Mrs Whittaker, youre not a mistressyoure a servant.
Ellie, dear, just a little more of this splendid salad for the lady, Margaret Whitakers voice was sweet as jam, yet it cut like a hot dash of Tabascosharp, scorching with pretence.
I gave a silent nod, cradling the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Andrews distant aunt, fixed me with a glare full of irritation, the sort one reserves for a persistent fly buzzing around for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a shadow, trying to be unseen. It was Andrews birthday. Or rather, his family was celebrating his birthday in my flatthe flat I was paying for.
Laughter crashed from the sittingroom in jagged wavesthe booming bass of Uncle George, the sharp bark of his wifes terrier. Over it all rang Margarets confident, almost militaristic tone. My husband was probably tucked in a corner, forced smile strained, nodding timidly.
I poured the salad, placing a sprig of dill on top. My hands moved on autopilot while a single thought looped in my head: twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from sight, staring at my phone. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, nearhopeless attemptshad been reduced to one number on a screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? Margaret snapped. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre so slow, Ellie, Aunt Margaret drawled, pushing her plate away. Like a snail.
Andrew flinched but said nothing. He never liked a scene.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, adjusting the immaculate arrangement, shouted loud enough for everyone to hear:
Not everyone can be swift. Working in an office isnt the same as running a house. There you sit at a computerthen youre home. Here you must think, hustle, be on your toes.
She swept the room with a triumphant glance. Everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed the fork. It clanged to the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone froze. All eyes flicked from the fork to me.
Margaret laughedloud, cruel, poisonous.
See? I told you! Clumsy hands, she snarled. She turned to the woman beside her, tone unchanged, and added with a sneer, I always told Andy: she isnt his equal. In this house youre the master, and she just background property. Bring, fetch. Not a mistressa maid.
Laughter erupted again, this time a bitter, giddy roar. Andrew averted his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in the napkin.
And I I lifted the fork, stood tall, straightened my back, and for the first time all evening let a genuine smile bloomno strain, no politeness.
They had no idea their world, propped on my patience, was about to crumble. My own was just beginning. Right now.
My smile knocked them off balance. The laughter died as quickly as it had started. Margarets jaw froze midlaugh, bewildered.
I didnt replace the fork. Instead I slipped into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass, and poured myself a glass of cherry juicethe very one my motherinlaw dismissed as a frivolous indulgence.
Glasses in hand, I returned to the living room and took the only free seatright beside Andrew. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Ellie, the hot stuffs cooling! Margaret snapped, her voice again edged with steel. You must serve the guests.
Im sure Andrew can manage, I said, taking a sip without taking my eyes off her. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes fell on Andrew. He went pale, then flushed, his face tightening as he tossed pleading looks between me and his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
It was a tiny, sweet victory. The room grew dense, heavy.
Realising the direct blow had missed, Margaret changed tactics, turning to the summer house plan.
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month, as usual. Fresh air.
Ellie, you need to start packing next weekmove the preserves, get the house ready, she said, as if the decision had been made years ago, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Mrs Whitaker. Except I have other plans for the summer.
The words hung in the air like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Andrew returned with a tray of crooked plates, steam rising. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and bewilderment. My refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming, I replied calmly, first meeting his gaze, then his mothers, now blazing with fury. Ive got business plans. Im buying a new flat.
A pause, letting the impact settle.
This place has become far too cramped.
A deafening hush fell, broken first by Margarets short, croaking laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working on concrete walls?
Moms right, Ellie, Andrew rushed to back her up, setting the tray down with a crash that sent sauce splattering the tablecloth. Enough of this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I swept my gaze across the guests. Each face wore disdainful doubt. They stared at me as if I were an empty seat that suddenly imagined itself important.
Why a mortgage? I smiled softly. No, I dont like debt. Im buying outright.
Uncle George, who had been silent, snorted into his moustache.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did a rich aunt in America die?
The guests giggled, feeling once again the masters of the room. This upstart was bluffing.
Call it what you will, I said, turning to him. Only the aunt is me. And Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to absorb the meaning.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you all thought kept me chained to an office desk. The startup I built for three years. The deal? Twenty million pounds. The moneys already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageto ensure Im never cramped again.
The room fell into a ringing silence. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, leaving only shock and bewilderment.
Andrew stared, eyes wide, mouth open but no sound escaping.
Margarets complexion faded slowly; her mask crumbled before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
Happy birthday, Andrew. Consider this my gift. 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, hearing no protest. They were paralyzed.
At the threshold I turned and threw one last look back.
And, Mrs Whitaker, my voice was firm and calm, the servant is tired and wants a break.
Six months later, I perched on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Outside, floortoceiling glass framed a twinkling cityLondon, alive, breathing, no longer hostile.
In my hand was a glass of cherry juice. On my lap lay an open laptop, blueprints for an architectural app already attracting its first investors.
I worked hard, but now it was 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 years dissolved. The habit of whispering, of moving cautiously, of guessing others moodsgone. I no longer felt like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, the phone never stopped ringing. Andrew cycled through furious threatsYoull regret this! Youre nothing without me!to whining midnight voice notes lamenting 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.
Margaret was predictable. She called, demanding justice, shouting that I had stolen her son. Once she tried to grab my arm outside the business centre where I rented office space. I simply walked past, saying nothing.
Her power ended where my patience ended.
Sometimes, in odd nostalgia, Id glance at Andrews social media. Photos showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wall art, a face twisted in perpetual resentment, as if the world owed him everything.
No more guests. No more celebrations.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:
Ell, hi. Its Andrew. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the street, reread it several times, then laughednot with malice, but genuine amusement. The absurdity was the perfect epilogue to our story. They 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, respected people, quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges.
I added the number to the block list, without a second thought, as if discarding a speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of my cherry juice. It was sweet, with a faint bitea taste of freedom. And it was glorious.
