The Second Mother-in-Law

The Second Mother-in-Law

A woman in a cleaners dressing gown cautiously peered into the office of the owner of Eclipse, the swankiest cosmetic surgery clinic in London. Her name was Joanne, and she tried to speak as quietly as possible, not wanting to get on the bosss bad side.

I heard theres an opening for a junior masseuse, she said, almost whispering.

Timothy Grant looked up and gave her a look as sharp as a razor. If it was possible to be any more irritable, Tim was that today; hed just had confirmation that a vital investment meeting had collapsed, and the only thing pounding harder than his fists on the desk was his migraine.

And you, with your mop, think youre qualified to give massages to clients? he barked.

No, but I did an online course. And I wrote a CV, Joanne answered, bashfully, offering a well-crumpled piece of paper she fished out of her pocket.

Just then, Tims deputy, Leo Saunders, walked in. Tim pressed his fingers into his temples, then exploded, Leo, what the blazes are the cleaners wandering about as they please for? Chuck her out of my office. The mopper-up thinks shes Gods gift to massage! Throw her out, and have a word, so she doesnt come in wittering such nonsense again!

Not waiting for an answer, he snatched her CV, tore it into confetti, and dropped it at Joannes feet.

Joanne knelt to gather the pitiful scraps, biting her lip, tears blurring her vision. Leo took her gently but firmly by the elbow, shepherded her into the corridor past visitors and staff, and plonked her in the cleaning cupboard, where the mops and buckets lived.

Sitting on the edge of an old fire-sand box that looked like it predated Queen Victoria, Joanne collapsed in tears.

She was new at Eclipse. Cleaning floors had never been her dream, but the pay was better than anywhere else. Besides, Timothy Grant was supposedly a self-made man, a respected figure. Rumour had it he was a world-class workaholic who built the clinic with his own two hands.

And that, oddly enough, was true. Grant was raised in a childrens home. Hed never known his mother, nor his father, and had spent years searching for clues about his family, with no luck. Still, he’d made it from hospital surgeon to maestro of facial fillers, with Londons actresses queuing up and forking out serious cash for his scalpel. Each year he hiked prices and lived like a lord.

Perhaps that was why Joanne had worked up the courage to ask about the vacancy.

Her dream was to be a masseuse. She read textbooks, completed a nurses college programme to the best of her home-taught abilities. But with no official diploma, it was never enough. Shed scraped together savings for tuition, until her husband ran off with every penny, leaving her and her young daughter flat broke.

It then turned out that Steve had a petty-crime conviction and a fictional backstory more colourful than his CV. The divorce dragged on for ages; he didnt show up to court. Joanne put up with it for her daughter, Grace. That’s when her struggles properly began.

No one wanted to hire a single mum. The three of themJoanne, her daughter, and her mum, Anne Smithsqueezed into a tiny council flat. They werent exactly living it large; sometimes, they survived solely on Annes pension. Anne was an irrepressible optimist: a once-famous gymnast, stubborn as a mule. She took over caring for Grace, freeing Joanne to find whatever work she could.

In her spare moments, Joanne did those low-budget massage coursesthe certificate was in those very scraps Tim just shredded.

She wiped her eyes, got up, and finished scrubbing the floors. People glanced her way, muttered. But home cheered her up: Anne had newsGrace had won the nursery art competition! The kid clearly had a gift, so Joanne made sure she had good paints and send her to art club. Joanne cherished such small miracles.

The bucket felt impossibly heavy that day. As she lugged it out, it was lifted awayby Fred Wright, the clinics caretaker and the only one who didnt have their nose sky-high. Fred was older, took Tims hubris with a pinch of salt, probably enjoyed sniggering at the new-money boss forgetting his own humble beginnings.

Fred never bullied Joannequite the opposite, always offering a home-baked pie, a kind word, or a Give it another go, love. If not for him, Joanne would never have dared put her silly CV on the bosss desk.

Seeing Fred, Joanne broke down again.

He gave her a comforting pat. Dont cry, sunshine. Things will turn around.

I should never have tried in the first place, she sniffed. Just made a fool of myself.

