The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

I don’t see the Carter Spink brochure again for two weeks, when I’m drifting into the kitchen to make lunch.

I don’t know what happened to time. I barely recognize it anymore. The minutes and hours don’t march past in rigid chunks, they ebb and flow and swirl around. I don’t even wear a watch anymore. Yesterday I lay in a hay field all afternoon with Nathaniel, watching dandelion seeds float by, and the only ticking sound came from the crickets.

I barely recognize myself anymore either. I’m tanned from lying in the sun at lunchtimes. There are golden streaks in my hair. My cheeks are full. My arms are

gaining muscles from all the polishing and kneading and carting heavy saucepans around.

The summer is in full throttle and each day is hotter than the last. Every morning, before breakfast, Nathaniel walks me back through the village to the Geigers’ house from his flat above the pub—and even at that hour the air is already warming up. I stay there most nights now, and it’s almost got to feel like home. It’s surprisingly spacious, with old sofas covered with cotton throws, and a tiny roof terrace that Nathaniel built himself.

We often sit up there as evening turns into night, listening to the babble of publeavers down below. Sometimes Nathaniel’s doing the pub accounts, but

he talks to me as he works: about the backgrounds of everyone in the village, about the plants he wants to put into the Geigers’ garden, once explaining the entire geology of the local landscape. I tell him about the day I’ve had with the Geigers and entertain him with stories about the latest catering job I’ve done for Eamonn. It’s become quite a regular event for me—driving off in his scruffy Honda with a couple of other girls from the village, changing into black waitress outfits and serving canapes at some posh party or other.

Everything seems slow and lazy, these days. Everyone’s in holiday mood— except Trish, who is in full frenzy. She’s holding her charity lunch next week, and

from the fuss she’s making, you’d think it was a royal wedding.

I’m tidying away the papers that Melissa has left littered on the table when I spot the Carter Spink brochure underneath a folder. I can’t resist picking it up and leafing through the familiar pictures. There are the steps I went up every day of my life for seven years. There’s Guy, looking as dazzling as ever. There’s that girl Sarah from the litigation department, who was up for partnership too. I never even heard if she got it.

“What are you doing?” Melissa has come into the kitchen without me hearing. She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s mine.”

Right. Like I’m going to steal a brochure.

“Just tidying your things,” I say pointedly, putting the brochure down. “I’ve got to use this table.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Melissa rubs her face. She looks haggard. There are shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks seem sunken. Could I have looked that stressed out even at her age?

“You’re ”working hard,“ I volunteer.

“Yah, well.” She lifts her chin. “It’ll be worth it in the end. They work you really hard to start, but after you qualify, it calms down.”

I look at her tired, pinched, arrogant little face. Even if I could tell her what I know, she wouldn’t believe me.

“Yup,” I say after a pause. “I’m sure you’re right.” The Carter Spink brochure is open at a picture of Arnold. He’s wearing a bright blue spotted tie and matching handkerchief and is beaming out at the world. Of all the people at Carter Spink, he’s the one I’d like to see again.

“So are you applying to this law firm?” I ask, stacking the papers on the counter.

“Yup. They’re the best.” Melissa is getting a Diet Coke from the fridge. “That’s the guy who was supposed to be interviewing me.” She points to the picture of Arnold. “But he’s leaving.”

I’m astonished. Arnold’s leaving Carter Spink?

“Are you sure?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Yes.” Melissa regards me quizzically. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, throwing down the brochure. “I just meant… he doesn’t look old enough to retire.”

“Well, he’s going.” She grabs the brochure and wanders out of the kitchen.

Arnold is leaving Carter Spink? But he’s always said he’d never retire. He’s always boasted about lasting another twenty years. Why would he be leaving now?

I’m totally out of touch. For more than a month I’ve been living in a bubble. I haven’t seen The Lawyer, I’ve barely

even seen a normal paper. I don’t know any of the gossip, and I haven’t cared a bit. But now, as I look at Arnold’s familiar face, I can feel my curiosity rise.

So that afternoon, when I’ve cleared up lunch, I slip into Eddie’s study, switch on the computer, and click on Google. I

search for Arnold Saville—and sure enough on the second page I come across a little diary item about his early retirement. I read the fifty-word piece over and over, trying to glean clues. Why would Arnold retire early? Is he ill?

I search for further items, but that’s the only one I can find. Next I go to the search box and—telling myself I shouldn’t— type in Samantha Sweeting. Immediately a zillion stories about me

pop up again on the screen. I don’t feel so freaked out this time, though. The person in these stories doesn’t feel like me anymore.

I scan entry after entry, seeing the same details replayed. After clicking through about five pages I add Third Union Bank to my search, and scan the resulting entries. Then I type in Third Union Bank, BLLC Holdings, then Third Union Bank, Glazerbrooks. Then, with a beat of apprehension, I type in Samantha Sweeting, £50 million, career over, and wait for all the really nasty stories to appear. It’s like watching my own car crash on action replay.

God, Google is addictive. I sit there, totally absorbed, clicking and typing and reading, gorging on endless Web pages,

automatically using the Carter Spink password wherever I need to. After an hour I’m slumped in Eddie’s chair like a zombie. My back is aching and my neck is stiff, and the words are all running into one another. I’d forgotten what it was like to sit at a computer. Did I really used to do this all day?

I rub my tired eyes and glance at the Web page open in front of me, wondering how I even got to it. It’s some obscure list of guests at a lunch held earlier this year at the Painters Hall. About halfway down is the name BLLC Holdings, which must have been the link. On autopilot, I move the cursor along the page—and into view comes the name Nicholas Hanford Jones, Director.