Arnold will call soon. The meeting must have broken up by now.
I look out the window at a small brown bird pecking at the ground, then turn away and sink into a chair, staring down at the table, running my thumbnail obsessively round the fine grain of the polished wood.
I made one mistake. One. People are allowed to make one mistake in life. It’s in the rules.
Or … maybe it’s not. I just don’t know.
Suddenly I feel my mobile vibrate. I grab the phone out of my uniform pocket with a trembling hand.
The caller ID tells me it’s Guy.
“Hi, Guy?” I try to speak confidently—but my voice sounds tiny and scared to my own ears.
“Samantha? Is that you?” Guy’s voice rushes through the phone in an urgent torrent. “Where the hell are you? Why aren’t you here? Didn’t you get my e-mails?”
“I haven’t got my BlackBerry,” I say, taken aback. “Why didn’t you call?”
“I tried early today, but your phone seemed out of order. Then I was in meetings, but I’ve been sending you e-mails all morning.… Samantha, where on earth are you? You should be here at the office! Not hiding out, for Christ’s sake!”
Hiding out? What does he mean?
“But … but Arnold said don’t come in! He said it would be best! He told me to stay away and he would do what he could—”
“Do you have any idea how this looks?” Guy cuts across me. “First you freak out, then you disappear. People are saying you’re unhinged, you’ve had a breakdown … There’s a rumor you’ve skipped the country.…”
As the truth hits me, I feel a hot, choking panic. I can’t believe how wrong I’ve played this. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. What am I doing still sitting in this kitchen, miles from London?
“Tell them I’m coming straight in,” I stammer. “Tell Ketterman I’ll be there at once.… I’m getting on a train …”
“It might be too late.” Guy sounds heavy and reluctant. “Samantha … all sorts of stories are going round.”
“Stories?” My heart is thudding so hard I can barely say the word. “What … what stories?”
I can’t take all this in. I feel like my car has suddenly lurched off the road and I can’t stop it.
“Apparently people have said you’re … unreliable,” Guy says at last. “That this isn’t the first time. That you’ve made errors before.”
“Errors?” I leap to my feet, my voice as sharp as though I’ve been scalded. “Who’s saying that? I’ve never made any errors! What are they talking about?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t in the meeting. Samantha … think back carefully. Have you made any other mistakes?”
Think back carefully?
I’m stunned. He doesn’t believe me?
“I’ve never made any mistakes,” I say, trying and failing to keep my voice level. “None. Never! I’m a good lawyer. I’m a good lawyer.” To my dismay I realize tears are pouring down my cheeks. “I’m steady! You know that, Guy.”
In the tense little silence that follows, the unsaid is there between us. Like a conviction. I lost a client £50 million.
“Guy, I don’t know how I didn’t see the Glazerbrooks documentation.” My words tumble out faster and faster. “I don’t know how it happened. It doesn’t make any sense. I know my desk is messy, but I have my systems, for God’s sake. I don’t miss things like that. I just don’t—”
“Samantha, calm down—”
“How can I calm down?” I almost yell. “This is my life. My life. I don’t have anything else!” I wipe the tears away from my cheeks. “I’m not losing this. I’m coming in. Now.”
I cut the phone dead and get to my feet, bubbling with panic. I should have gone back. I should have gone back straightaway, not wasted time here. I don’t know what times the trains will be, but I don’t care. I have to get out of here.
I grab a piece of paper and a pencil and scrawl,
Dear Mrs. Geiger,
I am afraid I must resign as your housekeeper. While I have enjoyed my time
Come on. I haven’t got time to write any more, I have to leave now. I put the paper down on the table and head for the door. Then I stop. I can’t leave the letter unfinished in the middle of a sentence.
While I have enjoyed my time with you, I feel I would like a fresh challenge. Many thanks for your kindness.
Yours sincerely
Samantha Sweeting
I put the pen down and push my chair back with a scrape. As I reach the door my mobile vibrates again.
