The Undomestic Goddess

The kettle’s coming to the boil when the doorbell rings. I pull my dressing gown around me and pad out to the hall. Through the spy-hole I can see Mrs. Farley peering back at me, her arms laden with packages.

Of course. Who else?

I open the door. “Hello, Mrs. Farley.”

“Samantha, I thought it was you!” she exclaims. “After all this time! I had no idea … I didn’t know what to think …”

“I’ve been away.” I muster a neighborly smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was going away. But I didn’t really have any warning myself.”

“I see.” Mrs. Farley’s eyes are darting all around, at my blond hair, at my face, and past me into the flat, as though searching for clues.

“Thanks for taking in my parcels.” I hold out my hands. “Shall I …”

“Oh! Of course.” She hands over a couple of Jiffy bags and a cardboard box, still obviously avid with curiosity. “I suppose these high-powered jobs do send you girls abroad with no notice—”

“I haven’t been abroad.” I put the boxes down. “Thanks again.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble! I know what it’s like when you’ve had a … a difficult family time?” she hazards.

“I haven’t had a difficult family time,” I say politely.

“Of course not!” She clears her throat. “Well, anyway. You’re back now. From … whatever you’ve been doing.”

“Mrs. Farley.” I try to keep a straight face. “Would you like to know where I’ve been?”

Mrs. Farley recoils.

“Dear me! No! It’s absolutely none of my business! Really, I wouldn’t dream of … I must be getting on.…” She starts backing away.

“Thanks again!” I call as she disappears back into her flat.

I’m just closing the door as the phone rings. I pick up the receiver, suddenly wondering how many people must have rung this number over the last few weeks. The machine is crammed with messages, but after listening to the first three, all from Mum and each more furious than the last, I gave up.

“Hello?”

“Samantha,” comes a businesslike voice. “John Ketterman here.”

“Oh.” Suddenly my calmness is replaced by a serious case of nerves. “Hi.”

“I’d like to ask that you keep yourself available today. It may be necessary for you to speak to some people.”

“People?”

There’s a slight pause, then Ketterman says, “Investigators.”

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I feel like punching the air or bursting into tears. But somehow I keep my composure.

“So have you found something out?”

“I can’t say anything at the moment.” Ketterman sounds as distant and formal as ever. “I just need to know that you’ll be available.”

“Of course. Where will I have to go?”

“We’d like you to come here, to the Carter Spink offices,” he says, without any trace of irony.

I look at the phone, almost wanting to laugh. Would that be the same Carter Spink offices I was thrown out of yesterday? I feel like saying. The same Carter Spink offices I’ve been banned from?

“I’ll call you,” adds Ketterman. “Keep your mobile with you. It could be a few hours.”

“OK. I will.” I take a deep breath. “And please, just tell me. You don’t have to go into specifics, but … was my theory right?”

There’s a crackling silence down the phone. I can’t breathe.

“Not in every detail,” says Ketterman at last, and I feel a painful thrill of triumph. That means I was right with some details, at least.

The phone goes dead. I put the receiver down and look at my reflection in the hall mirror, my eyes bright.

I was right. And they know it.

They’ll offer me my job back, it suddenly hits me. They’ll offer me partnership. At the thought I’m seized with excitement—and at the same time, a kind of fear.

I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I walk into the kitchen, keyed up, unable to stand still. What the hell am I going to do for the next few hours? I pour hot water onto my chamomile tea bag and stir it round with a spoon. And then I have an idea.

It takes only twenty minutes to pop out and get what I need. Butter, eggs, flour, vanilla, icing sugar. Baking tins. Mixers. A set of scales. Everything, in fact. I cannot believe how badly equipped my kitchen is. How did I ever do any cooking in here?

Well. I didn’t.

I don’t have an apron so I improvise with an old shirt. I don’t have a mixing bowl and I forgot to buy one—so I use the plastic basin given to me as part of an aromatherapy kit. Two hours of whisking and baking later, I’ve produced a cake. Three tiers of vanilla sponge, sandwiched with buttercream, iced with lemon glacé, and decorated with sugar flowers.