The Undomestic Goddess - Sophie Kinsella

“You didn’t know? Apparently in certain legal circles the new term for fifty million pounds is ‘a Samantha.’ Take it from me, I was not amused.”

“Mum, I’m so sorry—”

At least the story has been contained within the legal world. I’ve spoken to Carter Spink and they assure me that it won’t be going further. You should be grateful for that.“

“I… I suppose so…”

“Where are you?” she cuts across my faltering words. “Where are you right now?”

I’m standing in a larder, surrounded by packets of cereal.

“I’m… at someone’s house. Out of London.”

“And what are your plans?”

“I don’t know.” I rub my face. “I need to… get myself together. Find a job.”

“A job,” she says scathingly. “You think any top law firm is going to touch you now?”

I flinch at her tone. “I… I don’t know. Mum, I’ve only just heard about being fired. I can’t just—”

“You can. Thankfully, I have acted for you.”

She’s acted for me?

“What do you—”

“I’ve called in all my favors. It wasn’t an easy job. But the senior partner at Fortescues will see you tomorrow at ten.”

I’m almost too stupefied to reply. “You’ve… organized me a job interview?”

“Assuming all goes well, you will enter at senior associate level.” Her voice is crisp. “You’re being given this chance as a personal favor to me. As you can imagine, there are… reservations. So if you want to progress, Samantha, you are going to have to perform. You’re going to have to give this job every hour you have.”

“Right.” I shut my eyes, my thoughts whirling. I have a job interview. A fresh start. It’s the solution to my nightmare.

Why don’t I feel more relieved?

“You will have to give more than you did at Carter Spink,” Mum continues in my ear. “No slacking. No complacency. You will have to prove yourself doubly. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say automatically.

More hours. More work. More late nights.

It’s almost as if I can feel the concrete blocks being loaded onto me again. More and more of them. Heavier and heavier.

“I mean… no,” I hear myself saying. “No. It’s too much. I… don’t want that now. I need some time.”

The words come out of my mouth all by themselves. I wasn’t planning them; I’ve

never even thought them before. But now that they’re out in the air they somehow feel… true.

“I’m sorry?” Mum’s voice is sharp. “Samantha, what on earth are you saying?”

“I don’t know.” I’m kneading my forehead, trying to make sense of my own confusion. “I was thinking… I could take a break, maybe.”

“A break would finish your legal career.” Her voice snaps dismissively. “Finish it.”

“I could… do something else.”

“You wouldn’t last more than two minutes in anything else!” She sounds affronted. “Samantha, you’re a lawyer. You’ve been trained as a lawyer.‘’

“There are other things in the world than being a lawyer!” I cry, rattled.

There’s an ominous silence. I can’t believe I’m standing up to her. I don’t think I’ve ever challenged my mother in my life. I feel shaky as I grip the phone. But at the same time, I know I can’t do what she wants.

“Samantha, if you’re having some kind of breakdown like your brother—”

“I’m not having a breakdown!” My voice rises in distress. “I never asked you to find me another job. I don’t know what I want. I need a bit of time… to… to think…”

“You will be at that job interview, Samantha.” Mum’s voice is like a whip.

“You will be there tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

“I won’t!”

“Tell me where you are! I’m sending a car straightaway.”

No! Leave me alone.

I switch off my phone, come out of the larder, and almost savagely throw it down onto the table. She’s my mother. And she didn’t express one word of sympathy. Not one jot of kindness. My face is burning and tears are pressing hotly at the back of my eyes. The phone starts vibrating angrily on the table, but I ignore it. I’m not going to answer it. I’m not going to talk to anyone. I’m going to have a drink. And then I’m going to cook this bloody dinner.

I slosh some white wine into a glass and take several gulps. Then I address myself to the pile of raw ingredients waiting on the table.

I can cook. I can cook this stuff. Even if everything else in my life is in ruins, I can do this. I have a brain, I can work it out.

Without delay I rip the plastic coverings off the lamb. This can go in the oven. In some kind of dish. Simple. And the chickpeas can go in there too. Then I’ll mash them and that will make the hummus.

I open a cupboard and pull out a whole load of gleaming baking dishes and trays. I select a baking tray and scatter the chickpeas onto it. Some bounce onto the

floor, but I don’t care. I grab a bottle of oil from the counter and drizzle it over the top. Already I’m feeling like a cook.

I shove the tray into the oven and turn it on full blast. Then I put the lamb in an oval dish and shove that in too.

So far so good. Now all I need to do is leaf through all Trish’s recipe books and find instructions for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze.

OK. I didn’t find a single recipe for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze. I found apricot and raspberry flan, turkey with chestnut and apricot stuffing, and almond pithivier with apricot filling and Prosecco sabayon.

I stare at the page blindly. I have just turned down what may be my only opportunity to start over. I’m a lawyer. That’s what I am. What else am I going to do? What’s happened to me?

Oh, God. Why is smoke coming out of the oven?

By seven o’clock I’m still cooking.

At least I think that’s what I’m doing. Both ovens are roaring with heat. Pots are bubbling on the hob. The electric whisk is whirring busily. I’ve burned my right hand twice taking things out of the oven. Eight recipe books are open around the kitchen, one drenched with spilled oil and another with egg yolk. I’m puce in the face, sweating hard, and trying every