The Undomestic Goddess
Page 104
“Jesus Christ!” I hear someone murmur. “Look at her.”
“Should she be here?” exclaims someone else.
“No,” I say, trying to sound composed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
I make to leave, but the melee is all around me now. I can’t find a way out. And then my stomach plunges. Through a gap in the throng, I spot a familiar shock of woolly hair. Familiar ruddy cheeks. A familiar jovial smile.
Arnold Saville.
Our eyes meet across the room, and although he keeps smiling, there’s a hardness to his gaze that I’ve never seen before. A special anger, just for me.
I feel sick. Almost scared. Not of his anger—but of his duplicity. He’s fooled everyone. To everyone else in this room, Arnold Saville is on a par with Father Christmas. A way has parted in the crowd, and he’s coming toward me, a glass of champagne in his hand.
“Samantha,” he says, in pleasant tones. “Is this appropriate?”
“You had me banned from the building,” I hear myself bite back. “I didn’t have much choice.”
Oh, God. Wrong answer. Too chippy.
I have to get control of myself, or I’m going to lose this confrontation. I’m already at enough of a disadvantage, standing here in waitress gear, being peered at by the entire room as if I’m something the dog dragged in. I need to be calm and steely and inspired. But seeing Arnold in the flesh after all this time has thrown me off balance. As hard as I try to stay calm, I can’t. My face is burning, my chest feels tight. All the traumas of the last few weeks are suddenly erupting inside me in a whoosh of hatred.
“You had me fired.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “You lied.”
“Samantha, I know this must have been a very difficult time for you.” Arnold has the air of a headmaster dealing with a wayward pupil. “But really …” He turns to a man I don’t recognize and rolls his eyes. “Former employee,” he says in an undertone. “Mentally unstable.”
What? What?
“I’m not mentally unstable!” I cry. “I just want to know the answer to one simple question. When exactly did you put that memo on my desk?”
Arnold laughs, seemingly incredulous.
“Samantha, I’m retiring. Is this really the time? Could someone get rid of her?” he adds as an aside.
“That’s why you didn’t want me to come back to the office, isn’t it?” My voice is trembling with indignation. “Because I might start asking tricky questions. Because I might work it out.”
A little frisson travels around the room. But not in a good way. I can hear people murmuring, “For God’s sake,” and “How did she get in here?” If I want to retain any credibility or dignity at all I have to stop talking right now. But I can’t stop.
“I didn’t make that mistake, did I?” I walk toward him. “You used me. You wrecked my career, you watched my whole life go into free fall—”
“Really,” snaps Arnold, turning away. “This is getting beyond a joke.”
“Just answer the question!” I yell at his back. “When did you put that memo on my desk, Arnold? Because I don’t believe it was ever there before the deadline.”
“Of course it was there.” Arnold turns briefly, bored and dismissive. “I came into your office on May twenty-eighth.”
May 28th?
Where did May 28th come from? Why does that feel wrong?
“I don’t believe you,” I say with a helpless anger. “I just don’t believe you. I think you set me up. I think—”
“Samantha?” Someone pokes me on the shoulder and I wheel round to see Ernest the security guard. His familiar, gnarled face is awkward. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
They’re seriously throwing me out of the offices? After practically living here for seven years of my life? I can feel my last shreds of composure disappearing. Hot tears of rage and humiliation are pressing against my eyes.
“Just leave, Samantha,” says Oliver Swan pityingly. “Don’t embarrass yourself any further.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, then transfer my gaze to each of the senior partners in turn, searching for a shred of empathy. But there’s none.
“I was a good lawyer,” I say, my voice shaking. “I did a good job. You all know it. But you just wiped me out, like I never existed.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Well, your loss.”
The room is totally silent as I put the tray of éclairs down on a nearby table and stalk out of the room. The moment I’m out the door I can hear an animated conversation breaking out behind me. I’m even more of a joke than I was before.
“Should she be here?” exclaims someone else.
“No,” I say, trying to sound composed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
I make to leave, but the melee is all around me now. I can’t find a way out. And then my stomach plunges. Through a gap in the throng, I spot a familiar shock of woolly hair. Familiar ruddy cheeks. A familiar jovial smile.
Arnold Saville.
Our eyes meet across the room, and although he keeps smiling, there’s a hardness to his gaze that I’ve never seen before. A special anger, just for me.
I feel sick. Almost scared. Not of his anger—but of his duplicity. He’s fooled everyone. To everyone else in this room, Arnold Saville is on a par with Father Christmas. A way has parted in the crowd, and he’s coming toward me, a glass of champagne in his hand.
“Samantha,” he says, in pleasant tones. “Is this appropriate?”
“You had me banned from the building,” I hear myself bite back. “I didn’t have much choice.”
Oh, God. Wrong answer. Too chippy.
I have to get control of myself, or I’m going to lose this confrontation. I’m already at enough of a disadvantage, standing here in waitress gear, being peered at by the entire room as if I’m something the dog dragged in. I need to be calm and steely and inspired. But seeing Arnold in the flesh after all this time has thrown me off balance. As hard as I try to stay calm, I can’t. My face is burning, my chest feels tight. All the traumas of the last few weeks are suddenly erupting inside me in a whoosh of hatred.
“You had me fired.” The words burst out before I can stop them. “You lied.”
“Samantha, I know this must have been a very difficult time for you.” Arnold has the air of a headmaster dealing with a wayward pupil. “But really …” He turns to a man I don’t recognize and rolls his eyes. “Former employee,” he says in an undertone. “Mentally unstable.”
What? What?
“I’m not mentally unstable!” I cry. “I just want to know the answer to one simple question. When exactly did you put that memo on my desk?”
Arnold laughs, seemingly incredulous.
“Samantha, I’m retiring. Is this really the time? Could someone get rid of her?” he adds as an aside.
“That’s why you didn’t want me to come back to the office, isn’t it?” My voice is trembling with indignation. “Because I might start asking tricky questions. Because I might work it out.”
A little frisson travels around the room. But not in a good way. I can hear people murmuring, “For God’s sake,” and “How did she get in here?” If I want to retain any credibility or dignity at all I have to stop talking right now. But I can’t stop.
“I didn’t make that mistake, did I?” I walk toward him. “You used me. You wrecked my career, you watched my whole life go into free fall—”
“Really,” snaps Arnold, turning away. “This is getting beyond a joke.”
“Just answer the question!” I yell at his back. “When did you put that memo on my desk, Arnold? Because I don’t believe it was ever there before the deadline.”
“Of course it was there.” Arnold turns briefly, bored and dismissive. “I came into your office on May twenty-eighth.”
May 28th?
Where did May 28th come from? Why does that feel wrong?
“I don’t believe you,” I say with a helpless anger. “I just don’t believe you. I think you set me up. I think—”
“Samantha?” Someone pokes me on the shoulder and I wheel round to see Ernest the security guard. His familiar, gnarled face is awkward. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
They’re seriously throwing me out of the offices? After practically living here for seven years of my life? I can feel my last shreds of composure disappearing. Hot tears of rage and humiliation are pressing against my eyes.
“Just leave, Samantha,” says Oliver Swan pityingly. “Don’t embarrass yourself any further.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, then transfer my gaze to each of the senior partners in turn, searching for a shred of empathy. But there’s none.
“I was a good lawyer,” I say, my voice shaking. “I did a good job. You all know it. But you just wiped me out, like I never existed.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Well, your loss.”
The room is totally silent as I put the tray of éclairs down on a nearby table and stalk out of the room. The moment I’m out the door I can hear an animated conversation breaking out behind me. I’m even more of a joke than I was before.
