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On Sale: July 19, 2005
Hardcover
368 pages
ISBN 0385338686
Workaholic attorney Samantha Sweeting has just done the unthinkable. She's made a mistake so huge, it'll wreck any chance of a partnership.
Going into utter meltdown, she walks out of her London office, gets on a train, and ends up in the middle of nowhere. Asking for directions at a big, beautiful house, she's mistaken for an interviewee and finds herself being offered a job as housekeeper. Her employers have no idea they've hired a lawyer-and Samantha has no idea how to work the oven. She can't sew on a button, bake a potato, or get the #@%# ironing board to open. How she takes a deep breath and begins to cope-and finds love-is a story as delicious as the bread she learns to bake.
But will her old life ever catch up with her? And if it does…will she want it back?
Whether your dust bunnies have become full-fledged rabbits and you consider speed-dialing Dominos a viable form of "cooking" or you frequently wield a feather duster while waiting for your homemade dough to rise, you're sure to derive vicarious pleasure from reading Sophie Kinsella's latest, THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS. Kinsella, bestselling author of the popular Shopaholic series as well as the novel CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?, crafts her new tale about one very domestically challenged young woman using the same winning ingredients that made her previous books so successful: a loveable heroine with slightly skewed priorities, a hilarious series of misadventures, and a gratifying personal transformation.
This time, the author turns her wicked sense of humor on a very different type of character from her infamous fictional heroine, endearing shopaholic Becky Bloomwood, for whom shopping always came first and career a distant second. Nothing could be further from the reality of Samantha Sweeting, a stressed-out, high-powered attorney who definitely doesn't have time to shop, let alone cook, clean, have any form of social life or even celebrate her own birthday. She's too busy racking up billable hours while trying to make partner at her high-flying London law firm. And at the young age of 29, it appears she just may have succeeded.
But on the same day she learns of her impending partnership, she also discovers an important legal document that she forgot to register buried on her desk. Her initial dismay turns to horror as it becomes apparent that this mistake is going to cost the firm's client a hundred million dollars. Stunned by the news and visualizing everything she's worked for crashing down around her, she does the only sensible thing she can think of --- runs away. In a shell-shocked daze, she ends up on a train to the remote British countryside where an amusing chain of events leads to her being mistaken for an interviewee for a housekeeping position.
Exhausted and still reeling from shame, she initially plays along with the case of mistaken identity, just until she can clear her head and get a good night's rest. But by the next day, more horror sets in as she recalls the "slight" exaggerations she told her new "employers," such as her extensive cleaning experience and degree in Cordon Bleu cooking (despite the fact that she can't boil water and has never operated a vacuum!).
With every intention of coming clean, her resolve weakens after hearing confirmation of her firing, seeing her name splashed across Internet chat rooms, and finding herself abandoned by former colleagues as well as chastised by her mother, who's also a high-powered attorney. Defiantly, Samantha decides to stay on where she's at least wanted, even if it is under false pretenses and in a job she's not qualified to do. In her competitive mindset, it's a new challenge that she'll simply rise to meet. Needless to say, this proves easier said than done, and mayhem soon unfolds as she is forced to follow through on promises of elegant six-course dinners and stacks of neatly pressed laundry.
With the aid of some newfound allies, Samantha is able to salvage her charade by actually mastering the domestic arts, in the process finding unexpected romance and learning how to take pleasure in life for the first time ever, and not in six-minute, billable intervals. When a surprising turn of events unfolds, her bucolic way of life is shattered and she is forced to decide which version of reality she wants to claim as her own.
Both the domestically challenged and doyennes of domesticity alike will find resonance in the book's message about taking pleasure in the little things in life during today's hectic times. Delivered with the author's inimitable sense of humor and knack for capturing the comic in everyday situations, THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS is reason enough to put down your feather duster or turn off your computer and lose yourself in the pages of some escapist summer reading.
--- Reviewed by Joni Rendon
Sophie Kinsella is a former financial journalist and the author of the bestselling novels CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC, SHOPAHOLIC TAKES MANHATTAN, SHOPAHOLIC TIES THE KNOT, SHOPAHOLIC & SISTER and, CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET?. She lives in England, where she is at work on her next book.
Sophie Kinsella, author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, discusses her latest release, THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS, and her attempts at tackling the "home-making" side of life in preparation for the novel. She also reveals just how much of herself can be found in her characters, as well as the "true" source of inspiration behind her books.
Questions I am often asked:
1. Where did you get your shoes?
Answer, usually: Selfridges.
