The Undomestic Goddess

I barely recognize myself anymore either. I’m tanned from lying in the sun at lunchtimes. There are golden streaks in my hair. My cheeks are full. My arms are gaining muscles from all the polishing and kneading and carting heavy saucepans around.

The summer is in full throttle and each day is hotter than the last. Every morning, before breakfast, Nathaniel walks me back through the village to the Geigers’ house from his flat above the pub—and even at that hour the air is already warming up. I stay there most nights now, and it’s almost got to feel like home. It’s surprisingly spacious, with old sofas covered with cotton throws, and a tiny roof terrace that Nathaniel built himself.

We often sit up there as evening turns into night, listening to the babble of pub-leavers down below. Sometimes Nathaniel’s doing the pub accounts, but he talks to me as he works: about the backgrounds of everyone in the village, about the plants he wants to put into the Geigers’ garden, once explaining the entire geology of the local landscape. I tell him about the day I’ve had with the Geigers and entertain him with stories about the latest catering job I’ve done for Eamonn. It’s become quite a regular event for me—driving off in his scruffy Honda with a couple of other girls from the village, changing into black waitress outfits and serving canapés at some posh party or other.

Everything seems slow and lazy, these days. Everyone’s in holiday mood—except Trish, who is in full frenzy. She’s holding her charity lunch next week, and from the fuss she’s making, you’d think it was a royal wedding.

I’m tidying away the papers that Melissa has left littered on the table when I spot the Carter Spink brochure underneath a folder. I can’t resist picking it up and leafing through the familiar pictures. There are the steps I went up every day of my life for seven years. There’s Guy, looking as dazzling as ever. There’s that girl Sarah from the litigation department, who was up for partnership too. I never even heard if she got it.

“What are you doing?” Melissa has come into the kitchen without me hearing. She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s mine.”

Right. Like I’m going to steal a brochure.

“Just tidying your things,” I say pointedly, putting the brochure down. “I’ve got to use this table.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Melissa rubs her face. She looks haggard. There are shadows under her eyes, and her cheeks seem sunken. Could I have looked that stressed out even at her age?

“You’re working hard,” I volunteer.

“Yah, well.” She lifts her chin. “It’ll be worth it in the end. They work you really hard to start, but after you qualify, it calms down.”

I look at her tired, pinched, arrogant little face. Even if I could tell her what I know, she wouldn’t believe me.

“Yup,” I say after a pause. “I’m sure you’re right.” The Carter Spink brochure is open at a picture of Arnold. He’s wearing a bright blue spotted tie and matching handkerchief and is beaming out at the world. Of all the people at Carter Spink, he’s the one I’d like to see again.

“So are you applying to this law firm?” I ask, stacking the papers on the counter.

“Yup. They’re the best.” Melissa is getting a Diet Coke from the fridge. “That’s the guy who was supposed to be interviewing me.” She points to the picture of Arnold. “But he’s leaving.”

I’m astonished. Arnold’s leaving Carter Spink?

“Are you sure?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Yes.” Melissa regards me quizzically. “What’s it to you?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, throwing down the brochure. “I just meant … he doesn’t look old enough to retire.”

“Well, he’s going.” She grabs the brochure and wanders out of the kitchen.

Arnold is leaving Carter Spink? But he’s always said he’d never retire. He’s always boasted about lasting another twenty years. Why would he be leaving now?

I’m totally out of touch. For more than a month I’ve been living in a bubble. I haven’t seen The Lawyer, I’ve barely even seen a normal paper. I don’t know any of the gossip, and I haven’t cared a bit. But now, as I look at Arnold’s familiar face, I can feel my curiosity rise.

So that afternoon, when I’ve cleared up lunch, I slip into Eddie’s study, switch on the computer, and click on Google. I search for Arnold Saville—and sure enough on the second page I come across a little diary item about his early retirement. I read the fifty-word piece over and over, trying to glean clues. Why would Arnold retire early? Is he ill?