Guy, I instantly think. I reach for it—and am already flipping it open when I see the caller ID. It’s not Guy.
It’s Ketterman.
Something cold grips my spine. As I stare at his name I feel real fear in a way I never have before. Childish, nightmarish fear. Every instinct in my body is telling me not to answer.
But my phone’s already open. It’s too late. Slowly I lift it up to my ear.
“Hello.”
“Samantha. John Ketterman here.”
“Right.” My voice is scratchy with nerves. “Hello.”
There’s a long pause. I know this is my moment to speak, but my throat feels wadded by cotton wool. No words seem adequate. Everyone knows how much Ketterman despises apologies and excuses and explanations.
“Samantha, I’m ringing to tell you that your contract with Carter Spink has been terminated.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face.
“A letter is on its way to you giving the reasons.” His tone is distant and formal. “Gross negligence compounded by your subsequent unprofessional behavior. Your P45 will be sent to you. Your pass has been disabled. I don’t expect to see you at the Carter Spink offices again.”
He’s going too fast. This is all happening too fast.
“Please don’t …” I blurt out. “Please give me another chance. I made one mistake. One.”
“Lawyers at Carter Spink don’t make mistakes, Samantha. Nor do they run away from their mistakes.”
“I know it was wrong to run away.” I’m shaking all over. “But it was such a shock.… I wasn’t thinking straight.…”
“You’ve disgraced the reputation of the firm and yourself.” Ketterman’s voice sharpens as though he, too, might be finding this difficult. “You have lost fifty million pounds of a client’s money through your own negligence. And subsequently absconded with no explanation. Samantha, you cannot have expected any other outcome, surely.”
There’s a long silence. My forehead is pressed hard against the heel of my hand. I try to focus on just breathing. In and out. In and out.
“No,” I whisper at last.
It’s over. My entire career is really over.
Ketterman starts on a preprepared speech about meeting with the human-resources department, but I don’t listen.
Everything I’ve worked for since I was twelve years old. Gone. Everything ruined. In twenty-four hours.
At last I realize Ketterman has disappeared from the line. I get to my feet and stagger over to the shiny fridge. My eyes are huge, burning holes.
For a long time I just stand there, staring at my own face until the features blur.
I’ve been fired. The phrase echoes round my mind. I’ve been fired. I could collect the dole. I imagine myself with the men from The Full Monty. Standing in the unemployment queue, moving my hips back and forth to “Hot Stuff.”
Suddenly I hear the sound of a key in the front door. I can’t be found in this condition. I can’t face any probing, any sympathy. Otherwise I’m afraid I might just collapse into sobs and never stop.
Distractedly, I reach for a cloth and start sweeping it in meaningless circles over the table. Then I glimpse my note to Trish, still lying there. I crumple it up and throw it in the bin. Later. I’ll do it later. I feel as though I can barely function right now, let alone give a convincing resignation speech.
“There you are!” Trish comes tripping into the kitchen on he
r high-heeled clogs, holding three bursting shopping bags. “Samantha!” She stops at the sight of me. “Are you all right? Is your headache back?”
“I’m … fine. Thanks.”
“You look dreadful! Goodness me! Have some more pills!”
“Really …”
“Now, sit down … and I’ll make you a cup of tea!”
She plonks the bags down and switches on the kettle, then rootles around for the green painkillers.
“These are the ones you like, aren’t they?”
“I’d rather just have an aspirin,” I say quickly. “If that’s OK?”
“Are you quite sure?” She runs me a glass of water and gives me a couple of aspirin. “Now. You just sit there. Relax. Don’t even think of doing anything else! Until it’s time to make the supper,” she adds as an afterthought.
“You’re … very kind,” I manage.
As I say the words I have the dim realization that I mean them. Trish’s kindness may be a bit warped, but it’s real.
