Taken

My boss is a psychiatrist. Working for her attacks my pride, but I need the money. Three times a week, twelve till three pm, arriving fifteen minutes early to get changed; one minute late and wages get reduced.

For six months I’ve taken her pity, accepted her judgmental views on my appearance, which to me is fine, but to her my clothes aren’t worthy. She lives in a ten-bedroom mansion with acres of green land, roses, flowers, and a gardener every day. There is no time for envy; I need to pay my bills.

Every payday she wants me to kneel for my fifty-pound notes, open my hands to feign begging, allowing her, with a sly smile, to place them in my palms. Such humiliation is wearing thin; each time I bite my bottom lip, vowing to find another job.

It’s Christmas Day, my day off. Snow blankets the ground. Sleety rain lashes against my lounge window. Alone, trying to remain grateful, I prepare my dinner. My one-bedroom furnished flat is not to my taste. The threadbare fabrics, nylon flooring in the kitchenette, and patterned violet wallpaper are disgusting, but I pepper throws and cushions to brighten the place.

My mobile rings; mixed emotions of joy and dread rise.

‘Hello.’

‘Felicity, it’s Doctor Henderson, can you come into work today?’

‘Today?’

‘Yes, can you? Or can’t you? I need you in today.’

Knowing I should refuse, the money takes precedence. ‘What time?’

‘In an hour. I need help to serve the food and do the washing up.’

‘A taxi will be too expensive.’ As her husband owns five cars, a snippet of hope drives through me.

‘Walk...it’s worth two hundred pounds for four hours.’

‘But I don’t have any experience…’

‘Silver service is easy.’

Resentment rattles through me, buttoning up my padded coat as I wrap my scarf in two folds.

When I step outside, the streets are empty, with grey-black tyre marks and slushy footprints. Hungry, having only had a piece of toast, my stomach rumbles. An image of my prepped Christmas dinner heightens my desire. Maybe my boss will have a kind heart today and offer me some food.

My walk to work takes thirty minutes. The snow falls with deceiving rain, the kind that gets you soaked in minutes. As I walk past houses, families commune, and for a moment my mood lifts, remembering it’s Christmas Day.

The stinging wind waters my eyes, blurring my vision. Even though my boots have grips, it’s a balancing act. Streetlamps glow as a foggy mist develops. Embarrassment unfolds nearing the long road to her house. Her family might question my need to work and have pity, or they may revel in it, with a genetic sadistic streak, and laugh in their luxurious surroundings.

Snow coats the gate, and the gritted pathway has clumps of sand and salt. All the ground floor lights are on, and a tall, wide tree, decorated with the most expensive decorations, lights the pathway like a torch.

The outside laundry washroom is for staff coats. I hang mine on the metal hook and dash in the snow to the kitchen door.

She greets me, smiling, leading me into a false sense of security as her thoughts get unleashed into vile words of criticism.

‘You made it, Felicity. Well done.’

Her pearls loop three times and jiggle as she moves her plump figure, wearing her beige woollen cashmere dress. Her greying hair, curled around her neck, complements her red lipstick.

My cheeks burn, rosy from the cold. ‘Where shall I start?’

‘Polish the dining room table…my children arrived late last night, so the upstairs is off limits…Hoover the lounge after setting the table for ten…are you familiar with cutlery setting?’

Her patronizing stamps through me. ‘Yes.’ I reply with a shrug. ‘It’s just extra of everything.’

‘Not quite, but do what you can. I will correct you.’ She leaves the kitchen while I find the polish and duster.

Five minutes later, I’m rubbing the duster along a large oval mahogany table with twelve blue velvet upholstered chairs.

After ten minutes, satisfied that the wood is gleaming, I stand back admiring my effort. It’s hot and sweat gathers. She enters, smiling.

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do it again…there are marks.’

‘Where?’

She points. ‘There, streaky lines, I want a shine without them. I’ll return in five minutes.’

Clenching my jaw, I swallow my pride, spray polish and rub. My eyes water with resentment, and true to her word, she returns and inspects the table.

‘I’ve finished.’ My smile, though fake, hopes for appraisal.

‘Do it again.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes. And don’t answer me back. Do it again.’

‘That’s it!’ I slam the polish canister and throw the duster. ‘I’ve had enough.’ I storm off in a fury.

‘You won’t get paid…come back here!’

‘I don’t care!’

‘You’re fired!’

‘Good.’ I slam the back door and stomp to the outhouse for my coat.

In minutes, having buttoned up and placed my hat and scarf, I traipse down the path, relieved to be free from her employment, a welcome present.

The walk home is slippery as snow continues. As I walk against the whistling, blusterous wind, cars drive past, splashing puddles, drenching my coat.

When I arrive home, my big toes are numb, and drizzly rain has soaked through my hat and gloves. I change my clothes and pour a glass of red wine. After a few sips, I continue making my Christmas dinner.

It’s Monday tomorrow, and I need a new job. After my meal, I surf the internet and find an advertisement.

Immediate start. Maid needed.

Three days a week, contract.

No experience necessary.

£40 an hour.

Call anytime.

Is it too late to call at seven thirty pm? I jot down the info, inhale a deep breath, and call regardless.

My fingers shake, waiting. ‘Yes, hello. My name is Felicity Bridge. I’m sorry to call on such an occasion, but…’

‘That’s okay.’

Her reassuring tone, makes me smile. ‘I’m interested in the maid position.’

‘Good…give me your email, and I will send you the address. Can you come for an interview tomorrow morning at eleven?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.’

