Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

I nearly jump a mile. It’s Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase. For an instant I’m transfixed in horror. What’s he doing here?

“Someone told me you lived here.” His eyes glint through his spectacles. “I’ve bought number thirty-two as a pied-a-terre. We’ll be neighbors during the week.”

Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here?

“Er… welcome to the building!” I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean it.

The lift doors open and we both get in.

Number 32. That means he’s only two floors above me. I feel like my headmaster has moved in. Why did he have to choose this building?

The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I attempt small talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?

“I made some headway on that file you gave me,” I say at last.

“Good,” he says curtly, and nods.

So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.

Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?

“Well… good night,” I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.

“Good night, Samantha.”

The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. I’m going to have to move.

I’m about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack.

“Samantha?”

As if I haven’t had enough this evening. It’s Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-ness.

“Another delivery arrived for you, dear,” she says. “Dry cleaning this time. I’ll just fetch it for you.”

“Thanks,” I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway. I’m planning to recycle them when I get a moment. It’s on my list.

“You’re late home again.” Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered shirts. “You girls are so busy!” She clicks her tongue. “You haven’t been home before eleven this week!”

This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book.

“Thanks very much.” I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me into the flat, exclaiming, “I’ll carry it in for you!”

“Er… excuse the… er… mess,” I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped against the wall. “I keep meaning to put those up…”

I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall table. Then I wish I hadn’t. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets, together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals: DEAR SAMANTHA

1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW

AWAY?

2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD

NOT FIND ANY.

3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON?

DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST IN CASE.

YOUR CLEANER JOANNE

I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didn’t take five minutes to slice a carrot, did it?

I really wouldn’t know.

“So… thanks.” I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. “It’s really kind of you.”

“It’s no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blouses very well at home and save on all that money.”

I look at her blankly. If I did that I’d have to dry them. And iron them.

“And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button,” she adds. “The pink and white stripe.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Well… that’s OK. I’ll send it back. They won’t charge.”

“You can pop a button on yourself, dear!” Mrs. Farley is shocked. “It won’t take you two minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?”

My what?

“I don’t have a workbox,” I explain as politely as I can. “I don’t really do sewing.”

“You can sew a simple button on, surely!” she exclaims.

“No,” I say, a bit rankled at her expression. “But it’s no problem. I’ll send it back to the dry cleaners.”

Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?”

I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er… no. She didn’t.”

“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. It’s gibberish.

“Well, in my day… we weren’t,” 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 can’t resist adding.

Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically.

I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me―and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on a button?

“It’s 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 can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.”

Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t 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 there’s 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 family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace.

I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve 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 Walton’s Mountain too.

And now it’s 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. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear.