Youre not the lady of the houseyoure the servant, Eleanor Whitmore said, her voice as sweet as jam yet as scorching as hot sauce, a fake honey that burned. I gave a silent nod and lifted the almostempty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Jamess thirdcousin onceremoved, fixed me with a glare that meant the same as the one you give a buzzing fly thats been hovering over your head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a ghost, trying not to be seen. It was Jamess birthday, or rather, his familys birthday celebration in my flatmy flat, the one Im paying the mortgage on. Laughter rippled from the sittingroom in uneven burststhe booming bass of Uncle John, the sharp bark of his wife, and over it all Eleanors confident, almost military tone. James was probably tucked in a corner, smiling stiffly and nodding shyly.
I filled the bowl, garnishing it with a sprig of dill. My hands moved on autopilot while one thought spun in my head: twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final contract confirmation landed in my inbox, Id crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from sight, and stared at my phone. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to a single figure on the screen. Seven zeros. Freedom.
Where are you stuck? my motherinlaw snapped. The guests are waiting!
I marched back to the hall with the bowl. The party was in full swing.
Youre as slow as molasses, Emma, Aunt Margaret said, pushing her plate aside. Honestly, a turtle would beat you.
James flinched but kept quiet. He never liked a scene, that was his lifes rule.
I set the salad on the table. Eleanor, adjusting the perfect layout, announced loudly so everyone could hear:
Not everyone can be quick. Working in an office isnt the same as running a household. You sit at a computer and then go home. Here you must think, plan, hustle.
She swept the room with a victorious glance. Everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed a fork. It clanged onto the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone froze, eyes darting from the fork to me.
Eleanor burst out laughingloud, harsh, venomous.
There, I told you! Her hands are useless.
She turned to the woman beside her, tone unchanged, and added with a sneer:
I always said to James, she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and shes just decorative property. Bring, fetch. Not the ladyjust the servant.
Laughter rippled again, this time with a smug edge. James looked away, pretending to be busy with a napkin.
I picked up the fork, stood straight, and for the first time all evening gave a genuine, unforced smile.
They had no idea the world built on my patience was about to collapse. And mine was only just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. Eleanors jaw froze in bewilderment.
Instead of placing the fork back, I slipped into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass, and poured myself a glass of cherry juicethe pricey sort my motherinlaw called a luxury foolishness.
Glass in hand, I returned to the sittingroom and took the only vacant seatright beside James. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Emma, the hot drinks getting cold! Eleanor snapped, her voice again edged with steel. You need to serve the guests.
Im sure James can manage, I said, sipping without breaking eye contact. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes turned to James. He turned pale, then flushed, nervously casting pleading looks at both me and his mother.
Yes, of course, he mumbled, stumbling toward the kitchen.
It was a small, sweet victory. The room grew heavy, thick with tension.
Realising a direct blow had failed, Eleanor shifted tactics and mentioned the country house:
Were thinking of heading to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month, as usual, fresh air.
Emma, youll need to start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready, she said as if itd been decided ages ago, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Eleanor, I replied, but I have other plans this summer.
The words hung like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? James asked, returning with a tray of unevenly stacked plates of hot food. 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, I said calmly, first looking at him, then at his mother, whose eyes now burned with fury.
I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
I paused, savoring the effect.
This one, you see, has become far too cramped.
A deafening silence fell, broken finally by Eleanors short, croaking laugh.
Buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working on concrete walls?
Mothers right, Emma, James immediately backed her up, feeling the support. He slammed the tray down, sauce splattering the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the faces of the guests. Each wore a look of contempt, distrust, staring at me as if I were an empty spot that had suddenly thought itself important.
Why a mortgage? I smiled softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle John, whod been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did a millionaire aunt in America pass away?
The guests chuckled, feeling once more in control. The upstart was bluffing.
You could say that, I replied, turning to him. Except 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 all thought kept me stuck in the office. The startup I built over three years. The deal was twenty million pounds. Moneys already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageto make sure Im never cramped again.
A ringing silence fell. Faces went slack, smiles vanished, replaced by shock and bewilderment.
James stared, his mouth open, eyes wide, but no sound escaped.
Eleanors colour drained slowly; her mask cracked before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
James, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find new accommodation. Im selling this flat too.
I headed for the door. Not a single word reached my ears; they were frozen.
At the threshold I turned and gave one last look.
And, Eleanor, I said, voice firm and calm, the servant is tired and needs a break.
Six months later, I was perched on the wide windowsill of my new flat in Camden. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the city glitteredalive, breathing, no longer hostile.
In my hand was a glass of cherry juice. On my lap rested a laptop, open to 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 rather than drained me.
For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had been my companion evaporated. The habit of whispering, moving cautiously, guessing moods vanished. I no longer felt like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Jamess calls never stopped. He moved through stagesfrom furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to nightly sobbing voice messages about how good things used to be. Listening, I felt only cold emptiness. His good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands.
Eleanor was predictably relentless. She called, demanded justice, shouted that shed been robbed of her son. Once she tried to grab my arm outside the office tower where I rented space. I simply walked around her, saying nothing.
Her power ended where my patience ran out.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic mood, Id glance at Jamess social media. Photos showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wall hanging, a face twisted in perpetual resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life.
No guests now. No celebrations.
A few weeks ago, after a meeting, I got a message from an unknown number:
Emma, hi. Its James. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she just cant get it right.
I stopped in the middle of the street, read it a few times, then laughednot with malice, but genuinely. The absurdity was the perfect epilogue to our story. Theyd tried to destroy my life, and now they wanted a nice salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges.
I blocked the number without a second thought, as if discarding a stray speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of juice. It was sweet, with a faint tartnessa taste of freedom. And it was glorious.
