The Undomestic Goddess (Page 8)

The term was best endeavors. The other side wanted to use reasonable 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, uncanceling 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 from Amsterdam 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 on Cheapside, 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 just a bit … pale.”

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.