The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“Samantha,” he says as I turn round. “We need to talk.”

“I’m busy.” The kitchen timer goes off with a shrill ring and I open the bottom oven to take out my rosemary-garlic rolls. I feel a surge of pride as I see them, all golden brown and wafting a delicious, herby scent. I can’t resist taking a nibble out of one, then offering it to Guy.

“You made these?” He looks astounded.“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I couldn’t. I learned.” I reach into the fridge again for some unsalted butter and break a knob into the foaming asparagus sauce. Then I glance at Guy, who’s standing by the utensil rack. “Could you pass me a whisk?”

Guy looks helplessly at the utensils.

“Er… which one is the—”

“Don’t worry,” I say, clicking my tongue. “I’ll get it.”

“I have a job offer for you,” says Guy as I grab the whisk and start beating in the butter. “I think you should look at it.”

“I’m not interested.” I don’t even raise my head.

“You haven’t even seen it yet.” He reaches into his inside pocket and produces a white letter. “Here. Take a look.”

“I’m not interested!” I repeat in exasperation. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

“You want to be a housekeeper instead.” His tone is so dismissive, I feel stung.

“Yes!” I thrust my whisk down. “I do! I’m happy here. I’m relaxed. You have no idea. It’s a different life!”

“Yup, I got that,” says Guy, glancing at my broom. “Saman-tha, you have to see sense!” He takes a phone out of his inside pocket and starts dialing. “There’s someone you really should speak to. I’ve been in contact with your mother over the situation.”

“You what?” I stare at him in horror. “How dare you!”

“Samantha, I only want the best for you. So does she. Hi, Jane,” he says into the phone. “I’m with her now. I’ll pass you over.”

I cannot believe this. For an instant I feel like throwing the phone out the window. But no. I can deal with this.

“Hi, Mum,” I say, taking the phone from Guy. “Long time.”

“Samantha.” Her voice is as icy as it was the last time we spoke. But somehow this time it doesn’t make me feel tense or anxious. She can’t tell me what to do. She has no idea about my life anymore. “What exactly do you think you’re doing? Working as some kind of domestic?”

“That’s right. I’m a housekeeper. And I suppose you want me to go back to being a lawyer? Well, I’m happy here and I’m not going to.” I taste the asparagus sauce and add some salt.

“You may think it’s funny to be flippant,” she says curtly. “This is your life, Samantha. Your career. I think you fail to understand—”

“You don’t understand! None of you do!” I glare at Guy, then turn the hob down to a simmer and lean against the counter.

“Mum, I’ve learned a different way to live. I do my day’s work, and I finish— and that’s it. I’m free. I don’t need to take paperwork home. I don’t need to have my BlackBerry switched on twentyfour/seven. I can go to the pub, I can make weekend plans, I can go and sit in the garden for half an hour with my feet up—and it doesn’t matter. I don’t have that constant pressure anymore. I’m not stressed out. And it suits me.” I reach for a glass, fill it with water, and take a

drink.“I’m sorry, but I’ve changed. I’ve made friends. I’ve got to know the community here. It’s like… The Waltons.”

“The Waltons?” She sounds startled. “Are there children there?”

“No!” I say in frustration. “You don’t understand! They just… care. Like, a couple of weeks ago they threw me the most amazing birthday party.”

There’s silence. I wonder if I’ve touched a sensitive spot. Maybe she’ll feel guilty… maybe she’ll understand…

“How very bizarre,” she says crisply. “Your birthday was almost two months ago.”

“I know it was.” I sigh. “Look, Mum, I’ve made up my mind.” The cooker suddenly pings, and I reach for an oven glove. “I’ve got to go.”

“Samantha, this conversation is not over!” she snaps furiously. “We have not finished.”

“We have, OK?We have!” I switch off the phone and dump it on the table. “Thanks a lot, Guy,” I say shortly. “Any other nice little surprises for me?”

“Samantha…” He spreads his hands apologetically. “I was just trying to get through to you—”

“I don’t need ‘getting through to.’ ” I turn away. “And now I have to work. This is my job.”

I open the bottom oven, take out my trays of tartlets, and start transferring them onto small warmed plates.

“I’ll help,” says Guy after a moment.

“You can’t help.” I roll my eyes.

“Of course I can.” To my astonishment he takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and puts on an apron adorned with cherries. “What do I do?”

I can’t help but laugh. He looks so incongruous.

“Fine.” I hand him a tray. “You can take in the starters with me.”

As we enter the white-canopied room, the babble of chatter breaks off and fifteen dyed, lacquered heads turn. Trish’s guests are seated around the

table, sipping champagne, each wearing a suit of a different pastel color. It’s like walking into a Dulux paint chart.

“And this is Samantha!” says Trish, whose cheeks are a bright shade of pink. “You all know Samantha, our housekeeper—and also top lawyer!”

To my embarrassment a spattering of applause breaks out.

“We saw you in the papers!” says a woman in cream.

“I need to talk to you.” A woman in blue leans forward with an intense expression. “About my divorce settlement.”

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

“This is Guy, who’s helping me out today,” I say, beginning to serve the mushroom tarts.

“He’s also a partner at Carter Spink,” adds Trish proudly.

I can see impressed glances being exchanged across the table. An elderly woman at the end turns to Trish, looking bewildered.

“Are all your help lawyers?”

“Not all,” says Trish airily, taking a deep gulp of champagne. “But you know, having had a Cambridge-educated housekeeper… I could never go back.”

“Where do you get them from?” a redhaired woman asks avidly. “Is there a special agency?”