At half past eleven in the morning, Juanita sat with her feet up on the antique suitcase coffee table wiggling her toes in the little white socks Felicity made her wear. Laying back on the large comfortable sofa, she examined the ridiculous maid outfit, like something from a costume drama. She’d only worn it because Felicity sometimes sent people to check on her when she was away. But they only ever came to the door, enquired after Felicity and left, pretending they hadn’t known she wasn’t there.
She wiggled her toes again, smiled and picked up a handful of crisps from the giant bowl on her lap and threw them into her mouth. By now Juanita was expected to have cleaned the living room, kitchen, downstairs bathroom and be making her way up the stairs, polishing the large wooden staircase and vacuuming the carpet with the latest handheld device that made her feel like an astronaut ascending into space. Instead though, she was just finishing watching an action movie on the fifty-two-inch telly. It had a very handsome man in the lead and she was enjoying herself thoroughly. If she didn’t work so hard the rest of the time, she’d feel guilty about not working today, but the beautiful house was spotless. A couple of days without a clean wouldn’t hurt. Juanita munched on another crisp.
Felicity had run off to the Maldives, or as she put it, was having a ‘well-deserved break’. Her energy levels were zapped, apparently, and her manic schedule was causing her chakras to misalign. Juanita giggled to herself at how stupid Felicity thought she was. Juanita knew perfectly well that the show’s producer was called Sasha, and Sasha had been furious when a triple-layer chocolate chestnut cake had been a disaster. Felicity had been sulking ever since that day’s shooting had gone so wrong. Then, a couple of days after the call to the solicitor, Juanita had overheard Felicity on the phone to her sister sobbing about how everyone was laughing at her and how she thought someone called Esme was out to get her. Felicity told her sister that she’d simply borrowed the recipe from this girl, but now she thought the girl had told her the wrong thing as a trap to set her up for failure. And if there was one thing Felicity Fenchurch couldn’t stand, it was feeling a failure, or worse, looking like one.
The impromptu holiday to the Maldives was definitely a case of running away while the fire died down. And, as she was away until the New Year, it couldn’t have come at a better time for Juanita, who had been on the verge of resigning and finding something else. How could one person be expected to act as a live-in maid, cook, cleaner and housekeeper in such a large house? She was even expected to clean the door knocker every day until it shone, just in case any paparazzi should call. Felicity didn’t want them snapping a photo of a dirty knocker.
As Juanita popped another handful of crisps into her mouth, a few fell down her front and landed on the floor amidst the others that hadn’t quite hit their mark. She smirked at the gathering pile. Never mind, she thought with a grin. It was the day before Christmas Eve and she deserved a break. She’d simply clean it up later when she could be bothered.
Flicking channels after the movie ended, Juanita found a re-run of Felicity’s last television series. Seeing her pouting and flicking her hair while looking lustfully at the camera, Juanita felt that familiar tingle down her spine. She recalled the draft pages of Felicity’s new recipe book were still on her desk and a heavy dread threatened to derail her good mood. Her recipe book still lay at the bottom of the box in her room with the nail varnish stain dirtying its pages.
After a quick sip of her mojito, made from a secret recipe, Juanita went to the study. Sitting in Felicity’s ergonomic chair, she pulled the large pages of Felicity Fenchurch’s Fabulous Fiestas in front of her and began reading through the recipes. She’d always found Felicity’s sudden interest in Spanish food strange but had put it down to her following a sudden fad. As Juanita read on, she found, with mounting anger, special recipes from her own family cookbook, the one kept in her bedroom in her flat.
Felicity’s version of her Spanish empanadas was an insult to her culture and her upbringing. Not to mention an insult to Juanita’s mother, who had taught her the recipe and how to make the pastry herself. Felicity’s version used low-fat cottage cheese and a high-protein filling. They were a disgrace. Where was the avocado mixed with chilli and lime juice? Where was the salsa made by hand with fresh tomatoes, shallots, cilantro and jalapenos? Where was the sour cream to cool it down as it hit your mouth? She’d tried to make it different enough to be a different recipe, but Juanita knew it was based on hers. Some things were the same. The recipe for the pastry was exactly the same, as was the technique to make it. It had to be. Felicity wasn’t skilled enough to figure out a different way.
Juanita felt the strong muscles in her arms tighten. How could she prove that Felicity had stolen her recipes? Who would believe her if she showed them her own messy notebook? She knew very well what Felicity was like. She would pretend it was all a coincidence, or an out-and-out lie – that Juanita had told her the recipes but couldn’t remember doing it. A heavy stone of disappointment settled in her stomach. Who would believe a mere cleaner?
But then there’d been that telephone call between Felicity and her slimy lawyer. And in the call to her sister she’d said the girl’s name – a girl she was clearly stealing recipes from too – the same as she was doing to Juanita. Perhaps she could be exposed without Juanita having to actually say anything and risk losing her job? She’d leave as soon as she got another though. There was no way she was staying here now.
Searching Felicity’s desk for some information on this girl, Juanita moved the papers and flicked through other assorted letters. The drawers were locked, but she knew where Felicity kept the key. It was always under the old-fashioned ink well in which Felicity used to stub out her cheeky cigarettes. But after opening the drawers and searching, Juanita found nothing and exasperated, she pushed the chair and stood with her hands on her hips.
Felicity loved her study but she would often print out emails and read them in bed, drafting replies in pen while she sat propped up against the pillows. Many times Juanita had cleaned up scraps of paper thrown on the ground, with Felicity being too lazy to put them in the bin. She went to the rubbish bins. Luckily, they weren’t due to be collected for another day – there might be something still there. Searching through the rubbish wasn’t a pleasant job, but she’d dealt with worse. Like the time Felicity had suffered from thrush again and refused to see the doctor, knowing he would tell her off. Juanita was told to buy large tubs of natural yoghurt which Felicity then smeared all over her nether regions and Juanita had the pleasure of picking up and washing her smelly, yoghurt-coated knickers. What she was doing now paled in comparison, but Juanita still shuddered at the memory.
At last, Juanita found some papers. She read them and discovered the one she was hoping for – an email from Sasha Crawford. A name she’d heard cursed often enough. The email asked her to confirm that Esme Kendrick was mistaken regarding the recipe for a chocolate cake. The response was there too, drafted in pen in Felicity’s scribbly hand. Felicity denied it. Categorically and wholeheartedly. She had not stolen that recipe. And reading on, Juanita saw that the poor girl had been fired for it.
A grin edged its way onto Juanita’s face. Though it would still be her word against Felicity’s and she may not be able to prove that she’d had stolen her recipes or this girl Esme’s, as Felicity often said, mud sticks. She made her way back to Felicity’s desk. Felicity was terrible with technology and insisted her PA copy all the contacts from her mobile phone to a handwritten address book at least once a month, just in case. Juanita read through and found the details for one of the food critics Felicity sometimes used for spreading rumours about the new, up-and-coming presenters. Anything to try and maintain her position at the top.
Sitting down in Felicity’s chair, Juanita spun herself around before turning on the computer and entering the password Felicity kept noted down on a piece of paper. Slowly, Juanita created a new email account using a pseudonym and wrote a message to the critic. She sat back with a warm glow of contentment and spun once more in the chair, lifting her legs and whizzing around with childlike glee. Perhaps another mojito was in order.