The Undomestic Goddess
Page 113
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“I’ve got used to having a life,” she said, as partners begged her to stay.
A former Carter Spink employee who declined to be named confirmed the brutal working conditions of the legal firm. “They expect you to sell your soul,” he said. “I had to resign from stress. No wonder she prefers manual labor.”
A spokeswoman for Carter Spink defended the firm’s practices. “We are a flexible, modern firm with a sympathetic working ethos. We would like to talk to Samantha about her views and would certainly not expect employees to ‘sell their soul.’ ”
VANISHED
She confirmed that Ms. Sweeting’s job offer is still open and Carter Spink partners are anxious to talk to her. However, in a further extraordinary twist, this modern-day Cinderella has not been seen since running away from the offices.
WHERE IS SHE?
See comment, page 34.
I peer at it in a daze. See comment? There’s more?
With fumbling hands I turn to page 34.
THE PRICE OF SUCCESS—TOO HIGH?
A high-flying lawyer with everything ahead of her gives up a six-figure salary and turns to domestic drudgery instead. What does this story say about today’s high-pressure society? Are our career women being pushed too hard? Are they burning out? Does this extraordinary story herald the start of a new trend?
One thing is for certain. Only Samantha Sweeting can answer.
I stare at the page, numb. How did—what did—How?
A flash interrupts me and I lift my head to see the guy pointing his camera at me.
“Stop!” I say, putting my hands up in front of my face.
“Can I have a picture of you holding a toilet brush, love?” he says, zooming his lens in. “It was a waitress in Cheltenham pointed me in the right direction. Reckoned she’d worked with you. Quite a scoop!” The camera flashes again and I flinch.
“No! You … you’ve made a mistake!” I shove the paper back at him in a mess of pages. “My name’s Sarah. I’m not a lawyer. Whatever that waitress said … she was wrong.”
The journalist looks at me suspiciously, and down at the photo again. I can see a flicker of doubt cross his face. I do look fairly different now from the way I did then, with my blond hair and everything.
“Please leave,” I say. “My employers won’t like it.” I wait until he steps off the doorstep, then slam the door shut and turn the key. Then I pull the curtain across the window and lean back against the door, my heart thudding. Fuck. Fuck. What am I going to do?
OK. The important thing is not to panic. The important thing is to stay rational.
On the one hand, my entire past has been exposed in a national tabloid. On the other hand, Trish and Eddie don’t read that particular tabloid. Or the Cheltenham Gazette. It’s one silly story in one silly paper and it will die away by tomorrow. There’s no reason to tell them anything. There’s no need to rock the boat. I’ll just carry on making my chocolate-orange mousses as though nothing has happened. Yes. Total denial is the way forward.
Feeling slightly better, I reach for the chocolate and start breaking chunks into a glass bowl.
“Samantha! Who was that?” Trish pokes her head round the door.
“No one.” I look up with a fixed smile. “Nothing. Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee and bring it out to the garden?”
Keep calm. Denial. It’ll all be fine.
OK. Denial’s not going to work, because there are three more journalists in the drive.
It’s twenty minutes later. I’ve abandoned my chocolate mousses and am peering out the hall window in rising dismay. Two blokes and a girl have appeared out of nowhere. They all have cameras and are chatting to the guy in the polo shirt, who’s gesticulating toward the kitchen. Occasionally one of them breaks off and takes a shot of the house. Any minute one of them is going to ring the doorbell.
I cannot let this develop. I need a new plan. I need …
Diversion. Yes. At least it might buy me some time.
I head to the front door, grabbing one of Trish’s floppy straw hats on the way. Then I cautiously step outside and make my way down the gravel drive to the entrance, where the four journalists crowd around me.
“Are you Samantha Sweeting?” says one, thrusting a tape recorder in my face.
“Do you regret turning down partnership?” demands another.
“My name’s Sarah,” I say, keeping my head down. “You’ve got the wrong girl. Kindly leave the premises at once.”
I wait for the stampede, but no one moves.