“Here we are …” Trish puts a cup of tea down and scrutinizes me. “Are you homesick?” She sounds triumphant, as though she may have cracked the mystery. “Our girl from the Philippines did get rather blue from time to time … but I used to say to her, cheer up, Manuela!” Trish pauses thoughtfully. “Then I found out her name was Paula. Extraordinary.”
“I’m not homesick,” I say, gulping my tea.
My mind is beating like a butterfly’s wings. What am I going to do?
Go home.
But the thought of returning to that flat, with Ketterman living two floors above, makes me sick. I can’t face him. I can’t do it.
Phone Guy. He’ll have me to stay. He and Charlotte have that huge house in Islington with all those spare rooms. I’ve stayed the night before. Then I’ll … sell my flat. Find a job.
What job?
“This will cheer you up.” Trish’s voice breaks my thoughts. She pats the shopping bags with suppressed glee. “After your stunning performance at lunch … I’ve been shopping. And I’ve got a surprise for you! This will make your day!”
“A surprise?” I look up, bewildered, as Trish starts producing packets from the bag.
“Foie gras … chickpeas … shoulder of lamb …” She hefts a joint of meat onto the table and looks at me expectantly. Then she clicks her tongue at my bewildered expression. “It’s ingredients! Your dinner-party menu! We’ll eat at eight, if that’s OK?”
Nine
It’ll be all right.
If I say it often enough to myself, it must be true.
I’ve opened my phone several times to call Guy. But each time, humiliation has stopped me. Even though he’s my friend, even though he’s the person closest to me in the company. I’m the one who’s fired. I’m the one in disgrace. And he’s not.
At last I sit up and rub my cheeks, trying to get my spirits back. Come on. This is Guy. He’ll want to hear from me. He’ll want to help. I flip open my phone and dial his direct line. A moment later I hear footsteps clopping along the wooden floor of the hall.
Trish.
I shut the phone, pocket it, and reach for a clump of broccoli.
“How are you getting on?” Trish’s voice greets me. “Making progress?”
As she enters the kitchen she looks a little surprised to see me still sitting in the exact same spot she left me. “Everything all right?”
“I’m just … assessing the ingredients,” I improvise. “Getting the feel of them.”
Just then a thin red-haired woman appears round the door, next to Trish. She’s wearing diamanté sunglasses on her head and regards me with an avid interest.
“I’m Petula,” she announces. “How do you do.”
“Petula’s just eaten some of your sandwiches,” puts in Trish. “She thought they were marvelous.”
“And I’ve heard about the foie gras with an apricot glaze!” Petula raises her eyebrows. “Very impressive!”
“Samantha can cook anything!” boasts Trish, pink with pride. “She trained with Michel de la Roux de la Blanc! The master himself!”
“So how exactly will you be glazing the foie gras, Samantha?” asks Petula with interest.
The kitchen is silent. Both women are waiting, agog.
“Well.” I clear my throat several times. “I expect I’ll use the … usual method. The word glaze, obviously, comes from the transparent nature of the … er … finish … and complements the … gras. Foie,” I amend. “De gras. The … blend of the flavors.”
I am making absolutely no sense here, but neither Trish nor Petula seems to have noticed. In fact they both seem totally impressed.
“Where on earth did you find her?” says Petula to Trish in what she clearly imagines to be a discreet undertone. “My girl is hopeless. Can’t cook and doesn’t understand a word I say.”
“She just applied out of the blue!” Trish murmurs back, still flushed with pleasure. “Cordon Bleu! English! We couldn’t believe it!”
They both eye me as though I’m some rare animal with horns sprouting out of my head. I can’t bear this anymore.
“Shall I make you some tea and bring it through to the conservatory?” I ask. Anything to get them out of the kitchen.
“No, we’re popping out to have our nails done,” says Trish. “I’ll see you later, Samantha.”
There’s an expectant pause. Suddenly I realize Trish is waiting for my curtsy. I start to prickle all over in embarrassment. Why did I curtsy? Why did I curtsy?
“Very good, Mrs. Geiger.” I bow my head and make an awkward bob. When I look up, Petula’s eyes are like saucers.
