The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“Hello?”

“Samantha,” comes a businesslike voice. “John Ketterman here.”

“Oh.” Suddenly my calmness is replaced by a serious case of nerves. “Hi.”

“I’d like to ask that you keep yourself available today. It may be necessary for you to speak to some people.”

“People?”

There’s a slight pause, then Ketterman says, “Investigators.”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I feel like punching the air or bursting into tears. But somehow I keep my composure.

“So have you found something out?”

“I can’t say anything at the moment.” Ketterman sounds as distant and formal as ever. “I just need to know that you’ll be available.”

“Of course. Where will I have to go?”

“We’d like you to come here, to the Carter Spink offices,” he says, without any trace of irony.

I look at the phone, almost wanting to laugh. Would that be the same Carter Spink offices I was thrown out of yesterday? I feel like saying. The same Carter Spink offices I’ve been banned from?

“I’ll call you,” adds Ketterman. “Keep your mobile with you. It could be a few hours.”

“OK. I will.” I take a deep breath. “And please,just tell me. You don’t have to go into specifics, but… was my theory right?”

There’s a crackling silence down the phone. I can’t breathe.

“Not in every detail,” says Ketterman at last, and I feel a painful thrill of triumph. That means I was right with some details, at least.

The phone goes dead. I put the receiver down and look at my reflection in the hall mirror, my eyes bright.

I was right. And they know it.

They’ll offer me my job back, it suddenly hits me. They’ll offer me partnership. At the thought I’m seized

with excitement—and at the same time, a kind of fear.

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I walk into the kitchen, keyed up, unable to stand still. What the hell am I going to do for the next few hours? I pour hot water onto my chamomile tea bag and stir it round with a spoon. And then I have an idea.

It takes only twenty minutes to pop out and get what I need. Butter, eggs, flour, vanilla, icing sugar. Baking tins. Mixers. A set of scales. Everything, in fact. I cannot believe how badly equipped my kitchen is. How did I ever do any cooking in here?

Well. I didn’t.

I don’t have an apron so I improvise with an old shirt. I don’t have a mixing bowl and I forgot to buy one—so I use the plastic basin given to me as part of an aromatherapy kit. Two hours of whisking and baking later, I’ve produced a cake. Three tiers of vanilla sponge, sandwiched with buttercream, iced with lemon glace, and decorated with sugar flowers.

I take it in with a glow of satisfaction. This is my fifth cake ever, and the first time I’ve done more than two tiers. I take off my old shirt, check that my mobile is in my pocket, pick up the cake, and head out of the flat.

As Mrs. Farley answers the doorbell, she looks startled to see me.

“Hi!” I say. “I’ve brought you something. To say thank you for looking after my post.”

“Oh!” She looks at the cake in astonishment. “Samantha! That must have been expensive!”

“I didn’t buy it,” I say proudly. “I made it.”

Mrs. Farley looks staggered.

“You… made it?”

“Uh-huh.” I beam. “Shall I bring it in and make you some coffee?”

Mrs. Farley looks too thunderstruck to answer, so I head past her into the flat. To my shame I realize I haven’t been in here before. In three years of knowing her, I never once set foot over the

threshold. The place is immaculately kept, full of little side tables and antiques and a bowl of rose petals on the coffee table.

“You sit down,” I say. “I’ll find what I need in the kitchen.” Still looking dazed, Mrs. Farley sinks into an upholstered wing chair.

“Please,” she says faintly. “Don’t break anything.”

“I’m not going to break anything! Would you like frothy milk? And do you have any nutmeg?”

Ten minutes later I emerge from the kitchen, bearing two coffees and the cake.

“Here.” I cut Mrs. Farley a slice. “See what you think.”

Mrs. Farley takes the plate.

“You made this,” she says at last.

“Yes!”

Mrs. Farley takes the slice to her mouth. Then she pauses, an anxious expression on her face.

“It’s safel” I say, and take a bite of my own slice. “See? I know how to cook! Honestly!”

Mrs. Farley takes a tiny bite. As she’s chewing, her eyes meet mine in astonishment.

“It’s… delicious! So light! You really made this?”

“I whisked the egg whites separately,” I explain. “It keeps cakes really light. I can give you the recipe if you like. Have some coffee.” I hand her a cup. “I used your electric beater for the milk, if that’s OK. It works fine, if you get it to just the right temperature.”

Mrs. Farley is gazing at me as though I’m talking gob-bledygook.

“Samantha,” she says at last. “Where have you been these last weeks?”

“I’ve been… away somewhere.” My eye falls on a duster and can of Pledge, sitting on a side table. She must have been in the middle of cleaning when I rang. “I wouldn’t use those dusters if I were you,” I add politely. “I can recommend some better ones.”

Mrs. Farley puts down her cup and leans forward in her chair. Her .brow is wrinkled in concern.

“Samantha, you haven’t joined some sort of religion?”

“No!” I can’t help laughing at her face. “I’ve just been… doing something different. More coffee?”

I head into the kitchen and froth up some more milk. When I return to the sitting room, Mrs. Farley is on her second slice of cake.

“This is very good,” she says between bites. “Thank you.”

“Well… you know.” I shrug, a little awkward. “Thanks for looking out for me all that time.”