The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

Or I’ll search his desk drawers. His BlackBerry could be in there. I hadn’t thought of that.

Suddenly I can hear voices behind me, coming out of the lifts. In panic, I pick up my pace. I reach Arnold’s office, wrench the door open, slam it behind me, and duck down underneath the glass panel. I can hear the voices getting closer. David Elldridge and Keith Thompson and someone I don’t recognize. They pass by the door, and I don’t move a muscle. Then they’re receding into the distance. Thank God.

I let out my breath, slowly rise to my feet, and peep through the glass. I can’t see anyone. I’m safe. Only then do I turn around and survey the office.

It’s empty.

It’s been cleared out.

Bewildered, I take a few steps into the room. The desk is empty. The shelves are empty. There are faint squares on the walls where framed photos have been taken down. There’s nothing in this office apart from one piece of industrial tape on the floor and some drawing pins still stuck into the pin board.

I can’t believe it.After all this effort. After making it this far. There’s nothing to bloody search?

There must be boxes, I think in sudden inspiration. Yes. It’s all been put into boxes to be moved, and they’ll all be stacked outside. I hurry out of the office and look around wildly. But I can’t see

any boxes. No crates. Nothing. I’m too late. I’m too fucking late. I feel like punching something with frustration.

“Excuse me?”

I freeze. Shit. Shit.

“Yes?” I turn round, pulling my hair over my face and gazing firmly downward.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

It’s a trainee. Bill… what’s his name? He used to do occasional bits of work for me.

It’s all right. He hasn’t recognized me.

“I was delivering a bottle of champagne, sir,” I mumble in my best drag-queen voice, nodding to the bottle where I left it on the floor. “Surprise for the gentleman. I was just wondering where to put it.”

“I’d just leave it on the desk,” says Bill curtly. “And you shouldn’t be in here.”

“I was just going back. Sir.” I dump the bottle on the desk, bow my head, and scuttle out. Bloody hell. That was close.

I head to the stairwell and hurry up the stairs, flustered. It’s time to exit this building, before anyone else sees me.

The party’s still in full swing as I creep out of the stairwell door and hurry toward the room where I left my clothes. I won’t bother to change. I can always mail the waitress gear back—

“Trish?” Jan’s voice hits the back of my head. “Is that you?”

Fuck. Reluctantly I turn round to face her. She looks hopping mad. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Um… serving?”

“No, you haven’t. I haven’t seen you in there once!” she snaps. “You’re not working for me again, I can tell you. Now, take these and pull your weight.” She thrusts a plate of tiny little eclairs into my arms and pushes me roughly toward the doors of the party.

No. I can’t go in there. No way.

“Absolutely! I just have to… get some cocktail napkins___”

I try to back away, but she grabs me.

“No, you don’t! You wanted this job! Now work!”

She shoves me hard, and I stagger into the crowded room. I feel like a gladiator being pushed into the arena. Jan’s standing at the door, her arms folded. There’s no way out. I’m going to have to do this. I grip the tray more tightly, lower my head—and advance slowly into the crowded room.

I can’t walk naturally. My legs feel like boards. `The hairs on the nape of my neck are standing on end; I can feel the blood pulsating through my ears. I edge past expensive suits, not daring to look up, not daring to pause in case I attract attention. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m dressed up in a green- and-white uniform, serving mini-eclairs to my former colleagues.

But one thing I’ve learned from doing parties with Eamonn is, the waiting staff are invisible. And sure enough, no one seems to have noticed.

Several hands have plucked eclairs from the tray, without even glancing at me. Everyone’s too busy laughing and chatting. The din is tremendous.

I can’t see Arnold anywhere. But he has to be here somewhere. I’m compelled to look for him, to raise my head and search him out. But I can’t risk it. Instead, I keep on moving steadily around the room. Familiar faces are everywhere. Snatches of conversation are making my ears prick up.

“Where’s Ketterman?” someone is asking as I pass by.

“In Dublin for the day,” replies Oliver Swan. “But he’ll be at the partners’ farewell dinner tomorrow night.” I breathe out in relief. If Ketterman were here I’m sure his laser eyes would pick me up at once.

“Eclairs. Fab!”

About eight hands dive into my tray at once and I come to a standstill It’s a group of trainees. Hoovering food, as trainees always do at parties.

I’m starting to feel edgy. The longer I stand here without moving, the more exposed I feel. But I can’t get away.

Their hands keep plunging in for more.

“Are there any more of the strawberry tarts, do you know?” a guy with rimless glasses asks me.

“Urn… I don’t know,” I mutter, staring down.

Shit. Now he’s peering at me more closely. He’s bending down to get a good look. And I can’t pull my hair over my face because both hands are holding the tray.

“Is that… Samantha Sweeting?” He looks agog. “Is that

“Samantha Sweeting?” One of the girls drops her eclair. Another gasps and claps her hand over her mouth.

“Urn…yes,” I whisper at last, my face boiling. “It’s me. But please, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep a low profile.”

“So… this is what you do now?” The rimless-glasses guy looks aghast. “You’re a waitress?”

The trainees are all staring at me as though I’m the Ghost of Failed Lawyers Future.

“It’s not so bad.” I attempt an upbeat smile. “You get free canapes!”

“So you make one mistake—and that’s it?” gulps the girl who dropped her eclair. “Your legal career is ruined forever?”

“Er… pretty much.” I nod. “Can I offer you another?”

But no one seems hungry anymore. In fact, they all look rather green about the gills.