The Undomestic Goddess
“Gone?” I come to a halt, panting. “Gone where?”
“To look at this business he wants to buy. He left in the car a short while ago.”
“The one in Bingley?” I gulp in relief, still out of breath. “Could you possibly give me a lift there? It’s quite important that I talk to him.”
“That’s not where …” Eamonn rubs his neck, looking awkward. I feel a sudden foreboding. “Samantha—he’s gone to Cornwall.”
Shock slams me in the chest.
“I thought you knew.” Eamonn takes a step forward, shading his eyes against the sun. “He said he might be down there a couple of weeks. I thought he’d have told you.”
“No,” I say, my voice barely working. “He didn’t.”
Suddenly my legs feel like jelly. I sink down onto one of the barrels, my head pounding. He’s gone to Cornwall just like that. Without even saying good-bye. Without even discussing it with me.
“He left a note in case you dropped by.” Eamonn feels in his back pocket and produces an envelope. As he hands it over, his face is crumpled up with distress. “Samantha … I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I manage a smile. “Thanks, Eamonn.” I take the envelope from him and pull out the paper.
S
I think we both know this is the end of the line. Let’s quit while we’re ahead.
Just know that this summer was perfect.
N
Tears are flooding down my cheeks as I read it, over and over. I can’t believe he’s gone. How can he have given up on us? Whatever Guy said to him, whatever he thought. How can he have just left?
We could have made it work. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t he feel it, deep down?
I hear a sound and look up to see Guy and a crowd of journalists gathered around me. I hadn’t even noticed.
“Go away,” I say in a muffled voice. “Leave me alone.”
“Samantha,” says Guy, his voice low and conciliatory. “I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“I’ll hit you again.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I mean it.”
“Things may seem bad at the moment.” Guy glances at the note. “But you have a fantastic career to get on with.”
I don’t answer. My shoulders are hunched over, my nose is running, and my hair is falling around my face in lacquered strands.
“Be reasonable. You’re not going back to cleaning loos. There’s nothing to keep you here now.” Guy takes a step forward and puts my glossy high-heeled shoes on the table beside me. “Come on, partner. Everyone’s waiting.”
Twenty-six
I feel numb. It really is all over. I’m sitting in a first-class compartment on the express train to London, with the other partners. In a couple of hours we’ll be back. I have a new pair of tights on. My makeup has been repaired. I’ve even given a fresh statement to the press, hastily constructed by Hilary: “Although I will always feel affection for my friends in Lower Ebury, nothing is more exciting and important in my life right now than my career with Carter Spink.”
I was pretty convincing. I even found a smile from somewhere as I shook David Elldridge’s hand. It’s just possible they might print a picture of that, rather than the one of me punching Guy. You never know.
As the train pulls out of the station I feel a painful stab and close my eyes for a moment, trying to stay composed. I’m doing the right thing. Everyone’s agreed. I take a sip of cappuccino, then another. If I drink enough coffee maybe it’ll jolt me alive. Maybe I’ll stop feeling as though I’m in a dream.
Wedged in the corner opposite me is the TV cameraman for the news documentary, together with the producer, Dominic, a guy with trendy glasses and a denim jacket. I can feel the camera lens on me, following every move, zooming in and out, catching every expression. I could really do without this.
“And so lawyer Samantha Sweeting leaves the village where she was known only as domestic help,” Dominic is saying into his microphone in a low, TV-commentary voice. “The question is—does she have any regrets?” He gives me a questioning glance.
“I thought you were supposed to be fly-on-the-wall,” I snap with a baleful look.
“Here you go!” Guy dumps a heavy set of contracts on my lap. “Here’s the Samatron deal. Get your teeth into that.”
I look at the piles of paper, inches thick. Once upon a time, seeing a brand-new, fresh contract gave me a rush of adrenaline. I always wanted to be first to spot an anomaly, first to raise a query. But now I feel blank.