«You’re just a servant,» sneered my mother-in-law, oblivious to the fact that I owned the restaurant where shed scrubbed dishes for ten years.
«Well, have you had your fill?» Her voice dripped venom through the receiver, no effort made to hide it.
I switched the phone to my other ear, still signing the thick stack of invoices before me.
«Damians ignoring my calls again. Thats your doing, isnt it? Of course it is. What lies have you spun now, you barren cuckoo?»
Tamara Eleanor Whitworth. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher in my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. Ten years shed worked there, all the while convinced her daughter-in-law was a freeloader whod latched onto her «golden» son.
«Tamara, Im busy,» I replied smoothly, scrawling my signature on the last invoice.
«Busy! With what? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour in your crocodile handbag?»
Her voice quivered with poorly concealed, ancient jealousythe kind that drove her to visit uninvited, rifling through our fridge with a disgusted cluck at the sight of foie gras or artichokes.
«Im working,» I said evenly, pushing the paperwork aside.
«Working?» she drawled, and I could practically see her sneer through the line. «Millie, dont make me laugh. Your job is to please my son. Cook his dinner, make his bed. Know your place.»
I pressed my fingers to my temples. On the polished oak desk before me lay the new menu, crafted by my head chef from France.
Thousands of pounds in investments, sleepless nights, negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
«Enough playing businesswoman. Youre a servant, Millie. Just an expensive, well-dressed one. And you always will be. Remember that.»
Something inside me stretched taut, like a wire. Ten years Id endured. Ten years keeping the promise Id made to Damian at the start.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and pleaded, «Millie, pleaselet Mum think *Im* the one helping *you*. Shes had a hard life, poured everything into me. If she finds out youre more successful, itll destroy her. Her pride will be trampled in the dirt.» Blinded by love and gratitude for that first loan from his savings, Id agreed. Then, it had seemed a harmless little lie. A lie that had festered into a grotesque monster.
«I need money,» Tamara announced without preamble. «My coats falling apartI cant show my face in public. Tell Damian to bring it tonight. Twenty thousand. I assume thats no trouble for you, since youre so skilled at squeezing money from him.»
She spoke as if demanding household funds from a housekeeper.
I glanced at my immaculate manicure, at the fingers that steered a business turning over millions. And suddenly, I realised I was exhausted. Not just tiredhollow.
«Fine,» I said, my voice distant, unfamiliar. «Youll have your coat.»
I hung up before she could reply, then dialled the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
«Simon, good afternoon. News. Starting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For all staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dishwashing area. Word is, James Holloway might be paying us a surprise visit. We must be flawless.»
**Tuesday**
That evening, the phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
«How *dare* you?!» she shrieked, the speaker crackling. «What humiliation is this? Forcing an old woman with a weak heart to re-wash an entire rack of plates! That whelp of yours, Simon, stood over me!»
I pictured her facepurple, twisted with rage. To keep Tamara from learning the truth, Id barely set foot in the restaurant, managing everything from a separate office. To the staff, Simon was the boss.
«Tamara, the rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the restaurants reputation. Especially with a critic like Holloway rumoured to visit.»
«Reputation? What reputation could a jumped-up little tramp like you 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 this empire from a tiny café. He merely boasted of being «the restaurateurs husband» among friends, enjoying the fruits of my labour.
«That manager looked at me like filth! Said one more complaint about slacking and Id be fined! Ill tell Damian! Ill make him see how you torment his mother!»
She slammed the phone down. I poured myself water. My hands trembled slightly.
**Wednesday**
At noon, Simon called.
«Millie, we have a problem. Tamaras refused to come in. Sent a message saying her blood pressures spiked from unbearable conditions and biased treatment.»
I exhaled.
«Mark it as an unauthorised absence. No pay.»
«Shes threatening the labour board, complaints to every authority.»
«Let her. All documentations in order. And we have cameras in the dish pit. Let her complain, Simon.»
That evening, Damian confronted me. He returned home tense, lips pressed thin.
«Millie, whats going on? Mum called hysterical. Says youre forcing her out.»
He sat across from me, eyes full of quiet, exhausting reproach.
«Damian, Ive just raised cleanliness standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.»
«But you couldve made an exception! Warned her kindly! Shes not young! Why the inspections, the fines? You know how fragile she is.»
*Fragile.* The woman who called me a servant and a cuckoo was *fragile*.
«In my business, there are no exceptions for family. Its called professionalism.»
«*Your* business?» His smile was crooked, venomous. «Millie, dont forget who gave you your start. Without my money, youd still be brewing coffee in a rented kitchen.»
The jab was precise, painful. Ten years hed wielded this argument, though Id repaid every penny within three. He preferred to forget thatthe pretence of debt was his leverage.
«Damian, I dont want to argue.»
«But I do!» His voice rose. «Youve always hated my mother! And now youve found a way to punish her!»
I stood, walking to the window. Arguing was futile. Hed never accept the truthit shattered his comfortable world where he was the benefactor, and I, forever indebted.
«Stop tormenting her,» he said to my back. «Or Ill make you regret it.»
**Thursday**
It happened on Thursday. James Holloway *did* arrive. Unannounced, as always.
Simon whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
From a corner table, I watched the flawless service, Holloway sampling our new tasting menu with an inscrutable face. Perfection.
Until Tamara stormed in.
Her coat was shabby, hair wild, face contorted with rage. Shed shoved past bewildered security.
«Where is that *witch*?!» she screeched.
Music stopped. Every eye turned. Holloway arched a brow, setting down his fork.
Simon moved to intercept, but she shoved him aside.
«Dont touch me, you brat! Im the owners mother! My son, Damian Whitworth, funds this cesspit! And his wife, that harlot, humiliates me!»
She marched toward Holloways table, mistaking him for someone important.
«Look at this!» She brandished a filthy rag. «This is what they wash dishes with! And serve to you! Its a health hazard! They work me to the bone for pennies!»
I stood. Time slowed. I saw Holloways 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 wrecking it.»
While he raced over, I approached her.
«Tamara, stop this.»
«Stop?!» she shrieked. «Im exposing you! Youre a *leech*!»
Damian burst in, panting. He took in the scenehis mother, me, the stunned dinersand paled.
«Mum, what are you doing? Lets go.» He reached for her arm.
«Dont touch me!» she snapped. «Choose! Me, your mother, or this this»
Something in me *clicked*. I looked at my weak, frightened husband, powerless to control 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.