2. Where do you get your ideas for books?
Answer, usually: Selfridges. (Note: they are not actually on sale. But the number of times an idea has come to me just as I'm reaching for a reduced purse...)
3. Are you Becky Bloomwood, Emma Corrigan or Samantha Sweeting?
Answer: Er...all of them. Kind of.
I can't help but put myself into my heroines. While I may be a tad more controlled than Becky, I do love to shop. And I do mentally itemize my clothes before I go out, just in case a magazine reporter stops me to ask....
Like Emma Corrigan I have plenty of embarrassing secrets. In fact, some of hers are taken straight from my own life. (And no, I'm not divulging which ones).
And Samantha Sweeting, the girl who is domestically incapable? Who can't work her own oven, let alone figure out an ironing board? Well...um...yes. Check.
I have never been able to crack the whole domestic goddess thing. God knows I've tried. I've bought the cake tins, the whisks, the wooden spoons. I've pored through Nigella Lawson books. I've tried to make cute little cupcakes, just like she does. Unlike her, I put my first batch into the oven, sat down feeling pleased with myself --- then suddenly noticed a bowl of carefully-measured flour destined for the cakes, still sitting on the counter...
So to write THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS, I actually had to learn about the home-making side of life. An old friend taught me to make bread. I investigated the ironing board for the first time since I married a man who can iron. I bought the fabbest, kitschy aprons. I learned, to my astonishment, that being a domestic goddess can be fun! It's been pretty inspirational to learn a few new skills around the house. Although strangely enough, I haven't yet learned how to take out garbage bags. Something tells me that one might take a while to master... :)
Sophie Kinsella
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Four
I wake at six a.m. with my heart pounding, half on my feet, scrabbling for a pen, and saying out loud, "What? What?"
Which is pretty much how I always wake up. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. Last Christmas at Mum's house I crept into the kitchen at about three a.m. for a drink of water --- to find Mum in her dressing gown reading a court report, and Daniel swigging a Xanax as he checked the Hang Seng Index on TV.
I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. All the work, all the studying, all the late nights . . .it's all been for this day.
Partner. Or not Partner.
Oh, God. Stop it. Don't think about it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Dammit. I'm out of milk.
And coffee.
I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman.
I reach for a Biro and scrawl 47. Food delivery/milkman? at the bottom of my TO DO list.
My TO DO list is written on a piece of paper pinned up on the wall and is a useful reminder of things I'm intending to do. It's yellowing a bit now, actually --- and the ink at the top of the list has become so faint I can barely read it. But it's a good way to keep myself organized.
I should really cross off some of the early entries, it occurs to me. I mean, the original list dates from when I first moved into my flat, three years ago. I must have done some of this stuff by now. I pick up a pen and squint at the first few faded entries.
1. Find milkman
2. Food delivery --- organize?
3. How switch on oven?
Oh. Right.
Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized. At the weekend. And I'll get to grips with the oven. I'll read the manual and everything.
I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old.
16. Sort out milkman
17. Have friends over?
18.Take up hobby??
The thing is, I am meaning to have some friends over. And take up a hobby. When work is less busy.
I look down to even later entries --- maybe a year old --- where the ink is still blue.
41. Go on holiday?
42. Give dinner party?
43. MILKMAN??
I stare at the list in slight frustration. How can I have done nothing on my list? Crossly, I throw my pen down and turn on the kettle, resisting the temptation to rip the list into bits.
The kettle has come to a boil and I make myself a cup of weird herbal tea I was once given by a client. I reach for an apple from the fruit bowl --- only to discover it's gone all moldy. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.
The truth is, I don't care about the list. There's only one thing I care about.
I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. I'll just keep my head down and get on with my work. But as I travel up in the lift, three people murmur "Good luck," and walking along the corridor a guy from Tax grasps me meaningfully on the shoulder.
"Best of luck, Samantha."
How does he know my name?
I head hurriedly into my office and close the door, trying to ignore the fact that through the glass partition I can see people talking in the corridor and glancing in my direction.
I really shouldn't have come in today. I should have feigned a life-threatening illness.
Anyway. It's fine. I'll just start on some work, like any other day. I open Ketterman's file, find my place, and start reading through a document that codifies a five-year-old share transfer.
"Samantha?"
I look up. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk.
"Hi," he says. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," I say, turning a page in a businesslike manner. "I'm fine. Just . . . normal. In fact, I don't know what all the fuss is."
Guy's amused expression is flustering me slightly. I flip over another page to prove my point --- and somehow knock the entire file to the floor.
Thank God for paper clips.
Red-faced, I shove all the papers back inside the file and take a sip of coffee.