Tims not himself today. Try again another time, Fred offered gently.

They said not to bother him again, Joanne replied bleakly. I dont even know why I bothered. Dreamed I could drag myself up, just like him. But hes just a pompous toff, waving his fancy degrees about.

Fred just shrugged. Joanne stowed away the cleaning kit and plodded home, fretting about money. Grace was after some expensive new toyfat chance.

Home wasn’t its usual haven. Anne was in the bedroom, fighting back tears. Joannes heart clenched. Her mother, strong as an ox, if she was crying, it had to be serious.

Mum, whats happened? Joanne asked, worried.

Its nothing, love, Anne tried to brush it off.

Mum, just tell me.

She broke down.

I was at my routine check at the local theatre. They checked everyone, even the costume team. And they found something nasty. An operations needed. Otherwise, they give me a year, tops. Waiting lists are miles long. Privates out of the question. They say the best tests are in London, but the journey, the scans, the costs… I think my times up, love.

Mum, dont say that, Joanne hugged her.

On your cleaners wages and my pension? Anne managed a bitter smile. We cant have omelettes without eggs.

Joanne didnt sleep a wink, turning over options all night. By morning, her mind was made up: she had to risk talking to Tim again.

But she wasn’t even allowed in the door. They sacked herstaff cuts, they said. She got three weeks’ wages, the legal minimum, and her marching orders.

Fred insisted she take his number. She typed in the digits blindly, wondering: what now? They could survive a month, but after that?

Joanne wasnt the give-in type. She told her mum shed left her job out of choice and started scouring job ads. Wages for the unqualified were dismal. Then she spotted an advert: carer wanted. Medical background not required, but needed to cook, clean, and do the odd chore.

Well, Joanne thought, it could hardly be more embarrassing than mopping floors in a posh clinic. She sent her details. An hour later, she got a call. It was through some agency and the clienta wealthy lady living alone.

Joanne was told to bring her NHS record and references. She soon found herself opposite Tamara, the iron-lady head of HR.

Ill tell you straight, no illusions, Tamara said. The client is difficult. Youll be her tenth carer. None have stayed.

Joanne tensed but kept silent.

Youll know the nameEmma Dorsey. Technically a stage name. The former prima donna of the local opera. Temperamental, but rolling in money. Rumour is shes inherited a fair bit from devoted fans.

Frankly, I dont mind, Joanne whispered. I cant be picky.

If you have a child, take note: Dorsey cant tolerate children or pets. Shes mobile with a walker, but prefers to be wheeled round by her carer. Three months probation. Survive that, and youll double your pay with a permanent deal.

Joanne nodded silently. Even the starting pay was twice what shed made beforeher only chance to pull her mum out of the woods.

The job started the next day. Working hours: 7 a.m. sharp.

That evening, Joanne hopped on the internet to learn anything about Dorsey. A few ancient gala announcements popped up. The photos: a large woman, jet-black hair, hawk-like stare. Nothing prepared her for reality.

A security guard opened the door. Turns out, Dorsey owned a massive, creaky old mansion slap in the centre of London. Joanne gawked at the opulence, lost amid the stately rooms.

What you gawping at? Looking for something to nick? came a voice like a rusty hinge.

Rolling into the hallway was a snazzy mobility scooter with an old woman perched very upright, small and keen-eyed as a starved hatchling.

Good morning, Mrs Dorsey, Joanne mumbled.

Speak updont mumble, snapped her new boss. Hands where I can see them. And shoe coversmy parquets unique. Covers there, in the bucket. Come on, its breakfast time.

Joanne fumbled on the posh, soft shoe covers (looked more like hairnets than hospital blue plastic), and scrambled to keep up.

Brush my hairgently, mind! Dorsey ordered. No, not those, honestly. Get rid of the net, then fetch the wig, and do that. Honestlyare you thick or what?

Im sorry, I didnt quite catch Joanne stammered.

Oh, another muppet from the agency. Do they breed you at some idiot factory? Wheres my tea? Now!

Off Joanne trotted to the kitchen.

