**Thursday, 20th June**
*Youre just the help,* my mother-in-law sneered, oblivious to the fact that I owned the restaurant where shed washed dishes for ten years.
*Well? Had enough?* Her voice dripped venom through the phone, the malice barely concealed.
I switched the receiver to my other ear, silently signing the thick stack of invoices in front of me.
*Damian keeps ignoring my calls. I suppose thats your doing? Of course it is. What lies have you filled his head with, you barren little cuckoo?*
Margaret Anne Holloway. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher at my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. For a decade, shed scrubbed plates there, convinced her daughter-in-law was a gold-digging leech clinging to her precious son.
*Margaret, Im busy,* I replied evenly, scrawling my signature across the last invoice.
*Busy!* she scoffed. *Busy doing what? Painting your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour into that crocodile handbag of yours?*
Her voice trembled with poorly hidden envythe same envy that drove her to drop by uninvited and rifle through our fridge, clicking her tongue at the sight of foie gras or artichokes.
*Im working,* I said flatly, pushing the paperwork aside.
*Working?* She drew the word out, and I could almost see her smirk. *Darling, dont make me laugh. Your job is to keep my son happy. Cook his supper, make his bed. Know your place.*
I closed my eyes. Spread before me on the oak desk was the new menu, crafted by my head chef from France.
Tens of thousands of pounds in investments. Sleepless nights. Negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
*Enough with the businesswoman act. Youre the help, Claire. Just expensive, well-dressed help. And always will be. Remember that.*
Something inside me snapped, stretched to breaking point. Ten years Id endured this. Ten years Id kept my promise to Damian from the beginning.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and pleaded, *Claire, let Mum think its me supporting you. Her lifes been hardshe poured everything into me. If she knew you were more successful, it would destroy her. Her pride would be trampled in the dirt.*
Blinded by love and gratitude for the loan hed given me from his savings, Id agreed. It seemed a harmless lie. A lie that festered for a decade, mutating into something grotesque.
*I need money,* Margaret announced without preamble. *My coats threadbareIm ashamed to be seen. Tell Damian to bring me two thousand tonight. Surely thats no trouble for you, since youre so skilled at draining him dry.*
She spoke as if demanding household funds from a maid.
I studied my immaculate manicure, the fingers that steered a business turning millions. And suddenly, I was exhausted. Not just tiredhollowed out.
*Fine,* I said, my voice eerily detached. *Youll have your coat.*
I hung up before she could retort, then dialled the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
*Stephen, good afternoon. Some news. Starting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For all staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dishwashing area. Word is, Elliot Carters planning an inspection soon. We must be flawless.*
**Tuesday, 25th June**
That evening, my phone shrieked again. I was reviewing financial reports.
*How dare you!* Margaret screeched, the speaker crackling. *Is this humiliation? Forcing an elderly woman with a weak heart to re-wash an entire rack of plates! That pup Stephen stood over me!*
I pictured herpurple-faced, spitting rage. To keep her from learning the truth, Id rarely set foot in the restaurant, managing everything from a separate office. To the staff, Stephen was the boss.
*Margaret, rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the restaurants reputation. Especially with a critic like Carter rumoured to visit.*
*Reputation?* She laughed shrilly. *What reputation could a jumped-up little gold-digger have? My boy poured money into this place, and for what?*
She didnt know Damian hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That Id built an empire from a tiny café. He basked in the title *»husband of a restaurateur»* among friends, enjoying the fruits of my labour.
*That manager looked at me like dirt! One more complaint from the waitstaff, he said, and Im fined! Ill tell Damian! Hell hear how you torment his mother!*
She slammed the phone down. I set mine aside and poured water, my hands faintly trembling.
**Wednesday, 26th June**
Stephen called at midday.
*Claire, weve a problem. Margaret refused her shift. Sent a message saying her blood pressure spiked due to «intolerable conditions and biased treatment.»*
I exhaled. *Mark it as an unpaid absence.*
*Shes threatening employment tribunals. Complaints to every authority.*
*Let her. All documentations in order. The dish pit has cameras. Let her complain, Stephen.*
That evening, Damian confronted me. He arrived tense-lipped, shoulders rigid.
*Claire, whats going on? Mum rang in hysterics. Says youre forcing her out.*
He sat opposite me, eyes reproachful. Hed mastered that lookquiet, weary accusation.
*Damian, Ive introduced new hygiene standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.*
*Couldnt you make an exception? Warn her properly! Shes not young! Why the inspections, the fines? You know how fragile she is.*
Fragile. The woman who called me «the help» and a «barren cuckoo» was fragile.
*In my business, relatives dont get exceptions. Its called professionalism.*
*Your business?* His smile twisted. *Claire, dont forget who gave you your start. Without my money, youd still be brewing coffee in a rented kitchen.*
The blow landed sharp and deep. For ten years, hed wielded that argument, though Id repaid every penny within three years. He preferred to forgetthe pretence of debt was his leverage.
*Damian, I wont discuss this.*
*But I will!* His voice rose. *Youve always hated her! Now youve found a way to punish her!*
I stood, walking to the window. Arguing was pointless. Hed never acknowledge the truthit shattered his comfortable world where he was the benefactor, and I the indebted.
*Stop tormenting her,* he said to my back. *Or Ill make you.*
**Thursday, 27th June**
It happened on Thursday. Elliot Carter came. Unannounced, as always.
Stephen whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
From a corner table, I watched the flawless service, Carters impassive face as he sampled our new tasting menu. Perfection.
Until Margaret stormed in.
Her old coat hung loose, hair wild, face contorted. Shed shoved past security.
*Where is that bitch?!* Her shriek silenced the room.
Music cut off. Every head turned. Carter set down his fork, eyebrow raised.
Stephen moved to intercept, but she shoved him aside.
*Dont touch me, you brat! Im the owners mother! My son, Damian Holloway, funds this vipers nest! And his wife, this harlot, tortures me!*
She zeroed in on Carters table, mistaking him for someone important.
*Look!* She brandished a filthy rag. *This is what they wash dishes with! Then serve you! Its a health hazard! They work an old woman to death for pennies!*
I stood. Time slowed. Disgusted intrigue flickered across Carters face. Staff stared, horrified. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id built.
I dialled Damian. *Get here now. Your mothers wrecking the restaurant.*
While he sped over, I approached her.
*Margaret, stop this.*
*Stop?!* she screamed. *Im exposing you! Parasite!*
Damian burst in, panting. He took in the scenehis mother, me, the stunned guestsand paled.
*Mum, what are you doing? Come away.* He reached for her.
*Dont touch me!* she spat. *Choose! Me, your mother, or this this*
Then something in me clicked. I looked at my weak, frightened husband, unable to control his own mother. At this woman whose hatred knew no bounds. At my lifes work crumbling before me.
A promise? To hell with promises made to a manipulator.
I stepped forward. My voice