“You’ve all made a mistake!” I try again. “If you don’t leave … I’ll call the police.”
A former Carter Spink employee who declined to be named confirmed the brutal working conditions of the legal firm. “They expect you to sell your soul,” he said. “I had to resign from stress. No wonder she prefers manual labor.”
A spokeswoman for Carter Spink defended the firm’s practices. “We are a flexible, modern firm with a sympathetic working ethos. We would like to talk to Samantha about her views and would certainly not expect employees to ‘sell their soul.’ ”
VANISHED
She confirmed that Ms. Sweeting’s job offer is still open and Carter Spink partners are anxious to talk to her. However, in a further extraordinary twist, this modern-day Cinderella has not been seen since running away from the offices.
WHERE IS SHE?
See comment, page 34.
I peer at it in a daze. See comment? There’s more?
With fumbling hands I turn to page 34.
THE PRICE OF SUCCESS—TOO HIGH?
A high-flying lawyer with everything ahead of her gives up a six-figure salary and turns to domestic drudgery instead. What does this story say about today’s high-pressure society? Are our career women being pushed too hard? Are they burning out? Does this extraordinary story herald the start of a new trend?
One thing is for certain. Only Samantha Sweeting can answer.
I stare at the page, numb. How did—what did—How?
A flash interrupts me and I lift my head to see the guy pointing his camera at me.
“Stop!” I say, putting my hands up in front of my face.
“Can I have a picture of you holding a toilet brush, love?” he says, zooming his lens in. “It was a waitress in Cheltenham pointed me in the right direction. Reckoned she’d worked with you. Quite a scoop!” The camera flashes again and I flinch.
“No! You … you’ve made a mistake!” I shove the paper back at him in a mess of pages. “My name’s Sarah. I’m not a lawyer. Whatever that waitress said … she was wrong.”
The journalist looks at me suspiciously, and down at the photo again. I can see a flicker of doubt cross his face. I do look fairly different now from the way I did then, with my blond hair and everything.
“Please leave,” I say. “My employers won’t like it.” I wait until he steps off the doorstep, then slam the door shut and turn the key. Then I pull the curtain across the window and lean back against the door, my heart thudding. Fuck. Fuck. What am I going to do?
OK. The important thing is not to panic. The important thing is to stay rational.
On the one hand, my entire past has been exposed in a national tabloid. On the other hand, Trish and Eddie don’t read that particular tabloid. Or the Cheltenham Gazette. It’s one silly story in one silly paper and it will die away by tomorrow. There’s no reason to tell them anything. There’s no need to rock the boat. I’ll just carry on making my chocolate-orange mousses as though nothing has happened. Yes. Total denial is the way forward.
Feeling slightly better, I reach for the chocolate and start breaking chunks into a glass bowl.
“Samantha! Who was that?” Trish pokes her head round the door.
“No one.” I look up with a fixed smile. “Nothing. Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee and bring it out to the garden?”
Keep calm. Denial. It’ll all be fine.
OK. Denial’s not going to work, because there are three more journalists in the drive.
It’s twenty minutes later. I’ve abandoned my chocolate mousses and am peering out the hall window in rising dismay. Two blokes and a girl have appeared out of nowhere. They all have cameras and are chatting to the guy in the polo shirt, who’s gesticulating toward the kitchen. Occasionally one of them breaks off and takes a shot of the house. Any minute one of them is going to ring the doorbell.
I cannot let this develop. I need a new plan. I need …
Diversion. Yes. At least it might buy me some time.
I head to the front door, grabbing one of Trish’s floppy straw hats on the way. Then I cautiously step outside and make my way down the gravel drive to the entrance, where the four journalists crowd around me.
“Are you Samantha Sweeting?” says one, thrusting a tape recorder in my face.
“Do you regret turning down partnership?” demands another.
“My name’s Sarah,” I say, keeping my head down. “You’ve got the wrong girl. Kindly leave the premises at once.”
I wait for the stampede, but no one moves.
“You’ve all made a mistake!” I try again. “If you don’t leave … I’ll call the police.”
