The Housewife(11)

I get to the door just before she does.

“I’ll take it to him,” I say, grabbing the saucer out of her hands.

“Mrs. Davies!” she shrieks. “What are you doing?”

That’s an excellent question, because suddenly her front is covered with hot coffee. She screams and Roy rushes in, takes in the scene. Marie is shaking, staring at the cup in pieces at her feet, her arms dangling helplessly.

“What happened?”

“Oh God.” I rush to grab a kitchen towel and start blotting the front of her apron. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She looks up at Roy, her mouth trembling. “Mrs. Davies threw your cup of coffee at me.”

“What? No! It was an accident!”

“Marie,” Roy says in his deep, caring voice. “Are you hurt?”

Marie is shaking, staring at the floor. “I’m all right,” she says finally, like she almost died but she’s too stoic to say so. “The apron…” She pulls the apron away from her body, shaking it loose. Coffee drips on my light-brown satin Manolo Blahnik sandals. “I’m all right,” she repeats. “I didn’t get burnt…too badly.”

“Thank God,” Roy mutters. He turns to me, eyes blazing. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“It was an accident. I wanted to take the coffee to you myself.”

“But I asked Marie to bring me a coffee,” he says.

“I know. I just wanted to— ”

“It didn’t look like an accident,” Marie says softly.

I look up sharply. “You know it was.”

“I’m so sorry about all this, Dr. Davies,” she says.

“It’s hardly your fault, Marie.”

“Well, if she’d let go…” I mumble.

“The most important thing is that you are all right,” he says.

“Thank you, Dr. Davies.” She blinks, swallows. “I’ll be all right.”

I turn to look at Roy, who is staring at me with a look of suspicion mixed with mild disgust. I imagine the scene through his eyes. Here I am, almost on my knees, patting the housemaid dry. In this moment, it’s hard to tell who is in the service of whom.

“Come out here, Jodie.”

I stand up, put the towel in the sink, and follow him.

“I just wanted to bring you coffee myself,” I mumble. He opens the cupboard where we keep coats and umbrellas.

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, I really don’t. First Deborah, and now Marie?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. She wouldn’t let go.”

“Your jealousy, Jodie… Deborah, I can understand, up to a point, but Marie?”

“It was an accident. Why are you leaving already?”

He pulls the collar of his jacket up. “I have a busy day.”

“But it’s Sunday! And I’ve made your favorite breakfast! It’s all there ready for you!”

“I’m not hungry.”

And then he’s gone.

Marie smirks at me from the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m going to get changed,” she says, and sashays past me, almost bumping against me.

Her dirty apron is on the floor. I pick it up, drop it in the sink with the towel, and mop everything up.

I put the breakfast things away, then load up the dishwasher even though Marie doesn’t like me doing it. She always complains that I don’t let her do her work, but the truth is—and I would never say that to her face—she doesn’t stack it properly.

There’s a tall, thin cupboard where I keep all my spices, and as I put away chia seeds and shredded coconut, I glance at the snacks Marie keeps there: pretzels, packets of Oreos, trail mix… I always make extra food for Marie since she lives here, upstairs in what Roy calls the maid’s quarters, which consists of two connecting rooms with a bathroom down the hall.

She can help herself to whatever she likes, so I have no idea why she’s so fixated on those snacks. The other day, I put four of my homemade chocolate chip cookies in there as a kind of olive branch, you might say. A sort of let’s stop with all the sneering and get to know each other. I left them in a small glass jar, but she hasn’t touched them. She probably thinks I’ve laced them with arsenic.

I make myself a coffee and sit on a stool at the breakfast counter. I am still reeling from the way Roy looked at me just now. Not to mention he left without eating breakfast, which has never, ever happened before.

I close my eyes and picture my favorite recipe book (The Golden Spoon, Decadent Desserts for the Modern Hostess). I mentally turn to the page for the Black Forest g?teau (soaked in kirsch, layered with morello cherries) when Marie returns in a fresh, crisp apron exactly the same as the other one. White with a lace trim.

“I’m really sorry,” I say again, calmer now. “I really didn’t mean to pour coffee on you.”

She opens the cupboard where we keep shopping bags and studies its contents. “I’m going to the store,” she says crisply. Then with a sigh, she adds, “Is there anything you need?”

And I’m thinking, Is there anything you need, Mrs. Davies? But I don’t correct her.

“No, thank you, Marie.”