The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

Trish if I could possibly send an e-mail of thanks to Lady Edgerly, and she was only too eager to open up the study for me and loiter behind the chair, until I politely asked her for some privacy.

Eddie’s home page opens and I immediately type in www.carterspink.com.

As the familiar purple logo appears and describes a 360-degree circle on the screen, I can feel all the old tensions rising, like leaves from the bottom of a pond. Taking a deep breath, I click swiftly past the introduction, straight to Associates. The list comes up—and Freya’s right. The names segue straight from Snell to Taylor. No Sweeting.

I tell myself to be rational. Of course they’ve taken me off. I’ve been fired, what else did I expect? That was my old life and I’m not concerned with it anymore. I should just close down, go to Iris’s house, and forget about it. That’s what I should do. Instead, I find myself reaching for the mouse and tapping Samantha Sweeting into the search box. No result pings up a few moments later.

No result? Nowhere on the whole Web site? But… what about in the Media section? Or News Archives?

I quickly click onto the Done Deals box, and search for Euro-Sal, merger, DanCo. That was a big European deal last year, and I handled the financing. The report appears on the screen, with the headline CARTER SPINK ADVISES ON £20BN

MERGER. My eyes run down the familiar text. The Carter Spink team was led from London by Arnold Saville, with associates Guy Ashby and Jane Smilington.

I stop in disbelief, then go back and read the text more carefully, searching for the missing words: and Samantha Sweeting, it should read. But the words aren’t there. I’m not there. Quickly I click onto another deal, the Conlon acquisition. I know I’m in this report. I’ve read it, for Christ’s sake. I was on the team, I’ve got a tombstone to prove it.

But I’m not mentioned here either.

My heart is thudding as I click from deal to deal, tracking back a year. Two years. Five years. They’ve wiped me out.

Someone has gone painstakingly through the entire Web site and removed my name. I’ve been erased from every deal I was involved with. It’s as if I never even existed.

I try to stay calm, but anger is bubbling up, hot and strong. How dare they change history? How dare they wipe me out? I gave them seven years of my life. They can’t just blot me out, pretend I was never even on the payroll.

Then a new thought hits me. Why have they bothered doing this? Other people have left the firm and haven’t disappeared. Am I such an embarrassment? I look at the screen silently for a moment. Then, slowly, I type in www.google.com

and enter Samantha Sweeting in the box. I add lawyer to be on the safe side, and press enter.

A moment later the screen fills with text. As I scan the entries I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head.

…the Samantha Sweeting debacle…

… discovery, Samantha Sweeting went AWOL, leaving colleagues

to…

…heard about Samantha Sweeting…

…Samantha Sweeting jokes. What do you call a lawyer who…

…Samantha Sweeting fired from Carter Spink…

One after another. From lawyers’ Web sites, legal news services, law students’ message boards. It’s as if the whole legal world has been talking about me behind my back. In a daze, I click to the next page—and there are still more. And on the next page, and the next.

I feel as though I’m surveying a wrecked bridge. Looking at the damage, realizing for the first time quite how bad the devastation is.

I can never go back.

I knew that.

But I don’t think I really knew it. Not deep down in the pit of my stomach. Not where it counts.

I feel a wetness on my cheek and jump to my feet, shutting all the Web pages down; clearing History in case Eddie gets curious. I shut down the computer and look around the silent room. This is where I am. Not there. That part of my life is over.

Iris’s cottage is looking as idyllic as ever as I dash up to the front door, out of breath. In fact, even more idyllic, as a goose is now wandering about with her hens.

“Hello.” Iris is sitting on the front step with a mug of tea. “You seem in a hurry.”

“I just wanted to get here on time.” I glance around the garden, but there’s no sign of Nathaniel.

“Nathaniel had to go and sort out a leaking pipe at one of the pubs,” says Iris, as though reading my mind. “But he’ll be back later. Meanwhile, we’re going to make bread.”

“Great!” I say. I follow her into the kitchen and put on the same stripy apron as last time.

“I’ve started us off already,” says Iris, going over to a large, old-fashioned mixing bowl on the table. “Yeast, warm water, melted butter, and flour. Mix together and you have your dough. Now, you’re going to knead it.”

“Right,” I say, looking blankly at the dough. She shoots me a curious glance.

“Are you all right, Samantha? You seem… out of sorts.”

“I’m fine.” I will myself to concentrate. “Sorry.”

“I know people have machines to do this for them,” she says, hefting the dough onto the table. “But this is how we make it the old-fashioned way. You’ll never taste better.”

She kneads it briskly a couple of times. “You see? Fold it over, make a quarter turn. You need to use a bit of energy.”

Cautiously I plunge my hands into the soft dough and try to imitate her.

“That’s it,” says Iris, watching carefully. “Get into a rhythm and really work it. Kneading’s very good for releasing stress,” she adds with wry humor. “Pretend you’re bashing all your worst enemies.”

“I’ll do that!” I manage a cheerful tone.

But there’s a knot of tension in my chest, which doesn’t dwindle away as I knead. In fact, the more I fold and turn the dough, the worse it seems to get. I can’t stop my mind flipping back to that Web site.

I did good things for that firm. I won clients. I negotiated deals. I was not nothing.

I was not nothing.