“You’re just the help,” sneered my mother-in-law, unaware that I owned the very restaurant where she had scrubbed dishes for a decade.
“Well, have you had your fill?” Her voice dripped venom through the phone, no effort made to disguise it.
I shifted the receiver to my other ear, continuing to sign a thick stack of invoices.
“Damian keeps ignoring my calls. This is your doing, isnt it? Of course it is. What lies have you whispered into his ear, you useless cuckoo?”
Margaret Helena Whitmore. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher in my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. She had worked there for ten years, convinced all the while that her daughter-in-law was a gold-digger who had latched onto her “precious” son.
“Margaret, Im busy,” I replied calmly, scrawling a final signature.
“Busy? Doing what? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour into that crocodile-skin purse of yours?”
Her voice trembled with poorly concealed, outdated envythe kind that had driven her to drop by uninvited, rifling through our fridge with a disdainful click of her tongue at the sight of foie gras or artichokes.
“Im working,” I said evenly, pushing the papers aside.
“Working?” She dragged the word out, and I could practically see her sneer. “Oh, dont make me laugh. Your job is to serve my son. Cook his meals, warm his bed. Thats your place.”
I closed my eyes. On my oak desk lay the draft of a new menu, designed by my head chef from France.
Thousands of pounds in investments, sleepless nights, negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
“Enough pretending youre some businesswoman. Youre the help, Clara. Just a well-dressed, well-paid servant. And you always will be. Remember that.”
Something inside me snapped, stretched to its limit like a bowstring. Ten years I had endured. Ten years keeping the promise Id made to Damian at the beginning.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, he had taken my hands and looked into my eyes. “Clara, pleaselet my mother believe *Im* the one helping *you*. Shes had a hard life, poured everything into me. If she learns youre more successful than me, itll destroy her.” Blinded by love and gratitude for the loan hed given me from his savings, I agreed. A small, innocent lie for peace. A lie that festered into something monstrous.
“I need money,” Margaret declared without preamble. “My coats threadbareI cant be seen in public like this. Tell Damian to bring it tonight. Twenty thousand. Not a problem for you, is it? Youre so good at squeezing money out of him.”
She spoke as if demanding an allowance from a housekeeper.
I studied my manicured nailsthe hands that ran a billion-pound businessand realised, suddenly, that I was exhausted. Not just tired. Hollow.
“Fine,” I said, my voice distant. “Youll have your coat.”
I hung up before she could retort, then dialled the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
“Stephen, good afternoon. Were implementing stricter quality control. For *all* staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dish pit. Rumor has it Oliver Hart might be reviewing us soon. We must be impeccable.”
Tuesday.
That evening, the phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
“How *dare* you?” she shrieked, the speaker crackling. “Do you know the humiliation? Forcing an elderly woman with a weak heart to re-wash an entire rack of plates! That lapdog of yours, Stephen, stood over me like a prison guard!”
I pictured her facepurple, twisted with rage. To keep the truth hidden, I never set foot in the restaurant, managing everything through Stephen, whom the staff believed was in charge.
“Margaret, the rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the foundation of our reputation. Especially with a critic like Hart possibly visiting.”
“Reputation? What reputation could a jumped-up little tramp like you have? My son poured money into this place, and for what?”
She didnt know Damian hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That *I* had built an empire from a single café. He merely bragged to friends about being “the husband of a restaurateur,” enjoying the fruits of *my* labour.
“That manager looked at me like I was dirt! One more complaint from the waitstaff, he said, and Id be fined! Ill tell Damian! Ill make him see how you torment his mother!”
She slammed the phone down. I poured myself a glass of water. My hands shook slightly.
Wednesday.
At noon, Stephen called.
“Clara, we have a problem. Margaret refused to come in. Sent a message saying her blood pressure spiked from ‘intolerable working conditions.'”
I exhaled.
“Mark it as an unauthorised absence. No pay.”
“Shes threatening the labour board, complaints to every authority.”
“Let her. Our records are immaculate. The dish pit has cameras. Let her complain.”
That evening, Damian confronted me. He returned tense, lips pressed thin.
“Clara, whats going on? Mum called in hysterics. Says youre forcing her out.”
He sat across from me, eyes full of quiet, exhausting reproach.
“Ive raised hygiene standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.”
“But you couldve made an exception! Warned her gently! Shes elderly!”
“Elderly.” The woman who called me a servant and a cuckoo was “elderly.”
“There are no exceptions for relatives in my business. Thats professionalism.”
“*Your* business?” He smirked, poison in the curve of his lips. “Clara, 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. But he preferred to forgetthat fabricated debt was his leverage.
“I dont want to discuss this.”
“But *I* do!” he snapped. “You hate her! Youve always hated her! Now that you think youre in charge, youve found a way to punish her!”
I stood, walking to the window. Arguing was futile. Hed never acknowledge the truthit shattered his cosy delusion of being the benefactor, me the eternally indebted.
“Stop tormenting her,” he said to my back. “Or Ill make you regret it.”
Thursday.
It happened on Thursday. Oliver Hart *did* come. Unannounced, as always.
Stephen whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
I sat at a corner table, watching flawless service, Hart sampling our new tasting menu with an unreadable face. Everything was perfect.
Until Margaret stormed in.
Her coat was frayed, hair wild, face contorted with rage. Shed bulldozed past bewildered security.
“Where is that snake?” she screeched.
Music stopped. Every eye turned. Hart raised a brow, setting down his fork.
Stephen rushed her, but she shoved him off.
“Dont touch me, you runt! Im the owners mother! My son, Damian Whitmore, funds this cesspit! And his wifethis harlottorments me!”
She zeroed in on Harts table, mistaking him for someone important.
“Look!” She yanked a filthy rag from her pocket. “This is what they clean with! Then serve you! Its a health hazard! They work an old woman to the bone for pennies!”
I stood. Time slowed. I saw Harts disdainful curiosity, the staffs horror. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id built.
I dialled Damian.
“Get to the restaurant. Now. Your mothers tearing it apart.”
While he raced over, I approached her.
“Margaret, stop this.”
“Stop?” she howled. “Im exposing you! You leech!”
Damian burst in, dishevelled. He took in his mother, the frozen diners, and paled.
“Mum, what are you doing? Lets go.”
“Dont touch me!” she spat. “Choose! Me or thisthis”
Something in me *clicked*. I looked at my weak, terrified husband, powerless against his 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 cut through the silence like ice.
“Enough.”
They froze.
I turned to the guests with a gracious smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies for this scene. Today is a special day. Were launching a charity initiative for our most dedicated staff.”
I met Margarets eyes.
“And
