The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

She confirmed that Ms. Sweeting’s job offer is still open and Carter Spink partners are anxious to talk to her. However, in a fur-ther extraordinary twist, this modern-day Cinderella has not been seen since running away from the offices.

WHERE IS SHE?

See comment, page 34.

I peer at it in a daze. See comment? There’s more? With fumbling hands I turn to page 34.@

THE PRICE OF SUCCESS-TOO HIGH?

A high-flying lawyer with everything ahead of her gives up a six-figure salary and turns to domestic drudgery instead. What does this story say about today’s high-pressure society? Are our career women being pushed too hard? Are they burning out? Does this extraordinary story herald the start of a new trend?

One thing is for certain. Only Samantha Sweeting can answer.

I stare at the page, numb. How did— what did— How?

A flash interrupts me and I lift my head to see the guy pointing his camera at me.

“Stop!” I say, putting my hands up in front of my face.

“Can I have a picture of you holding a toilet brush, love?” he says, zooming his lens in. “It was a waitress in Cheltenham pointed me in the right direction. Reckoned she’d worked with you. Quite a scoop!” The camera flashes again and I flinch.

“No! You… you’ve made a mistake!” I shove the paper back at him in a mess of pages. “My name’s Sarah. I’m not a lawyer. Whatever that waitress said… she was wrong.”

The journalist looks at me suspiciously, and down at the photo again. I can see a flicker of doubt cross his face. I do look fairly different now from the way I did then, with my blond hair and everything.

“Please leave,” I say. “My employers won’t like it.” I wait until he steps off the doorstep, then slam the door shut and turn the key. Then I pull the curtain across the window and lean back against the door, my heart thudding. Fuck. Fuck. What am I going to do?

OK. The important thing is not to panic. The important thing is to stay rational.

On the one hand, my entire past has been exposed in a national tabloid. On the other hand,Trish and Eddie don’t read that particular tabloid. Or the Cheltenham Gazette. It’s one silly story in one silly paper and it will die away by tomorrow. There’s no reason to tell them anything. There’s no need to rock the boat. I’ll just carry on making my chocolate-orange mousses as though

nothing has happened. Yes. Total denial is the way forward.

Feeling slightly better, I reach for the chocolate and start breaking chunks into a glass bowl.

“Samantha! Who was that?” Trish pokes her head round the door.

“No one.” I look up with a fixed smile. “Nothing. Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee and bring it out to the garden?”

Keep calm. Denial. It’ll all be fine.

OK. Denial’s not going to work, because there are three more journalists in the drive.

It’s twenty minutes later. I’ve abandoned my chocolate mousses and am peering

out the hall window in rising dismay. Two blokes and a girl have appeared out of nowhere. They all have cameras and are chatting to the guy in the polo shirt, who’s gesticulating toward the kitchen. Occasionally one of them breaks off and takes a shot of the house. Any minute one of them is going to ring the doorbell.

I cannot let this develop. I need a new plan. I need…

Diversion. Yes. At least it might buy me some time.

I head to the front door, grabbing one of Trish’s floppy straw hats on the way. Then I cautiously step outside and make my way down the gravel drive to the entrance, where the four journalists crowd around me.

“Are you Samantha Sweeting?” says one, thrusting a tape recorder in my face.

“Do you regret turning down partnership?” demands another.

“My name’s Sarah,” I say, keeping my head down. “You’ve got the wrong girl. Kindly leave the premises at once.”

I wait for the stampede, but no one moves.

“You’ve all made a mistake!” I try again. “If you don’t leave… I’ll call the police.”

One of the journalists peers under the brim of Irish’s hat. “It’s her,” he says scornfully. “Ned, it’s her! Come over here!”

“She’s there! She’s come out!”

“It’s her!”

I hear voices from across the street—and, aghast, I see another load of journalists suddenly appear, hurrying down the road toward the gates, bearing cameras and Dictaphones.

Fuck. Where did they come from?

“Ms. Sweeting, Angus Watts. Daily Express.” Black-glasses guy lifts up his microphone. “Do you have a message for young women of today?”

“Do you really enjoy cleaning toilets?” chimes in someone else, snapping a camera in my face. “What brand of toilet cleaner do you use?”

“Stop it!” I say, flustered. “Leave me alone!” I haul at the iron gates until they’re closed, then turn and run up the drive, into the house and into the kitchen.

What am I going to do? What?

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored fridge. My face is flushed and my expression wild. I’m also still wearing Trish’s floppy straw hat.

I grab it off my head and dump it on the table, just as Trish comes into the kitchen. She’s holding a book called

Your Elegant Luncheon Party and an empty coffee cup.

“Do you know what’s going on, Samantha?” she says. “There seems a bit of a commotion outside in the road.”

“Is there?” I say. “I… I hadn’t noticed.”

“It looks like a protest.” She wrinkles her brow. “I do hope they’re not still there tomorrow. Protesters are so selfish...”

Her eye falls on the counter. “Haven’t you finished the mousses yet? Samantha, really! What have you been doing?”

“Um… nothing!” I reach for the bowl and start doling out chocolate mixture into molds. “I’m just getting on with them, Mrs. Geiger.”

I feel like I’m in some kind of parallel reality. Everything’s going to come out. It’s a matter of time. What do I do?

“Have you seen this protest?” Trish demands as Eddie saunters into the kitchen. “Outside our gates! I think we should tell them to move on.”

“It’s not a protest,” he says, opening the fridge and peering inside. “It’s journalists.”