake… 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 Freya’s husky voice in my ear.

I look at my watch. It’s still early. I’ve got time to have a look.

Three minutes later I’m sitting at Eddie’s 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.

Eddie’s home page opens and I immediately type in www.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 Freya’s right. The names segue straight from Snell to Taylor. No Sweeting.

I tell myself to be rational. Of course they’ve taken me off. I’ve been fired, what else did I expect? That was my old life and I’m not concerned with it anymore. I should just close down, go to Iris’s house, and forget about it. That’s 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 aren’t there.

I’m not there. Quickly I click onto another deal, the Conlon acquisition. I know I’m in this report. I’ve read it, for Christ’s sake. I was on the team, I’ve got a tombstone to prove it.

But I’m not mentioned here either.

My heart is thudding as I click from deal to deal, tracking back a year. Two years.

Five years. They’ve wiped me out. Someone has gone painstakingly through the entire Web site and removed my name. I’ve been erased from every deal I was involved with. It’s 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 can’t 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 haven’t disappeared. Am I such an embarrassment? I look at the screen silently for a moment. Then, slowly, I type in www.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 I’ve been hit over the head.

…the Samantha Sweeting debacle…

… discovery, Samantha Sweeting went AWOL, leaving colleagues to…

… heard about Samantha Sweeting…

… Samantha Sweeting jokes. What do you call a lawyer who…

… Samantha Sweeting fired from Carter Spink…

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

I feel as though I’m 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 don’t 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.

Iris’s 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 there’s 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 he’ll be back later. Meanwhile, we’re going to make bread.”

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

“I’ve 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, you’re 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.”

“I’m 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. You’ll 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.

“That’s it,” says Iris, watching carefully. “Get into a rhythm and really work it.

Kneading’s very good for releasing stress,” she adds with wry humor. “Pretend you’re bashing all your worst enemies.”

“I’ll do that!” I manage a cheerful tone.

But there’s a knot of tension in my chest, which doesn’t dwindle away as I knead. In fact, the more I fold and turn the dough, the worse it seems to get. I can’t 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 can’t connect with it. I can’t feel what she wants me to. My senses aren’t 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. “It’s hard work when you’re not used to it.”

“What’s the point?” My words shoot out before I can stop them. “I mean, what’s the point of all this? Making bread. You make it and you eat it. And then… it’s gone.”

I break off abruptly, not quite knowing what’s come over me. I don’t 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 don’t know what I’m saying. Why am I picking a fight with Iris? I must calm down.

“I think that’s 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?”

“We wait.” She pops a tea towel over the bowl. “Half an hour should do it. I’ll make a cup of tea.”

“But… what are we waitings/or?”

“For the yeast to rise and work its magic on the dough.” She smiles. “Underneath that towel, a small miracle is happening.”

I look at the bowl, trying to think miracles. But it isn’t working. I can’t feel calm or serene. My body is wound up too far; every nerve is hopping with tension. I used to be in control of my time to the minute. To the second. And now I’m supposed to wait for yeast? I’m supposed to stand here, in an apron, waiting for a…fungus?

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say. “I can’t do it.” I head for the kitchen door and out into the garden.

“What?” Iris comes after me, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this!” I wheel round. “I can’t just…just sit around patiently, waiting for yeast to get its act together.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s such a waste of time!” I clutch my head in frustration. “It’s such a waste of time. All of it!”

“What do you think we should be doing instead?” she asks with interest.

“Something… important. OK?” I walk to the apple tree and back again, unable to keep still. “Something constructive.”

I glance at Iris, but she doesn’t seem offended.

“What’s more constructive than making bread?”

Oh, God. I feel an urge to scream. It’s OK for her, with her hens and her apron and no wrecked career on the Internet.

“You don’t understand anything,” I say, close to tears. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.

Look… I’ll just leave.”

“Don’t leave.” Iris’s voice is surprisingly firm. The next moment she’s in front of me, placing her two hands on my shoulders, looking at me with her penetrating blue eyes.

“Samantha, you’ve had a trauma,” she says in kind, even tones. “And it’s affected you very deeply―”

“I haven’t had a trauma!” I wheel away, out of her grasp. “I just… I can’t do this, Iris.

I can’t pretend to be this. I’m not a bread maker, OK? I’m not a domestic goddess.” I look around the garden desperately, as though searching for clues. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I have no bloody idea.”

