Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

“And this is Samantha!” says Trish, whose cheeks are a bright shade of pink. “You all know Samantha, our housekeeper―and also top lawyer!”

To my embarrassment a spattering of applause breaks out.

“We saw you in the papers!” says a woman in cream.

“I need to talk to you.” A woman in blue leans forward with an intense expression.

“About my divorce settlement.”

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

“This is Guy, who’s helping me out today,” I say, beginning to serve the mushroom tarts.

“He’s also a partner at Carter Spink,” adds Trish proudly.

I can see impressed glances being exchanged across the table. An elderly woman at the end turns to Trish, looking bewildered.

“Are all your help lawyers?”

“Not all,” says Trish airily, taking a deep gulp of champagne. “But you know, having had a Cambridge-educated housekeeper… I could never go back.”

“Where do you get them from?” a red-haired woman asks avidly. “Is there a special agency?”

“It’s called Oxbridge Housekeepers,” says Guy, placing a mushroom tart in front of her. “Very choosy. Only those with first-class honors can apply.”

“Goodness!” The red-haired woman gazes up, agog.

“I, on the other hand, went to Harvard,” he continues. “So I’m with Harvard Help. Our motto is: ‘Because that’s what an Ivy League education is for.’ Isn’t that right, Samantha?“

“Shut up,” I mutter.“Just serve the food.”

At last all the ladies are served and we retreat to the empty kitchen.

“Very funny,” I say, plonking the tray down with a crash. “You’re so witty.”

“Well, for God’s sake, Samantha. Do you expect me to take all this seriously? Jesus.”

He takes off the apron and throws it down on the table. “Serving food to a bunch of airheads. Letting them patronize you.”

“I have a job to do,” I say tightly, opening the oven to check on the salmon. “So if you’re not going to help me―”

“This is not the job you should be doing!” he suddenly explodes. “Samantha, this is a fucking travesty. You have more brains than anyone in that room, and you’re serving them? You’re curtsying to them? You’re cleaning their bathrooms?”

He sounds so passionate, I turn round. All traces of teasing have gone from his face.

“Samantha, you’re one of the most brilliant people I know.” His voice is jerky with anger. “You have the best legal mind any of us has ever seen. I cannot let you throw away your life on this… deluded crap.”

“It’s not deluded crap!” I reply, incensed. “Just because I’m not ‘using my degree,’just because I’m not in some office, I’m wasting my life? Guy, I’m happy.

I’m enjoying life in a way I’ve never done before. I like cooking. I like running a house. I like picking strawberries from the garden―”

“You’re living in fantasyland!” he shouts.“This is all a novelty! It’s fun because you’ve never done it before! But it’ll wear off! Can’t you see that?”

I feel a pricking of uncertainty inside. I’ll ignore it.

“No.” I give my asparagus sauce a determined stir. “I love this life.”

“Will you still love it when you’ve been cleaning bath rooms for ten years? Get real.”

He comes over to the cooker and I turn away. “So you needed a holiday. You needed a break. Fine. But now you need to come back to real life.”

“This is real life for me,” I shoot back. “It’s more real than my life used to be.”

Guy shakes his head. “Charlotte and I went to Tuscany last year and learned watercolor painting. I loved it. The olive oil… the sunsets―the whole bit.” He meets my eyes intently for a moment, then leans forward. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to become a fucking Tuscan watercolor painter.”

“It’s different!” I wrench my gaze away from his. “Guy, I’m not going back to that workload. I’m not going back to that pressure. I worked seven days a week, for seven bloody years―”

“Exactly. Exactly! And just as you get the reward…you bail out?” He clutches his head. “Samantha, I’m not sure you understand the position you’re in.You’ve been offered full equity partnership. You can basically demand any income you like.You’re in control!”

“What?” I look at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Guy raises his eyes upward, as though summoning the help of the Lawyer Gods.

“Do you realize,” he says carefully, “the storm you’ve created? Do you realize how bad this all looks for Carter Spink? This is the worst week of press since the Storesons scandal in the eighties.”

“I didn’t plan any of it,” I say, defensive. “I didn’t ask the media to turn up on the doorstep―”

“I know. But they did. And Carter Spink’s reputation has plummeted. The human-resources department are beside themselves. After all their touchy-feely well-being programs, all their graduate recruitment workshops… you tell the world you’d rather clean loos.” He gives a sudden snort of laughter. “Talk about bad PR.”

“Well, it’s true,” I say, lifting my chin. “I would.”

“Don’t be so perverse!” Guy bangs the table in exasperation. “You have Carter Spink over a barrel! They want the world to see you walking back into that office.They’ll pay you whatever you want! You’d be crazy not to take up their offer!”

“I’m not interested in money,” I retort. “I’ve got enough money―”

“You don’t understand! Samantha, if you come back, you can earn enough to retire after ten years. You’ll be set up for life! Then you can go and pick strawberries or sweep floors or whatever crap it is you want to do.”

I open my mouth automatically to respond―but all of a sudden I can’t quite track my thoughts. They’re jumping about all over the place in confusion.

“You earned your partnership,” says Guy, his tone quieter. “You earned it, Samantha.

Use it.”

Guy doesn’t say any more on the subject. He’s always known exactly when to close an argument; he should have been a barrister. He helps me serve the salmon, then gives me a hug and tells me to call him as soon as I’ve had time to think. And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the kitchen, my thoughts churning.

I was so sure of myself. But now…

His arguments keep playing out in my mind. They keep hitting true notes. Maybe I am deluded. Maybe this is all a novelty. Maybe after a few years of a simpler life I won’t be content, I’ll be frustrated and bitter. I have a sudden vision of myself mopping floors with a nylon scarf round my head, assailing people: “I used to be a corporate lawyer, you know.”

I have a brain. I have years ahead of me. And he’s right. I worked for my partnership.

I earned it.

I bury my head in my hands, resting my elbows on the table, listening to the thump of my own heart, beating like a question. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

I’ve never felt so uncertain in my life. I’ve always been so positive about what I wanted, what my goals were, where I was headed. Now I feel like a pendulum, swinging from one side to the other, back and forth until I’m exhausted.

And yet all the time I’m being gradually pushed toward one answer. The rational answer. The answer that makes most sense.

I know what it is. I’m just not ready to face up to it yet.

It takes me until six o’clock.The lunch is over and I’ve cleared the table. Trish’s guests have wandered round the garden and had cups of tea and melted away. As I walk out into the soft, balmy evening, Nathaniel and Trish are standing by the pond, with a plastic tank by Nathaniel’s feet.

His face lights up as he turns and sees me―and something seems to wrench my stomach. There’s no one else whose face lights up like that when they see me. There’s no one else who manages to make me laugh and feel secure and teach me about worlds of which I knew nothing.