You’re not the lady of the houseyoure the servant.
Emma, dear, just a little more of this splendid ladys salad, Martha Whitakers voice was sweet as jam, yet it cut like hot Tabasco, a sting of false courtesy.
I nodded silently, lifting the almostempty salad bowl. The woman, my husband Jamess thirdcousins aunt, fixed me with an irritated stare the sort you give a persistent fly thats been hovering over your head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen, trying to be invisible. Today was Jamess birthday, or rather his familys birthday celebration, taking place in my flatthe flat Im paying the mortgage on.
Laughter rippled from the sittingroom in choppy burststhe booming bass of Uncle Ben, the sharp bark of his wifes terrier. Over it all floated Marthas confident, almost militarytone. James was probably tucked in a corner, smiling tightly and nodding shyly.
I filled the bowl, topping it with a sprig of dill. My hands moved on autopilot while the number 20 swirled in my head. Twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, Id crouched on the bathroom floor where no one could see me, staring at my phone. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptsall boiled down to a single figure on a screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? my motherinlaw snapped. The guests are waiting!
I hoisted the bowl and returned to the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre ever so slow, Emma, the aunt drawled, pushing her plate aside. Like a tortoise.
James flinched but kept quiet. He hates dramathats his favourite life rule.
I set the salad on the table. Martha, adjusting the perfect placement, announced loudly enough for everyone to hear:
Not everyone can be fleetfooted. Office work isnt household chores. You sit at a computer and thats it. Here you have to think, hustle, hustle.
She swept the guests with a triumphant glance. Everyone nodded. My cheeks warmed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I knocked a fork off the table. It clattered to the floor with a sharp ring.
Silence. For a heartbeat, all eyes fixed on the fallen utensil and then on me.
Martha burst out laughingloud, cruel, poisonous.
See? I told you! Hands like claws.
She turned to the lady beside her, voice unchanged, and added with a sneer:
I always said to James, she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative backdrop. Bring, fetch, serve. Not the lady the servant.
Laughter erupted again, this time even more spiteful. James looked away, feigning great interest in his napkin.
I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time that evening let a genuine smile spread across my faceno forced politeness.
They had no idea that the world they’d built on my patience was about to crumble. My new world was just beginning, right then and there.
My smile knocked them off balance. The giggles died as abruptly as theyd started. Martha even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in bewilderment.
Instead of placing the fork back, I glided to the kitchen, dropped it into the sink, grabbed a clean glass, and poured myself a glass of cherry juicethe very pricey stuff my motherinlaw called a luxury and a financial folly.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and claimed the only free seatright beside James. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Emma, the hot stuff cools quickly! Martha exclaimed, her steeltoned voice returning. You need to hand it out to the guests.
I’m sure James can manage, I took a small sip, eyes never leaving her. Hes the head of this house. Let him prove it.
All eyes flicked to James. He turned pale, then flushed, nervous, shooting pleading glances at both me and his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
It was a tiny, sweet victory. The room felt suddenly dense, heavy.
Realising a direct strike hadnt worked, Martha shifted tactics and talked about the cottage:
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month, as usual, to get some fresh air.
Emma, youll need to start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready.
She spoke as if the plan had been set for ages, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
Sounds lovely, Mrs. Whitaker, but I have other plans for this summer.
The words hung in the air like ice cubes on a sweltering day.
What other plans? James returned with a tray of crooked plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. My refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming anything, I said calmly, first meeting his gaze, then Marthas, which had turned fierce.
I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
I paused, savoring the effect.
This ones become far too cramped.
A deafening silence fell, broken first by Marthas short, cackling laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spending your whole life on concrete walls?
Moms right, Emma, James jumped in, seeking support, slamming the tray down so the sauce splattered across the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests. Each face wore a look of contempt, as if Id suddenly declared myself something grand.
Why a mortgage? I said with a soft smile. I dont like debts. Im paying cash.
Uncle Ben, whod been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did a millionaire aunt in America pass away?
The crowd tittered, feeling once more like the masters of the room.
Could be said that way, I replied, turning to him. Only the aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to digest.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you thought kept me stuck in an office, the company I built over three yearsmy startup.
I stared straight at Martha.
The deal was twenty million pounds. The moneys already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flat, maybe even a seaside cottage. No more cramped quarters.
A ringing silence settled over the room. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, leaving only shock and bewilderment.
James stared, eyes wide, mouth open but soundless.
Marthas colour drained slowly; her mask cracked before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
James, happy birthday. Consider this my gift. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find a new place. Im selling this flat too.
I headed for the door. No sound reached my back; they were frozen.
At the threshold I turned for one last look.
And you, Mrs. Whitaker, I said, voice firm and calm, the servant is tired and needs a break.
Six months later, I was sitting on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Outside, the city lights flickered from floor to ceiling, a living, breathing entity that no longer felt hostile. It was mine. In my hand, a glass of cherry juice. On my knees, a laptop displaying the blueprints of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.
I worked hard, but now it was a joy, because the work filled me instead of draining me. For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had haunted me for so long melted away. I no longer whispered, tiptoed, or guessed others moods. I stopped feeling like a guest in my own home.
Since that birthday, Jamess phone never stopped buzzing. He went through the full gamut: furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to latenight voice notes sobbing about how good things used to be. Listening, all I felt was cold emptiness. His good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he never demanded anything.
Martha was predictably relentless. She called, demanded justice, shouted that Id stolen her son. Once she tried to grab my arm outside the business centre where I lease office space. I simply walked around her, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience ran out.
Sometimes, in a odd wave of nostalgia, Id peek at Jamess social media. Hed moved back in with his parents, the same drab room, the same rug on the wall, his face forever etched with petty resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life. No guests, no celebrations.
A couple of weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I got a message from an unknown number:
Emma, hi. Its James. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the street, read it several times, then laughedgenuinely, not maliciously. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. Theyd tried to destroy my family, to ruin me, and now they wanted a good salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with exciting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges. I blacklisted the number without a second thought, as if discarding a speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of my juice. It was sweet with a hint of tartness. It tasted like freedom, and it was wonderful.