A single tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away roughly. I’m not going to cry in front of Iris.

“I don’t know who I am.” I exhale, more calmly. “Or what my goal is… or where I’m headed in life. Or anything.”

My energy’s gone and I sink down on the dry grass. A few moments later Iris comes and squats down beside me.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her voice soft. “Don’t beat yourself up for not knowing all the answers. You don’t always have to know who you are. You don’t have to have the big picture, or know where you’re heading. Sometimes it’s enough just to know what you’re going to do next.”

For a while I let her words run through my head, like cool water on a headache.

“And what am I going to do next?” I say at last, with a hopeless shrug.

“You’re going to help me shell the beans for lunch.” She’s so matter-of-fact that I half smile in spite of myself.

Meekly, I follow Iris into the house, then collect a big bowl of broad beans and start splitting the pods as she shows me. Pods into a basket on the floor. New broad beans into the basin. Over and over and over.

I become a little calmer as I immerse myself in my task. I never even knew broad beans came from pods like this. To be honest, my total experience of broad beans has been picking them up in a plastic-covered packet from Waitrose, putting them in my fridge, taking them out a week after the sell-by date, and throwing them away.

But this is the real thing. This is what they’re like, dug straight out of the ground.

Or… picked off the bush. Whatever it is.

Each time I split one open it’s like finding a row of pale green jewels. And when I put one in my mouth, it’s like― Oh, OK. It needs to be cooked.

Yuck.

When I’ve finished the beans we return to the dough, kneading it into loaves. We put the loaves into special tins and then have to wait another half hour for them to rise again. But somehow this time I don’t mind. I sit at the table with Iris, hulling strawberries and listening to the radio until it’s time to put the tins into the oven. Then Iris loads a tray with Cheshire cheese, bean salad, biscuits, and strawberries and we take it outside to a table set under the shade of a tree.

“There,” she says, pouring some iced tea into a tumbler made of bubbled glass.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just…”

“Samantha, it’s all right.” She cuts a piece of cheese and puts it on my plate. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“But I do.” I take a deep breath. “You’ve been so wonderful… and Nathaniel…”

“He took you to the pub, I heard.”

“It was amazing!” I say with enthusiasm. “You must be so proud, to have that in your family.”

Iris nods. “Those pubs have been run by Blewetts for generations.” She sits down and helps us both to bean salad, dressed with oil and speckled with herbs. I take a bite― and it’s absolutely delicious.

“It must have been hard when your husband died,” I venture cautiously.

“Everything was in a mess.” Iris sounds matter-of-fact. A chicken wanders over to the table and she shoos it away. “There were financial difficulties. I wasn’t well. If it hadn’t been for Nathaniel we might have lost all of the pubs. He made sure they got back on track. For his father’s memory.” Her eyes cloud a little and she hesitates.

“You never know how things are going to turn out, however much you plan. But you already know that.”

“I always thought my life would be a certain way,” I say, gazing down at my plate. “I had it all mapped out.”

“But… it didn’t happen like that?”

For a few seconds I can’t answer. I’m remembering the moment I heard I was going to be partner. That instant of undiluted, dazzling joy. When I thought my life had finally fallen into place, when I thought everything was perfect.

“No,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “It didn’t happen like that.”

Iris is watching me with such clear, empathetic eyes I almost believe she’s able to read my mind.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, chicken,” she says. “We all flounder.”

I can’t imagine Iris ever floundering. She seems so put-together.

“Oh, I floundered,” she says, reading my expression. “After Benjamin went. It was so sudden. Everything I thought I had, gone overnight.”

“So… what did you…” I spread my hands helplessly.

“I found another way,” she says. “But… it took time.” For a moment she holds my gaze, then looks at her watch. “Speaking of which, I’ll make some coffee. And see how that bread’s getting on.”

I get up to follow her, but she bats me down again. “Sit. Stay. Relax.”

So I sit in the dappled sunlight, sipping my iced tea, trying to relax. Trying to enjoy the present just sitting here in a beautiful garden. But emotions are still darting around me like unsettled fish.

Another way.

But I don’t know any other way. I feel like the light’s gone out and I’m feeling my way forward, one step at a time. And all I know is I can’t go back to what I was.

I clench my eyes shut, trying to clear my mind. I should never have looked at that Web site. I should never have read those comments.

