The undomestic goddess sophie kinsella pdf free download

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.

There are no reviews yet. Be the first one to write a review. Books for People with Print Disabilities. I canceled on her too, last week, when we were supposed to be going to a comedy club. Vacations are canceled every week. Across the table from me is Clive Sutherland from the corporate department. His wife had twins this morning and he was back at the table by lunchtime. He looks as machinelike as ever, as polished as he did this morning.

When he gets angry, he just exudes a silent, steely fury. My head pops up. Other heads have popped up too; I can detect the hope around the table. I was holding my breath, I realize. Clive has already bolted for the door. People are on their mobile phones all over the room, discussing dinner, films, un-canceling previous arrangements. I gather up my papers, stuff them into my briefcase, and push back my chair. I forgot. A birthday present. I turn it over in my hands, making sure my smile is completely intact before I look up.

Why would he? He probably never even knew it. Anything planned? Last time I had dinner with Mum, about three months ago now, I was an hour late after my plane from Amsterdam was delayed. Then she had to take a conference call halfway through the main course.

As my taxi edges through the traffic on Cheapside, I quickly rifle in my bag for my new makeup case. I nipped into Selfridges in my lunch hour the other day when I realized I was still using the old gray eyeliner and mascara I bought for a Law Society dinner a year ago. Then, as I peer at my reflection in the mirror, I stifle a laugh.

My face stares back at me, freakishly golden and shiny. I look ridiculous. I mean, who am I kidding? I look at myself for a few more seconds, then take out a cleansing wipe and scrub the bronzer off until my face is white again, with shades of gray. Back to normal. The makeup girl kept mentioning the dark shadows under my eyes too, and there they are.

The only item of color about me is my bag, which is red. Mum gave that to me as well, two years ago. At least… she gave me a black one originally. But on the way home I saw it in a shop window in red, had a total brainstorm, and exchanged it.

I free my hair from its elastic band, quickly comb it out, then twist it back into place. My hair has never exactly been my pride and joy. At least, it was last time I looked. Most of the time it lives screwed up into a knot.

Making a night of it. We just all have very busy careers. She started her own chambers ten years ago and last year she won an award for Women in Law. He was named by Money Management Weekly last year as one of the top deal-makers in the city.

And my dad, of course, who lives in South Africa with his third wife. I glance at my watch as we speed along the Strand. Seven forty-two. The street outside is still bright and warm and tourists are walking along in T-shirts and shorts, pointing at the High Court. Inside the air-conditioned Carter Spink building you have no idea what the weather in the real world is doing. She disapproves of women taking the name of their husband.

The waiter nods and disappears, and I shake out my napkin, looking all around at the other diners. Two partners from Linklaters are at a distant table, and I can see one of the biggest libel lawyers in London at the bar. The noise of chatter, corks popping, and forks against oversize plates is like the huge roar of the sea, with occasional tidal waves of laughter making heads turn.

As I scan the menu I suddenly feel ravenous. Glazed foie gras. Lamb on minted hummus. And on the specials board is chocolate-orange souffle with two homemade sorbets. I just hope Mum can stay long enough for pudding.

Which rules out most potential dinner guests. But Daniel will stay. Once my brother starts on a bottle of wine, he feels obliged to see it through to the end. Your mother has been held up at her chambers.

But I can hardly complain. Her secretary will put her through… Hello? Oh, and happy birthday. Mum never asks me about my personal life. She expects me to be as focused and driven as she is, if not more so. This is a crucial time— Not that file! In total confusion, I take it and press it to my other ear. Buy something nice. I swivel round to see a waiter carrying over a cocktail glass with a sparkler.

Happy Birthday Samantha is written in caramel on the steel tray, next to a miniature souvenir menu signed by the chef. Three waiters are following behind, all singing in harmony. After a moment, Lorraine awkwardly joins in. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. This is my family birthday party. Two cell phones. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table.

He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. The singing waiters have melted away. And a glass of wine? We were never all going to make a dinner. As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. She wheels round and her eyes widen. What are you doing on the pavement? On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope.

For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants from Staines. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. What happened? Jesus Christ, the bastards. I know. Are you serious? But it never does!

As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya in Italy, the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over. You have to make… sacrifices. Like a shiny ball in the sky. You should be seeing the world! Why not? Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.

They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married in Las Vegas. Nor can the Edgerlys. Thanks for this. Invent a family emergency… anything. Give them my number. Whatever your story is. I know you will. I promise! I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another. I was crossing my fingers. Bloody Ketterman. Right there, standing in front of the lifts, holding a bulging briefcase.

He lives here? The lift doors open and we both get in. Number I feel like my headmaster has moved in. Why did he have to choose this building? The elevator rises in silence. I feel more and more uncomfortable.

Should I attempt small talk? Some light, neighborly chitchat? So much for the small talk. I should just cut to the big stuff. Am I going to become a partner tomorrow? I cannot live in the same building as Ketterman. Farley, my neighbor. She has silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles and an insatiable interest in my life. But she is very kind and takes in parcels for me, so I try to tolerate her intrusive-ness. A small pile of junk leaflets is sitting on the doormat and I sweep them aside, onto the bigger pile building up at the side of my hallway.

Farley is at my side, holding a pile of polythenecovered shirts. She probably has all my details logged somewhere in a little book. Farley reading the note. I can practically hear the clucking going on in her head.