Dont stomp! Dorsey shrieked after her. My floors trembling under you! Less of the rugby scrum, youre jarring my nerves!

Dorsey eyed her tea glass as if testing it for cyanide, then pulled a face and flung the hot tea right in Joannes face.

You nudged my elbow. Your own fault.

Joanne took a deep breath.

Right. Where can I wash up?

Staff loo on the ground floor, by the door, said Dorsey, peering slyly. And youre not even answering back?

Why bother? Joanne replied, bizarrely calm. Im quite interested to see what else youve got in your bag of tricks.

Hah. As you were, muttered Dorsey. Towels hanging up. Theres a guest roomchange into one of the pyjamas there. Chuck your clothes in the wash.

Joanne did as told. By evening, Dorsey entertained herself by belittling her newbie: snide remarks, petty tricks, ridiculous demands. Joanne quickly clocked it was a test of endurance. She kept her mouth shut and waited to see if the tantrums would fade.

That night, they did. Dorsey wore herself out and quietened. Before bed, Joanne gave her a gentle massage. When her employer started snoring, Joanne tidied the wig, wished the security guard goodnight and left.

Next morning, her relief greeted her cheerily. What did you do to the old girl yesterday? Shes still snoozing, sleeping like a baby! The cleaner Jenny told me.

Nothing special, Joanne said. Maybe she was just tired.

That morning, Dorsey was back in fine form, saying Joanne dressed tastelessly and would never get a man while going about bare-faced. Joanne nodded obediently and prepared her toilet. By now, the wig was easy.

Next, Dorsey demanded a manicurist, made Joanne dress her in a Japanese robe, and wheeled her into the boudoir.

Soon it became apparent why Dorsey laboured over her toilette.

After lunch, a distinguished silver-haired gent, lean with the bearing of a dancer, arrived. Dorsey introduced him as dear old friend Oscar and commanded coffee to be served.

Joanne braved the top-of-the-range coffee machine and, mercifully, didn’t foul it up. Dorsey resembled a perfectly normal human in company.

By evening, Dorsey surprised her. What was it you did to me last night?

A massage, Joanne replied in a small voice.

Youre a pro, then? Dorsey quizzed.

No. Self-taught.

Alright. Do it again, came the gracious reply.

The second day ended with another massage, Dorsey falling asleep, and Joanne heading home.

Three months of probation passed in a blur. One day off a week. She rarely saw Grace but now could support her mumAnnes energy wasn’t up to lugging theatre costumes anymore.

Her rapport with Dorsey improved. The old girl seemed to be scrutinising Joanne, weighing her mettle. One day, unexpectedly, she asked:

And how do your lot put up with your schedule?

Its just Mum and my daughter, Joanne answered. And beggars cant be choosers.

How olds the kid? Got any hobbies?

Nearly six. She draws, Joanne said, remembering Tamaras warning about children.

Bring her in. Id like to meet her, Dorsey intoned, suddenly regal.

So little Grace began spending time at her mums work. Mostly she sat quietly, sketching in a corner. One day she drew such a lifelike portrait of Dorsey that the old lady had it framed and hung on the wall.

Gradually, they all grew closer. Joanne stopped having nightmares about losing her job.

Dorsey had a complicated bone disease that surgery could do little to help. On the worst days, Joannes massages eased the pain, at least for a while. Sometimes Dorsey asked Joanne to stay with her daughter for the night and gave them the guest room.

Falling asleep to Graces gentle snoring, Joanne sometimes imagined they really lived there. Shed grown fond of the historic house with its timeworn air and echoes of yesteryear.

Next day, Dorsey was in better spirits. Grace joined her for breakfast, while Joanne dusted the libraryapparently too much responsibility for the regular cleaner.

Sorting books and trinkets, Joanne stumbled across a tatty old photo album. After finishing, she brought it into the parlour.

Mind if we have a look, Mrs Dorsey?

Ah, the good old days and plenty of glory, Dorsey chuckled. Go on, lets have a ganderits been ages.

The three of them gathered round. At first, there were Emmas childhood snaps. Then Grace shrieked in delight:

Thats Grandma! We have that same photo!

