The Undomestic Goddess

But at the same time, the minute my feet hit the ground I felt the buzz. By the time I reached the Underground station I’d already picked up my pace: matching the stride of everyone else; feeding my travel card into the machine at exactly the right angle; whipping it out with not a second to spare.

And now I’m in the Starbucks around the corner from Carter Spink, sitting at the counter in the window, watching City-suited businesspeople walking past, talking and gesticulating and making phone calls. The adrenaline is catching. My heart’s already beating more quickly—and I haven’t even got inside the building yet.

I glance at my watch yet again. Nearly time. The last thing I want to do is arrive early. The less time I spend in there, the better.

As I drain my latte, my phone bleeps, but I ignore it. It’ll be yet another message from Trish. She was livid when I told her I had to go away for a couple of days; in fact, she tried to stop me. So I told her I had a foot complaint that needed urgent attention from my specialist in London.

In hindsight this was a huge mistake, as she wanted to know every single gory detail. She even demanded I take off my shoe and show her. I had to spend ten minutes improvising about “bone misalignment” while she peered at my foot and said, “It looks perfectly normal to me,” in tones of great suspicion.

She looked at me with mistrust for the rest of the day. Then she left a copy of Marie-Claire casually open at the Pregnant? Need Confidential Advice? advertisements. Honestly. I have to knock that one on the head or it’ll be all over the village and Iris will be knitting booties.

I told Nathaniel in private that I had a situation to sort out with my old relationship. I could tell he wanted to know more details, that he was finding it hard being shut out, but he didn’t press me. I think he saw how strained I was already.

I look at my watch again. Time to go. I head for the Ladies, face the mirror, and check my appearance. Unfamiliar blond hair: check. Tinted glasses: check. Magenta lipstick: check. I look nothing like my former self.

Apart from the face, of course. If you looked really closely.

But the point is, no one’s going to look closely at me. This is what I’m counting on, anyway.

“Hi,” I practice in a low, guttural voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

I sound like a drag queen. But never mind. At least I don’t sound like a lawyer.

Keeping my head down, I leave Starbucks and walk along the street, until I round the corner and see the distinctive granite steps and glass doors of Carter Spink. I feel unreal being back here. The last time I saw those doors I was pushing my way out of them, gibbering with panic, convinced I’d wrecked my own career, convinced my life was over.

Fury starts boiling up again and I close my eyes briefly, trying to keep my emotions in line. I don’t have any proof yet. I have to stay focused on what I’m doing. Come on. I can do this.

I know my plan is slightly insane; I know my chances aren’t great. It’s unlikely Arnold has left proof of his misdemeanors just lying about. But I couldn’t just give up, tamely stay in Lower Ebury, and let him get away with it. My anger is like a huge driving force inside me. I had to come here and at least try to find out what I can.

And if they won’t let me in the building as a lawyer … then I’ll just have to go in as something else.

I cross the road and resolutely head up the steps. I can almost see myself that day, a ghostlike figure, running down them in a state of bewildered shock. It all seems like a lifetime ago now. I don’t just look like a different person, I feel like a different person. I feel like I’ve been rebuilt.

With a deep breath, I pull my mac around me and push open the glass doors. As I step into the foyer I feel a sudden giddy wave of disbelief. Am I actually doing this? Am I actually trying to blag my way, incognito, into the Carter Spink offices?

My legs are wobbling and my hands feel damp, but I’m walking steadily forward over the shiny marble floor, my eyes fixed downward. I head toward the new receptionist, Melanie, who started only a couple of weeks before I left.

“Hi,” I say in my drag-queen voice.

“Can I help you?” Melanie smiles at me. There’s not a glimmer of recognition in her face. I can’t believe this is so easy.

In fact, I feel a tad insulted. Was I so nondescript before?

“I’m here for the party?” I mumble, my head down. “I’m waitressing. Bertram’s Caterers,” I add for good measure.

“Oh, yes. That’s all happening up on the fourteenth floor.” She taps on her computer. “What’s your name?”

“It’s … Trish,” I say. “Trish Geiger.” Melanie peers at the computer screen, frowning and tapping her pen on her teeth.