Farley and dump it on the hob, then usher her out to the door, aware of her swiveling, inquisitive eyes. Not wishing to interfere, dear, but you know, you could wash your cotton blouses very well at home and save on all that money. And iron them. Farley is shocked. You must have a spare button in your workbox? Farley is appalled. Your mother never taught you? Turn a collar. We were taught to have opinions. Farley in pacifying tones, and heads across the hallway to her flat.

Somehow this goads me even more. But I can restructure a corporate finance agreement and save my client thirty million pounds. Farley regards me from her doorway. Crossly, I retreat into my own flat, close the door, and pick up the phone. I speed-dial the local wood-fired pizza company and order my usual: a capricciosa and a bag of Kettle Chips. I pour myself a glass of wine out of the fridge, then head back into the sitting room and flick on the telly.

A workbox. What else does she think I should have? A pair of knitting needles? A loom? I sink down onto the sofa with the remote and flick through the TV channels, peering vaguely at the images. News… a French film… some animal documentary… Hang on. I stop flicking, drop the remote onto the sofa, and settle back on the cushions. The Waltons.

On some obscure syndicated channel. I have not seen The Waltons for years. Ultimate comfort viewing. Just what I need. I take a swig of wine and feel myself start to unwind. Lights twinkling; crickets chirping.

John Boy talking in voice-over. A whole huge houseful of people who love one another. I hug my knees and look wistfully at the screen as the familiar music tinkles to its close. I think nervy sleep runs in the family or something. I totter into the bathroom and stare at my pale reflection. This is it. Or not Partner. Oh, God. Stop it. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge.

And coffee. I must find myself a food-delivery company. And a milkman. I reach for a Biro and scrawl 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.

Find milkman 2. Food delivery—organize? Well, I really am going to get all this delivery stuff organized.

At the weekend. I scan quickly down to newer entries, around two years old. Sort out milkman Have friends over? 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. Go on holiday? Give dinner party? 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. With a shudder, I throw the whole lot into the bin and nibble a few Shreddies out of the packet.

I arrive at the office determined not to acknowledge this is any kind of special day. 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 should have feigned a life-threatening illness. Guy is at my door, holding two coffees. He puts one down on my desk. Just… normal. 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. I look at my watch. Only eight fifty-three. Somehow I get through the morning. At last I lift my head. I made it. Congratulate you properly. I made partner. Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD! How can I just sit here calmly? 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.

It is a bit of a disgrace. This is the perfect way to spend an hour. 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.

There are tombstones too—the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers. Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand.

I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. 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. Well, not anymore, I think with a surge of determination. I glance automatically at the date. Then I look again. The security document is dated May 26th.

Five weeks ago? There must be a typo—but the date is consistent throughout. May 26th. May 26th? I sit, frozen, staring at the document.

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. But the memo says exactly the same thing as before. At-tend to registration. Dated May 26th. But then— why would he mention a simple loan agreement? We do loan agreements in our sleep. He would have trusted me. Oh, Jesus. I leaf through the pages again, searching desperately for some loophole.

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.

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. I have to face it. I have made a mistake. The point is, I can put this right. I can still register a charge. The process will be excruciating. It might mean an end to my partnership.

I have to put the situation right. 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. It was registered last week. My mind is helter-skelter ing. 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. Have the damage limitation under way. But every minute is another minute of risk. I have to call the bank. 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. With trembling hands I pick up the phone. 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. Yes, they called in the receivers today. Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes.

Glazerbrooks is going bust. Not in a million years. I want to gibber in panic. I want to thrust down the phone and run. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard in the background, totally unconcerned. I have to get out. Chapter Five I walk through reception on autopilot. Out onto the sunny lunchtime street, one foot in front of the other, just another office worker among the midday crowds.

Fifty million. The amount is like a drumbeat in my head. My mind keeps turning it over. Over and over, obsessively.

How could I have not seen… how could I have overlooked… It must have been put on my desk, then covered up with something else. A file, a pile of contracts, a cup of coffee.

One mistake. My career is over. He was fired on the spot. I think I could be having a panic attack. I sit down on a bench set against some railings and wait to feel better. Suddenly I jump in terror as my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the caller ID. Not right now. A moment later, the phone tells me a message has been left.

I lift the phone to my ear and press 1 to listen. I want to burst into tears. This mistake is too big for tears. I thrust my phone in my pocket and get to my feet again. I begin to walk faster and faster, weaving through the pedestrians. I walk for what seems like hours, my head in a daze, my feet moving blindly.

The sun is beating down, and the pavements are dusty, and after a while my head starts to throb. At some point my mobile starts to vibrate again, but I ignore it. At last, when my legs are starting to ache, I slow down and come to a halt. I need some water. I look up, trying to get my bearings. Somehow I seem to have reached Paddington Station, of all places. Numbly, I turn my steps toward the entrance and walk inside. The place is noisy and crowded with travelers.

The fluorescent lights and air-conditioning and the blaring announcements make me flinch. I pull it out and look at the display. I have fifteen missed calls and another message from Guy.

He left it about twenty minutes ago. I hesitate, my heart beating with nerves, then press 1 to listen to it. I feel prickles of dread all over my body. The first edition of the novel was published in January 1st , and was written by Sophie Kinsella. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format. The main characters of this womens fiction, chick lit story are Nathaniel, Melissa Blake.

The book has been awarded with , and many others. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you.