But instead I switched the radio off and took three deep breaths. I’m not going to let myself get hassled. I have other things to think about. Fourteen guests have arrived for the charity lunch and are milling around on the lawn. I have wild-mushroom tartlets to bake, asparagus sauce to finish, and salmon fillets to roast.
I desperately wish Nathaniel were here to keep me calm. But he’s gone off to Buckingham to pick up some koi carp for the pond, which Trish has suddenly decided she must have. Apparently they cost hundreds of pounds and all the celebrities have them. It’s ridiculous. No one ever even looks in the pond.
The doorbell rings just as I’m opening the oven, and I sigh. Not another guest. We’ve had four late acceptances this morning, which has totally thrown my schedule. Let alone the journalist from the Mirror who dressed up in a pink floral suit and tried to tell Eddie she was new to the village.
I put the tray of tarts in the oven, gather up the remaining scraps of pastry, and start to wipe down my rolling pin.
“Samantha?” Trish taps at the door. “We have another guest!”
“Another one?” I turn round, wiping flour off my cheek. “But I’ve just put the starters in the oven—”
“It’s a friend of yours. He says he needs to speak to you urgently. About business?” Trish raises her eyebrow at me significantly—then steps aside.
It’s Guy. Standing in Trish’s kitchen. In his immaculate Jermyn Street suit and starched cuffs.
I’m utterly flabbergasted. Judging by his expression, he’s pretty gobsmacked too.
“Oh, my God,” he says slowly, his eyes running over my uniform, my rolling pin, my floury hands. “You really are a housekeeper.”
“Yes.” I lift my chin. “I really am.”
“Samantha …” says Trish from the door. “Not that I want to interrupt, but … starters in ten minutes?”
“Of course, Mrs. Geiger.” I automatically bob a curtsy as Trish leaves, and Guy’s eyes nearly fall out of his head.
“You curtsy?”
“The curtsying was a bit of a mistake,” I admit, catching his appalled expression. “Guy, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here to persuade you to come back.”
Of course he is. I should have guessed.
“I’m not coming back. Excuse me.” I reach for the broom and dustpan and start sweeping the flour and pastry scraps off the floor. “Mind your feet!”
“Oh. Right.” Guy awkwardly moves out of the way.
I dump the pastry bits in the bin, then get my asparagus sauce out of the fridge, pour it into a pan, and set it on a gentle heat. Guy is watching me in bemusement.
“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. “Samantha, 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 twenty-four/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 red-haired woman asks avidly. “Is there a special agency?”
“It’s called Oxbridge Housekeepers,” says Guy, placing a mushroom tart in front of her. “Very choosy. Only those with first-class honors can apply.”
“Goodness!” The red-haired woman gazes up, agog.
“I, on the other hand, went to Harvard,” he continues. “So I’m with Harvard Help. Our motto is: ‘Because that’s what an Ivy League education is for.’ Isn’t that right, Samantha?”
“Shut up,” I mutter. “Just serve the food.”
At last all the ladies are served and we retreat to the empty kitchen.
“Very funny,” I say, plonking the tray down with a crash. “You’re so witty.”
“Well, for God’s sake, Samantha. Do you expect me to take all this seriously? Jesus.” He takes off the apron and throws it down on the table. “Serving food to a bunch of airheads. Letting them patronize you.”
“I have a job to do,” I say tightly, opening the oven to check on the salmon. “So if you’re not going to help me—”
“This is not the job you should be doing!” he suddenly explodes. “Samantha, this is a fucking travesty. You have more brains than anyone in that room, and you’re serving them? You’re curtsying to them? You’re cleaning their bathrooms?”
He sounds so passionate, I turn round. All traces of teasing have gone from his face.
“Samantha, you’re one of the most brilliant people I know.” His voice is jerky with anger. “You have the best legal mind any of us has ever seen. I cannot let you throw away your life on this … deluded crap.”
“It’s not deluded crap!” I reply, incensed. “Just because I’m not ‘using my degree,’ just because I’m not in some office, I’m wasting my life? Guy, I’m happy. I’m enjoying life in a way I’ve never done before. I like cooking. I like running a house. I like picking strawberries from the garden—”
“You’re living in fantasyland!” he shouts. “This is all a novelty! It’s fun because you’ve never done it before! But it’ll wear off! Can’t you see that?”
I feel a pricking of uncertainty inside. I’ll ignore it.
“No.” I give my asparagus sauce a determined stir. “I love this life.”
“Will you still love it when you’ve been cleaning bathrooms for ten years? Get real.” He comes over to the cooker and I turn away. “So you needed a holiday. You needed a break. Fine. But now you need to come back to real life.”
“This is real life for me,” I shoot back. “It’s more real than my life used to be.”
Guy shakes his head. “Charlotte and I went to Tuscany last year and learned watercolor painting. I loved it. The olive oil … the sunsets—the whole bit.” He meets my eyes intently for a moment, then leans forward. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to become a fucking Tuscan watercolor painter.”
“It’s different!” I wrench my gaze away from his. “Guy, I’m not going back to that workload. I’m not going back to that pressure. I worked seven days a week, for seven bloody years—”
“Exactly. Exactly! And just as you get the reward … you bail out?” He clutches his head. “Samantha, I’m not sure you understand the position you’re in. You’ve been offered full equity partnership. You can basically demand any income you like. You’re in control!”
“What?” I look at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Guy raises his eyes upward, as though summoning the help of the Lawyer Gods.
“Do you realize,” he says carefully, “the storm you’ve created? Do you realize how bad this all looks for Carter Spink? This is the worst week of press since the Storesons scandal in the eighties.”
“I didn’t plan any of it,” I say, defensive. “I didn’t ask the media to turn up on the doorstep—”
“I know. But they did. And Carter Spink’s reputation has plummeted. The human-resources department are beside themselves. After all their touchy-feely well-being programs, all their graduate recruitment workshops … you tell the world you’d rather clean loos.” He gives a sudden snort of laughter. “Talk about bad PR.”
“Well, it’s true,” I say, lifting my chin. “I would.”
“Don’t be so perverse!” Guy bangs the table in exasperation. “You have Carter Spink over a barrel! They want the world to see you walking back into that office. They’ll pay you whatever you want! You’d be crazy not to take up their offer!”
“I’m not interested in money,” I retort. “I’ve got enough money—”
“You don’t understand! Samantha, if you come back, you can earn enough to retire after ten years. You’ll be set up for life! Then you can go and pick strawberries or sweep floors or whatever crap it is you want to do.”
I open my mouth automatically to respond—but all of a sudden I can’t quite track my thoughts. They’re jumping about all over the place in confusion.
“You earned your partnership,” says Guy, his tone quieter. “You earned it, Samantha. Use it.”
Guy doesn’t say any more on the subject. He’s always known exactly when to close an argument; he should have been a barrister. He helps me serve the salmon, then gives me a hug and tells me to call him as soon as I’ve had time to think. And then he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the kitchen, my thoughts churning.
I was so sure of myself. But now …
His arguments keep playing out in my mind. They keep hitting true notes. Maybe I am deluded. Maybe this is all a novelty. Maybe after a few years of a simpler life I won’t be content, I’ll be frustrated and bitter. I have a sudden vision of myself mopping floors with a nylon scarf round my head, assailing people: “I used to be a corporate lawyer, you know.”
I have a brain. I have years ahead of me. And he’s right. I worked for my partnership. I earned it.
I bury my head in my hands, resting my elbows on the table, listening to the thump of my own heart, beating like a question. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
I’ve never felt so uncertain in my life. I’ve always been so positive about what I wanted, what my goals were, where I was headed. Now I feel like a pendulum, swinging from one side to the other, back and forth until I’m exhausted.
And yet all the time I’m being gradually pushed toward one answer. The rational answer. The answer that makes most sense.
I know what it is. I’m just not ready to face up to it yet.
It takes me until six o’clock. The lunch is over and I’ve cleared the table. Trish’s guests have wandered round the garden and had cups of tea and melted away. As I walk out into the soft, balmy evening, Nathaniel and Trish are standing by the pond, with a plastic tank by Nathaniel’s feet.
His face lights up as he turns and sees me—and something seems to wrench my stomach. There’s no one else whose face lights up like that when they see me. There’s no one else who manages to make me laugh and feel secure and teach me about worlds of which I knew nothing.
“This is a kumonryu,” Nathaniel is saying as he
scoops something out of the tank in a big green net. “Want to have a look?” As I get nearer I see an enormous patterned fish flapping noisily in the net. He offers it to Trish and she hops back with a little shriek.
“Get it away! Put it in the pond!”
“It cost you two hundred quid,” says Nathaniel with a shrug. “I thought you might want to say hello.”
“Put them all in.” Trish shudders. “I’ll come and see them when they’re swimming about.”
She turns on her heel and heads back toward the house.
“All right?” Nathaniel looks up at me. “How was the great charity lunch?”
“It was … fine.”
“Did you hear the news?” He scoops another fish into the pond. “Eamonn’s just got engaged! He’s having a party this weekend at the pub.”
“That’s … that’s great.”
My mouth is dry. Come on. Just tell him.
“You know, we should have a koi pond at the nursery,” says Nathaniel, sloshing the rest of the fish into the pond. “Do you know the profit margin on these—”
“Nathaniel, I’m going back.” I close my eyes, trying to ignore the stab of pain inside. “I’m going back to London.”
For a moment he doesn’t move. Then very slowly he turns round, the net still in his hand, his face expressionless.
“Right,” he says.
“I’m going back to my old job as a lawyer.” My voice shakes a little. “Guy from my old firm came down today, and he convinced me—He showed me. He made me realize—” I break off and gesture helplessly.
“Realize what?” Nathaniel says.
He hasn’t smiled. He hasn’t said, “Good idea, that’s just what I was going to suggest.” Why can’t he make this easy for me?
“I can’t be a housekeeper all my life!” I sound more defensive than I’d like. “I’m a trained lawyer! I have a brain!”
“I know you have a brain.” Now he sounds defensive. Oh, God. I’m not managing this well.
“I’ve earned partnership. Full equity partnership at Carter Spink.” I gaze up at him, trying to convey the significance of this. “It’s the most prestigious … lucrative … amazing … I can make enough money in a few years to retire!”