Joanne stared, frozenit was a young Anne Smith, smiling out from the page.

Where did you get this? gasped Joanne.

Dorsey squinted hard at Joanne.

Youre Annes daughter? Well, Ill be. I was wracking my brain over your resemblance. Now I see it.

Why is Mums photo in your album? Did you know each other? urged Joanne.

Of course! Dorsey snorted. Anne was my best mate when we were young. Shed bunk off gym practice, I ditched music lessonswe hit the town together, partners-in-crime. We lived in the same street, danced together, even started gymnastics togetherthough she had more talent. I didnt fancy being second fiddle.

Why arent you friends now? blurted Grace.

We grew up, Dorsey sighed. Your grandma got involved with a handsome young coach, Ianreal charmer. We fell out over him. Of course, Ian stayed with me and your gran lost her spot on the national team over a broken heart.

I had no idea Joanne whispered. Wait, you changed your surname?

Oh yes, Dorsey grimaced. I used to be Saunders. And Ians last name? Dorsey. Became my first husbandlasted three months, but I kept the surname for the glamour.

From then on, Joanne could only think about bringing the old friends together. The right moment soon arrived.

Dorsey asked Joanne to stay again. Since Grace had a nursery trip early, Joanne called her mother to collect her.

Anne arrived at Dorseys in her patched coat. Dorsey was in her nightwear, ready to retire, but came out to the hall where Joanne packed up Grace’s art supplies.

Who is it? I dont expect visitors, snapped Dorsey.

Hello, Emma, Anne said, icy cool. Cant say Im thrilled to see you.

Likewise, Dorsey sniffed. Lifes battered you about, I see.

No worse than most, Anne shot back. I have a daughter and granddaughter. Youre left with strangers emptying your commode. All those marriages didnt help?

Oh, you never even had a marriage, did you? Dorsey retorted. Still using your maiden name, arent you?

Anne just smiled softly. Oh, Emma You never did get it. I followed your glamorous exploits, was even proud that my old mate from the council flat became a star. I never wished you ill. But do you remember that phone call five years ago?

Dorsey faded to white.

That timethe young actor from our theatre was wooing you, planning to get you to sign your house over. I overheard him boasting backstage how hed dump you in a nursing home and move in his new flame. So I rang up, put on a funny voice, and warned you off.

That was you? Dorsey gulped.

I couldnt bring myself to hate you, Anne sighed. I always felt for you. Artistic types arent cut out for ordinary life. But that time, I couldnt keep quiet.

Dorsey looked down. You saved me, you know. That scoundrel had me wrapped round his little finger. After your call, I got a private detective.

Well done, Anne nodded. Anyway, its late and Grace is yawning.

Anne, waithow are things with you? Dorsey asked quickly.

In a housing-association flat, after they knocked down the old place, Anne said. Not your mansion, but its enough.

Thats settled, then, declared Dorsey. Youre all moving in tomorrow. Too many rooms here as it is. Ive been meaning to make a decent nursery for Grace. Dont arguewe have a lot to talk about. No telling how much time weve got left. I know about my odds.

Anne slumped onto the bench.

About eight months.

What do you mean? Dorsey turned pale. Is it cancer?

No. Heart. No money for an operation, though, Anne shrugged. Health is wasted on the young, and you cant exactly save up for it.

Right, thats it, Dorsey snapped. Move in, and well sort the rest later. And dont argue. Seems I owe you a lotnever did thank you for pinching Ian from you.

You might as well mention handsome Vince from secondary school next! Anne cackled. We’re heading home. We can finalise things tomorrow.

My chauffeur will drop you off, Dorsey announced. And tomorrow, hell collect your thingswith Joannes help.

That evening, Dorsey couldnt sleep. She quizzed Joanne about her mother, reminisced about their wild years, and admitted how foolishly shed spent her life. Her friends intervention had melted the hard shell she’d built.

In a week, the old house was transformed. Couriers carted in samples for wallpaper, catalogues of furniture, bolts of fabric. Dorsey was on a mission to make the place feel like home for her new family.