“Hold out your arms, Samantha.” Iris’s voice is suddenly behind me. “Close your eyes. Go on.”

I have no idea what she’s up to, but I keep my eyes closed and hold out my arms. The next moment I feel something warm being put into them. A yeasty smell is rising up. I open my eyes to see a loaf of bread in my arms.

Proper bread. Real, proper bread like you’d see in a baker’s window. Fat and plump and golden-brown, with faint striations and a crusty, almost flaky top. It smells so delicious I can feel my mouth watering.

“Tell me that’s nothing,” says Iris, squeezing my arm. “You made that, sweetie. And you should be proud of yourself.”

Something hot is wadding my throat as I clutch the warm loaf. I made this bread. I made it. I, Samantha Sweeting, who couldn’t even microwave a packet of soup. Who gave up seven years of her life to end up with nothing, to be wiped out of existence.

Who has no idea who she even is anymore.

I made a loaf of bread. Right now I feel like this is the only thing I have to hold on to.

To my horror a tear suddenly rolls down my cheek, followed by another. This is ridiculous. I must get a grip on myself.

“Looks good,” comes Nathaniel’s easy voice behind me, and I wheel round in shock to see him standing next to Iris.

“Hi,” I say, flustered. “I thought you were… fixing a pipe or something.”

“Still am.” He nods. “I just popped home.”

“I’ll go and get the other loaves out,” says Iris, patting me on the shoulder and disappearing over the grass toward the house.

I stand up. Just the sight of Nathaniel is adding all sorts of new emotions into the mix: more fish darting around my body.

Although now I think about it, they’re mainly varieties of the same fish.

“Are you all right?” he says, acknowledging my tears.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a strange day.” I brush them away in embarrassment. “I don’t usually get so emotional about… bread.”

“Mum said you got a bit frustrated.” He raises his eyebrows. “All that kneading?”

“It was the rising.” I raise a rueful smile. “Having to wait. I’ve never been good at waiting.”

“Uh-huh.” Nathaniel’s steady blue eyes meet mine.

“For anything.” Somehow I seem to be edging closer and closer to him, I’m not entirely sure how. “I have to have things now!‘

“Uh-huh.”

We’re inches apart, and as I gaze up at him, breathing hard, all the frustrations and shocks of the last couple of weeks are distilling inside me. A huge block of pressure is growing, until I can’t bear it. Unable to stop myself, I reach up and pull his face down toward mine.

I haven’t kissed like this since I was a teenager. Arms wrapped around each other, oblivious of anything else in the world. Completely lost. Trish could be standing there with a video camera, issuing directions, and I wouldn’t notice.

It seems hours later that I open my eyes and we draw apart. My lips feel swollen; my legs are staggery. Nathaniel looks equally shell-shocked.

The bread is totally squashed, I suddenly notice. I try to reshape it as best I can, putting it on the table like a deformed pottery exhibit while I gather my breath.

“I don’t have long,” Nathaniel says. “I have to get back to the pub.” His hand runs lightly down my back and I feel my body curving toward his.

“I don’t take long,” I say, my voice husky with desire.

When did I become so brazen, exactly?

“I really don’t have long.” He glances at his watch. “About six minutes.”

“I only take six minutes,” I murmur with an enticing glance, and Nathaniel smiles back, as though I’m joking.

“Seriously,” I say, trying to sound modest yet sexy. “I’m fast. Six minutes, give or take.”

There’s silence for a few moments. An incredulous expression is coming over Nathaniel’s face. Somehow he doesn’t look as impressed as I thought he would.

“Well… round here we take things a bit slower,” he says at last.

“Right,” I say, trying not to look at all disappointed. “Er… well… I’m sure…” I trail off.

I should not have started that sentence.

He looks at his watch again. “I must be off. I have to drive over to Gloucester tonight.”

I feel an inward drop at his businesslike tone. He’s barely looking at me anymore. I should never have mentioned timing, I realize in dismay. Everyone knows, you never bring up any kind of numerical measurement during sex with a man. It’s the most basic rule.

“So… I’ll see you,” I say, trying to sound casual yet encouraging. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure yet.” He shrugs noncommittally. “Are you around?”

“I guess so. Maybe.”

“Well… I may see you.”

And with that he’s striding away again over the grass, and I’m left with nothing but a misshapen loaf of bread and total confusion.