Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

“Night, Mary Ellen!”

“Good night, John Boy,” I say in unison with Mary Ellen.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, “What? What?”

Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum’s house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water―to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.

I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights… it’s all been for this day.

Partner. Or not Partner.

Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge.

Dammit. I’m out of milk.

And coffee.

I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman.

I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery /milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.

My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually―and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized.

I should really cross off some of the early entries, it occurs to me. I mean, the original list dates from when I first moved into my flat, three years ago. I must have done some of this stuff by now. I pick up a pen and squint at the first few faded entries.

1. Find milkman

2. Food delivery―organize?

3. How switch on oven?

Oh. Right.

Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And I’ll get to grips with the oven. I’ll read the manual and everything.

I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.

16. Sort out milkman

17. Have friends over?

18. Take up hobby??

@ The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.

I look down to even later entries―maybe a year old― where the ink is still blue @.

41. Go on holiday?

42. Give dinner party?

42. MILKMAN??

I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list?

Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn on the kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits.

The kettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup of weird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for an apple from the fruit bowl―only to discover it’s gone all moldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.

The truth is, I don’t care about the list. There’s only one thing I care about.

I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day.

I’ll just keep my head down and get on with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur “Good luck,” and walking along the corridor a guy from Tax grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.

“Best of luck, Samantha.”

How does he know my name?

I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, trying to ignore the fact that through the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.

I really shouldn’t have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.

Anyway. It’s fine. I’ll just start on some work, like any other day. I open Ketterman’s file, find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share transfer.

“Samantha?”

I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.

“Hi,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. “I’m fine. Just… normal. In fact, I don’t know what all the fuss is.”

Guy’s amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my point―and somehow knock the entire file to the floor.

Thank God for paper clips.

Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.

“Uh-huh.” Guy nods gravely. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not nervous or jumpy or anything.”

“Yes,” I say, refusing to take the bait. “Isn’t it?”

“See you later.” He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my watch.

Only eight fifty-three. The partners’ decision meeting starts in seven minutes. I’m not sure I can bear this.

Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Ketterman’s file and make a start at my report. I’m halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.

“Hi,” I say without looking up. “I’m fine, OK? And I haven’t heard anything.”

Guy doesn’t reply.

At last I lift my head. He’s right in front of my desk, looking down at me with the strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together under his poker-straight face.

“I should not be doing this,” he murmurs, then leans in closer. “You did it, Samantha.

You’re a partner. You’ll hear officially in an hour.”

For an instant I can’t breathe.

“You didn’t hear it from me, OK?” Guy’s face creases briefly in a smile. “Well done.”

I made it. I made it.

“Thanks…” I manage.

“I’ll see you later. Congratulate you properly.” He turns and strides away, and I’m left staring unseeingly at my computer.

I made partner.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD!

I’m feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out “YES!” How do I survive an hour? How can I just sit here calmly? I can’t possibly concentrate on Ketterman’s report. It isn’t due until tomorrow, anyway.

I shove the file away from me―and a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal.

Ketterman’s right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesn’t look like a partner’s desk.

I’ll tidy it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour.

12:06-1:06: office administration. We even have a code for it on the computer time sheet.

I had forgotten how much I detest tidying.

All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company letters… contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing… old invitations… memos… a Pilates pamphlet… a CD that I bought three months ago and thought I’d lost… last year’s Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume… I smile at the sight, and put it into the things to find a place for pile.

There are tombstones too―the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. And… oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didn’t finish eating at one time or another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers.

They shouldn’t give us such big desks. I can’t believe how much stuff is on here.

Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework. PARTNER!

Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old copy of The Lawyer and wonder why on earth I’m keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. It’s a memo from Arnold.

Re Third Union Bank.

Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd.