The Undomestic Goddess By Sophie Kinsella
Chapter One
Would you consider yourself stressed? No. I’m not stressed. I’m... busy. Plenty of people are busy. I have a high-powered job, my career is important to me, and I enjoy it. OK. So sometimes I do feel a bit tense. But I’m a lawyer in the City, for God’s sake. What do you expect? My handwriting is pressing so hard into the page, I’ve torn the paper. Dammit. Never mind. Let’s move on to the next question. On average, how many hours do you spend in the office every day? 14 12 8 It depends. Do you exercise regularly? I regularly go swimming Ioccasionally go swim I am intending to begin a regular regime of swimming. When I have time. Work’s been busy lately, it’s a blip. Do you drink 8 glasses of water a day? Yes Someti No. I put down my pen and clear my throat. Across the room, Maya looks up from where she’s rearranging all her little pots of wax and nail varnish. Maya is my spa beauty therapist for the day and is in her forties, I’d say. Her long dark hair is in a plait with one white streak woven through it, and she has a tiny silver stud in her nose. “Everything all right with the questionnaire?” she murmurs. “I did mention that I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I say politely. “Are all these questions absolutely necessary?” “At theGreenTreeCenter we like to have as much information as possible to assess your beauty and health needs,” she replies in soothing yet implacable tones. I glance at my watch. Nine forty-five. I don’t have time for this. I really do not have the time. But it’s my birthday treat and I promised my best friend, Freya. To be more accurate, it’slast year’s birthday treat. Freya gave me the gift voucher for an “Ultimate De-stress Experience” just over a year ago. She’s my oldest school friend and is always on at me for working too hard. In the card that came with the voucher she wroteMake Some Time ForYourself, Samantha !!! Which I did fully intend to do. But we had the Zincon Petrochemical Group restructuring and the Zeus Minerals merger... and somehow a year went by without my finding a spare moment. I’m a lawyer with Carter Spink. I work in the corporate department on the finance side, and just at the moment, things are pretty hectic with some big deals on. It’s a blip. It’ll get better. I just have to get through the next couple of weeks. Anyway, then Freya sent methis year’s birthday card—and I suddenly realized the voucher was about to expire. So here I am, on my twenty-ninth birthday. Sitting on a couch in a white toweling robe and surreal paper knickers. With a half-day window. Max. Do you smoke? No. Do you drink alcohol? Yes. The odd glass of wine. Do you eat regular home-cooked meals? What does that have to do with anything? What makes “home-cooked” meals superior? I eat a nutritious, varied diet, I write at last. Which is absolutely true. Anyway, everyone knows the Chinese live longer than we do—so what could be more healthy than to eat their food? And pizza isMediterranean . It’s probablymore healthy than a home-cooked meal. Do you feel your life is balanced? Yes N Yes. “I’m done,” I announce, and hand the pages back to Maya, who starts reading through my answers. Her finger is traveling down the paper at a snail’s pace. Like we’ve got all the time in the world. Which she may well have. But I seriously have to be back in the office by one. Maya looks up, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re obviously quite a stressedout woman.” What? Where does she get that from? I specifically put on the form, I amnot stressedout. “No, I’m not.” I hope Maya’s taking in my relaxed, see-how-unstressed-I-am smile. She looks unconvinced. “Your job is obviously very pressured.” “I thrive under pressure,” I explain. Which is true. I’ve known that about myself ever since... Well. Ever since my mother told me, when I was about eight.You thrive under pressure, Samantha . Our whole family thrives under pressure. It’s like our family motto or something. Apart from my brother Peter, of course. He had a nervous breakdown. But the rest of us. I love my job. I love spotting the loophole in a contract. I love the thrill of negotiation, and arguing my case, and making the sharpest point in the room. I love the adrenaline rush of closing a deal. I suppose just occasionally I do feel as though someone’s piling heavy weights on me. Like big concrete blocks, one on top of the other, and I have to keep holding them up, no matter how exhausted I am... But then everyone probably feels like that. It’s normal. “Your skin’s very dehydrated.” Maya is shaking her head. She runs an expert hand across my cheek and rests her fingers underneath my jaw, looking concerned. “Your heart rate’s very high. That’s not healthy. Are you feeling particularly tense?” “Work’s pretty busy at the moment.” I shrug. “It’s just a blip. I’m fine.”Can we get on with it ? “Well.” Maya gets up. She presses a button set in the wall and gentle pan-pipe music fills the air. “All I can say is, you’ve come to the right place, Samantha. Our aim here is to destress, revitalize, and detoxify.” “Lovely,” I say, only half listening. I’ve just remembered that I never got back to David Elldridge about the Ukrainian oil contract. I meant to call him yesterday. Shit. “Our aim is to provide a haven of tranquility, away from all your day-to-day worries.” Maya presses another button in the wall, and the light dims to a muted glow. “Before we start,” she says softly, “do you have any questions?” “Actually, I do.” I lean forward. “Good!” She beams. “Are you curious about today’s treatments, or is it something more general?” “Could I possibly send a quick e-mail?” Maya’s smile freezes on her face. “Just quickly,” I add. “It won’t take two secs—” “Samantha, Samantha...” Maya shakes her head. “You’re here to relax. To take a moment for yourself. Not to send e-mails. E-mail’s an obsession! An addiction! As evil as alcohol. Or caffeine.” For goodness sake, I’m notobsessed . I mean, that’s ridiculous. I check my e-mails about once every... thirty seconds, maybe. The thing is, a lot can change in thirty seconds. “And besides, Samantha,” Maya goes on. “Do you see a computer in this room?” “No,” I reply, obediently looking around the dim little room, at posters of yoga positions and a wind chime and a row of crystals arranged on the windowsill. “This is why we ask that you leave all electronic equipment in the safe. No mobile phones are permitted. No little computers.” Maya spreads her arms. “This is a retreat. An escape from the world.” “Right.” I nod meekly. Now is probably not the time to reveal that I have a Black-Berry hidden in my paper knickers. “So, let’s begin.” Maya smiles. “Lie down, please, under a towel. And remove your watch.” “I need my watch!” “Another addiction.” She tsks reprovingly. “You don’t need to know the time while you’re here.” She turns away, and with reluctance I take off my watch. Then, a little awkwardly, I arrange myself on the massage table, trying to avoid squashing my precious Blackberry. I did see the rule about no electronic equipment. And I did surrender my Dictaphone. But three hours without a Blackberry? I mean, what if something came up at the office? What if there was an emergency? If they really wanted people to relax, they would let themkeep their Blackberries and mobile phones, not confiscate them. Anyway, she’ll never see it under my towel. “I’m going to begin with a relaxing foot rub,” says Maya, and I feel her smoothing some kind of lotion over my feet. “Try to clear your mind.” I stare dutifully up at the ceiling. Clear mind. My mind is as clear as a transparent... glass... What am I going to do about Elldridge? He’ll be waiting for a response. What if he tells the other partners I was lax? What if it affects my chances of partnership? I feel a clench of alarm. Now is not the time to leave anything to chance. “Try to let go of all your thoughts...” Maya is chanting. “Feel the release of tension...” Maybe I could send him a very quick e-mail. Surreptitiously I reach down and feel the hard corner of my Blackberry. Gradually I inch it out of my paper knickers. Maya is still massaging my feet, totally oblivious. “Your body is growing heavy... your mind should be emptying...” I edge the Blackberry up onto my chest until I can just see the screen underneath the towel. Thank goodness this room is so dim. Trying to keep my movements to a minimum, I furtively start typing an e-mail with one hand. “Relaax...” Maya is saying in soothing tones. “Imagine you’re walking along a beach...” “Uh-huh...” I murmur. David, I’m typing.Re ZFN Oil contract. I read through amendments. Feel our response should be “What are you doing?” says Maya, suddenly alert. “Nothing!” I say, hastily shoving the Blackberry back under the towel. “Just... er... relaxing.” Maya comes round the couch and looks at the bump in the towel where I’m clutching the Blackberry. “Are you hiding something?” she says in disbelief. “No!” From under the towel the Blackberry emits a little bleep. Damn. “I think that was a car,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Outside in the street.” Maya’s eyes narrow. “Samantha,” she says ominously. “Do you have a piece of electronic equipment under there?” I have the feeling that if I don’t confess she’ll rip my towel off anyway. “I was just sending an e-mail,” I say at last, and sheepishly produce the Blackberry. “You workaholics!” She grabs it out of my hand in exasperation. “E-mails canwait . It can allwait . You just don’t know how to relax!” “I’m not a workaholic!” I retort indignantly. “I’m a lawyer! It’s different!” “You’re in denial.” She shakes her head. “I’mnot ! Look, we’ve got some big deals on at the firm. I can’t just switch off! Especially not right now. I’m... well, I’m up for partnership at the moment.” As I say the words aloud I feel the familiar stabbing of nerves. Partner of one of the biggest law firms in the country. The only thing I’ve ever wanted, ever. “I’m up for partnership,” I repeat, more calmly. “They make the decision tomorrow. If it happens, I’ll be the youngest partner in the history of the firm. Do you know how big a deal that is? Do you have any idea—” “Anyone can take a couple of hours out,” interrupts Maya. She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Samantha, you’re incredibly nervy. Your shoulders are rigid, your heart’s racing... it seems to me you’re right on the edge.” “I’m fine.” “You’re a bundle of jitters!” “I’m not!” “You have todecide to slow down, Samantha.” She looks at me earnestly. “Only you can decide to change your life. Are you going to do that?” “Er...well...” I stop with a squeak of surprise, as from inside my paper knickers there comes a judder. My mobile phone. I shoved it in there along with the Blackberry and turned it onto VIBRATE so it wouldn’t make a noise. “What’s that?” Maya is gaping at my twitching towel. “What on earth is that... quivering?” Ican’t admit it’s a phone. Not after the Blackberry. “Erm...” I clear my throat. “It’s my special... er... love toy.” “Your what?” Maya looks taken aback. The phone judders inside my pants again. I have to answer. It might be the office. “Um... you know, I’m reaching a bit of an intimate moment right now.” I give Maya a significant look. “Maybe you could... uh... leave the room?” Suspicion snaps into Maya’s eyes. “Wait a moment!” She peers again. “Is that a phone under there? You smuggled in amobile phone as well !” Oh, God. She looks furious. “Look,” I say, trying to sound apologetic. “I know you’ve got your rules and everything, which I do respect, but the thing is, Ineed my mobile.” I reach under the towel for the phone. “Leave it!” Maya’s cry takes me by surprise. “Samantha,” she says, making an obvious effort to keep calm. “If you’ve listened to a single word I’ve said... you’ll switch the phone off right now.” The phone vibrates again in my hand. I look at the caller ID and feel a twist in my stomach. “It’s the office.” “They can leave a message. They can wait.” “But—” “This is your own time.” She leans forward and clasps my hands earnestly. “Your own time.” She really doesn’t get it, does she? I almost want to laugh. “I’m an associate at Carter Spink,” I explain. “I don’thave my own time.” I flip the phone open and an angry male voice bites down the line. “Samantha, where the hell are you?” It’s Ketterman. The head of our corporate department. He’s in his late forties and his first name is John, but no one ever calls him anything except Ketterman. He has black hair and steel glasses and gray gimlet eyes, and when I first arrived at Carter Spink I actually used to have nightmares about him. “The Fallons deal is back on. Get back here now. Meeting at ten-thirty.” Backon ? “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I snap the phone shut and look ruefully at Maya. “Sorry.” I’m notaddicted to my watch. But obviously I rely on it. You would too, if your time was measured in six-minute segments. For every six minutes of my working life, I’m supposed to bill a client. It all goes on a computerized time sheet, in itemized chunks. 11:00-11:06 drafted contract for Project A 11:06—11:12 amended documentation for Client B 11:12—11:18 consulted on point for Agreement C When I first started at Carter Spink it freaked me out slightly, the idea that I had to write down what I was working on, every minute of the day. I used to think:What if I do nothing for six minutes? What am 1 supposed to write down then ? 11:00—11:06 stared aimlessly out of window 11:06—11:12 daydreamed about bumping into George Clooney in street 11:12—11:18 attempted to touch nose with tongue But if you’re a lawyer at Carter Spink, you don’t sit around. Not when every six minutes of your time is worth money. If I let six minutes of time tick away, I’ve lost the firm £50. Twelve minutes, £100. Eighteen minutes, £150. And the truth is, you get used to measuring your life in little chunks.And you get used to working. All the time.
Chapter 2
As I arrive at the office, Ketterman is standing by my desk, looking with an expression of distaste at the mess of papers and files strewn everywhere. Truthfully, I don’t have the most pristine desk in the world. In fact... it’s a bit of a shambles. But I am intending to tidy it up and sort out all the piles of old contracts on the floor. As soon as I have a moment. “Meeting in ten minutes,” he says. “I want the draft financing documentation ready.” “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 stonyfaced. 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. Arnoldis 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 sureArnold ’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. ButArnold ’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’sArnold . “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. EvenArnold . 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 Smith-leaf 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 readCosmo; I know these things. Anyway, then Jacob was made a huge offer and moved toBoston , 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 goinside 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 toNew 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 atHarvardLawSchool . 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 theone 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.
Chapter 3
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 ago. 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 wasbest endeavors . The other side wanted to usereasonable 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. Clive has already bolted for the door. People are on their mobile phones all over the room, discussing dinner, films, un-canceling previous arrangements. There’s a joyful lift to the proceedings. I have a sudden urge to yell “Yay!” But that wouldn’t be partnerlike. I gather up my papers, stuff them into my briefcase, and push back my chair. “Samantha. I forgot.” Guy is making his way across the room. “I have something for you.” As he hands me a simple white package, I feel a ridiculous rush of joy. A birthday present. He’s the only one in the whole company who remembered my birthday. I can’t help glowing as I undo the cardboard envelope. “Guy, you really shouldn’t have!” “It was no trouble,” he says, clearly satisfied with himself. “Still!” I laugh. “I thought you’d—” I break off abruptly as I uncover a corporate DVD in a laminated case. It’s a summary of the European Partners presentation we had the other day. I mentioned that I’d like a copy. I turn it over in my hands, making sure my smile is completely intact before I look up. Of course he didn’t remember my birthday. Why would he? He probably never even knew it. “That’s... great,” I say at last. “Thanks!” “No problem.” He’s picking up his briefcase. “Have a good evening. Anything planned?” I can’t tell him it’s my birthday. He’ll think—he’ll realize— “Just... a family thing.” I smile. “See you tomorrow.” The main thing is, I’m going to make dinner after all. And I won’t even be late! Last time I had dinner with Mum, about three months ago now, I was an hour late after my plane fromAmsterdam was delayed. Then she had to take a conference call halfway through the main course. It wasn’t exactly a success. As my taxi edges through the traffic onCheapside , I quickly rifle in my bag for my new makeup case. I nipped into Selfridges in my lunch hour the other day when I realized I was still using the old gray eyeliner and mascara I bought for a Law Society dinner a year ago. I didn’t have time for a demonstration, but I asked the girl at the counter if she could just quickly sell me everything she thought I should have. I didn’t really listen as she explained each item, because I was on the phone to Elldridge about the Ukrainian contract. But the one thing I do remember is her insistence I should use something called “bronzer powder.” She said it might give me a glow and stop me looking so dreadfully— Then she stopped herself. “Pale,” she said at last. “You’re... I take out the compact and huge blusher brush and start sweeping the powder onto my cheeks and forehead. Then, as I peer at my reflection in the mirror, I stifle a laugh. My face stares back at me, freakishly golden and shiny. I look ridiculous. I mean, who am I kidding? A City lawyer who hasn’t been on holiday for two years doesn’t have a tan. I might as well walk in with beads in my hair and pretend I’ve just flown in fromBarbados . I look at myself for a few more seconds, then take out a cleansing wipe and scrub the bronzer off until my face is white again, with shades of gray. Back to normal. The makeup girl kept mentioning the dark shadows under my eyes too, and there they are. Thing is, if Ididn’t have shadows under my eyes, I’d probably get fired. I’m wearing a black suit, as I always do. My mother gave me five almost identical black suits for my twenty-first birthday, and I’ve never really broken the habit. The only item of color about me is my bag, which is red. Mum gave that to me as well, two years ago. At least... she gave me a black one originally. But on the way home I saw it in a shop window in red, had a total brainstorm, and exchanged it. I’m not convinced she’s ever forgiven me. I free my hair from its elastic band, quickly comb it out, then twist it back into place. My hair has never exactly been my pride and joy. It’s mouse-color, medium length, with a medium wave. At least, it was last time I looked. Most of the time it lives screwed up into a knot. “Nice evening planned?” says the taxi driver, who’s been watching me in his mirror. “It’s my birthday, actually.” “Happy birthday!” He eyes me in the mirror. “You’ll be partying, then. Making a night of it.” My family and wild parties don’t exactly go together. But even so, it’ll be nice for us to see one another and catch up. It doesn’t happen very often. It’s not that we don’t want to see one another. We just all have very busy careers. There’s my mother, who’s a barrister. She’s quite well-known, in fact. She started her own chambers ten years ago and last year she won an award for Women in Law. And then there’s my brother Daniel, who is thirty-six and head of investment at Whittons. He was named byMoney Management Weekly last year as one of the top deal-makers in the city. There’s also my other brother, Peter, but like I said, he had a bit of a breakdown. He lives inFrance now and teaches English at a local school and doesn’t even have an answering machine. And my dad, of course, who lives inSouth Africa with his third wife. I haven’t seen much of him since I was three. But I’ve made my peace about this. My mother’s got enough energy for two parents. I glance at my watch as we speed along theStrand . Seven forty-two. I’m starting to feel quite excited. The street outside is still bright and warm and tourists are walking along in T-shirts and shorts, pointing at the High Court. It must have been a gorgeous summer’s day. Inside the air-conditioned Carter Spink building you have no idea what the weather in the real world is doing. We come to a halt outside Maxim’s and I pay the taxi driver, adding a large tip. “Have a great evening, love!” he says. “And happy birthday!” “Thanks!” As I hurry into the restaurant, I’m looking all around for Mum or Daniel, but I can’t spot either of them. “Hi!” I say to the maitre d‘. “I’m meeting Ms. Tennyson.” That’s Mum. She disapproves of women taking the name of their husband. She also disapproves of women staying at home, cooking, cleaning, or learning to type, and thinks all women should earn more than their husbands because they’re naturally brighter. The maitre d‘—a dapper man who is a good six inches shorter than me—leads me to an empty table in the corner and I slide into the suede banquette. “Hi!” I smile at the waiter who approaches. “I’d like a Buck’s Fizz, a gimlet, and a martini, please. But don’t bring them over until the other guests arrive.” Mum always drinks gimlets. And I’ve no idea what Daniel’s on these days, but he won’t say no to a martini. The waiter nods and disappears, and I shake out my napkin, looking all around at the other diners. Maxim’s is a pretty cool restaurant, all wenge floors and steel tables and mood lighting. It’s very popular with lawyers; in fact, Mum has an account here. Two partners from Linklaters are at a distant table, and I can see one of the biggest libel lawyers inLondon at the bar. The noise of chatter, corks popping, and forks against oversize plates is like the huge roar of the sea, with occasional tidal waves of laughter making heads turn. As I scan the menu I suddenly feel ravenous. I haven’t had a proper meal for a week, and it all looks so good. Glazed foie gras. Lamb on minted hummus. And on the specials board is chocolate-orange souffle with two homemade sorbets. I just hope Mum can stay long enough for pudding. I’ve heard her say plenty of times that half a dinner party is enough for anybody. The trouble is, she’s not really interested in food. She’s also not that interested in most people, as they’re generally less intelligent than her. Which rules out most potential dinner guests. But Daniel will stay. Once my brother starts on a bottle of wine, he feels obliged to see it through to the end. “Miss Sweeting?” I look up to see the maitre d‘. He’s holding a mobile phone. “I have a message. Your mother has been held up at her chambers.” “Oh.” I try to hide my disappointment. But I can hardly complain. I’ve done the same thing to her enough times. “So... what time will she be here?” I think I see a flash of pity in his eyes. “I have her here on the telephone. Her secretary will put her through... Hello?” he says into the phone. “I have Ms. Tennyson’s daughter.” “Samantha?” comes a crisp, precise voice in my ear. “Darling, I can’t come tonight, I’m afraid.” “You can’t come atall ?” My smile falters. “Not even... for a drink?” Her chambers is only five minutes away in a cab, inLincoln ’s Inn Fields. “Far too much on. I have a very big case on and I’m in court tomorrow— No, get me the other file,” she adds to someone in her office. “These things happen,” she resumes. “But have a nice evening with Daniel. Oh, and happy birthday. I’ve wired three hundred pounds to your bank account.” “Oh, right,” I say. “Thanks.” “I assume you haven’t heard about the partnership yet.” “Not yet.” “I heard your presentation went well...” I can hear her tapping her pen on the phone. “How many hours have you put in this month?” “Urn... probably about two hundred...” “Is that enough? Samantha, you don’t want to be passed over. You’ve been working toward this for a long time.” Like I don’t know that. Still, I suppose I should be glad she’s not badgering me about whether I’ve got a boyfriend. Mum never asks me about my personal life. She expects me to be as focused and driven as she is, if not more so. And even though we don’t talk very often anymore, even though she’s less controlling than she was when I was younger, I still feel apprehensive whenever she rings. “There will be younger lawyers coming up behind,” she continues. “Someone in your position could easily go stale.” “Two hundred hours is quite a lot...” I try to explain. “Compared to the others—” “You have to bebetter than the others!” Her voice cuts across mine as though she’s in a courtroom. “You can’t afford for your performance to slip below excellent. This is acrucial time — Notthat file!” she adds impatiently to whoever it is. “Hold the line, Samantha—” “Samantha?” I look up in confusion from the phone to see a girl with long swishy blond hair, wearing a powder-blue suit, approaching the table. She’s holding a gift basket adorned with a bow, and has a wide smile. “I’mLorraine , Daniel’s PA,” she says in a singsong voice I suddenly recognize from calling Daniel’s office. “He couldn’t make it tonight, I’m afraid. But I’ve got a little something for you—plus he’s here on the phone to say hello...” She holds out a lit-up mobile phone. In total confusion, I take it and press it to my other ear. “Hi, Samantha,” comes Daniel’s businesslike drawl. “Look, babe, I’m snowed under. I can’t be there.” Neitherof them is coming? “I’m really sorry,” Daniel’s saying. “One of those things. But have a great time with Mum, won’t you?” I take a deep breath. I can’t admit she blew me off too. I can’t admit that I’m sitting here all on my own. “OK!” Somehow I muster a breezy tone. “We will!” “I’ve transferred some money to your account. Buy something nice. And I’ve sent some chocolates along withLorraine ,” he adds proudly. “Picked them out myself.” I look at the gift basketLorraine is proffering. It isn’t chocolates, it’s soap. “That’s really lovely, Daniel,” I manage. “Thanks very much.” “Happy birthday to you...” There’s sudden chorusing behind me. I swivel round to see a waiter carrying over a cocktail glass with a sparkler.Happy Birthday Samantha is written in caramel on the steel tray, next to a miniature souvenir menu signed by the chef. Three waiters are following behind, all singing in harmony. After a moment,Lorraine awkwardly joins in. “Happy birthday to you...” The waiter puts the tray down in front of me, but my hands are full with phones. “I’ll take that for you,” saysLorraine , relieving me of Daniel’s phone. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. “He’s singing!” she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly. “Samantha?” Mum is saying in my ear. “Are you still there?” “I’m just... they’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’...” I put the phone on the table. After a moment’s thought,Lorraine puts the other phone carefully down on the other side of me. This is my family birthday party. Two cell phones. I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see I’m sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. I’m trying to keep my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. He’s carrying three cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion. “Who is the martini for?” “It was... supposed to be for my brother...” “That would be the Nokia,” saysLorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone. There’s a pause—then, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together I want to laugh—except there’s a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. There’s an awkward pause. “So anyway...”Lorraine retrieves Daniel’s mobile phone and pops it into her bag. “Happy birthday—and have a lovely evening!” As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye —but Mum’s already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. It’s just me and a basket of soap. “Did you wish to order?” The maitre has reappeared at my chair. “I can recommend the risotto,” he says in kind tones. “Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?” “Actually...” I force myself to smile. “I’ll just get the bill, thanks.” It doesn’t matter. We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldn’t even have tried to set the date. We’re all busy, we all have careers, that’s just the way my family is. As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair... “Stay here,” she’s instructing the taxi driver. “I can only be five minutes—” “Freya?” I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen. “Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?” “What areyou doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going toIndia .” “I’m on my way! I’m meeting Lord at the airport in about...” She looks at her watch. “Ten minutes.” She pulls a guilty face, and I can’t help laughing. I’ve known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants fromStaines . Even then she was unabashed and said she’d lied to cover up thereal truth—which was that they were spies. She’s taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth I’ve ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises. “I’m here to gate-crash your birthday dinner.” Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. “But I thought I was late. What happened?” “Well...” I hesitate. “The thing was... Mum and Daniel...” “Left early?” As she peers at me, Freya’s expression changes to one of horror. “Didn’t turnup ? Jesus Christ, thebastards . Couldn’t they just foronce put you first instead of their frigging—” She stops her tirade; she knows I’ve heard it all before. “Sorry. I know. They’re your family. Whatever.” Freya and my mum don’t exactly get on. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging ruefully. “Really. I’ve got a pile of work to get through anyway.” “Work?” Freya looks appalled. “Now? Are you serious? Doesn’t it everstop ?” “We’re busy at the moment. It’s just a blip—” “There’s always a blip! There’s always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun—” “That’s not true—” “Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does!” Her eyes are filled with concern. “Samantha... what happened to your life?” I’m silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I can’t remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya inItaly , the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over. “I want to be a partner of Carter Spink,” I say at last. “That’s what I want. You have to make... sacrifices.” “And what happens when you make partner?” she persists. “Does it get easier?” The truth is, I haven’t thought beyond making partner. It’s like a dream. Like a shiny ball in the sky. “You’re twenty-nine years old, for Christ’s sake!” Freya gestures with a bony, silverringed hand. “You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing the world!” She grabs my arm. “Samantha, come toIndia . Now!” “Do what?” I give a startled laugh. “I can’t come toIndia !” “Take a month off. Why not? They’re not going to fire you. Come to the airport, we’ll get you a ticket...” “Freya, you’re crazy. Seriously.” I squeeze her arm. “I love you—but you’re crazy.” Slowly, Freya’s grip on my arm loosens. “Same,” she says. “You’re crazy, but I love you.” Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off. “Here.” She thrusts it at me. “Freya.” I turn it over in my fingers. “It’s amazing.” “I thought you’d like it.” She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. “Hi!” she says impatiently into it. “Look, Lord, I’ll be there, OK?” Freya’s husband’s full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freya’s nickname for him started as a joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married inLas Vegas . He’s tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. He’s also amazingly witty once you get past the deadpan exterior. Technically, their marriage makes her Lady Edgerly—but her family can’t quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys. “Thanks for coming. Thanks for this.” I hug her. “Have a fabulous time inIndia .” “We will.” Freya is climbing back into her taxi. “And if you want to come out, just let me know. Invent a family emergency... anything. Give them my number. I’ll cover for you. Whatever your story is.” “Go,” I say, laughing, and give her a little push. “Go toIndia .” The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window. “Sam... good luck for tomorrow.” She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. “If it’s really what you want—then I hope you get it.” “It’s what I want more than anything else.” As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated nonchalance disappears. “Freya... I can’t tell you how much I want it.” “You’ll get it. I know you will.” She kisses my hand, then waves good-bye. “And don’t go back to the office! Promise!” she shouts over the roar of her taxi. “OK! I promise!” I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another. “Carter Spink, please,” I say as it pulls up. I was crossing my fingers. Of course I’m going back to the office. I arrive home at eleven o’clock, exhausted and brain-dead, having got through only about half of Ketterman’s file. Bloody Ketterman, I’m thinking, as I push open the main front door of the 1930s-mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman. Bloody... bloody... “Good evening, Samantha.” I nearly jump a mile. It’s Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase. For an instant I’m transfixed in horror. What’s he doing here? “Someone told me you lived here.” His eyes glint through his spectacles. “I’ve bought number thirty-two as a pied-a-terre. We’ll be neighbors during the week.” Please tell me this is not happening. Helives here? “Er... welcome to the building!” I say, trying as hard as I can to sound like I mean it. The lift doors open and we both get in. Number 32. That means he’s only two floors above me. I feel like my headmaster has moved in. Why did he have to choosethis building? The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable. Should I attempt small talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat? “I made some headway on that file you gave me,” I say at last. “Good,” he says curtly, and nods. So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff. Am I going to become a partner tomorrow? “Well... good night,” I say awkwardly as I leave the lift. “Good night, Samantha.” The lift doors close and I emit a silent scream. I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. I’m going to have to move. I’m about to put my key in the lock when the door to the opposite flat opens a crack. “Samantha?” As if I haven’t had enough this evening. It’s Mrs. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-ness. “Another delivery arrived for you, dear,” she says. “Dry cleaning this time. I’ll just fetch it for you.” “Thanks,” I say gratefully, swinging my door open. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway. I’m planning to recycle them when I get a moment. It’s on my list. “You’re late home again.” Mrs. Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythene-covered shirts. “You girls are so busy!” She clicks her tongue. “You haven’t been home before eleven this week!” This is what I mean by an insatiable interest. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book. “Thanks very much.” I reach for my dry cleaning, but to my horror Mrs. Farley pushes past me into the flat, exclaiming, “I’ll carry it in for you!” “Er... excuse the... er... mess,” I say as she squeezes past a pile of pictures propped against the wall. “I keep meaning to put those up...” I steer her hastily into the kitchen, away from the pile of take-away menus on the hall table. Then I wish I hadn’t. On the kitchen counter is a stack of old tins and packets, together with a note from my new cleaner, all in capitals: DEAR SAMANTHA 1. ALL YOUR FOOD IS PAST ITS SELL-BY DATES. SHOULD I THROW AWAY? 2. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLEANING MATERIALS, E.G. BLEACH? COULD NOT FIND ANY. 3. ARE YOU COLLECTING CHINESE FOOD CARTONS FOR ANY REASON? DID NOT THROW THEM AWAY, JUST IN CASE. YOUR CLEANER JOANNE I can see Mrs. Farley reading the note. I can practicallyhear the clucking going on in her head. Last month she gave me a little lecture on did I have a slow cooker, because all you needed to do was put in your chicken and vegetables in the morning and it didn’t take five minutes to slice a carrot, did it? I really wouldn’t know. “So... thanks.” I hastily take the dry cleaning from Mrs. Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. “It’s really kind of you.” “It’s no trouble! Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blousesvery well at home and save on all that money.” I look at her blankly. If I did that I’d have to dry them. And iron them. “And Idid just happen to notice that one of them came back missing a button,” she adds. “The pink and white stripe.” “Oh, right,” I say. “Well... that’s OK. I’ll send it back. They won’t charge.” “You can pop a button on yourself, dear!” Mrs. Farley is shocked. “It won’t take you two minutes. You must have a spare button in your workbox?” My what? “I don’t have a workbox,” I explain as politely as I can. “I don’t reallydo sewing.” “You can sew a simple button on, surely!” she exclaims. “No,” I say, a bit rankled at her expression. “But it’s no problem. I’ll send it back to the dry cleaners.” Mrs. Farley is appalled. “You can’t sew a button on? Your mother never taught you?” I stifle a laugh at the thought of my mother sewing on a button. “Er... no. She didn’t.” “In my day,” says Mrs. Farley, shaking her head, “all well-educated girls were taught how to sew on a button, darn a sock, and turn a collar.” None of this means anything to me.Turn a collar . It’s gibberish. “Well, in my day... we weren’t,” I reply politely. “We were taught to study for our exams and get a career worth having. We were taught to have opinions. We were taught to use ourbrains ,” I can’t resist adding. Mrs. Farley doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s a shame,” she says at last, and pats me sympathetically. I’m trying to keep my temper, but I’ve worked for hours, I’ve had a nonexistent birthday, I feel bone-tired and hungry, Ketterman is living two floors above me—and now this old woman’s telling me to sew on abutton ? “It’s not a shame,” I say tightly. “All right, dear,” says Mrs. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat. Somehow this goads me even more. “How is it a shame?” I demand, stepping out of my doorway. “How? OK, maybe I can’t sew on a button. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. That’s what I can do.” Mrs. Farley regards me from her doorway. “It’s a shame,” she repeats, as though she didn’t even hear me. “Good night, dear.” She closes the door and I emit a squeal of exasperation. “Did you neverhear of feminism?” I cry at her door. But there’s no answer. Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly. Aworkbox . What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom? I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News... a French film... some animal documentary... Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions. The Waltons. On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seenThe Waltons foryears . Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need. On the screen the whole family’s gathered round the table; Grandma’s saying grace. I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. I’ve always secretly lovedThe Waltons , ever since I was a kid. I used to sit in the darkness when everyone else was out and pretend I lived on Walton’s Mountain too. And now it’s the last scene of all, the one I always waited for: the Walton house in darkness. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping. John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close. “Good night,Elizabeth !” “Good night, Grandma,” I reply aloud. It’s not like there’s anyone to hear. “Night, Mary Ellen!” “Good night, John Boy,” I say in unison with Mary Ellen. “Good night.” “Night.” “Night.” Chapter Four I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, “What? What?” Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum’s house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water—to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV. I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights... it’s all been for this day. Partner. Or not Partner. Oh, God. Stop it. Don’t think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I’m out of milk. And coffee. Imust find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl47. Food delivery /milkman ? at the bottom of my TO DO list. My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I’m intending to do. It’s yellowing a bit now, actually—and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it’s a good way to keep myself organized. 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 reallyam 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, Iam 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? 42. MILKMAN?? I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have donenothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn onthe kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits. Thekettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup ofweird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for anapple from the fruit bowl—only to discover it’s gone allmoldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin andnibble a few Shreddies out of the packet. The truth is, I don’t care about the list. There’s onlyonethingI care about. I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this isany kind of special day. I’ll just keep my head down and geton with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur “Good luck,” and walking along the corridor a guyfrom 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, tryingto 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. Imade 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. I shove the file away from me—and a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal. Ketterman’s right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesn’t look like a partner’s desk. I’ll tidy it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour. 12:06-1:06: office administration. We even have a code for it on the computer time sheet. I had forgotten how much I detest tidying. All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company letters... contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing... old invitations... memos... a Pilates pamphlet... a CD that I bought three months ago and thought I’d lost... last year’s Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume... I smile at the sight, and put it into thethings to find a place for pile. There are tombstones too—the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. And... oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didn’t finish eating at one time or another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers. They shouldn’t give us such big desks. I can’t believe how much stuff is on here. Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework.PARTNER ! Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old copy ofThe Lawyer and wonder why on earth I’m keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. It’s a memo fromArnold . Re Third Union Bank. Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd. Please attend to registration at Companies House. I peer at it without great interest. Third Union Bank isArnold ’s client, and I’ve only dealt with them once. The bank has agreed to loan £50 million to Glazerbrooks, a big building-materials company, and all I have to do is register the security document within twenty-one days at Companies House. It’s just another of the mundane jobs that partners are always dumping on my desk. Well, not anymore, I think with a surge of determination. In fact, I think I’ll delegate this to someone else, right now. I glance automatically at the date. Then I look again. The security document is dated May 26th. Five weeks ago? That can’t be right. Puzzled, I flip quickly through the papers, looking to see if there’s been a typo. Theremust be a typo—but the date is consistent throughout. May 26th. May 26th? I sit, frozen, staring at the document. Has this thing been on my desk forfive weeks‘ ? But... it can’t. I mean... it couldn’t. That would mean— It would mean I’ve missed the deadline. I can’t have made such a basic mistake. I cannot possibly have failed to register a charge before the deadline. Ialways register charges before the deadline. I close my eyes and try to remain calm. It’s the excitement of being partner. It’s addled my brain. OK. Let’s look at this again, carefully. But the memo says exactly the same thing as before. At-tend to registration. Dated May 26th. Which would mean I’ve exposed Third Union Bank to an unsecured loan. Which would mean I’ve made about the most elementary mistake a lawyer can make. There’s a kind of iciness about my spine. I’m trying desperately to remember ifArnold said anything about the deal to me. I can’t even remember him mentioning it. But then— why would he mention a simple loan agreement? We do loan agreements in our sleep. He would have assumed I’d carried out his instructions. He would have trusted me. Oh, Jesus. I leaf through the pages again, searching desperately for some loophole. Some miracle clause that will have me exclaiming “Oh, ofcourse !” in relief. But of course it’s not there. How could this have happened? Did I even notice this? Did I sweep it aside, meaning to do it later? What am I going to do? A wall of panic hits me as I take in the consequences. Third Union Bank has lent Glazerbrooks £50 million. Without the charge being registered, this loan—this multimillion-pound loan—is unsecured. If Glazerbrooks went bust tomorrow, Third Union Bank would go to the back of the queue of creditors. And probably end up with nothing. “Samantha!” says Maggie at the door. Instinctively I plant my hand over the memo even though she wouldn’t realize the significance, anyway. “I just heard!” she says in a stage whisper. “Guy let it slip! Congratulations!” “Um... thanks!” Somehow I force my mouth into a smile. “I’m just getting a cup of tea. D’you want one?” “That’d be... great. Thanks.” Maggie disappears and I bury my head in my hands. I’m trying to keep calm, but inside is a great well of terror. I have to face it. I’ve made a mistake. I have made a mistake. What am I going to do? I can’t think straight— Then suddenly Guy’s words from yesterday ring in my ears, and I feel an almost painful flood of relief.A mistake isn’t a mistake unless it can’t be put right . Yes. The point is, I can put this right. I can still register a charge. The process will be excruciating. I’ll have to tell the bank what I’ve done—and Glazerbrooks—andArnold —and Ketterman. I’ll have to have new documentation drawn up. And, worst of all, live with everyone knowing I’ve made the kind of stupid, thoughtless error a trainee would make. It might mean an end to my partnership. I feel sick—but there’s no other option. I have to put the situation right. Quickly I log on to the Companies House Web site and enter a search for Glazerbrooks. As long as no other charges have been registered against Glazerbrooks in the meantime, it will all come to the same thing... I stare at the page in disbelief. No. It can’t be. There’s a new debenture in Glazerbrooks’ charge register, securing £50 million owed to some company called BLLC Holdings. It was registered last week. Third Union Bank has been bumped down the creditors’ queue. My mind is helter-skeltering. This isn’t good. It’s not good. I have to talk to someone quickly. I have to do something about this now, before any more charges are made. I have to... to tellArnold . Just the thought paralyzes me with horror. I can’t do it. I just can’t go out and announce I’ve made the most basic, elementary error and put £50 million of our client’s money at risk. What I’ll do is... is start sorting out the mess first, before I tell anyone here. Have the damage limitation under way. Yes. I’ll call the bank first. The sooner they know the better— “Samantha?” “What?” I practically leap out of my chair. “You’re nervy today!” Maggie laughs and comes toward the desk with a cup of tea. “Feeling on top of the world?” For an instant I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about. My world has been reduced to me and my mistake and what I’m going to do about it. “Oh! Right. Yes!” I try to grin back and surreptitiously wipe my damp hands on a tissue. “I bet you haven’t come down off your high yet!” She leans against the filing cabinet. “I’ve got some champagne in the fridge, all ready...” “Er... great! Actually, Maggie, I’ve really got to get on...” “Oh.” She looks hurt. “Well, OK. I’ll leave you.” As she walks out I can see indignation in the set of her shoulders. She probably thinks I’m a total cow. But every minute is another minute of risk. I have to call the bank. Immediately. I search through the attached contact sheet and find the name and number of our contact at Third Union. Charles Conway. This is the man I have to call. This is the man whose day I have to disturb and admit that I’ve totally messed up. With trembling hands I pick up the phone. I feel as though I’m psyching myself up to dive into a noxious swamp. For a few moments I just sit there, staring at the keypad, willing myself to punch in the number. At last, I reach out and dial. As it rings, my heart begins to pound. “Charles Conway.” “Hi!” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s Samantha Sweeting from Carter Spink. I don’t think we’ve met.” “Hi, Samantha.” He sounds friendly enough. “How can I help?” “I was phoning on a... a technical matter. It’s about...” I can hardly bear to say it. “Glazerbrooks.” “Oh, you’ve heard about that,” says Charles Conway. “News travels fast.” The room seems to shrink. “Heard... what?” My voice is higher than I’d like. “I haven’t heard anything.” “Oh! I assumed that’s why you were calling. Yes, they called in the receivers today. That last-ditch attempt to save themselves obviously didn’t work...” I feel light-headed. Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes. Glazerbrooks is going bust. They’ll never draw up the new documentation now. Not in a million years. I won’t be able to register the charge. I can’t put it right. I’ve lost Third Union Bank £50 million. I feel like I’m hallucinating. I want to gibber in panic. I want to thrust down the phone and run. “It’s a good thing you phoned, as it happens,” Charles Conway is saying. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard in the background, totally unconcerned. “You might want to double-check that loan security.” For a few moments I can’t speak. “Yes,” I say at last, my voice hoarse. “Thank you.” I put down the receiver, shaking all over. I’ve fucked up. I have fucked up so big, I can’t even... Barely knowing what I’m doing, I push back my chair. I have to get out.
Chapter Five
I walk through reception on autopilot. Out onto the sunny lunchtime street, one foot in front of the other, just another office worker among the midday crowds. Except I’m different. I’ve just lost my client £50 million. Fifty million. The amount is like a drumbeat in my head. I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t understand. My mind keeps turning it over. Over and over, obsessively. How could I have not seen... how could I have overlooked... It must have been put on my desk, then covered up with something else. A file, a pile of contracts, a cup of coffee. One mistake. The only mistake I’ve ever made. I want to wake up and this will all be a bad dream, it happened to someone else, it’s a story I’m listening to in the pub, agog, thanking my lucky stars it wasn’t me... But it is me. My career is over. The last person at Carter Spink who made a mistake like this was Ted Stephens, who lost a client £10 million in 1983. He was fired on the spot. And I’ve lost five times that. My chest feels tight; I feel like I’m being smothered. I think I could be having a panic attack. I sit down on a bench set against some railings and wait to feel better. OK, I’m not feeling better. I’m feeling worse. Suddenly I jump in terror as my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the caller ID. It’s Guy. I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anybody. Not right now. A moment later, the phone tells me a message has been left. I lift the phone to my ear and press 1 to listen. “Samantha!” Guy sounds cheery. “Where are you? We’re all waiting with the champagne to make the big partnership announcement!” Partnership. I want to burst into tears. But... I can’t. This mistake is too big for tears. I thrust my phone in my pocket and get to my feet again. I begin to walk faster and faster, weaving through the pedestrians. My head is pounding and I have no idea where I’m going. I walk for what seems like hours, my head in a daze, my feet moving blindly. The sun is beating down, and the pavements are dusty, and after a while my head starts to throb. At some point my mobile starts to vibrate again, but I ignore it. At last, when my legs are starting to ache, I slow down and come to a halt. My mouth is dry; I’m totally dehydrated. I need some water. I look up, trying to get my bearings. Somehow I seem to have reached Paddington Station, of all places. Numbly, I turn my steps toward the entrance and walk inside. The place is noisy and crowded with travelers. The fluorescent lights and air-conditioning and the blaring announcements make me flinch. As I’m making my way to a kiosk selling bottled water, my mobile vibrates again. I pull it out and look at the display. I have fifteen missed calls and another message from Guy. He left it about twenty minutes ago. I hesitate, my heart beating with nerves, then press 1 to listen to it. “Jesus Christ, Samantha, whathappened ?” He doesn’t sound cheery anymore, he sounds totally stressed. I feel prickles of dread all over my body. “We know,” he’s saying. “OK? We know about Third Union Bank. Charles Conway called up. Then Ketterman found the paperwork on your desk. You have to come back to the office. Now. Call me back.” He rings off but I don’t move. I’m paralyzed with fright. They know. They all know. The black spots are dancing in front of my eyes again. Nausea is rising up inside me. The entire staff of Carter Spink knows I messed up. People will be calling each other. Emailing the news in horrified glee.Did you hear ...? As I’m standing there, something catches the corner of my eye. A familiar face is just visible through the crowd. I turn my head and squint at the man, trying to place him— then feel a fresh jolt of horror. It’s Greg Parker, one of the senior partners. He’s been in the States, I remember. He’ll have just got in on the Heathrow Express. Now he’s striding along the concourse in his expensive suit, holding his mobile phone. His brows are knitted together and he looks concerned. “So whereis she?” His voice travels across the concourse. Panic hits me like a lightning bolt. I have to get out of his line of vision. I have to hide. Now. I edge behind a vast woman in a beige mac and try to cower down so I’m hidden. But she keeps wandering about, and I keep having to shuffle along with her. “Did you want something?” She suddenly turns. “No!” I say, flustered. “I’m... er...” “Well, leave me alone!” She scowls and stalks off toward Costa Coffee. I’m totally exposed in the middle of the concourse. Greg Parker is about fifty yards away, still talking on his mobile phone. If I move, he’ll see me. If I stay still... he’ll see me. Suddenly the electronic Departures display board renews itself with fresh train information. A crowd of waiting travelers grab their bags and newspapers and head toward platform 9. Without thinking twice, I join the throng, hidden in their midst as we sweep through the open barriers and onto the train. It pulls out of the station and I sink into a seat, opposite a family all wearing London Zoo T-shirts.They smile at me— and somehow I manage to smile back. “Refreshments?” A wizened man pushing a trolley appears in the carriage and beams at me. “Hot and cold sandwiches, teas and coffees, soft drinks, alcoholic beverages?” “The last, please.” I try not to sound too desperate. “A double. Of... anything.” No one comes to check my ticket. No one bothers me. The train seems to be some sort of express. Suburbs turn into fields, and the train is still rattling along. I’ve drunk three small bottlesof gin, mixed with orange juice, tomato juice, and a chocolate yogurt drink. The chunk of icy fright in my stomach has thawed and I feel weirdly distanced from everything around me. I have made the biggest mistake of my career. I will have lost my job. I will never be a partner. One stupid mistake. The London Zoo family have opened packets of crisps and offered me one and invited me to join in their game of Travel Scrabble. The mother even asked me if I was traveling for business or fun? I couldn’t bring myself to answer. My heart rate has gradually subsided, but I have a bad, throbbing headache. I’m sitting with a hand over one eye, trying to block out the light. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The conductor is crackling over the loudspeaker. “Unfortunately... rail works... alternative transport...” I can’t follow what he’s saying. I don’t even know where I’m headed. I’ll just wait for the next stop, get out of the train, and take it from there. “That’s not how you spellraisin ,” London Zoo mother is saying to one of the children, when the train suddenly starts to slow down. I look up to see that we’re pulling into a station.Lower Ebury . People are gathering up their bags and getting off. Like an automaton I get up too. I follow the London Zoo family off the train and out of a tiny, twee country station. There’s a pub called The Bell across the road, which bends round in both directions, and I can glimpse fields in the distance. There’s a coach waiting, and all the passengers from the train are boarding. London Zoo mother has turned round and is gesturing at me. “You need to come this way,” she says helpfully. “If you want the bus toGloucester ?” The thought of getting on a coach makes me want to heave. I don’t want the bus to anywhere. I just want an aspirin. My head feels like it’s about to split open. “Er... no, thanks. I’m fine here.” Before she can say anything else, I start walking down the road. I have no idea where I am. None. Inside my pocket, my phone suddenly vibrates. It’s Guy. Again. This must be the thirtieth time he’s rung. And every time he’s left a message telling me to call him back, asking if I’ve got his e-mails. I haven’t got any of his e-mails. I was so freaked out, I left my Blackberry on my desk. My phone is all I have. It vibrates again and I stare at it for a few moments. I can’t ignore him forever. My stomach clenched with nerves, I lift it to my ear and press TALK. “Hi.” My voice is scratchy. “It’s... it’s me.” “Samantha?” His incredulous voice blasts down the line. “Is thatyou ? Whereare you?” “I don’t know. I had to get away. I... I went into shock...” “Samantha, I don’t know if you got my messages. But...” He hesitates. “Everyone knows.” “I know.” I lean against an old crumbling wall and squeeze my eyes shut. “How did ithappen ?” He sounds as shocked as I feel. ”How the hell did you make a simple error like that? I mean, Christ, Samantha—” “I don’t know,” I say numbly. “You never make mistakes!” “Well, I do now!” I feel tears rising and fiercely blink them down. “What’s... what’s happened?” “It’s not good.” He exhales. “Ketterman’s been having damage limitation talks with Glazerbrooks’ lawyers and talking to the bank—and the insurers, of course.” The insurers. The firm’s professional indemnity insurance. I’m suddenly gripped by an almost exhilarating hope. If the insurers pay up without making a fuss, maybe things won’t be as bad as I thought... But even as I feel my spirits lift I know I’m like some traveler seeing the mirage through the haze. Insurers never cough up the whole amount. Sometimes they don’t cough up anything. Sometimes they pay up but raise their premiums to unfeasible levels. “What did the insurers say? Will they—” “They haven’t said anything yet.” “Right.” I wipe my sweaty face, screwing up my courage to ask the next question. “And what about... me?” Guy is silent. There’s my answer. I open my eyes to see two small boys on bikes staring at me. “It’s over, isn’t it? My career’s over.” “I... I don’t know that. Listen, Samantha, you’re freaked out. It’s natural. But you can’t hide. You have to come back—” “I can’t.” Ketterman’s face looms in my mind. And what willArnold think of me now? “I can’t face everyone.” “Samantha, be rational!” “I need some time!” “Saman—” I flip my phone shut. I feel a bit faint. I must get some water. But I can’t face going into a noisy pub, and I can’t see any shops. I totter along the road until I reach a pair of tall carved pillars decorated with lions. Here’s a house. I’ll ring the bell and ask for some aspirin and a glass of water. And ask if there’s a hotel nearby. I push open the elaborate wrought-iron gate and crunch over the gravel toward the heavy oak front door. It’s a rather grand old house made out of honey-colored stone, set well back from the road, with steep gables and tall chimneys and two Porsches on the drive. I raise a hand and tug the bellpull. There’s silence. The whole house seems dead. I’m about to give up and trudge back down the drive—when all of a sudden the door swings open. Before me stands a woman with blond lacquered hair to her shoulders and long, dangly earrings. She has lots of makeup, long silk trousers in a weird shade of peach, a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other. “Hello.” She drags on her cigarette and looks at me a bit suspiciously.“Are you from the agency?”
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
The It girl Cecily Von Ziegesar five
thepulpyorange | Monday, April 12, 2010 |
31
A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT SOMETIMES
IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO SIT IN THE SHADOWS.
“I feel all loose and wiggly.” Jenny shook her arms around. She’d moved to the surprisingly quiet lawn behind the tent. There was a tiny little Japanese rock garden, a mossy stone bench, and a jade–tile–lined pond. A giant orange goldfish swam slowly in the pond’s circle. After a few rounds of I Never, Brandon had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she wanted to get some air.
“You were looking a little green back there,” Brandon said.
“I’m all right. But thanks for getting me out of that. It was getting a little strange.” She wasn’t really keen on seeing Heath Ferro’s butt crack, which kept making major appearances.
“No problem.”
“How come you didn’t play with us? You got something against kissing games?”
“I . . .” He hesitated. “It’s complicated.”
Jenny rolled her head around on her neck. “Okay,” she replied. She was happy that Brandon felt okay just sitting her with her quietly, not explaining anything. Friends sat quietly together, after all, and even though she was having a blast at this party, something in it seemed empty now that she was drunk. How many of these kids did she actually connect with? Brandon was a real friend, and they could be honest with each other. She leaned her head on his shoulder and stared at their reflection in the pond.
“You never told me you went out with Callie last year.” She glanced at him.
He looked down. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you hate Easy so much?”
He nodded.
“Well. That makes sense.”
“It’s so messed up, though,” Brandon began slowly. “I still really like her. I tried to not like her but . . . I can’t help it.”
“I totally understand,” she said, thinking of Easy.
Another reflection appeared in the pond. It was of a messy-haired, irresistibly handsome boy who, despite being at a party, still had paint smudges on his neck. Jenny drew in her breath. It was as if she had conjured Easy up by thinking about him.
Or maybe she was just a little tipsy.
“Hey.” He greeted her softly.
Jenny squinted. He wore a black faded NASHVILLE MUSIC FESTIVAL T-shirt and grubby, paint-stained jeans. His thick, glossy, almost-black hair, badly in need of cutting, curled at the back of his neck.
Brandon creased his face in frustration, then squeezed her hand. “I should be going,” he announced. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Good luck.”
Brandon brushed past Easy without saying hello, then slowly strode away. Easy sat down next to Jenny. “What are you doing out here? There’s all sorts of crazy shit going on in this place.”
“Yeah, I was part of the crazy shit, but I decided to come out and look at the pond.”
“Pretty,” Easy murmured.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“I mean you, not the pond,” he whispered.
Jenny’s words got stuck in her throat. She was too, too drunk. But suddenly she felt too, too sober. Easy lit a cigarette and smoked it silently, letting a thin stream of gray smoke drift over the gardens and make a halo over the origami trees.
“I saw your cheer at the game today.” Easy broke the silence. “That was . . . something.”
“Oh,” she managed to utter, looking down, embarrassed. The drunker Jenny had gotten, the more she had wondered if she really belonged here. So she’d turned the cheer around today, but what if she couldn’t keep up that kind of quick thinking all the time? She kept trying not to think about it, but heavy thoughts about the Disciplinary Committee hearing kept sneaking up on her. Sure, she was popular tonight, but what did that matter if she was kicked out of Waverly come Monday? Then again, she could tell on Callie, but everyone would definitely hate her if she got Callie kicked out. There was no way to win.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Actually . . . it’s too weird to explain.”
“Huh,” Easy responded. “So, you know how I told you about those owls in that note?”
“Yeah.” Jenny was looking at his profile out of the corner of her eye. The night was getting colder, and she could see dew forming on the grass around them. She wondered what time it was.
“Did you think that was totally stupid?”
Jenny crossed her legs. “What? No. Why?”
“Because . . . I told you that I thought they talked.”
“No. Actually, I thought it was really sweet.”
“You did?” He smiled shyly at the ground.
“Yeah.” She smiled too, looking at him now.
Easy slid slightly closer to her. “Why?”
Jenny thought about why. Because you’re hot? Because you’re beautiful? Because I can’t stop thinking about how perfect you are for me?
Jenny sat back. “Easy? Are you flirting with me because Callie told you to?”
He took a drag off his cigarette. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Oh,” she said, confused. She stared at her reflection in the pond. “Well, are you?”
“No,” he finally answered. Jenny noticed that his hand was trembling. “Are you?”
“No,” Jenny replied quickly. “I’m definitely not.”
“What are you going to do about DC?” he asked after a few seconds, stubbing his cigarette out on a rock. “Are you going to say it was Callie’s fault?”
“I still haven’t decided.” Jenny felt her face squinch up. She didn’t want to ruin Callie’s life, but she also didn’t want to get kicked out of Waverly. What if she walked out of DC and never saw Easy again?
“Look,” Easy sighed. “I don’t think any of this is right, and I don’t think you should be in trouble. And besides, I’m not even together with Callie anymore.”
Jenny held her breath.
“It’s weird that she’s manipulating us, you know?”
She nodded imperceptibly.
“And more than that . . . things don’t feel right,” he whispered, as if he were talking to himself.
“What do you mean?” Jenny asked, willing him to meet her gaze and then, maybe . . . her lips.
“Well . . .” Easy leaned back in the grass and stared up at the sky. Jenny remembered how he’d pointed out the Seven Sisters on their ceiling and wondered where that constellation was tonight. “You know how those De Beers diamond commer-cials show love as like this . . . this really sparkly, crazy thing?”
“Okay,” Jenny said, lying down on her back as well.
“Well, I want that,” Easy explained, talking straight ahead. “I don’t have that now, but I want it. Not in a stupid way, but I want all of that.”
Jenny’s insides shimmered. She understood what he meant completely. And as they stared up at the sky, the stars above them twinkled, shiny and sparkly. Kind of like diamonds.
To: “partygoers” (27 members on list)
From: HeathFerro@waverly.edu
Date: Sunday, September 8, 11:40 A.M.
Subject: Awesome, awesome, awesome
Guys. The Black Saturday party was white-hot. Some interesting numbers:
6: Number of girls I made out with last night. (That’s the number I can remember, anyway.)
11: Bottles of Cuervo we went through. Hells yeah!
1: Weirdly well-groomed guy standing on the sidelines of the I Never game, looking longingly at a certain blond goddess from Atlanta.
2: Left-behind pairs of girls’ shoes. One pair of Manolos, one pair of Tod’s. Who got so messed up she went home barefoot?
2: People sitting by my goldfish pond, looking longingly into each other’s eyes. But I’m not gonna tell you who. That’s only for my goldfish, Stanley, to know for sure.
Later, party people,
Heath
P.S. Can’t wait for the next blowout.
P.P.S. It’s only three weeks away. Rest up!
32
PLAYING A SPORT IS A HEALTHY WAY FOR
WAVERLY OWLS TO DEAL WITH THEIR AGGRESSION.
The Waverly sports staff was so evil that they made every-one go to sports practice on Blacker Sunday (called that for obvious reasons). Everyone hit the field with stale-martini breath, eye shadow still smeared on their upper lids, and pink tongues, courtesy of two big swigs of Pepto to calm their gurgling stomachs.
Callie sat on the hockey bench with her head between her legs. She had a hickey on her neck, and she was certain it wasn’t from Easy. She’d tried to cover it with her Joey New York con-cealer stick, but the big purple welt was still there. Really, she felt too shitty to care. She wanted to curl back up under her double-thick cashmere blanket and suck her thumb. She eyed Jenny and Brett sitting on the grass, stretching, looking as if they hadn’t had a sip of alcohol last night. Since when were they such good friends?
Mrs. Smail blew her whistle and called the girls up to scrimmage. Of all things to do at a post–Black Saturday party practice, they were actually going to play? Why couldn’t everyone do a couple of laps and go back to bed?
“Callie Vernon, Brett Messerschmidt, you’ll play centers,” Mrs. Smail instructed.
A collective gasp rose up from the bench. Everyone’s heads swiveled back and forth, from Callie’s blond ponytail to Brett’s fire-red bob. Callie heaved herself up from the bench, feeling bloated and disgusting. She watched Brett storm off to the middle of the field. Frustration welled up inside of her again. How dare Brett not tell her about Mr. Dalton!
As soon as Mrs. Smail dropped the small silver ball, Brett whacked it, following through so roughly she hit Callie’s left shin guard.
Callie backed up in pain and anger. She tore after Brett, who was now a few steps ahead of her, dribbling the ball. The sod was mushy under her feet, and her black and white Nike cleats dug fiercely into the ground. Brett’s skirt rose so that you could see the bottom of her STX maroon bloomers and her skinny butt. Callie caught up to her and stuck her stick in between Brett and the ball. Then Brett’s hands twisted and she whacked the ball with the rounded side of her hockey stick, sending it careening away from Callie, toward one of the midfielders on Brett’s team.
“Foul!” Callie screamed, stopping in her tracks. “Mrs. Smail! That was a foul!”
“I didn’t see it,” Mrs. Smail responded. “Keep playing.” She gestured to the other girls, who had taken the ball and swept it down toward one of the goals.
“Jesus Christ!” Callie threw her stick to the ground in disgust. “She hit the ball with the wrong side of the stick!”
“Whatever,” Mrs. Smail said. “It’s only practice, and I didn’t see it.”
Callie turned to Brett, eyes narrowed. “They don’t teach field hockey in New Jersey, do they?”
Callie watched as Brett’s milky-white skin turned whiter.
“Go to hell,” Brett finally muttered.
“Ooh, the big comeback from class prefect, Brett Messerschmidt. I thought you had great debate skills! I thought you could talk your way out of anything!”
“Girls,” Mrs. Smail warned. “Play. Brett, your team just scored a goal.”
Brett stepped around Mrs. Smail to face Callie. “What is it, Callie? What’s the huge thing you have against me? If anything, I’m the one who should be angry at you—not the other way around!”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a manipulative bitch, that’s why!” Brett screamed.
The other players gasped. Mrs. Smail tried to step between them, but Callie shot her a look of warning that said, Stay away. Mrs. Smail turned and began walking briskly toward the field house.
Callie turned to Brett. “You take that back. I’m not manipulative.”
Brett barked out a laugh. “No? So what’s this whole Jenny-and-Easy thing about? How is that not manipulation?” She shot a look over at Jenny, who was standing perfectly still, stick poised, watching them from her midfield position.
Callie glanced at Jenny too. Great. Just great. A comment like that wouldn’t help sway Jenny to stick up for her at DC. She glowered at Brett. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t have to know anything,” Brett shot back. “I know you and how you operate. From what you did to Tinsley.”
“Tinsley?!?” Callie’s mouth dropped open.
“That’s right.” Brett’s voice was hushed. She stepped closer to her former friend, so close that their noses were almost touching. “Why don’t you just come clean? You set Tinsley up to take the rap. You made it so you wouldn’t get in any trouble.”
Oh, this was something. “I set it up? Who’s to say you didn’t set it up?” Callie yelled. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I didn’t even talk to Tinsley before she left! I was called into DC, I left, and she was already gone!”
“Oh, yeah. That’s a good one—”
“Why would I set Tinsley up? We were friends!”
Brett stepped back and glared at Callie confusedly. They both stared at each other for a few long seconds before Brett’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Callie nodded fiercely.
“And you think that I got Tinsley in trouble?”
“Well I didn’t, so you must have,” Callie explained, but Brett could hear her resolve weakening.
“I didn’t have a chance to talk to Tinsley, either. She was gone before I could.”
Callie looked down. “Really?”
“Yes.”
The other players held their breath.
“I don’t get it,” Brett surmised. “Tinsley just . . . took the blame for us, on her own?”
“I guess. But why would she do that?”
“No clue.”
Callie began to laugh. “That’s really fucked up.”
Brett slowly began to giggle too. “God, I totally thought you did it.”
“And I thought you did it!”
“I thought you were going to transfer rooms on me, just to avoid having to talk about Tinsley!”
Behind them, Mrs. Smail ran up with Mr. Steinberg, the boy’s soccer coach, in tow. When she saw Callie and Brett laughing and then hugging, she stopped short in confusion.
“I swear they were ready to kill each other.”
“Girls,” Mr. Steinberg sighed hopelessly, shaking his head.
33
A WAVERLY OWL SHOULD BE CAREFUL
NOT TO GET BUSTED.
Mrs. Smail ran her fingers through her short honey-blond hair. “You know, why doesn’t everyone just hit the showers,” she suggested after a moment.
Finally.
Brett felt like she’d just run a marathon, which was always how she felt after vigorously fighting with somebody. She walked slowly back to the bleachers with Callie, neither of them speaking. But it was a comfortable silence, not a tense one. She threw her shin guards in her Hervé Chapelier cabas gray nylon bag and noticed her cell phone buzzing. She had a text message: Come meet me on my boat when you can. We need to talk. –Eric.
She put her head in her hands. That single lingering kiss. His soft lips. The way he’d finally put his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. The way he smelled, like peppermint and cigarettes and French lavender laundry soap. The way he’d groaned a little when they stopped. She’d felt so rejected after their kiss yesterday, but maybe he’d changed his mind? She knew it was dangerous, but wasn’t life about taking risks? She only hoped Eric felt the same way.
He was sprawled on a modern white lounge chair on the boat’s deck, a bag of honey mustard pretzels at his side, when she arrived. He stood and brushed crumbs off his crisp chinos.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she answered, standing at the water’s edge. She’d quickly thrown on a black C&C California tee and hip-hugging Blue Cult jeans, hoping to look casual and unassuming, but now the outfit felt all wrong. Her shirt was too short and her pants were too low, so too much of her toned midriff winked up at him. It was too déclassé for Eric. She tried to cover it up with her hand. It didn’t help that he looked absolutely gorgeous, his blondish-brown hair curling against the edges of his white polo shirt.
“Hey.” He smiled down at her.
“Hey again,” Brett said quietly.
They fell silent, looking at each other from a distance. Brett felt stupid—obviously he didn’t feel the same way. Her stomach clunked inside of her, irritated that he would make her come here to tell her what she already knew: that they couldn’t see each other anymore, blah, blah, blah. Fine, big fucking deal. She wanted it to be over quickly. And not ever see him again. She could resign from DC. Who cared if it looked good on your college applications? There were other ways to get into Brown.
“So this is what I’ve been thinking.” He interrupted her thoughts. “You have one more year here. And you’re seventeen. I’m twenty-three. That’s like, six years.”
“Uh-huh,” Brett responded, twisting a piece of rope lying on one of the dock’s pylons.
“Six years. Like, when we’re in our twenties . . . you’ll be, say, twenty-two, and I’ll be twenty-eight. And when I’m fifty, you’ll be forty-four.”
Brett snorted. “So what are you saying?’”
“I—” Eric started.
“No offense,” Brett retorted quickly, straightening up. “But I’m not, like, holding out for you until I’m forty-four. Hopefully I’ll be with a younger guy by then.”
Eric stared at her intensely. “I don’t think I could wait until you were forty-four.”
“Oh,” she replied, winding the rope around her finger so tightly that it began cutting off the circulation.
He stared at her, then sighed. “Come into my cabin?”
Brett paused. She wasn’t positive, but she suspected that this was about to be the biggest, most important moment of her life so far. Standing there, in a crappy T-shirt and her crappiest jeans, on a random Sunday after field hockey practice, slightly hungover, seventeen years old, a tiny pimple on the corner of her right cheek that was covered up with MAC concealer, AP bio homework to do . . . Her life a boring mess, otherwise. But if she wanted it to happen, the next moments could change her life forever.
“Yeah, I guess I can do that.” She smiled quietly to herself and ran her hands along the guide rails on the dock to climb aboard.
34
SOMETIMES A WAVERLY OWL MUST TAKE RISKS.
As Callie rounded the corner to Dumbarton, she saw Easy blocking the front doorway. Her first instinct was to turn in the other direction and go back to the playing fields.
But Easy saw her. “Wait.” He started down the concrete steps. “Come back.”
Callie turned reluctantly around. She flashed back to blurry images of the party last night: a mess of tequila bottles, Heath’s ugly Celtic tattoo, Easy peeking out from the door beads, Heath’s juvenile follow-up e-mail. Ever since the beginning of the year, everyone had been making fun of how Heath ponied all the girls; and sure, she’d been drunk, angry with Brett, and even angrier at Easy, but why had she let Heath pony her, too?
“Hey,” she answered gruffly.
“So. You have fun last night?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m sorry.” She flapped her hands against her maroon and blue plaid hockey kilt. “About the . . . you know. The thing. It was stupid. A drinking game.”
“It definitely caught me off guard.” Easy shuffled his foot against a pebble on the walkway. Seeing Easy awkward like this made Callie melt.
“That was a weird party.” She looked down.
Easy didn’t answer.
“They weren’t like that last year,” Callie went on. “They were just fun.”
She sat down on the steps and pressed her knees together, fighting back an overwhelming urge to squeeze her eyes shut. “I just want things with us to be like last year, too. We had so much fun.”
“Yeah,” Easy said softly.
“What’s happened with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we could get it back.” Callie raised her head hope-fully. “Maybe if we just, I don’t know. Go somewhere off campus and talk. Somewhere where nobody else is. Anywhere you want. I’ll even go riding with you,” she added impulsively. Easy used to always try to get her to ride with him and she never had.
“You would?”
“If they don’t boot me out of here, yeah.” She shifted on the step. “I still don’t know what Jenny’s going to do. I mean, I don’t think she wants to tell on me, but she doesn’t want to get in trouble.”
Easy stared at his sneakers. “I don’t think Jenny should get in trouble.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” Callie heard the edge in her own voice.
“I think you should take the blame. Jenny has nothing to do with this.”
“If I take the blame, I’ll be expelled. You want that?”
Easy shook his head. “No. I . . . I don’t know. If only there was a way for neither of you to get in trouble. . . .”
“I don’t get it.” Callie stared at him. “Why do you care so much whether or not she gets in trouble? You guys didn’t even know each other until I . . .” Suddenly, it was as if a lightbulb had gone off over her head. What Brandon had told her after the pre–Black Saturday party. The writing on Jenny’s arm. Heath’s gossipy e-mail—two people looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. They were both so open to flirting with each other when Callie asked them to.
Easy liked Jenny. Not because Callie had told him to like her, either. Because he really did.
Callie shoved her thumb into her mouth and turned away so that he couldn’t see the expression on her face.
Easy watched her as she turned, wondering what she was thinking. How could he save both Jenny and Callie? The only thing he could think of might put his own place at Waverly in jeopardy. Was he man enough to do that?
Callie turned around again. “I guess whatever happens happens.”
“Who knows. They still might kick me out.”
She was quiet for a second. “I wish I could just, like, turn back time.”
Easy laid his hand over Callie’s. “I know,” he responded, thinking. This . . . whatever it was . . . with Jenny—it felt too big for him to understand. And maybe too scary. Looking at Callie, sitting on the steps in her field hockey kilt and after-practice flip-flops, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and without a stitch of makeup, she looked like a kid. Not a worldly, full-of-emotion adult. She was sweet and safe and something he understood. He hated to think of leaving her— whether that meant leaving her for Jenny or leaving Waverly completely. “Maybe I can make that happen,” he said, squeezing his fingers around hers.
35
WAVERLY OWLS SHOULD TRY NOT TO LET THEIR
BOYFRIENDS CATCH THEM WITH ANOTHER GUY.
An hour later, Brett walked back down the gangplank, hugging herself, her mind reeling from what she’d just done.
Eric Dalton had taken off her clothes and kissed her every-where. Then he’d taken his own clothes off slowly, as if he were in a strip club. Brett had never seen a guy take his clothes off in the daylight. He’d kept his eyes on her the whole time. They’d massaged each other and fooled around and then, just when things were going to go . . . further, she’d suddenly told him she needed some fresh air. Being with Eric was more than she had expected. More than her fantasy about him had been. It felt overwhelming. And not necessarily entirely in a good way. She needed to think.
And then, who did she see standing at the end of the dock? Fuck.
“There she is,” Jeremiah muttered to himself. “I thought you weren’t into sailing.”
There were huge circles under his eyes. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that said CBGB OMFUG, that punk club in Manhattan’s East Village, and he was carrying a giant
L.L. Bean duffel bag with his initials embroidered into one side. Brett felt a stab of guilt—something about Jeremiah, tough and cool, toting around a bag that no doubt his mommy had gotten monogrammed for him, seemed really vulnerable and sweet.
“Oh. Hey.”
“Hey?” Jeremiah shook his head. “That’s all you can say, Hey?”
“Well,” Brett tried to walk past him, but he stopped her with his arm. His hand gripped her bicep tightly. For a split second she was a little afraid and looked back to the boat for help. Then she realized—this was Jeremiah. She wrenched herself from his grasp. “Don’t touch me like that! Didn’t you get my message?”
“What, so you break up with somebody on a voice mail?” he yelled back. “That’s real classy. I thought you were better than that.”
Brett didn’t want to have this out right in front of Eric’s boat—Eric, who had undressed very slowly. Eric, who had touched her deftly and maturely, not in the fumbling, grabby way boys her age did. Eric, who hadn’t gotten mad when Brett covered herself with the Ralph Lauren paisley sheets and said they should stop. She started walking down the path back to campus. “Fine.” She turned back. “I’m breaking up with you in person, then. You happy?”
“I don’t suppose you could give me any fucking reasons, could you?”
“Sure,” Brett scoffed. “Did you really think this was serious? There. That’s one.”
Jeremiah stopped. His eyes were all puffy and red. It looked as if he hadn’t gone to bed yet.
“Yeah. I did think we were serious. Why else would I ask you to come to California with me?”
“Well . . .” She stared at the ground.
“But obviously there’s somebody else,” he ventured. “I was told to look for you here. This is some guy’s boat, right? You were with some guy down there, on his boat, in his cabin? C’mon, Brett. That’s a little trashy, don’t you think?”
Brett prickled and narrowed her eyes. As if he were one to talk about low class, using that stupid townie accent! Then it hit her. “Wait, who told you I’d be here?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “Why does it matter?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a pack of Camel Lights. “The point is, somebody told me, and you made it really clear. So fuck it. It’s your loss.”
He turned and loped back up to the green, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Wait,” Brett called hoarsely. A streak of nerves ran through her. “Who told you I’d be—?”
But he was too far away to hear, and she didn’t want to yell. She turned back and stared down at the docks. Eric’s boat bobbed placidly on the water, as if it hadn’t just almost been witness to the most life-changing moment of Brett’s existence. With a few short steps, she could go back down there and climb back into bed next to Eric. They could drink wine and talk about things and he could make her feel better about everything. Then she could have sex with him, for her first time ever.
But she couldn’t. And she wasn’t sure why.
36
AN HONEST OWL IS A WAVERLY OWL.
On Monday morning, Jenny sat at the large, round oak table in Dean Marymount’s office, a few minutes into her Disciplinary Committee meeting. The room smelled like a combination of old books and new paint. Easy sat only a few chairs away; Brett, Ryan, Celine, and the other DC members, as well as Mr. Pardee, Mr. Dalton, and Dean Marymount, sat in a line on the other side of the table, their hands folded and their eyes fixed carefully on her. Because it was DC members only, Callie wasn’t allowed to be at the hearing. Jenny pictured Callie nervously smoking a whole pack of cigarettes inside Dumbarton right now, in anticipation of the verdict.
On the wall across from Jenny were silver-framed paintings created by Waverly’s graduating classes, 1985 through present.
They were handprints, in different poster-paint colors, each footnoted with the student’s name. Even Waverly students’ hands had a wealthy look about them. She wondered what hers would look like up there with the others. Then she wondered if she’d be at Waverly long enough to even to put her handprint on her class’s painting.
Talk about down to the wire. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to say in DC yet, and now it was time. Marymount, looking especially suburban in a navy argyle sweater vest under his maroon Waverly blazer and his gold wire-rimmed round glasses, licked his finger to turn the page of his steno pad. “Okay. Mr. Pardee, the notes here say that Mr. Walsh was caught in Miss Humphrey’s room. They were talking, and Mr. Walsh was nearly naked. That’s correct?”
“That’s right,” confirmed Mr. Pardee. “I caught them, and it looked as if some sexual activity had taken place.” He looked down at the table then, color rising on his neck. Jenny bit the inside of her cheek.
Marymount swung his gaze over to Jenny. “Miss Humphrey?”
This was it. Time to either sell out Callie, or sell out herself and her new life. She took a deep breath, even though she had no idea what she was about to say.
“It was all my fault.”
Everyone in the room turned to Easy. He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me?” Marymount asked.
“It was all my fault,” he repeated. “See, I was looking for Callie. I’d been asleep, in my boxers, and I went over like that. I wandered into their room, but Callie wasn’t there. So I started talking to Jenny, but she in no way invited me in. That’s when Pardee caught us. It might have looked like Jenny and I were together, but we weren’t. She really had nothing to do with this.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open.
“I sat on her bed,” he went on. “She didn’t ask me to. I just went ahead and did it.”
Marymount ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair. “Do you realize the repercussions of that? The inappropriateness?”
“Yeah.” Easy hung his head.
Jenny bit her lip and sat on her hands. The student part of the committee stared at her blankly, their faces completely devoid of emotion. Most likely because everyone was still hun-gover from Saturday night. Although she was trying her hardest to be unemotional, inside, she felt like a malfunctioning pinball machine. She was off the hook, but now Easy was in major trouble. What if he got kicked out? Would everyone blame her? More important, did Jenny risk losing the first boy she might even . . . love?’
Marymount straightened up and rolled his knuckles on the desk. “Miss Humphrey? This is what happened?”
Jenny nodded slightly. It was true, after all. Sort of.
“Well, even so, this isn’t the best way to start off the year, especially with your cheer at the field hockey game. I want you to report to my office next week.” Marymount frowned. “I think we’ll have to figure out something to keep you out of trouble.”
Jenny nodded. “Okay.”
Marymount turned back to Easy. “Just so we’re clear. Mr. Walsh, you’re taking all the blame for this?”
Easy took a deep breath. He’d dreamed of this moment, the very second they actually kicked him out of Waverly. Somewhere inside of him it had always felt sort of inevitable. He’d imagined what he’d say, what he’d be wearing. He’d crazily imagined that he’d have on this red Mighty Morphin Power Rangers outfit he had as a kid and would wave around one of his dad’s unloaded vintage rifles, just to freak them out a little. He’d have his oversized Terminator Dolce & Gabbana sun-glasses on his forehead. He’d tell all the Waverly staff precisely what he thought of them and then he’d climb on Credo and ride off into the sunset.
But things never happened as you imagined them. Now he broke out in a cold sweat in his white Brooks Brothers button-down and maroon pressed Waverly jacket. He thought of all the stuff he’d miss if they booted him out. The owls. The way the sun set orange and purple over the Hudson. His favorite stained glass window in the chapel. Playing soccer with Alan when they didn’t feel like studying. The cafeteria’s cherry pie and the cheerful cafeteria worker Mabel, who was from a little town near Lexington. Callie. Jenny. He’d miss everything he saw in Jenny.
“Well?” Marymount prompted again.
“Yes.” He nodded. “I am.”
“Well, then,” Marymount continued in a small, disappointed voice. “Committee, do we find Mr. Walsh guilty? All in favor?”
Brett, Mr. Dalton, Mr. Pardee, and Benny raised their hands. The freshman and sophomore DC committee members shrugged apologetically but raised their hands too. Finally, Alan reluctantly raised his hand, and so did the two senior girl members.
A dreadful pause hung over the air as Marymount surveyed each of the DC members’ hands. Easy stared at the floor.
Finally Marymount sighed. “All right. This is what we’re going to do. Mr. Walsh, this is your absolute last warning. We’re going to put you on probation. Again. Two weeks. You can’t go to the stables unless there’s an emergency with your horse. No town privileges, and no visitation privileges. You’ll go to chapel, to class, and to meals, but that’s it.”
He kept talking, but nobody could hear him. Alan, Benny, and the two senior girls let out collective, grateful sighs. Brett squeaked back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, trying not to smile.
“Wait,” Jenny whispered to no one in particular. “What’s happening?”
“It means the old bastard’s letting me stay,” Easy murmured. But in his voice, she could tell how glad he was. And from the meaningful look he gave her, Jenny thought maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with her.
37
LOTS OF WAVERLY OWLS CAN BE FABULOUS . . .
BUT ONLY ONE CAN BE IT.
Brett rifled through her gray nylon Hervé field hockey bag and pulled out a sixteen-ounce bottle of Gosling rum. “We have to celebrate,” she announced dramatically. The three girls sat exhausted on the floor of Dumbarton dorm room 303, Jenny and Brett from the stress of DC, Callie from the stress of not being at DC.
Jenny watched as Brett poured rum slowly into each of their chipped Crate & Barrel highball glasses. She kind of felt like she had at the Black Saturday party—warm, gooey, and included. This was what she’d dreamed life at Waverly would be like, and now it was real. Her dreams had come true.
At least, she felt that with Brett. Callie still seemed a little cold. Sure, as soon as Jenny had come back in the room and told Callie the news, she’d quickly run over and given Jenny a huge hug, saying how eternally grateful she was that she hadn’t named her. But there was still some unfinished business between them.
“To the new year at Waverly,” Brett toasted.
They clinked glasses.
“And,” Callie interjected, “to us putting this whole Tinsley thing behind us.”
“Right,” Brett agreed.
“I didn’t even know that was upsetting you guys so much,” Jenny ventured.
“It’s a long story.”
“There were rumors,” Callie explained. “People were talking about why Tinsley was kicked out. Some said I did it, others said Brett did. Neither of us knew what to believe.”
“Speaking of rumors,” Brett began. Jenny noticed that Brett’s eyes were tinged pink, and her fingernails, normally polished and buffed to perfection, were bitten down to nubs. “Um, did either of you hear anything about me and Eric Dalton?”
“No,” Callie answered a little too quickly. Jenny gave her a puzzled look.
Brett rolled her eyes. “I mean, I know you both know. Anyway, I’ve been having this . . . this thing with Mr. Dalton.”
“Did you sleep with him?” Callie asked.
“No. But I almost did.”
They were silent for a moment.
“But, um, Jeremiah caught me coming off his boat yesterday,” Brett continued evenly, pushing her hair behind her ear. Jenny noticed a huge hickey on her neck. “And I’m wondering how he knew I’d be there.”
Jenny mashed her lips together and noticed Callie was doing the same thing. She hadn’t said a word to anyone, but Callie certainly had. Although . . . how had Callie found out? Did Brett think she had told on her?
“I had no idea,” Callie repeated, not looking at Brett directly.
“Okay,” Brett muttered.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asked. “With Mr. Dalton and everything?”
Brett shrugged. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wished she could be more adult and tell them the truth, that while she’d been watching Eric undress, she’d actually missed the way boys her age with fumbled around nervously, getting tangled in their clothes, like they couldn’t believe their luck, being with a girl like Brett. Eric’s obvious experience had freaked her out. She wished she could go back to him and confidently say, Hey, big boy, take me now. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready. Of course, she wanted to tell Callie and Jenny all of that, but she’d told Callie that she’d lost her virginity years ago to that Swiss boy in Gstaad. What would she think if Brett admitted the truth now?
The girls silently sipped their drinks, waiting for Brett to respond. Jenny leaned back. She felt lucky. She wasn’t Easy’s girl-friend, but she knew that if anything ended up happening between them, it wouldn’t feel wrong at all. It would feel exactly right. Now if only Callie would get back together with Brandon. . . .
“Hey.” Callie broke the silence. “I have an idea.” She scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room. Quickly, she returned holding a thick, red, leather-bound book. It said WAVERLY OWLS, 2000. “The lounge has these dating back to the fifties.”
“An old yearbook?” Brett asked. “We’re not in this one yet.”
“No, but Mr. Dalton is.” Callie smiled wryly.
“Oh my God, open it,” Jenny exclaimed.
They opened the book to seniors, then D, for Dalton. There he was, in a graduation tux, with that same, I’m-up-to-some-thing-but-you’ll-never-find-out smile. He did look five years younger but still every bit as cute. They stared at it in silence.
“I thought maybe we’d find out he was a huge dork who was obsessed with PlayStation and had a whole bunch of zits,” Callie admitted solemnly. “I thought that might help.” She shrugged, “That definitely doesn’t appear to be the case.”
“Please,” Jenny countered. “All we have to do is find his freshman yearbook. I guarantee he looked like a total freak. I mean, everybody looks dorky when they’re a freshman.”
“Even you?” Callie asked good-naturedly.
“Oh, no. I was never a dork. You should see my pictures from seventh grade. I had this Old Navy fleece thing happening. It was totally hot.”
“Ew.” Callie laughed.
“Yeah. When you meet my dad, he’ll definitely show you pictures.”
Brett hit her with a pillow. “You’re so weird.”
Jenny started giggling and hit Brett back. A feather shot out of the pillow and landed on Callie’s sticky MAC-lip-gloss-coated lip, causing Jenny to laugh even harder. Maybe it was the rum, but she felt manic.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. The girls froze.
“The rum,” Callie whispered. “Under the bed.”
They scrambled to hide the cups and, in their hurry, even hid the 2000 yearbook. Callie flung the door open to see Marymount, Angelica Pardee, and Mr. Pardee, all crowded by the wooden threshold.
Oh God, Jenny thought. They’ve changed their minds. We’re all getting expelled anyway. Shit, shit, shit.
“This room is definitely big enough for four,” Angelica mused, looking around.
“All we’d need is an extra bed,” Mr. Pardee added. “There’s already a free desk.”
Callie, Jenny, and Brett looked at one another. Four?
“Um, can we help you?” Brett asked. She tried to keep her mouth as closed as possible while she talked, so the teachers wouldn’t smell her rummy breath.
“Girls,” Marymount announced, “I have some interesting news that I think you’ll be happy about.”
“What?” Callie was perplexed. “You’re sticking another girl in here with us?”
“Not just another girl.” Mr. Pardee smiled. “Your old friend Tinsley.”
All three roommates fell silent. Callie and Brett stared at each other, eyes widening. Jenny’s eyes darted back and forth, between them. Tinsley?
“Wait,” Callie squeaked. “What are you saying?”
“You heard us,” Marymount boomed. “The faculty has decided to reinstate Tinsley.”
“And she’s moving back in . . . here?”
“That’s right.”
“Wow,” was all Brett could say. The other girls nodded.
“Jeepers,” Jenny added.
Jeepers pretty much said it all.
CallieVernon: You’re just across the room, but I don’t want Jenny to hear what I have to say.
BrettMesserschmidt: Okay, shoot.
CallieVernon: I don’t know if there’s room on this campus for Tinsley and Jenny.
BrettMesserschmidt: What do you mean?
CallieVernon: I know you know what I mean.
BrettMesserschmidt: Okay, yeah, they both have that . . . something.
But maybe they’ll be BFF?
CallieVernon: Or scratch each other’s eyes out.
BrettMesserschmidt: It’s going to be an interesting year . . .
CallieVernon: I’ll say.
BrettMesserschmidt: How do u think Tinsley got back in, anyway?
CallieVernon: Maybe she gave Marymount a lap dance . . . I hear he likes that.
BrettMesserschmidt: You’re so dirty.
CallieVernon: But that’s why you love me!
BrettMesserschmidt: I do. For now, anyway . . .
I’ve never let my school interfere with my education.
—Mark Twain
it girl novels created by Cecily von Ziegesar:
It Girl
Notorious
Reckless
If you like the it girl, you may also enjoy:
Bass Ackwards and Belly Up by Elizabeth Craft and Sarah Fain
Secrets of My Hollywood Life by Jen Calonita
Haters by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez
This Month's Favs
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1 A WAVERLY OWL DOES NOT DISCUSS HALF-NAKEDNESS WITH STRANGERS. Somebody’s plaid Jack Spade duffel slammed into Jenny Humphrey’s shin and je... -
26 "I have to say, I think this one's my favorite," Will announced, passing me a computer printout across the table. He didn... -
11 ONE GOOD WAY TO GET TO KNOW A WAVERLY OWL: FIND OUT WHAT COLOR J.CREW BOXERS HE WEARS. “You stink.” Jenny woke with a start. Where was sh... -
21 The week after Thanksgiving was brutal. My parents' concerns were weighing on me. Philip was calling nonstop. And although I told mys... -
The Undomestic Goddess By Sophie Kinsella Chapter One Would you consider yourself stressed? No. I’m not stressed. I’m... busy. Plent...
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Chapter Eleven - Chapter Fiften 11 "Okay, kids, quiet down," Kelly announced as she tottered into the conference room in the high ... -
21 A WAVERLY OWL SHOULD BE TRUE TO HER ROOTS. A few minutes later, after the rain cleared and the late-summer sky began to turn a faded oran... -
31 A WAVERLY OWL KNOWS THAT SOMETIMES IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO SIT IN THE SHADOWS. “I feel all loose and wiggly.” Jenny shook her arms around. Sh... -
16 I resumed my calling seven hours later, desperate to explain to Penelope that it wasn't how it appeared, but no one was answering. Av... -
Chapter One - Chapter Five 1 How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people? —From "Baby, You're a Rich Man" (1967) by Joh...
