The Undomestic Goddess
Page 15
I should really cross off some of the early entries, it occurs to me. I mean, the original list dates from when I first moved into my flat, three years ago. I must have done some of this stuff by now. I pick up a pen and squint at the first few faded entries.
1. Find milkman
2. Food delivery—organize?
3. How switch on oven?
Oh. Right.
Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And I’ll get to grips with the oven. I’ll read the manual and everything.
I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.
16. Sort out milkman
17. Have friends over?
18. Take up hobby??
The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.
I look down to even later entries—maybe a year old—where the ink is still blue.
41. Go on holiday?
42. Give dinner party?
43. MILKMAN??
I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn on the kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits.
The kettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup of weird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for an apple from the fruit bowl—only to discover it’s gone all moldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.
The truth is, I don’t care about the list. There’s only one thing I care about.
I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. I’ll just keep my head down and get on with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur “Good luck,” and walking along the corridor a guy from Tax grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.
“Best of luck, Samantha.”
How does he know my name?
I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, trying to ignore the fact that through the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.
I really shouldn’t have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.
Anyway. It’s fine. I’ll just start on some work, like any other day. I open Ketterman’s file, find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share transfer.
“Samantha?”
I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. “I’m fine. Just … normal. In fact, I don’t know what all the fuss is.”
Guy’s amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my point—and somehow knock the entire file to the floor.
Thank God for paper clips.
Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.
“Uh-huh.” Guy nods gravely. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not nervous or jumpy or anything.”
“Yes,” I say, refusing to take the bait. “Isn’t it?”
“See you later.” He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my watch.
Only eight fifty-three. The partners’ decision meeting starts in seven minutes. I’m not sure I can bear this.
Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Ketterman’s file and make a start at my report. I’m halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.
“Hi,” I say without looking up. “I’m fine, OK? And I haven’t heard anything.”
Guy doesn’t reply.
At last I lift my head. He’s right in front of my desk, looking down at me with the strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together under his poker-straight face.
“I should not be doing this,” he murmurs, then leans in closer. “You did it, Samantha. You’re a partner. You’ll hear officially in an hour.”
For an instant I can’t breathe.
“You didn’t hear it from me, OK?” Guy’s face creases briefly in a smile. “Well done.”
I made it. I made it.
“Thanks …” I manage.
“I’ll see you later. Congratulate you properly.” He turns and strides away, and I’m left staring unseeingly at my computer.
I made partner.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD!
I’m feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out “YES!” How do I survive an hour? How can I just sit here calmly? I can’t possibly concentrate on Ketterman’s report. It isn’t due until tomorrow, anyway.
1. Find milkman
2. Food delivery—organize?
3. How switch on oven?
Oh. Right.
Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And I’ll get to grips with the oven. I’ll read the manual and everything.
I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.
16. Sort out milkman
17. Have friends over?
18. Take up hobby??
The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.
I look down to even later entries—maybe a year old—where the ink is still blue.
41. Go on holiday?
42. Give dinner party?
43. MILKMAN??
I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn on the kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits.
The kettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup of weird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for an apple from the fruit bowl—only to discover it’s gone all moldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.
The truth is, I don’t care about the list. There’s only one thing I care about.
I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. I’ll just keep my head down and get on with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur “Good luck,” and walking along the corridor a guy from Tax grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.
“Best of luck, Samantha.”
How does he know my name?
I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, trying to ignore the fact that through the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.
I really shouldn’t have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.
Anyway. It’s fine. I’ll just start on some work, like any other day. I open Ketterman’s file, find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share transfer.
“Samantha?”
I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.
“Hi,” he says. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. “I’m fine. Just … normal. In fact, I don’t know what all the fuss is.”
Guy’s amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my point—and somehow knock the entire file to the floor.
Thank God for paper clips.
Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.
“Uh-huh.” Guy nods gravely. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not nervous or jumpy or anything.”
“Yes,” I say, refusing to take the bait. “Isn’t it?”
“See you later.” He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my watch.
Only eight fifty-three. The partners’ decision meeting starts in seven minutes. I’m not sure I can bear this.
Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Ketterman’s file and make a start at my report. I’m halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.
“Hi,” I say without looking up. “I’m fine, OK? And I haven’t heard anything.”
Guy doesn’t reply.
At last I lift my head. He’s right in front of my desk, looking down at me with the strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together under his poker-straight face.
“I should not be doing this,” he murmurs, then leans in closer. “You did it, Samantha. You’re a partner. You’ll hear officially in an hour.”
For an instant I can’t breathe.
“You didn’t hear it from me, OK?” Guy’s face creases briefly in a smile. “Well done.”
I made it. I made it.
“Thanks …” I manage.
“I’ll see you later. Congratulate you properly.” He turns and strides away, and I’m left staring unseeingly at my computer.
I made partner.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD!
I’m feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out “YES!” How do I survive an hour? How can I just sit here calmly? I can’t possibly concentrate on Ketterman’s report. It isn’t due until tomorrow, anyway.