"Uh-huh." Guy nods gravely. "Well, it's a good thing you're not nervous or jumpy or anything."
"Yes," I say, refusing to take the bait. "Isn't it?"
"See you later." He lifts his coffee cup as though toasting me, then walks off. I look at my watch.
Only eight fifty-three. The partners' decision meeting starts in seven minutes. I'm not sure I can bear this.
Somehow I get through the morning. I finish up Ketterman's file and make a start at my report. I'm halfway through the third paragraph when Guy appears at my office door again.
"Hi," I say without looking up. "I'm fine, OK? And I haven't heard anything."
Guy doesn't reply.
At last I lift my head. He's right in front of my desk, looking down at me with the strangest expression, as if affection and pride and excitement are all mixed together under his poker-straight face.
"I should not be doing this," he murmurs, then leans in closer. "You did it, Samantha. You're a partner. You'll hear officially in an hour."
For an instant I can't breathe.
"You didn't hear it from me, OK?" Guy's face creases briefly in a smile. "Well done."
I made it. I made it.
"Thanks . . ." I manage.
"I'll see you later. Congratulate you properly." He turns and strides away, and I'm left staring unseeingly at my computer.
I made partner.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD!
I'm feeling a terrible urge to leap to my feet and cry out "YES!" How do I survive an hour? How can I just sit here calmly? I can't possibly concentrate on Ketterman's report. It isn't due until tomorrow, anyway.
I shove the file away from me --- and a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal. Ketterman's right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesn't look like a partner's desk.
I'll tidy it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour.
12:06-1:06: office administration. We even have a code for it on the computer time sheet.
I had forgotten how much I detest tidying.
All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company letters . . . contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing . . . old invitations . . . memos . . . a Pilates pamphlet . . . a CD that I bought three months ago and thought I'd lost . . . last year's Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume . . . I smile at the sight, and put it into the things to find a place for pile. There are tombstones too --- the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. And . . . oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didn't finish eating at one time or another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers.
They shouldn't give us such big desks. I can't believe how much stuff is on here. Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework. PARTNER! Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old copy of The Lawyer and wonder why on earth I'm keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. It's a memo from Arnold.
Re Third Union Bank.
Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd.
Please attend to registration at Companies House.
I peer at it without great interest. Third Union Bank is Arnold's client, and I've only dealt with them once. The bank has agreed to loan £50 million to Glazerbrooks, a big building-materials company, and all I have to do is register the security document within twenty-one days at Companies House. It's just another of the mundane jobs that partners are always dumping on my desk. Well, not anymore, I think with a surge of determination. In fact, I think I'll delegate this to someone else, right now. I glance automatically at the date.
Then I look again. The security document is dated May 26th.
Five weeks ago? That can't be right.
Puzzled, I flip quickly through the papers, looking to see if there's been a typo. There must be a typo --- but the date is consistent throughout. May 26th.
May 26th?
I sit, frozen, staring at the document. Has this thing been on my desk for five weeks?
But . . . it can't. I mean . . . it couldn't. That would mean ---
It would mean I've missed the deadline.
I can't have made such a basic mistake. I cannot possibly have failed to register a charge before the deadline. I always register charges before the deadline.
I close my eyes and try to remain calm. It's the excitement of being partner. It's addled my brain. OK. Let's look at this again, carefully.
But the memo says exactly the same thing as before. Attend to registration. Dated May 26th.Which would mean I've exposed Third Union Bank to an unsecured loan. Which would mean I've made about the most elementary mistake a lawyer can make.
There's a kind of iciness about my spine. I'm trying desperately to remember if Arnold said anything about the deal to me. I can't even remember him mentioning it. But then --- why would he mention a simple loan agreement? We do loan agreements in our sleep. He would have assumed I'd carried out his instructions. He would have trusted me.
Oh, Jesus.
I leaf through the pages again, searching desperately for some loophole. Some miracle clause that will have me exclaiming "Oh, of course!" in relief. But of course it's not there.
How could this have happened? Did I even notice this? Did I sweep it aside, meaning to do it later?
What am I going to do? A wall of panic hits me as I take in the consequences. Third Union Bank has lent Glazerbrooks£50 million. Without the charge being registered, this loan --- this multimillion-pound loan --- is unsecured. If Glazerbrooks went bust tomorrow, Third Union Bank would go to the back of the queue of creditors. And probably end up with nothing.
"Samantha!" says Maggie at the door. Instinctively I plant my hand over the memo even though she wouldn't realize the significance, anyway.
"I just heard!" she says in a stage whisper. "Guy let it slip!