In the evenings, she and Anne sat at the big oval table, swapping stories over endless tea. After the move and a touch of redecorating, Dorsey dropped her bombshell at dinner one night:

Anne, I showed your paperwork to my doctor. Surgerys in two weeks. The surgeons a good chapyoung, dashing, son of a professor. Dont go flirting too much.

You got me a slot? Anne gasped. But why?

No messing with waitlists. I paid. Too late for arguments. You have to get better for Gracethe other gran is falling apart.

Oh, Emma, really, dont waste your money

What should I spend it on? Cant take it with me! Dorsey declared. Youre going for surgery, Joanne will care for you, and Ill watch Grace. Honestly, those massages make me feel better as well.

Two weeks on, Anne was in a private suite at the citys best clinic. Her surgeon, Dr. Valentine Greene, was young, promising, and, unlike his famous father, had decided to practice out of London. He was warm, unpretentious, and watching Joanne care for her mum, he remarked one day:

I rarely see such warmth in a family. Your mums a lucky woman. I imagine a husband would be too. And children.

I only have my daughter, Joanne blushed, but shes the best girl in the world.

Im sure she is, Valentine smiled. I married youngparents tried to warn me. She thought she was marrying the professors son, rolling in it, didnt fancy the real life in a grotty flat up north. Thats where love packed its bags.

Im sure youll find the right woman, Joanne said quietly.

Maybe I already have, Valentine replied, eyes on the window.

For her part, Joanne realised she now saw Valentine differently. He wasnt flashy like Steve, but there was a quiet strength and, above all, deep kindness.

Annes recovery took a week. During this time, Dorsey tried to be self-sufficient, even keeping an eye on Gracewho now called her Granny, treating her as family.

Dorsey pretended everything was fine, but at night, when Joanne did her massage, she noticed how Dorsey’s muscles stiffened with pain. Even moving about in her wheelchair was becoming tough.

One night, Dorsey told her, Its time you stopped working for me.

You want another carer? Joanne panicked.

Oh, dont be daft. Why would I need a carer with this house so full? Dorsey laughed. Youre off to do a proper massage coursea real one, diploma and all. Can you do it?

Id love to! Joanne beamed. But its expensive

Well, consider me your fairy godmother, scoffed Dorsey. Plus, having a qualified masseuse at home is just sensible. Ill pay for your qualification and every extra course going. Just dont let me down.

Joanne agreed. Dorsey effectively supported the whole family, but Joanne wasnt one to spongeshe was determined to prove herself.

The course was led by Simon Arthur, a real authority in the field. He singled Joanne out as a natural. Presenting her diploma, he said:

Ever heard of Vanilla Spa?

Of courseeveryone wants to work there. Best in the city!

Im the owner, Simon smiled. I started my own business. Fancy joining? We specialise in post-injury and post-op recovery. Its hard graft. Youve got the right touchand temperament. Trust me.

Joanne could only nod, flooding with happy tears.

From then on, Joanne put her heart into learning. Simon covered part of her next course, calling it a scholarship. In no time, Joanne worked for Vanilla Spa. The hours fit wellmornings at the spa, afternoons with her healing mum and Dorsey, and escorting Grace to art school.

After six months, clients started coming to Vanilla asking for Joanne by name.

All this time, things with Valentine developed: friends at first, then something warmer. Hed moved to the city over a year ago, aiming to become lead cardiologist, and was getting sick of seeing only hospital walls. They spent weekends as a trio: circus, children’s theatre, parks.

Anne returned to work, but Dorsey spent more time bedridden. Her pain worsened, treatments werent working. Joannes massages were the only brief comfort.

Valentine sent his patients to Joanne for rehabpost-surgery or after illness, her massages helped revive atrophied muscles. Gradually, her chats with Valentine deepened into companionable, easy intimacy.

Valentine visited the Dorsey house so often he almost got a nod of approval from the grande dame herself.

Dont you dare mess about with my girls, Dorsey warned him sternly, eyes twinkling.

And for the first time in ages, Joanne felt that, against all odds, lifeeven her new, slightly unconventional familyhad somehow fallen into place, just as shed secretly hoped.