As the two women leave, I can hear Petula hissing, “She curtsies? She curtsies to you?”
“It’s a simple mark of respect,” I hear Trish replying airily. “But very effective. You know, Petula, you should really try it with your girl.…”
Oh, God. What have I started?
I wait until the sound of tapping heels has completely disappeared. Then, moving into the larder to be on the safe side, I flip open my phone and redial Guy’s number. After three rings he answers.
“Samantha.” He sounds guarded. “Hi. Have you …”
“It’s OK, Guy. I’ve spoken to Ketterman. I know.”
“Oh, Christ, Samantha. I’m so sorry this has happened. So sorry …”
I cannot stand his pity. If he says anything else I’ll burst into tears.
“It’s fine,” I say, cutting him off. “Really. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s just … look forward. I have to get my life on track.”
“Jesus, you’re focused!” There’s a note of admiration in his voice. “You don’t let anything faze you, do you?”
I push my hair back off my face. “I just have to … get on with things.” Somehow I keep my voice even and steady. “I need to get back to London. But I can’t go home. Ketterman bought a flat in my building. He lives there.”
“Ouch. Yes, I heard about that.” There’s a wince in his voice. “That’s unfortunate.”
“I just can’t face him, Guy.” I feel the threat of tears again and force myself to hold them back. “So … I was wondering. Could I come and stay with you for a while? Just for a few days?”
There’s silence. I wasn’t expecting silence.
“Samantha … I’d love to help,” says Guy at last. “But I’ll have to check with Charlotte.”
“Of course,” I say, a little taken aback.
“Just stay on the line for a sec. I’ll call her.”
The next moment I’ve been put on hold. I sit waiting, listening to the tinny harpsichord music, trying not to feel discomfited. It was unreasonable to expect him to say yes straightaway. Of course he has to clear it with his girlfriend.
At last Guy comes onto the line again. “Samantha, I’m not sure it’s possible.”
I feel slammed. “Right.” I try to sound natural, as though this is no big deal. “Well … never mind. It doesn’t matter …”
�
�Charlotte’s very busy right now … we’re having some work done to the bedrooms … it’s just not a good time.…”
He sounds halting, as if he wants to get off the line. And suddenly I realize. This isn’t about Charlotte. This is all about him. He doesn’t want to be near me. It’s as though my disgrace is contagious, as though his career might get blighted too.
Yesterday I was his best friend. Yesterday, when I was about to become a partner, he was hanging around my desk, full of smiles and quips. And today he doesn’t want to be associated with me at all.
I know I should stay quiet, keep my dignity, but I just can’t contain myself.
“You don’t want to be associated with me, do you?” I burst out.
“Samantha!” His voice is defensive. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m still the same person. I thought you were my friend—”
“I am your friend! But you can’t expect me to … I have Charlotte to consider … we don’t have that much space … Look, call me in a couple of days, maybe we can meet up for a drink—”
“Really, don’t worry.” I try to control my voice. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Wait!” he exclaims. “Don’t go! What are you going to do?”
“Oh, Guy.” I manage a little laugh.
I switch off my phone. Everything’s changed. Or maybe he hasn’t changed. Maybe this was what Guy was always like and I just never realized it.
I stare down at the tiny display of my phone, watching the seconds of each minute tick by. Wondering what to do next. When it suddenly vibrates in my hand, I nearly jump out of my skin. Tennyson, my display reads.
Mum.
I feel a clutch of dread. She can only be ringing for one thing. She’s heard the news. I guess I should have known this was coming. I could go and stay with her, it occurs to me. How weird. I didn’t even think of that before. I open up the phone and steel myself.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Samantha.” Her voice pierces my ear with no preamble. “Exactly how long were you going to wait before you told me about your debacle? I have to find out about my own daughter’s disgrace from an Internet joke.” She utters the words with revulsion.
“An … Internet joke?” I echo faintly. “What do you mean?”