The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

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

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 her 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?”

Chapter 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 diamante 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.”