The Undomestic Goddess
Page 122
“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 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.
