The Undomestic Goddess (4 page)

She holds out a lit-up mobile phone. In total confusion, I take it and press it to my
other ear.

Hi, Samantha, comes Daniels businesslike drawl. Look, babe, Im snowed under. I cant be
there.

Neitherof them is coming?

Im really sorry, Daniels saying. One of those things. But have a great time with Mum, wont
you?

I take a deep breath. I cant admit she blew me off too. I cant admit that Im sitting here
all on my own.

OK! Somehow I muster a breezy tone. We will!

Ive transferred some money to your account. Buy something nice. And Ive sent some
chocolates along withLorraine , he adds proudly. Picked them out myself.

I look at the gift basketLorraine is proffering. It isnt chocolates, its soap. Thats
really lovely, Daniel, I manage. Thanks very much. Happy birthday to you ...

Theres sudden chorusing behind me. I swivel round to see a waiter carrying over a cocktail
glass with a sparkler. Happy Birthday Samantha is written in caramel on the steel tray, next to a miniature souvenir menu signed by the
chef. Three waiters are following behind, all singing in harmony.

After a moment,Lorraine awkwardly joins in. Happy birthday to you ...

The waiter puts the tray down in front of me, but my hands are full with phones.

Ill take that for you, saysLorraine , relieving me of Daniels phone. She lifts it to her
ear, then beams at me. Hes singing! she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly.

Samantha? Mum is saying in my ear. Are you still there?

Im just... theyre singing Happy Birthday...

I put the phone on the table. After a moments thought,Lorraine puts the other phone
carefully down on the other side of me.

This is my family birthday party.

Two cell phones.

I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see Im
sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. Im trying to keep
my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. Hes carrying three
cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion.

Who is the martini for?

It was... supposed to be for my brother...

That would be the Nokia, saysLorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.

Theres a pausethen, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in
front of the phone, together

I want to laughexcept theres a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other
cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. Theres an awkward pause.

So anyway...Lorraine retrieves Daniels mobile phone and pops it into her bag. Happy
birthdayand have a lovely evening!

As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye
but Mums already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. Its just me and a basket
of soap.

Did you wish to order? The maitre has reappeared at my chair. I can recommend the risotto,
he says in kind tones. Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?

Actually... I force myself to smile. Ill just get the bill, thanks.

It doesnt matter.

We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldnt even have tried to set the date.
Were all busy, we all have careers, thats just the way my family is.

As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly
stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a
pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair...

Stay here, shes instructing the taxi driver. I can only be five minutes

Freya ? I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.

Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?

What are you doing here? I counter. I thought you were going toIndia .

Im on my way! Im meeting Lord at the airport in about... She looks at her watch. Ten
minutes.

She pulls a guilty face, and I cant help laughing. Ive known Freya since we were both
seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family
were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a
whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived
that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants fromStaines
. Even then she was unabashed and said shed lied to cover up the real truthwhich was that they were spies.

Shes taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her
travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver
earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth Ive ever
seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.

Im here to gate-crash your birthday dinner. Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion.
But I thought I was late. What happened?

Well... I hesitate. The thing was... Mum and Daniel...

Left early? As she peers at me, Freyas expression changes to one of horror. Didnt turn up ? Jesus Christ, the bastards . Couldnt they just for once put you first instead of their frigging She stops her tirade; she knows Ive heard it all
before. Sorry. I know. Theyre your family. Whatever.

Freya and my mum dont exactly get on.

It doesnt matter, I say, shrugging ruefully. Really. Ive got a pile of work to get through
anyway.

Work ? Freya looks appalled. Now? Are you serious? Doesnt it ever stop ?

Were busy at the moment. Its just a blip

Theres always a blip! Theres always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun

Thats not true

Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does! Her eyes are filled
with concern. Samantha... what happened to your life?

Im silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I cant
remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the
holiday I had with Freya inItaly , the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen.
My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken
over.

I want to be a partner of Carter Spink, I say at last. Thats what I want. You have to
make... sacrifices.

And what happens when you make partner? she persists. Does it get easier?

The truth is, I havent thought beyond making partner. Its like a dream. Like a shiny ball
in the sky.

Youre twenty-nine years old, for Christs sake! Freya gestures with a bony, silver- ringed
hand. You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing
the world! She grabs my arm. Samantha, come toIndia . Now!

