The Undomestic Goddess

“Eject me?” I stare at the phone in disbelief.

“I’m sorry. I really am. And I don’t blame you!” she adds fervently. “I thought what Arnold did to you was really shocking! A lot of us do.”

What he did to me? Does Lara know the memo was planted?

“What—what do you mean?” I stammer.

“The way he got you fired!” says Lara.

“What?” I feel like all the breath has been squeezed from my chest. “What are you talking about?”

“I did wonder if you knew.” She lowers her voice. “He’s leaving now, so I can say it. I took the minutes at that meeting, after you ran off. And Arnold talked round all the other partners. He said you were a liability and they couldn’t risk taking you back and all sorts. A lot of them wanted to give you another chance, you know.” She clicks her tongue. “I was appalled. Of course, I couldn’t say anything to Arnold.”

“Of course not,” I manage. “Thanks for telling me, Lara. I … had no idea.”

Everything is distorted. Arnold didn’t fight my corner at all. He got me fired. I don’t know this man at all. All that genial, affable charm—it’s an act. It’s a bloody act.

With a sickening lurch I suddenly recall him the day after it happened, insisting I should stay where I was, not come back. That’s why. He wanted me out of the way so I couldn’t fight for myself. So he could stitch me up.

And I trusted him. Totally and utterly. Like a stupid, stupid gullible fool.

My chest is heaving painfully. All my doubts have disappeared. Arnold is in on something crooked. I know it. He planted that memo, knowing it would destroy my career.

And in a week he’ll have disappeared to the Bahamas. I feel a stab of panic. I need to take action now.

“Lara,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Could you put me through to Guy Ashby?”

I know Guy and I had a row. But he’s the only person I can think of right now who’ll be able to help me.

“Guy’s in Hong Kong,” says Lara in surprise. “Didn’t you know?”

“Right,” I say, my heart plummeting. “No. I … didn’t know.”

“But he’ll have his BlackBerry with him,” she adds helpfully. “You could send him an e-mail.”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “Yes, maybe I’ll do that.”

Twenty

I can’t do it. I just can’t. There is no way of writing this e-mail without sounding like a paranoid crazy.

I look in despair at my tenth attempt.

Dear Guy,

I need you to help me. I think I have been set up by Arnold. I think he planted that memo on my desk. Something is going on. He has family links with both BLLC Holdings and Glazerbrooks, did you know that?? Why did he never tell anyone? And now he’s banned me from the building, which in itself is suspicious—

I sound delusional. I sound like some bitter, twisted ex-employee with a grudge.

Which of course is what I am.

As I run my eyes over my words, I’m reminded of nothing more than the wild-eyed old woman who used to stand at the corner of our street, muttering, “They’re coming to GET me.”

I have total sympathy for that old woman now. They probably were coming to get her.

Guy will just laugh. I can see him now. Arnold Saville a crook? It sounds insane. Maybe I am insane. It’s only a theory. I don’t have evidence; I don’t have anything solid. I lean forward and rest my head hopelessly on my hands. No one’s ever going to believe me. Or even listen to me.

If I only had some proof. But where am I supposed to get that from?

A bleeping from my mobile phone makes me jump, and I look up blearily. I’d almost forgotten where I was. I pick it up and see that I’ve got a text.

I’m downstairs. have a surprise to show you. nat

As I head downstairs, I’m really not with it. Flashes of anger keep overwhelming me as I think of Arnold’s jocular smile, the way he encouraged my messy desk, the way he told me he’d do his very best for me, the way he listened as I blamed myself, as I apologized and groveled …

The worst thing is, I never even tried to defend myself. I never questioned the fact that I couldn’t remember seeing the memo. I immediately assumed the worst of myself, assumed it was my fault for having such a messy desk.

Arnold knows me pretty well. Maybe that’s what he was counting on.

Bastard. Bastard.

“Hi.” Nathaniel waves a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Samantha.”

“Oh … Sorry. Hi!” Somehow I muster a smile.

“Come this way.” He grins and ushers me out to his car, which is an ancient Beetle convertible. As usual, rows of seed pots are crowding the backseat and an old wooden spade is sticking out of the back.