“You’re just the help,” my mother-in-law sneered, not knowing I owned the very restaurant where shed been washing dishes for ten years.
“Well, happy now?” Her voice dripped poison through the phone, not even bothering to hide it.
I switched the phone to my other ear without a word, still signing a thick stack of invoices.
“Damiens ignoring my calls again. Thats your doing, isnt it? Of course it is. What lies have you been feeding him, you useless cuckoo?”
Tamara Winthrop. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher at my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. Ten years shed worked there, all that time convinced her daughter-in-law was some freeloader whod latched onto her “golden” son.
“Tamara, Im busy,” I answered calmly, scrawling my signature across the last invoice.
“Busy? Doing what? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour in that crocodile handbag of yours?”
Her voice trembled with poorly concealed, ancient jealousythe kind that made her drop by unannounced to rifle through our fridge, clicking her tongue at the foie gras and artichokes.
“Im working,” I said flatly, pushing the paperwork aside.
“Working?” She dragged the word out, and I could *feel* her smirk through the line. “Darling, dont make me laugh. Your job is to keep my son happy. Cook his dinner. Make his bed. Know your place.”
I closed my eyes. On my mahogany 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 playing businesswoman. Youre the help, Claire. Just an expensive, well-dressed maid. And you always will be. Remember that.”
Something inside me snapped, like a string pulled too tight. Ten years Id endured this. Ten years keeping the promise I made to Damien at the start.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and said, *”Claire, pleaselet Mum think Im the one helping you. Her lifes been hard, shes given everything for me. If she finds out youre more successful than me, itll destroy her. Her pride will be crushed.”* Blind with love and gratitude for that first loan from his savings, I agreed. Back then, it felt like a harmless little lie for peace. A lie that, over ten years, had festered into something monstrous.
“I need money,” Tamara said bluntly. “My coats falling apart. Tell Damien to drop off twenty grand tonight. Shouldnt be a problemyoure good at squeezing money out of him.”
She spoke like she was ordering a housekeeper to hand over the household funds.
I looked at my immaculate manicure, at the hands that ran a business turning over millions. And suddenly, I was exhausted. Not just tired*hollow*.
“Fine,” I said, my voice cold and detached. “Youll get your coat.”
I hung up before she could say another word. Then dialed the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
“Simon, good afternoon. Change of plans. Starting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For *all* staff. No exceptions. Especially the dishwashing section. Rumor has it, James Holloways doing surprise inspections soon. We need to be flawless.”
Tuesday.
That evening, my phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
“How *dare* you?!” Tamara shrieked, the speaker crackling. “What kind of humiliation is this? Forcing an elderly womanwith a *heart condition*to re-wash an entire rack of plates! That brat Simon stood over me the whole time!”
I pictured her facepurple, twisted with rage. To keep Tamara from learning the truth, Id stayed out of the restaurant, running everything from a separate office. All communication went through Simon, who the staff believed was the real owner.
“Tamara, the rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the restaurants reputation. Especially with a critic like Holloway possibly visiting.”
“Reputation? What reputation could *you* possibly have? My son poured money into this place, and for what?”
She didnt know Damien hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That *I* had built this empire from a tiny café. He just proudly called himself “the restaurateurs husband” among friends, enjoying the fruits of *my* labour.
“That manager looked at me like I was dirt! Said one more complaint from the waitstaff about my attitude, and Im fined! Ill tell Damien! Ill make sure he knows how youre abusing his mother!”
She slammed the phone down. I poured myself a glass of water. My hands shook slightly.
Wednesday.
Simon called midday.
“Claire, weve got a problem. Tamaras refused to come in. Sent a message saying her blood pressures spiked from intolerable working conditions.”
I sighed. “Mark it as unpaid leave.”
“Shes threatening to report us to the labour board, inspectorseveryone.”
“Let her. All our paperworks in order. And weve got cameras in the dish pit. Let her complain, Simon.”
That evening, Damien confronted me. He came home tense, lips pressed thin.
“Claire, whats going on? Mum called in hysterics. Says youre deliberately forcing her out.”
He sat across from me, eyes full of that quiet, exhausting disapproval hed mastered.
“Damien, I just raised hygiene standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.”
“But you couldve made an exception! Given her warning! Shes not young! Why the inspections, the fines? You know how fragile she is.”
Fragile. The woman who called me “the help” and a “cuckoo” was *fragile*.
“There are no exceptions for family in my business. Thats called professionalism.”
“*Your* business?” He smirked, and it was pure venom. “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. Ten years hed used this argument, even though Id repaid every penny within three. But he preferred to forget thatbecause this pretend debt was his leverage.
“Damien, I dont want to argue.”
“Well, *I* do!” he snapped. “Youve always hated my mother! And now that youve got power, youve found a way to punish her!”
I walked to the window. Arguing was pointless. Hed never acknowledge the truthbecause it shattered his comfortable world where he was the benefactor, and I was forever indebted.
“Stop tormenting her,” he said to my back. “Or Ill handle this myself.”
Thursday.
It happened on Thursday. James Holloway *did* come. Unannounced, as always.
Simon whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
I sat at a corner table, watching the flawless service, Holloways impassive face as he sampled our new tasting menu. Everything was perfect.
Until Tamara stormed in.
She wore her ratty old coat, hair wild, face contorted with rage. Shed barged past security.
“Where is that *witch*?!” she screeched.
Music stopped. Every head turned. I saw Holloways eyebrow lift as he set down his fork.
Simon rushed her, but she shoved him off.
“Dont touch me, you little brat! Im the owners *mother*! My son, Damien Winthrop, funds this place! And his wifethat *harlot*is torturing me!”
She marched straight toward Holloways table, probably mistaking him for someone important.
“Look at this!” She yanked a filthy rag from her pocket. “This is what they wipe dishes with! Then serve to you! Its a health hazard! They work an old woman to the bone for pennies!”
I stood. Time slowed. I saw Holloways disgusted curiosity, the staffs horror. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id built.
I dialed Damien.
“Get to the restaurant. Now. Your mothers tearing it apart.”
While he raced over, I approached her.
“Tamara, stop this.”
“*Stop*?!” she shrieked. “Im exposing you! Showing everyone what you really area *leech*!”
Damien burst in, panting. He took in the scenehis mother, me, the stunned guestsand paled.
“Mum, what are you doing? Lets go,” he tried, reaching for her.
“Dont touch me!” she spat. “Choose! Me, your mother, or this this *whore*!”
Something in me *
