The Undomestic Goddess
Page 6
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“Tell her to … leave it for today. I’ll sort it out.”
As Maggie leaves my office I reach for a pen and memo pad.
1. How switch on oven?
2. Vacuum-cleaner bags—buy
I put the pen down and massage my forehead. I really don’t have time for this. I mean, vacuum bags. I don’t even know what they look like, for God’s sake, let alone where to buy them—
A sudden brain wave hits me. I’ll order a new vacuum cleaner. That’ll come with a bag already installed, surely.
“Samantha.”
“What? What is it?” I give a startled jump and open my eyes. Guy Ashby is standing at my door.
Guy is my best friend in the firm. He’s six foot three with olive skin and dark eyes, and normally he looks every inch the smooth, polished lawyer. But this morning his dark hair is rumpled and there are shadows under his eyes.
“Relax.” Guy smiles. “Only me. Coming to the meeting?”
He has the most devastating smile. It’s not just me; everyone noticed it the minute he arrived at the firm.
“Oh. Er … yes, I am.” I pick up my papers, then add carelessly, “Are you OK, Guy? You look a bit rough.”
He broke up with his girlfriend. They had bitter rows all night and she’s walked off for good.…
No, she’s emigrated to New Zealand.…
“All-nighter,” he says, wincing. “Fucking Ketterman. He’s inhuman.” He yawns widely, showing the perfect white teeth he had fixed when he was at Harvard Law School.
He says it wasn’t his choice. Apparently they don’t let you graduate until you’ve been OK’d by the cosmetic surgeon.
“Bummer.” I grin in sympathy, then push back my chair. “Let’s go.”
I’ve known Guy for a year, ever since he joined the corporate department as a partner. He’s intelligent and funny, and works the same way I do, and we just somehow … click.
And yes. It’s possible that some kind of romance would have happened between us if things had been different. But there was a stupid misunderstanding, and …
Anyway. It didn’t. The details aren’t important. It’s not something I dwell on. We’re friends—and that’s fine by me.
OK, this is exactly what happened.
Apparently Guy noticed me his first day at the firm, just like I noticed him. And he was interested. He asked Nigel MacDermot, who had the next-door office to him, if I was single. Which I was.
This is the crucial part: I was single. I’d just split up with Jacob. But Nigel MacDermot—who is a stupid, stupid, thoughtless behind-the-times moron—told Guy I was attached to a senior partner at Berry Forbes.
Even though I was single.
If you ask me, the system is majorly flawed. It should be clearer. People should have engaged signs, like toilets. Taken. Not-Taken. There should be no ambiguity about these things.
Anyway, I didn’t have a sign. Or if I did, it was the wrong one. There were a slightly embarrassing few weeks where I smiled a lot at Guy—and he looked awkward and started avoiding me, because he didn’t want to a) break up a relationship or b) have a threesome with me and Jacob.
I didn’t understand what was going on, so I backed off. Then I heard through the grapevine he’d started going out with a girl called Charlotte who he’d met at some weekend party. They live together now. A month or two later we worked together on a deal, and got to know each other as friends—and that’s pretty much the whole story.
I mean, it’s fine. Really. That’s the way it goes. Some things happen—and some things don’t. This one obviously just wasn’t meant to be.
Except deep down … I still believe it was.
“So,” says Guy as we walk along the corridor to the meeting room. “What was Ketterman in your room for earlier?”
“Oh, the usual. A due diligence report. Have it back by yesterday, that kind of thing. Like I’m not snowed under already.”
“Everyone wants you to do their work for them, that’s why,” says Guy. He shoots me a concerned look. “You want to delegate anything? I could speak to Ketterman—”
“No, thanks,” I reply at once. “I can do it.”
“You don’t want anyone to help.” He sounds amused. “You’d rather die, smothered by a heap of due diligence files.”
“Like you’re not the same!” I retort.
Guy hates admitting defeat or asking for help as much as I do. Last year he sprained his leg in a skiing accident and point-blank refused to use the crutch that the firm’s doctor gave him. His secretary kept running after him with it down corridors, but he’d just tell her to take it away and use it as a coat stand.
