Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

“Who is the martini for?”

“It was… supposed to be for my brother…”

“That would be the Nokia,” says Lorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.

There’s a pause―then, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together

I want to laugh―except there’s a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. There’s an awkward pause.

“So anyway…” Lorraine retrieves Daniel’s mobile phone and pops it into her bag.

“Happy birthday―and have a lovely evening!”

As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye―but Mum’s already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. It’s just me and a basket of soap.

“Did you wish to order?” The maitre d‘ has reappeared at my chair. “I can recommend the risotto,” he says in kind tones. “Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?”

“Actually…” I force myself to smile. “I’ll just get the bill, thanks.”

It doesn’t matter.

We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldn’t even have tried to set the date. We’re all busy, we all have careers, that’s just the way my family is.

As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair…

“Stay here,” she’s instructing the taxi driver. “I can only be five minutes―”

“Freya?” I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.

“Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?”

“What are you doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going to India.”

“I’m on my way! I’m meeting Lord at the airport in about…” She looks at her watch.

“Ten minutes.”

She pulls a guilty face, and I can’t help laughing. I’ve known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants from Staines. Even then she was unabashed and said she’d lied to cover up the real truth―which was that they were spies.

She’s taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth I’ve ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.

“I’m here to gate-crash your birthday dinner.” Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. “But I thought I was late. What happened?”

“Well…” I hesitate. “The thing was… Mum and Daniel…”

“Left early?” As she peers at me, Freya’s expression changes to one of horror. “Didn’t turn up? Jesus Christ, the bastards. Couldn’t they just for once put you first instead of their frigging―” She stops her tirade; she knows I’ve heard it all before. “Sorry. I know. They’re your family. Whatever.”

Freya and my mum don’t exactly get on.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging ruefully. “Really. I’ve got a pile of work to get through anyway.”

“Work?” Freya looks appalled. “Now? Are you serious? Doesn’t it ever stop?”

“We’re busy at the moment. It’s just a blip―”

“There’s always a blip! There’s always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun―”

“That’s not true―”

“Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does!” Her eyes are filled with concern. “Samantha… what happened to your life?”

I’m silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I can’t remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya in Italy, the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over.

“I want to be a partner of Carter Spink,” I say at last. “That’s what I want. You have to make… sacrifices.”

“And what happens when you make partner?” she persists. “Does it get easier?”

The truth is, I haven’t thought beyond making partner. It’s like a dream. Like a shiny ball in the sky.

“You’re twenty-nine years old, for Christ’s sake!” Freya gestures with a bony, silver-ringed hand. “You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing the world!” She grabs my arm. “Samantha, come to India. Now!”

“Do what?” I give a startled laugh. “I can’t come to India!”

“Take a month off. Why not? They’re not going to fire you. Come to the airport, we’ll get you a ticket…”

“Freya, you’re crazy. Seriously.” I squeeze her arm. “I love you―but you’re crazy.”

Slowly, Freya’s grip on my arm loosens.

“Same,” she says. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”

Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.

“Here.” She thrusts it at me.

“Freya.” I turn it over in my fingers. “It’s amazing.”

“I thought you’d like it.” She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. “Hi!” she says impatiently into it. “Look, Lord, I’ll be there, OK?”

Freya’s husband’s full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freya’s nickname for him started as a joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married in Las Vegas. He’s tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. He’s also amazingly witty once you get past the deadpan exterior.

Technically, their marriage makes her Lady Edgerly―but her family can’t quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys.

“Thanks for coming. Thanks for this.” I hug her. “Have a fabulous time in India.”

“We will.” Freya is climbing back into her taxi. “And if you want to come out, just let me know. Invent a family emergency… anything. Give them my number. I’ll cover for you. Whatever your story is.”

“Go,” I say, laughing, and give her a little push. “Go to India.”

The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window.

“Sam… good luck for tomorrow.” She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. “If it’s really what you want―then I hope you get it.”

“It’s what I want more than anything else.” As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated nonchalance disappears. “Freya… I can’t tell you how much I want it.”

“You’ll get it. I know you will.” She kisses my hand, then waves good-bye. “And don’t go back to the office! Promise!” she shouts over the roar of her taxi.

“OK! I promise!” I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another.

“Carter Spink, please,” I say as it pulls up.

I was crossing my fingers. Of course I’m going back to the office.

I arrive home at eleven o’clock, exhausted and brain-dead, having got through only about half of Ketterman’s file. Bloody Ketterman, I’m thinking, as I push open the main front door of the 1930s-mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman.

Bloody… bloody…

“Good evening, Samantha.”