«You’re just the help,» sneered my mother-in-law, not knowing I owned the restaurant where she’d washed dishes for ten years.
«Well, had enough?» Her voice dripped venom through the phone, not even bothering to hide it.
I shifted the receiver to my other ear, still signing a thick stack of invoices.
«Damian keeps ignoring my calls. This is your doing, isnt it? Of course it is. What lies have you been feeding him, you barren cow?»
Margaret Anne Holloway. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher at my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. Ten years shed worked there, convinced all the while that her daughter-in-law was a freeloader whod latched onto her «golden» son.
«Margaret, I’m busy,» I replied evenly, scrawling my signature on the last invoice.
«*Busy*? What could *you* possibly be busy with? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour into your crocodile handbag?»
Her voice trembled with poorly concealed envythe kind that made her drop by uninvited to rifle through our fridge, clicking her tongue in disgust at the foie gras and artichokes.
«Im working,» I said flatly, pushing the paperwork aside.
«*Working*?» She drew out the word, and I could practically *see* her sneer. «Dont make me laugh. Your job is to serve my son. Cook his meals, make his bed. Remember your place.»
I shut my eyes briefly. On my mahogany desk lay a new menu concept designed by my French head chef.
Thousands of pounds in investments. Sleepless nights. Negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
«Enough with this businesswoman act. Youre *the help*, Claire. Just an expensively dressed servant. And you always will be. Remember that.»
Something inside me snappedlike a wire pulled taut. Ten years Id endured this. Ten years Id kept the promise I made to Damian at the start.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and looked me in the eye. *»Claire, pleaselet Mum think Im the one helping you. Shes had a hard life, given everything for me. If she finds out youre more successful, itll destroy her. Her pride will be trampled into the dirt.»*
Blinded by love and gratitude for the loan hed given me from his savings, I agreed. At the time, it seemed a harmless little lie. One that festered into a monster over a decade.
«I need money,» Margaret announced without preamble. «My coats threadbareIm ashamed to be seen. Tell Damian to bring me twenty thousand tonight. Surely thats no trouble for you, since youre so *skilled* at draining him dry.»
She spoke as if demanding petty cash from a housekeeper.
I glanced at my immaculate manicureat the hands that ran a business turning millions. And suddenly, I was *tired*. Not just exhausted*hollow*.
«Fine,» I said, my voice oddly detached. «Youll get your coat.»
I hung up before she could retort, then dialled the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
«Henry, good afternoon. Newsstarting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For *all* staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dish pit. Rumor is James Whitaker might drop in for an inspection. We must be flawless.»
Tuesday.
That evening, the phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
«How *dare* you?!» Margaret shrieked, loud enough to distort the speaker. «Is this some kind of humiliation? Forcing an elderly woman with a heart condition to re-wash an entire rack of plates? That lapdog of yours, *Henry*, stood over me!»
I pictured her facepurple with rage. To keep her from learning the truth, Id rarely set foot in the restaurant, managing everything from a separate office. All staff communication went through Henry, who they believed was in charge.
«Margaret, rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the restaurants reputation. Especially with a critic like Whitaker possibly visiting.»
«*Reputation*? What reputation could some jumped-up little *nobody* have? My boy poured money into this place, and for what?»
She didnt know Damian hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That *I*, starting from a tiny café, had built an empire. He merely enjoyed calling himself «the restaurateurs husband» among friends, basking in my success.
«That manager looked at me like *filth*! Said one more complaint from the waitstaff about my attitude, and Id be fined! Ill tell Damian! Hell hear how youre abusing his mother!»
She slammed the phone down. I set mine aside and poured myself water. My hands shook slightly.
Wednesday.
At midday, Henry called.
«Claire, weve got a problem. Margaret refused to come in. Sent a message saying her blood pressures spiked from unbearable conditions and unfair treatment.»
I exhaled.
«Mark it as an unauthorised absence. No pay.»
«Shes threatening the labour board. Complaints to every authority.»
«Let her. All our records are in order. And the dish pit has cameras. Let her try, Henry.»
That evening, Damian confronted me. He came home tense, lips pressed thin.
«Claire, whats going on? Mum called in hysterics. Says youre forcing her out deliberately.»
He sat across from me, eyes full of quiet, weary reproacha look hed mastered.
«Damian, Ive introduced new hygiene standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.»
«But you couldve made an exception! Warned her properly! Shes not young! Why the inspections, the fines? You know how fragile she is.»
*Fragile*. The woman who called me a servant and a barren cow was *fragile*.
«In my business, there are no exceptions for relatives. Thats called professionalism.»
«*Your* business?» His smile was crooked, venomous. «Claire, dont forget who gave you your start. Without my money, youd still be brewing coffee in a rented kitchen.»
The blow was precise, painful. For ten years hed wielded that argument, though Id repaid every penny within three. He preferred to forgetbecause that pretend debt was his leverage.
«Damian, I wont discuss this.»
«*I* will!» His voice rose. «You *hate* my mother! You always have! And now that youve got the upper hand, youve found a way to punish her!»
I stood and walked to the window. Arguing was pointless. Hed never acknowledge the truthit ruined his cosy narrative where he was the benefactor, and I the indebted.
«Stop tormenting her,» he said to my back. «Or Ill deal with you myself.»
Thursday.
It happened that afternoon. James Whitaker *did* arrive. Unannounced, as usual.
Henry whispered the news over the phone, and I drove straight to the restaurant.
I sat at a far table, watching the flawless service, Whitaker sampling our new tasting menu with an unreadable face. Everything was perfect.
Until Margaret stormed in.
She wore her shabby old coat, hair wild, face twisted with rage. Shed burst through the staff entrance, shoved past confused security.
«Where is that *witch*?!» she screeched across the dining room.
Music stopped. Every eye turned to her. I saw Whitakers brow lift as he set down his fork.
Henry rushed to intercept, but she shoved him aside.
«Dont *touch* me, you brat! Im the owners *mother*! My son, Damian Holloway, funds this place! And his wifethat scheming *tramp*is abusing me!»
She marched toward Whitakers table, mistaking him for some VIP.
«Look at *this*!» She yanked a filthy rag from her pocket. «This is what they clean your plates with! *Filth*! They work an old woman to the bone for pennies!»
I stood. Time slowed. I saw Whitakers disgusted curiosity, the staffs horror. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id built. And she was succeeding.
I dialled Damian.
«Get to the restaurant. Now. Your mothers ruining it.»
While he drove, I approached her.
«Margaret. Stop this.»
«*Stop*? Im exposing you! Showing everyone what you *are*! A *parasite*!»
Damian arrived, breathless. He took in the scenehis mother, me, the stunned guestsand paled.
«Mum, what are you *doing*? Lets go,» he said, reaching for her arm.
«*Dont*!» She jerked free. «Choose! Me, your mother, or thisthis *h