Congratulations!"
"Um. . . thanks!" Somehow I force my mouth into a smile.
"I'm just getting a cup of tea. D'you want one?"
"That'd be . . . great. Thanks."
Maggie disappears and I bury my head in my hands. I'm trying to keep calm, but inside is a great well of terror. I have to face it. I've made a mistake. I have made a mistake. What am I going to do? I can't think straight ---
Then suddenly Guy's words from yesterday ring in my ears, and I feel an almost painful flood of relief. A mistake isn't a mistake unless it can't be put right. Yes. The point is, I can put this right. I can still register a charge.
The process will be excruciating. I'll have to tell the bank what I've done --- and Glazerbrooks --- and Arnold --- and Ketterman. I'll have to have new documentation drawn up. And, worst of all, live with everyone knowing I've made the kind of stupid, thoughtless error a trainee would make. It might mean an end to my partnership. I feel sick --- but there's no other option. I have to put the situation right.
Quickly I log on to the Companies House Web site and enter a search for Glazerbrooks. As long as no other charges have been registered against Glazerbrooks in the meantime, it will all come to the same thing. . . .
I stare at the page in disbelief.
No.
It can't be.
There's a new debenture in Glazerbrooks' charge register, securing £50 million owed to some company called BLLC Holdings. It was registered last week. Third Union Bank has been bumped down the creditors' queue.
My mind is helter-skeltering. This isn't good. It's not good. I have to talk to someone quickly. I have to do something about this now, before any more charges are made. I have to . . . to tell Arnold.
Just the thought paralyzes me with horror.
I can't do it. I just can't go out and announce I've made the most basic, elementary error and put £50 million of our client's money at risk. What I'll do is . . . is start sorting out the mess first, before I tell anyone here. Have the damage limitation under way. Yes. I'll call the bank first. The sooner they know, the better ---
"Samantha?"
"What?" I practically leap out of my chair.
"You're nervy today!" Maggie laughs and comes toward the desk with a cup of tea. "Feeling on top of the world?"
For an instant I honestly have no idea what she's talking about. My world has been reduced to me and my mistake and what I'm going to do about it.
"Oh! Right. Yes!" I try to grin back and surreptitiously wipe my damp hands on a tissue.
"I bet you haven't come down off your high yet!" She leans against the filing cabinet. "I've got some champagne in the fridge, all ready. . . ."
"Er . . . great! Actually, Maggie, I've really got to get on. . . ."
"Oh." She looks hurt. "Well, OK. I'll leave you."
As she walks out I can see indignation in the set of her shoulders. She probably thinks I'm a total cow. But every minute is another minute of risk. I have to call the bank. Immediately.
I search through the attached contact sheet and find the name and number of our contact at Third Union. Charles Conway.
This is the man I have to call. This is the man whose day I have to disturb and admit that I've totally messed up. With trembling hands I pick up the phone. I feel as though I'm psyching myself up to dive into a noxious swamp.
For a few moments I just sit there, staring at the keypad, willing myself to punch in the number. At last, I reach out and dial. As it rings, my heart begins to pound.
"Charles Conway."
"Hi!" I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's Samantha Sweeting from Carter Spink. I don't think we've met."
"Hi, Samantha." He sounds friendly enough. "How can I help?"
"I was phoning on a . . . a technical matter. It's about . . ." I can hardly bear to say it. "Glazerbrooks."
"Oh, you've heard about that,"says Charles Conway. "News travels fast."
The room seems to shrink.
"Heard . . . what?" My voice is higher than I'd like. "I haven't heard anything."
"Oh! I assumed that's why you were calling. Yes, they called in the receivers today. That last-ditch attempt to save themselves obviously didn't work. . . ."
I feel light-headed. Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes. Glazerbrooks is going bust. They'll never draw up the new documentation now. Not in a million years.
I won't be able to register the charge. I can't put it right.
I've lost Third Union Bank £50 million.
I feel like I'm hallucinating. I want to gibber in panic. I want to thrust down the phone and run.
"It's a good thing you phoned, as it happens," Charles Conway is saying. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard in the background, totally unconcerned. "You might want to double-check that loan security."
For a few moments I can't speak.
"Yes," I say at last, my voice hoarse. "Thank you." I put down the receiver, shaking all over.
I've fucked up.
I have fucked up so big, I can't even . . .
Barely knowing what I'm doing, I push back my chair. I have to get out.
Excerpted from THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS by Sophie Kinsella Copyright © 2005 by Sophie Kinsella. Excerpted by permission of The Dial Press, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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