As Maggie leaves my office I reach for a pen and memo pad.
1. How switch on oven?
2. Vacuum-cleaner bags—buy
I put the pen down and massage my forehead. I really don’t have time for this. I mean, vacuum bags. I don’t even know what they look like, for God’s sake, let alone where to buy them—
A sudden brain wave hits me. I’ll order a new vacuum cleaner. That’ll come with a bag already installed, surely.
“Samantha.”
“What? What is it?” I give a startled jump and open my eyes. Guy Ashby is standing at my door.
Guy is my best friend in the firm. He’s six foot three with olive skin and dark eyes, and normally he looks every inch the smooth, polished lawyer. But this morning his dark hair is rumpled and there are shadows under his eyes.
“Relax.” Guy smiles. “Only me. Coming to the meeting?”
He has the most devastating smile. It’s not just me; everyone noticed it the minute he arrived at the firm.
“Oh. Er … yes, I am.” I pick up my papers, then add carelessly, “Are you OK, Guy? You look a bit rough.”
He broke up with his girlfriend. They had bitter rows all night and she’s walked off for good.…
No, she’s emigrated to New Zealand.…
“All-nighter,” he says, wincing. “Fucking Ketterman. He’s inhuman.” He yawns widely, showing the perfect white teeth he had fixed when he was at Harvard Law School.
He says it wasn’t his choice. Apparently they don’t let you graduate until you’ve been OK’d by the cosmetic surgeon.
“Bummer.” I grin in sympathy, then push back my chair. “Let’s go.”
I’ve known Guy for a year, ever since he joined the corporate department as a partner. He’s intelligent and funny, and works the same way I do, and we just somehow … click.
And yes. It’s possible that some kind of romance would have happened between us if things had been different. But there was a stupid misunderstanding, and …
Anyway. It didn’t. The details aren’t important. It’s not something I dwell on. We’re friends—and that’s fine by me.
OK, this is exactly what happened.
Apparently Guy noticed me his first day at the firm, just like I noticed him. And he was interested. He asked Nigel MacDermot, who had the next-door office to him, if I was single. Which I was.
This is the crucial part: I was single. I’d just split up with Jacob. But Nigel MacDermot—who is a stupid, stupid, thoughtless behind-the-times moron—told Guy I was attached to a senior partner at Berry Forbes.
Even though I was single.
If you ask me, the system is majorly flawed. It should be clearer. People should have engaged signs, like toilets. Taken. Not-Taken. There should be no ambiguity about these things.
Anyway, I didn’t have a sign. Or if I did, it was the wrong one. There were a slightly embarrassing few weeks where I smiled a lot at Guy—and he looked awkward and started avoiding me, because he didn’t want to a) break up a relationship or b) have a threesome with me and Jacob.
I didn’t understand what was going on, so I backed off. Then I heard through the grapevine he’d started going out with a girl called Charlotte who he’d met at some weekend party. They live together now. A month or two later we worked together on a deal, and got to know each other as friends—and that’s pretty much the whole story.
I mean, it’s fine. Really. That’s the way it goes. Some things happen—and some things don’t. This one obviously just wasn’t meant to be.
Except deep down … I still believe it was.
“So,” says Guy as we walk along the corridor to the meeting room. “What was Ketterman in your room for earlier?”
“Oh, the usual. A due diligence report. Have it back by yesterday, that kind of thing. Like I’m not snowed under already.”
“Everyone wants you to do their work for them, that’s why,” says Guy. He shoots me a concerned look. “You want to delegate anything? I could speak to Ketterman—”
“No, thanks,” I reply at once. “I can do it.”
“You don’t want anyone to help.” He sounds amused. “You’d rather die, smothered by a heap of due diligence files.”
“Like you’re not the same!” I retort.
Guy hates admitting defeat or asking for help as much as I do. Last year he sprained his leg in a skiing accident and point-blank refused to use the crutch that the firm’s doctor gave him. His secretary kept running after him with it down corridors, but he’d just tell her to take it away and use it as a coat stand.
