The Undomestic Goddess Page 2

  “Absolutely,” I reply. Ketterman is unnerving at the best of times. He just emanates scary, brainy power. But today is a million times worse, because Ketterman is on the decision panel. Tomorrow morning at nine a.m., he and thirteen other partners are holding a big meeting to decide on which associates will become partners this year. All the candidates gave presentations last week to the panel, outlining what qualities and ideas we would bring to the firm. As I finished mine, I had no idea whether I’d impressed or not. Tomorrow, I’ll find out.

  “The draft documentation is right here.…” I reach into a pile of folders and pull out what feels like a box file with an efficient flourish.

  It’s the wrong one.

  Hastily I put it down. “It’s definitely here somewhere.…” I scrabble frantically and locate the correct file. Thank God. “Here!”

  “I don’t know how you can work in this shambles, Samantha.” Ketterman’s voice is thin and sarcastic.

  “At least everything’s to hand!” I attempt a little joke, but Ketterman remains stony-faced. Flustered, I pull out my chair, and a pile of articles and old drafts falls in a shower to the floor.

  “You know, the old rule was that desks were completely cleared every night by six.” Ketterman’s voice is steely. “Perhaps we should reintroduce it.”

  “Maybe!”

  “Samantha!” A genial voice interrupts us and I look round in relief to see Arnold Saville approaching along the corridor.

  Arnold is my favorite of the senior partners. He’s got woolly gray hair that always seems a bit wild for a lawyer, and flamboyant taste in ties. Today he’s wearing a bright red paisley affair, with a matching handkerchief in his top pocket. He greets me with a broad smile, and at once I feel myself relax.

  I’m sure Arnold’s the one who’s rooting for me to be made partner. Just as I’m equally sure Ketterman will be opposing it. I’ve already overheard Ketterman saying I’m very young to be made a partner, that there’s no rush. He’d probably have me pegging away as an associate for five more years. But Arnold’s always been on my side. He’s the maverick of the firm, the one who breaks the rules. For years he had a labrador, Stan, who lived under his desk, despite the complaints of the health and safety department. If anyone can lighten the atmosphere in a tricky meeting, it’s Arnold.

  “Letter of appreciation about you, Samantha.” Arnold beams and holds out a sheet of paper. “From the chairman of Gleiman Brothers, no less.”

  I take the cream vellum sheet in surprise and glance down at the handwritten note: … great esteem … her services always professional …

  “I gather you saved him a few million pounds he wasn’t expecting.” Arnold twinkles. “He’s delighted.”

  “Oh, yes.” I color slightly. “Well, it was nothing. I just noticed an anomaly in the way they were structuring their finances.”

  “You obviously made a great impression on him.” Arnold raises his bushy eyebrows. “He wants you to work on all his deals from now. Excellent, Samantha! Very well done.”

  “Er … thanks.” I glance at Ketterman, just to see if by any remote chance he might look impressed. But he’s still frowning impatiently.

  “I also want you to deal with this.” Ketterman puts a file on my desk. “Marlowe and Co. are acquiring a retail park. I need a due diligence review in forty-eight hours.”

  Oh, bloody hell. My heart sinks as I look at the heavy folder. It’ll take me hours to do this.

  Ketterman’s always giving me extra bits of mundane work he can’t be bothered to do himself. In fact, all the partners do it. Even Arnold. Half the time they don’t even tell me, just dump the file on my desk with some illegible memo and expect me to get on with it.

  And of course I do. In fact I always try to get it done just a bit faster than they were expecting.

  “Any problems?”

  “Of course not,” I say in a brisk, can-do, potential-partner voice. “See you at the meeting.”

  As he stalks off I check my watch. Ten twenty-two. I have precisely eight minutes to make sure the draft documentation for the Fallons deal is all in order. Fallons is our client, a big multinational tourism company, and is acquiring the Smithleaf Hotel Group. I open the file and scan the pages swiftly, checking for errors, searching for gaps. I’ve learned to read a lot faster since I’ve been at Carter Spink.

  In fact, I do everything faster. I walk faster, talk faster, eat faster … have sex faster …

  Not that I’ve had much of that lately. But two years ago I dated a senior partner from Berry Forbes. His name was Jacob and he worked on huge international mergers, and he had even less time than I did. By the end, we’d honed our routine to about six minutes, which would have been quite handy if we were billing each other. (Obviously we weren’t.) He would make me come—and I would make him come. And then we’d check our e-mails.

  Which is practically simultaneous orgasms. So no one can say that’s not good sex. I’ve read Cosmo; I know these things.

  Anyway, then Jacob was made a huge offer and moved to Boston, so that was the end of it. I didn’t mind very much.

  To be totally honest, I didn’t really fancy him.

  “Samantha?” It’s my secretary, Maggie. She only started three weeks ago and I don’t know her very well yet. “You had a message while you were out. From Joanne?”

  “Joanne from Clifford Chance?” I look up, my attention grabbed. “OK. Tell her I got the e-mail about clause four, and I’ll call her about it after lunch—”

  “Not that Joanne,” Maggie interrupts. “Joanne your new cleaner. She wants to know where you keep your vacuum-cleaner bags.”

  I look at her blankly. “My what?”

  “Vacuum-cleaner bags,” repeats Maggie patiently. “She can’t find them.”

  “Why does the vacuum cleaner need to go in a bag?” I say, puzzled. “Is she taking it somewhere?”

  Maggie peers at me as though she thinks I must be joking. “The bags that go inside your vacuum cleaner,” she says carefully. “To collect the dust? Do you have any of those?”

  “Oh!” I say quickly. “Oh, those bags. Er …”

  I frown thoughtfully, as though the solution is on the tip of my tongue. The truth is, I can’t even visualize my vacuum cleaner. Where did I put it? I know it was delivered, because the porter signed for it.

  “Maybe it’s a Dyson,” suggests Maggie. “They don’t take bags. Is it a cylinder or an upright?” She looks at me expectantly.

  “I’ll sort it,” I say in a businesslike manner, and start gathering my papers together. “Thanks, Maggie.”

  “She had another question.” Maggie consults her pad. “How do you switch on your oven?”

  For a moment I continue gathering my papers. “Well. You turn the … er … knob,” I say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s pretty clear, really.…”

  “She said it has some weird timer lock.” Maggie frowns. “Is it gas or electric?”

  OK, I think I should terminate this conversation right now.

  “Maggie, I really need to prepare for this meeting,” I say. “It’s in three minutes.”

  “So what shall I tell your cleaner?” Maggie persists. “She’s waiting for me to call back.”

  “Tell her to … leave it for today. I’ll sort it out.”

  As Maggie leaves my office I reach for a pen and memo pad.

  1. How switch on oven?

  2. Vacuum-cleaner bags—buy

  I put the pen down and massage my forehead. I really don’t have time for this. I mean, vacuum bags. I don’t even know what they look like, for God’s sake, let alone where to buy them—

  A sudden brain wave hits me. I’ll order a new vacuum cleaner. That’ll come with a bag already installed, surely.

  “Samantha.”

  “What? What is it?” I give a startled jump and open my eyes. Guy Ashby is standing at my door.

  Guy is my best friend in the firm. He’s six foot three with olive skin and dark eyes,
and normally he looks every inch the smooth, polished lawyer. But this morning his dark hair is rumpled and there are shadows under his eyes.

  “Relax.” Guy smiles. “Only me. Coming to the meeting?”

  He has the most devastating smile. It’s not just me; everyone noticed it the minute he arrived at the firm.

  “Oh. Er … yes, I am.” I pick up my papers, then add carelessly, “Are you OK, Guy? You look a bit rough.”

  He broke up with his girlfriend. They had bitter rows all night and she’s walked off for good.…

  No, she’s emigrated to New Zealand.…

  “All-nighter,” he says, wincing. “Fucking Ketterman. He’s inhuman.” He yawns widely, showing the perfect white teeth he had fixed when he was at Harvard Law School.

  He says it wasn’t his choice. Apparently they don’t let you graduate until you’ve been OK’d by the cosmetic surgeon.

  “Bummer.” I grin in sympathy, then push back my chair. “Let’s go.”

  I’ve known Guy for a year, ever since he joined the corporate department as a partner. He’s intelligent and funny, and works the same way I do, and we just somehow … click.

  And yes. It’s possible that some kind of romance would have happened between us if things had been different. But there was a stupid misunderstanding, and …

  Anyway. It didn’t. The details aren’t important. It’s not something I dwell on. We’re friends—and that’s fine by me.

  OK, this is exactly what happened.

  Apparently Guy noticed me his first day at the firm, just like I noticed him. And he was interested. He asked Nigel MacDermot, who had the next-door office to him, if I was single. Which I was.

  This is the crucial part: I was single. I’d just split up with Jacob. But Nigel MacDermot—who is a stupid, stupid, thoughtless behind-the-times moron—told Guy I was attached to a senior partner at Berry Forbes.

  Even though I was single.

  If you ask me, the system is majorly flawed. It should be clearer. People should have engaged signs, like toilets. Taken. Not-Taken. There should be no ambiguity about these things.

  Anyway, I didn’t have a sign. Or if I did, it was the wrong one. There were a slightly embarrassing few weeks where I smiled a lot at Guy—and he looked awkward and started avoiding me, because he didn’t want to a) break up a relationship or b) have a threesome with me and Jacob.

  I didn’t understand what was going on, so I backed off. Then I heard through the grapevine he’d started going out with a girl called Charlotte who he’d met at some weekend party. They live together now. A month or two later we worked together on a deal, and got to know each other as friends—and that’s pretty much the whole story.

  I mean, it’s fine. Really. That’s the way it goes. Some things happen—and some things don’t. This one obviously just wasn’t meant to be.

  Except deep down … I still believe it was.

  “So,” says Guy as we walk along the corridor to the meeting room. “What was Ketterman in your room for earlier?”

  “Oh, the usual. A due diligence report. Have it back by yesterday, that kind of thing. Like I’m not snowed under already.”

  “Everyone wants you to do their work for them, that’s why,” says Guy. He shoots me a concerned look. “You want to delegate anything? I could speak to Ketterman—”

  “No, thanks,” I reply at once. “I can do it.”

  “You don’t want anyone to help.” He sounds amused. “You’d rather die, smothered by a heap of due diligence files.”

  “Like you’re not the same!” I retort.

  Guy hates admitting defeat or asking for help as much as I do. Last year he sprained his leg in a skiing accident and point-blank refused to use the crutch that the firm’s doctor gave him. His secretary kept running after him with it down corridors, but he’d just tell her to take it away and use it as a coat stand.

  “Well, you’ll be calling the shots soon. When you’re a partner.” He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Don’t say that!” I hiss in horror. He’ll jinx it.

  “Come on. You know you’ve made it.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Samantha, you’re the brightest lawyer in your year. And you work the hardest. What’s your IQ again, six hundred?”

  “Shut up.”

  Guy laughs. “What’s one twenty-four times seventy-five?”

  “Nine thousand, three hundred,” I say grudgingly.

  Since I was about ten years old, I’ve been able to do big sums in my head. God knows why, I just can. And everyone else just goes, “Oh cool,” and then forgets about it.

  But Guy keeps on about it, pitching sums at me like I’m a circus performer. This is the one thing that irritates me about him. He thinks it’s funny, but it actually gets a bit annoying. I still haven’t quite worked out how to get him to stop.

  Once I told him the wrong number on purpose—but that time it turned out he actually needed the answer, and he put it in a contract and the deal nearly got wrecked as a result. So I haven’t done that again.

  “You haven’t practiced in the mirror for the firm’s Web site?” Guy adopts a pose with his finger poised thoughtfully at his chin. “Ms. Samantha Sweeting, Partner.”

  “I haven’t even thought about it,” I say, feigning indifference.

  This is a slight lie. I’ve already planned how to do my hair for the photo. And which of my black suits to wear.

  “I heard your presentation blew their socks off,” says Guy more seriously.

  My indifference vanishes in a second. “Really?” I say, trying not to sound too eager for praise. “You heard that?”

  “And you put William Griffiths right on a point of law in front of everybody.” Guy folds his arms and regards me humorously. “Do you ever make a mistake, Samantha Sweeting?”

  “Oh, I make plenty of mistakes,” I say lightly. “Believe me.”

  Like not grabbing you and telling you I was single, the very first day we met.

  “A mistake isn’t a mistake.” Guy pauses. “Unless it can’t be put right.” As he says the words, his eyes seem to hold an extra significance.

  Or else they’re just squiffy after his night of no sleep. I was never any good at reading the signs.

  I should have done a degree in mutual attraction, instead of law. It would have been a lot more useful. Bachelor of Arts (Hons) in Knowing When Men Fancy You And When They’re Just Being Friendly.

  “Ready?” Ketterman’s whiplash voice behind us makes us both jump, and we turn to see a whole phalanx of soberly suited men, together with a pair of even more soberly suited women.

  “Absolutely.” Guy nods at Ketterman, then turns back and winks at me.

  Three

  Nine hours later we’re all still in the meeting.

  The huge mahogany table is strewn with photocopied draft contracts, financial reports, notepads covered in scribbles, polystyrene coffee cups, and Post-its. Take-out boxes from lunch are littering the floor. A secretary is distributing fresh copies of the draft agreement. Two of the lawyers from the opposition have got up from the table and are murmuring intently in the breakout room. Every meeting room has one of these: a little side area where you go for private conversations, or when you feel like breaking something.

  The intensity of the afternoon has passed. It’s like an ebb in the tide. Faces are flushed, tempers are still high, but no one’s shouting anymore. The Fallons and Smithleaf people have gone. They reached agreement on various points at about four o’clock, shook hands, and sailed off in their shiny limos.

  Now it’s up to us, the lawyers, to work out what they said and what they actually meant (and if you think it’s the same thing, you might as well give up law now) and put it all into a draft contract in time for more negotiations.

  When they’ll probably begin shouting some more.

  I rub my dry face and take a gulp of cappuccino before realizing I’ve picked up the wrong cup—the stone-cold cup from four hours ag
o. Yuck. Yuck. And I can’t exactly spit it out all over the table.

  I swallow the revolting mouthful with an inward shudder. The fluorescent lights are flickering in my eyes and I feel drained. My role in all of these megadeals is on the finance side—so it was me who negotiated the loan agreement between Fallons and PGNI Bank. It was me who rescued the situation when a £10-million black hole of debt turned up in a subsidiary company. And it was me who spent about three hours this afternoon arguing one single, stupid term in the contract.

  The term was best endeavors. The other side wanted to use reasonable efforts. In the end we won the point—but I can’t feel my usual triumph. All I know is, it’s seven-nineteen, and in eleven minutes I’m supposed to be halfway across town, sitting down to dinner at Maxim’s with my mother and brother Daniel.

  I’ll have to cancel. My own birthday dinner.

  Even as I think the thought, I can hear the outraged voice of Freya ringing in my mind.

  They can’t make you stay at work on your birthday!

  I canceled on her too, last week, when we were supposed to be going to a comedy club. A company sell-off was due to complete the next morning and I didn’t have any choice.

  What she doesn’t understand is, the deadline comes first, end of story. Prior engagements don’t count; birthdays don’t count. Vacations are canceled every week. Across the table from me is Clive Sutherland from the corporate department. His wife had twins this morning and he was back at the table by lunchtime.

  “All right, people.” Ketterman’s voice commands immediate attention.

  Ketterman is the only one here who isn’t red-faced or weary-looking or even jaded. He looks as machinelike as ever, as polished as he did this morning. When he gets angry, he just exudes a silent, steely fury.

  “We have to adjourn.”

  What? My head pops up.

  Other heads have popped up too; I can detect the hope around the table. We’re like schoolkids sensing a disturbance during the math test, not daring to move in case we land a double detention.

  “Until we have the due diligence documentation from Fallons, we can’t proceed. I’ll see you all tomorrow, here at nine a.m.” He sweeps out, and as the door closes, I exhale. I was holding my breath, I realize.