After I give my email, the transport bothers me. ‘Where is the property?’

‘Do you have a car?’

‘No.’

‘Oh…one moment.’

My pulse pounds.

Seconds later, the line clears. ‘Um…as the property is an hour away, my employer offers a chauffeur to pick you up, perks of the job.’

My hesitation blocks my words.

‘This job is on a reputable site called Maids to help.com. You can check it; I’ll wait.’

‘Okay.’ I open my laptop and check. ‘Yes, I can see it.’

‘Good, would you like me to book your transport with our chauffeur?’

‘Yes, yes, I would. That’s very kind of you.’

‘It’s kind of you to reply on Christmas Day. Give me your address. Our driver will pick you up at nine-thirty am sharp. Best of luck.’

‘Thank you.’ I give my location. ‘Bye.’

Stunned and pleased with myself for taking the initiative, and thrilled to have transport, I finish my wine and watch a film.

The next morning is swift with a shower, and having checked my emails, I jot down the address. My tan suit and white blouse give me a conservative, smart edge, and my hair piled into a bun gives a tidy impression.

A car horn toots at nine-thirty, so I glance through the window; a silver limousine is opposite. I slip on my coat, grab my bag and keys and dash outside.

Wind howls with sleet. The back door opens automatically; I get in and sit on the soft, pale-blue leather. Cinnamon wafts and classical music plays. The glass screen in front prevents me from speaking with the driver, so I relax and enjoy the journey.

We weave through traffic; snow falls, and for once, as people scrunch their coat collars walking in the freezing weather, the luxury of the limousine sparks a rush of excitement.

An hour later, we arrive at ten forty-five. The driver slows down and stops at two tall, black metal gates. In seconds, they open, and he drives up the gravelled driveway, with the tyres creasing through. My short-lived fantasy goes, remembering I’m here for an interview. My knees shake; my mouth dries as knots gather in my stomach.

The lawns are immaculate, and the manor has sandstone walls. The chauffeur stops and opens my door. A bitter wind blows in as I dash to the entrance, smiling to myself. This time I’m entering the front.

A woman wearing a charcoal suit greets me with a smile. ‘Hello Felicity, thank you for coming…please wait in here.’ She points and leads the way.

‘Mr. Price will be down soon. Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’

She smiles and leaves.

I remove my coat, admiring the antiques. Paintings on the walls are of sweeping land and seascapes. Some are of forests with full moons. Lost in my imagination, gazing at the thick, faded oils and energetic brushstrokes, footsteps get closer.

Resuming my seat, I grip my coat; my nerves pulse.

‘Hello, Felicity.’ A handsome man approaches me with his hand extended. His suit is silver-grey and tailored; his hair is neat and layered. Although he is clean-shaven, there is evidence of dark stubble covering his neck with long sideburns. His tie, knotted in perfection, gives him a sense of impeccable taste.

Blushing, I stand up and offer my hand. He grips my fingers and shakes them, then encourages me to sit down as he pulls out a chair from a desk, smiles and does the same. He opens a folder and looks at me.

‘Felicity Bridge, welcome and thank you for attending this interview.’

‘Thank you for the transport, Mr Price.’

He smiles. ‘So, what was your last employment?’

I swallow. ‘Um, I was cleaning for a doctor, but it ended yesterday…abruptly. I walked out.’

‘Mm…was she a tyrant?’

‘Yes.’

‘I like your honesty…it’s secured your employment with me… and I can assure you, I’m not that kind of employer. In fact, you won’t see much of me.’

My heart leaps with joy. ‘Okay.’

‘I need a maid to keep this huge place reasonably dust-free, that’s all. It will need the three days to dust it.’

‘I can do that.’

‘How are you about the occasional bit of travel?’

‘That depends where and why.’

‘Once a month I travel to a castle I own in Sweden; it’s my retreat…I would need you to clean up after me.’

‘Why?’

He clears his throat. ‘Because I like to stay out and hunt pheasants…with my rifle. Sometimes when I carry them back over my shoulder, blood splatters my clothes…I’d need you to do the laundry.’

The thought of blood makes me cringe. ‘Don’t you have cleaning staff there?’

‘No. I have a grounds person to tend the acres; the castle is silent until I return. If it’s cold, I light roaring log fires.’

The money he offers is more than I could imagine. ‘Um…if that’s all that’s required, then it will be fine.’

‘I will pay you double for those travelling occasions…so, will you take the position?’

‘Yes.’ Smiling, I squeeze my fingers.

‘Splendid.’ He stands up. ‘I’m going to Sweden this weekend. Can you come?’

In seconds, I glance at my mental calendar. ‘Yes, yes, that will be fine.’

‘My housekeeper informed me of your unavailable transport, so my chauffeur will pick you up and take you home each day you’re due here at the Manor.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Mr Price. Thank you.’

‘Just do your dusting here, keep discreet, and when you travel with me, keep silent and secret, and you’ll stay employed for as long as you want.’ He extends his hand.

Blushing with joy, I dash forward to shake it. His grip is firm; his hazel eyes turn brown black.

‘Perfect, pack a light suitcase with thick jumpers. The snow is heavy there.’

‘Um, do you need me this week?’

He smiles. ‘Yes, of course. Enjoy your Boxing Day off, and we’ll see you here Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. My chauffeur will pick you up at ten am. We travel this Saturday morning at seven am.’

‘Okay, once again, thank you, Mr Price.’

‘You’re welcome, Felicity.’