“I am working as a housekeeper!” I retort. “And I’m not turning you down because I’m angry. I’m turning you down because I don’t want the job.”
“Samantha, you wanted partnership more than anything else in the world!” Guy grabs my arm. “I know you did! You’ve worked for it for all these years. You can’t throw it away! It’s too valuable.”
“What if I don’t value it anymore?”
“It’s been less than two months! Everything can’t have changed!”
“It has. I have.”
Guy shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re really serious about the housekeeper thing.”
“I’m really serious,” I snap. “What’s wrong with being a housekeeper?”
“Oh, for God’s—” He stops himself. “Look, Samantha, come upstairs. We’ll talk about it. The human-resources department has come on board. You lost your job … you were badly treated … it’s no wonder you can’t think straight. They’re suggesting counseling.”
“I don’t need counseling!” I turn on my heel and start down the stairs again. “Just because I don’t want to be a lawyer, what, I’m crazy?”
I reach the bottom of the stairwell and burst into the foyer with Guy in hot pursuit. Hilary Grant, head of PR, is sitting on a leather sofa with some red-suited woman I don’t recognize, and they both look up in surprise.
“Samantha you cannot do this!” Guy is shouting after me as he emerges into the foyer. “You are one of the most talented lawyers I know. I cannot let you turn down partnership to be a fucking … housekeeper.”
“Why not, if it’s what I want to do?” I come to a halt on the marble and spin round to face him. “Guy … I’ve found out what it’s like to have a life! I’ve found out what it’s like not working every weekend. Not feeling pressure all the time. And … I like it!”
Guy isn’t listening to a word I say. He doesn’t even want to understand.
“You’re going to stand there and tell me you prefer cleaning loos to being a partner at Carter Spink?” His face is flushed with outrage.
“Yes!” I say defiantly. “Yes, I do!”
“Who’s that?” says the woman in the red suit with interest.
“Samantha, you’re making the biggest mistake of your entire existence!” Guy’s voice follows me as I reach the glass doors. “If you walk out now—”
I don’t wait to hear any more. I’m out the door. Down the steps. Gone.
You’re making the biggest mistake of your entire existence. As I sit on the train back to Gloucestershire, Guy’s words keep ringing in my ears.
Once upon a time, just that thought would have sent me into a tailspin. But not anymore. He has no idea.
If I’ve learned one lesson from all that’s happened to me, it’s that there is no such thing as the biggest mistake of your existence. There’s no such thing as ruining your life. Life’s a pretty resilient thing, it turns out.
When I arrive at Lower Ebury I head straight to the pub. Nathaniel is behind the bar, wearing a chambray shirt I’ve never seen before, talking to Eamonn. For a few moments I just watch him from the doorway. His strong hands; the slant of his neck; the way his brow furrows as he nods. I can tell at once he disagrees with whatever Eamonn is saying. But he’s waiting, wanting to be tactful about making his point. He knows how people work.
As if he can sense me watching him, he looks up and his face jolts. He smiles in welcome—but I can see the tension underneath. This last couple of days can’t have been easy for him. Maybe he thought I’d get suckered in to my old relationship, that I wasn’t coming back.
A roar goes up from the dartboard. Bill, a local farmer I’ve gotten to know, turns and spots me walking toward the bar.
“Samantha!” he shouts. “At last! We need you on our team!”
“In a sec!” I call over my shoulder. “Hi,” I say as I reach Nathaniel. “Nice shirt.”
“Hi,” he says casually. “Good trip?”
“Not bad.” I nod. Nathaniel lifts up the bar for me to come through, his eyes searching my face as though for clues.
“So … is it over?”
“Yes.” I put my arms around him and hug him tight. “It’s over.”
And at that moment, I truly believe it is.
Twenty-three
Nothing happens until lunchtime the next day.
I make the breakfast for Trish and Eddie as usual. I hoover and dust as usual. Then I put on Iris’s apron, get out the chopping board, and start squeezing oranges. I’m going to make bitter chocolate and orange mousse for the charity lunch tomorrow. We’re going to serve it on a bed of crystallized orange slices, and each plate is going to be garnished with a real silver-leaf angel from a Christmas-decoration catalog.
