It was Amy's decision to hire the help. Her husband John may have suggested it in passing, but frankly it was more of a joke on his part. He didn't seriously expect her to take him up on it. In truth they hardly had time to talk seriously about anything these days. Nearing 40 years old, they both had successful, but stressful, careers, he in engineering, she in corporate law. He spent his days trying to keep his motoring parts company afloat, while she spent her time trying to extricate companies from contracts they should on no account have signed. Every morning they rushed out of the house to their cars with barely enough time for a parting peck on the cheek. And every evening they returned exhausted, with barely enough energy to eat supper before collapsing into bed. Sex, of course, had long since ceased to be anything but a distant memory.
To their friends they were the picture of success. They lived in a large house in an acre of land in that ideal area just on the edge of the city with easy access to the countryside. Not that they ever had time to enjoy it. Saturdays were spent entertaining, Sundays were spent recovering or doing jobs around the house or poring over financial reports – in John's case – and pages of small print – in Amy's. It was a blessing they didn't have children. They had few of the worries that beset their less well-off friends. They were busy but they weren't short of money. If John's business collapsed, they could still have lived perfectly comfortably on Amy's income. To them their life was normal. It was only when they had a moment to stop and reflect – and such moments were rare – that they had any suspicion that they were missing anything.
A recent Saturday evening was one such occasion.
"Did you notice how Jim and Mary were all over each other?" asked Amy.
They were stacking the dishwasher after a dinner party with four friends.
"Well, they're still young," said John without thinking. He could hardly keep his eyes open from tiredness and alcohol.
"That doesn't say much for us. We're not even 40 yet."
"I didn't mean that." He knew where this conversation was headed. "I meant they don't care how they behave in front of other people."
Amy sighed. "We used to be like that once. Do you remember that time in the cinema...?"
"We are definitely too old for that."
"Oh I know. It's just that we haven't, I don't know, misbehaved for ages. We haven't even had sex in bed since I can't remember. What's happened to us, John? Don't you fancy me any more?"
Yes, thought John, this is exactly where the conversation was headed.
"Of course I do. But you know what it's like. There's just no time any more. I don't know where it goes. We both work long hours. Then there's shopping, cleaning, cooking, gardening – it takes me two hours just to mow the grass out there. Then we entertain every weekend. I don't know about you, darling, but every night I go to bed completely exhausted. Sex is the last thing on my mind."
"I know, darling," sighed Amy, "I feel the same. Even when I'm in bed all I can think about are the work I have to do the next day and the things I should be doing to the house. I've been planning to decorate that third bedroom now for two years."
"What we need is a maid," said John.
"We have to get that third bedroom finished this weekend," announced Amy two weeks later.
"Okay," said John, "but why now all of a sudden?"
"Because we need it. We have someone coming to stay with us."
"Oh yes? Who?"
His mind was still working mainly on the problem of how to win the order he'd been chasing for the last three days.
"Our new maid. She starts on Monday."
"What new maid? When was this decided?"
"I was thinking about your suggestion. And the more I thought about it the more I liked it. You're right, we do need help. A live-in maid might not be the answer to all our problems, but at least she could do all the chores around here. And it's not as if we can't afford one. So I contacted a couple of agencies, interviewed four candidates and she starts on Monday."
"Okay."
John was used to his wife making decisions, but even so he was a little stunned. A live-in maid might take a little getting used to. He only hoped she could cook.
As it turned out, John's fears were unfounded. Not only could Carol cook, but she was a pleasure to have around. She didn't smoke, she didn't drink – at least no more than a glass or two of wine when it was offered – and she kept her room immaculate. She was pretty and had a good figure, which she was modest enough not to emphasise too much. Her preferred outfit was T-shirt, pressed jeans and a pair of Converse.
Amy, for her part, found it difficult to let go. Often, in the mornings, she would quickly rush round the house tidying things up so that Carol would not think her too slovenly. In the evening she would start chopping vegetables for dinner before Carol had to wrestle the knife away from her.
"Please go and sit down, Mrs Smith. Dinner is already in the oven."
The truth is, Amy found it difficult to delegate. The main reason why she was so busy was because she took on so much work that could easily have been done by her assistants. It was a characteristic she shared with her husband. It may even have been one of the reasons they were first attracted to each other. He also took on more responsibility for the day-to-day operations of his company than he needed to. The result was that even after Carol had been with them for a week, they fell into bed every night as exhausted as before. Sex was a pleasure as remote as ever and as impossible to talk about. The uninhibited passion of their early years together had long since passed, to be gradually replaced by a physical shyness. Certainly they embraced and kissed regularly, but almost as if they were old friends rather than husband and wife. Most mornings and nights they dressed and undressed separately or with their backs turned. Even in bed, its huge size meant that they rarely touched, even by accident.
Carol soon realised something was wrong. Every morning she watched them rush through breakfast and off to work with nothing but a peck on the cheek as a parting gesture. In the evenings she watched them at dinner discussing nothing more intimate than the problems they had each had at work that day. Then they would work some more – invariably in silence – before trudging exhausted to bed. She was sure they no longer had sex: their expressions could not have told her more plainly. What they need, she thought to herself, is a lot more than a maid.
"Excuse me, Mr Smith, but can I get you a coffee or a drink of something?"
He was sitting at his desk reading a customer's specification for a new part. It was 10.30.
"No thanks, Carol," he replied wearily. "I'm fine."
"I hope you don't think me impertinent, Mr Smith, but you don't look fine. You look as if you could do with a drink and an early night."
He laughed emptily. "You're probably right. Unfortunately I have to check this spec so that I can give the customer an accurate price."
"I don't know a great deal about the engineering business, but don't you have a head of manufacturing who can do that?"
"I do." What was he doing talking to this girl about his problems? "But I prefer to check it for myself as well."
Carol took a breath. "In other words you don't think he's capable of doing his job properly – in which case you should replace him. Either that or he really is good at his job, in which case you should trust him to do it, put that specification away and have a drink."
John stared at his young maid. She looked steadily back at him. There was a silence, then he laughed, this time with genuine humour. "You're right. He is good at his job, in fact he's excellent."
He put the papers in his briefcase and snapped the lid.