Do what? I give a startled laugh. I cant come to India !

Take a month off. Why not? Theyre not going to fire you. Come to the airport, well get you
a ticket...

Freya, youre crazy. Seriously. I squeeze her arm. I love youbut youre crazy. Slowly,
Freyas grip on my arm loosens. Same, she says. Youre crazy, but I love you.

Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered
bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly
wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.

Here. She thrusts it at me.

Freya. I turn it over in my fingers. Its amazing.

I thought youd like it. She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. Hi! she says impatiently
into it. Look, Lord, Ill be there, OK?

Freyas husbands full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freyas nickname for him started as a
joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married inLas Vegas . Hes
tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. Hes also amazingly
witty once you get past the deadpan exterior. Technically, their marriage makes her Lady
Edgerlybut her family cant quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys.

Thanks for coming. Thanks for this. I hug her. Have a fabulous time inIndia .

We will. Freya is climbing back into her taxi. And if you want to come out, just let me
know. Invent a family emergency... anything. Give them my number. Ill cover for you.
Whatever your story is.

Go, I say, laughing, and give her a little push. Go toIndia .

The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window.

Sam... good luck for tomorrow. She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. If its really what
you wantthen I hope you get it.

Its what I want more than anything else. As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated
nonchalance disappears. Freya... I cant tell you how much I want it.

Youll get it. I know you will. She kisses my hand, then waves good-bye. And dont go back
to the office! Promise! she shouts over the roar of her taxi.

OK! I promise! I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out
for another.

Carter Spink, please, I say as it pulls up.

I was crossing my fingers. Of course Im going back to the office.

I arrive home at eleven oclock, exhausted and brain-dead, having got through only about
half of Kettermans file. Bloody Ketterman, Im thinking, as I push open the main front door
of the 1930s-mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman. Bloody... bloody...

Good evening, Samantha.

I nearly jump a mile. Its Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding
a bulging briefcase. For an instant Im transfixed in horror. Whats he doing here?

Someone told me you lived here. His eyes glint through his spectacles. Ive bought number
thirty-two as a pied-a-terre. Well be neighbors during the week.

Please tell me this is not happening. He lives here? Er... welcome to the building! I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean
it.

The lift doors open and we both get in. Number 32. That means hes only two floors above
me. I feel like my headmaster has

moved in. Why did he have to choose this building? The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I
attempt small

talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat?

I made some headway on that file you gave me, I say at last.

Good, he says curtly, and nods.

So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff.

Am I going to become a partner tomorrow?

Well... good night, I say awkwardly as I leave the lift.

Good night, Samantha.

The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as
Ketterman. Im going to have to move.

Im about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack.
Samantha?

As if I havent had enough this evening. Its Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair
and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and
takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-ness.

Another delivery arrived for you, dear, she says. Dry cleaning this time. Ill just fetch
it for you.

Thanks, I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting
on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my
hallway. Im planning to recycle them when I get a moment. Its on my list.

Youre late home again. Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered
shirts. You girls are so busy! She clicks her tongue. You havent been home before eleven
this week!

This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged
somewhere in a little book.

Thanks very much. I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me
into the flat, exclaiming, Ill carry it in for you!

Er... excuse the... er... mess, I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped
against the wall. I keep meaning to put those up...

I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall
table. Then I wish I hadnt. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets,
together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals:

DEAR SAMANTHA

1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY?

2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY.

3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST
IN CASE.

YOUR CLEANER JOANNE

I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her

head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you
needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didnt take five
minutes to slice a carrot, did it?

I really wouldnt know.

So... thanks. I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob,
then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. Its really kind
of you.

Its no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton
blouses very well at home and save on all that money.

I look at her blankly. If I did that Id have to dry them. And iron them.

And I did just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button, she adds. The pink and
white stripe.

Oh, right, I say. Well... thats OK. Ill send it back. They wont charge.

You can pop a button on yourself, dear! Mrs. Farley is shocked. It wont take you two
minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?

My what?

I dont have a workbox, I explain as politely as I can. I dont really do sewing.

You can sew a simple button on, surely! she exclaims.

No, I say, a bit rankled at her expression. But its no problem. Ill send it back to the
dry cleaners.

Mrs. Farley is appalled. You cant sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?