The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

Something chimes inside my addled brain. Nicholas Hanford Jones. Why do I know that name? Why am I somehow associating it with Ketterman?

Is BLLC Holdings a client of Ketterman? No. It can’t be. I’d have heard of it before.

I screw my eyes up tight and concentrate as hard as I can. Nicholas Hanford Jones. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye. I’m grasping at an association… an image… come on, think…

This is the trouble with having a nearly photographic memory. People think it must be useful, when in fact all it does is drive you insane.

And then suddenly it comes to me. The swirly writing of a wedding invitation. It

was stuck up on the pin board in Ketterman’s office about three years ago. It was there for weeks. I used to see it every time I went in.

Mr. and Mr.s Arnold Saville

request the pleasure of your company

at the wedding of their daughter Fiona

to Mr. Nicholas Hanford Jones

Nicholas Hanford Jones is Arnold Saville’s son-in-law? Arnold has a family connection with BLLC Holdings?

I sit up in my chair, totally disconcerted. How come he never mentioned that?

And then another thought strikes me. I was on the BLLC Holdings Companies House page a minute ago. Why wasn’t Nicholas Hanford Jones listed as a director? That’s illegal, for a start.

I rub my brow, then out of curiosity type in Nicholas Hanford Jones. A moment later the screen is full of entries, and I lean forward.

Oh, for God’s sake. The Internet is crap. I’m looking at other Nicholases and other Hanfords and other Joneses, mentioned in all sorts of different contexts. I peer at them in total frustration. Doesn’t Google realize that’s not what I’m inter-ested in? Why would I want to read about some Canadian rowing team list containing a Greg Hanford, a Dave Jones, and a Chip Nicholas?

I’m never going to find anything here.

Even so, I start picking my way down, skimming each chunk of text, clicking onto the next page and the next. And then, just as I’m about to give up, my eye falls on an entry tucked away at the bottom of the page. William Hanford Jones, Finance Director of Glazerbrooks, thanked Nicholas Jenkins for his speech…

This is incredible. The finance director at Glazerbrooks is called Hanford Jones too? Are they from the same family‘? Feeling like some kind of private detective, I log onto Friends-Reunited, and two minutes later I have my answer. They’re brothers.

I feel a bit dazed. This is a pretty huge connection. The finance director of Glazerbrooks, which went bust owing Third Union Bank £50 million. A director of BLLC Holdings, which lent it £50 million three days before. And Arnold, representing Third Union Bank. All related; all in the same extended family.

I’m almost certain nobody else knows. Arnold’s never mentioned it. No one at Carter Spink has ever mentioned it. Nor have I seen it brought up in any of the reports on the whole affair. Arnold’s kept all of this very quiet.

I rub my shoulders, trying to gather my jumbled thoughts. Isn’t this a potential conflict of interest? Shouldn’t he have disclosed the information straightaway?

Why on earth would Arnold keep such an important thing secret? Unless—

No. No.

I feel a bit light-headed, as though I’ve suddenly swum over the ledge into miledeep water. My mind is flying ahead, careening onto possibilities and shearing away again in disbelief.

Did Arnold discover something? Is he hiding something?

Is this why he’s leaving?

I get up and thrust my hands through my hair. OK, let’s just… stop all this, right now. This is Arnold I’m talking about. Arnold. I’m turning into some nutty conspiracy theorist. Next I’ll be typing in aliens, Roswell, they live among us.

With sudden resolution I get out my phone. I’ll call Arnold. I’ll wish him well in his retirement. Then maybe I can get rid of all these ridiculous ideas floating round my head.

It takes me about six failed attempts before I muster the courage to dial the entire number and wait for a reply. The idea of talking to anyone at Carter Spink—let alone Arnold—makes me feel slightly sick. I keep bottling out before being connected, thrusting the phone down as though I’ve had a narrow escape.

But at last I steel myself to press the digits and hold the line. I’m never going to know unless I do this. I can talk to Arnold. I can hold my head up.

After three rings the phone is picked up by Lara. “Arnold Saville’s office.”

I have a sudden vision of her, plump and shiny-haired, sitting at her pale wooden desk, in the burgundy jacket she always wears, tapping on the computer. It all seems a million miles away now.

“Hi, Lara,” I say. “It’s… Samantha. Samantha Sweeting.”

“Samantha?” Lara sounds poleaxed. “Bloody hell! How are you? What are you up to?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Really good.” I quell a spasm of nerves. “I just rang because I’ve heard that Arnold’s leaving? Is it true?”

“It’s true!” says Lara with relish. “I was gobsmacked! Apparently, Ketterman took him out to dinner and tried to get him to stay, but he’d made up his mind. Get this, he’s moving to the Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas?” I say in astonishment.

“He’s bought a house there! Looks lovely. His retirement party’s next week,” Lara continues. “I’ll be transferring to Derek Green’s office— you remember him? Taxation partner? Very nice guy, though apparently he can have a bit of a temper—”

“Er… great!” I cut her off, suddenly remembering her ability to gossip for hours. “Lara, I just wanted to give Arnold my best wishes. If you could possibly put me through?”

“Really?” Lara sounds surprised. “That’s incredibly… generous of you, Samantha. After what happened.”

“Well, you know,” I say awkwardly. “It wasn’t Arnold’s fault, was it? He did what he could.”

There’s a strange silence.

“Yes,” says Lara after a pause. “Well. I’ll put you through.”

After a few moments Arnold’s familiar voice is booming down the line.

“Samantha, dear girl! Is it really you?”

“It’s… really me.” I manage a smile. “I haven’t quite disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“I should hope not! Now, you’re all right, are you?”