Wife for Hire

by Dianne Blacklock

  ‘Now, I want to help out,’ Alex said crisply. ‘I wasn’t sure, I was thinking of getting you a cleaner.’ She looked around her. ‘But it doesn’t appear you need one. You certainly keep things shipshape, don’t you?’

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘So I’ll find you a good solicitor.’

  ‘Thanks Alex, but I don’t think it’s that serious yet.’

  ‘Has he told you he’s breaking it off with the woman?’

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘And he moved out willingly, you didn’t have to force him to leave?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Samantha,’ she said firmly, ‘it’s serious, whether you think it is or not. You have three children, you have property and no doubt substantial debts to go with it. You have to have someone looking out for your interests. I’ll make some inquiries and get back to you next week. And I’ll see to the bill.’

  ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not asking me to do it, I’m insisting.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sam, I’m your sister. I can’t have the heart-to-hearts with you. That’s Maxine’s job. But I can do this.’ She took a sip from her cup, her first. ‘Good. That’s settled.’ She reached into her handbag and drew out an envelope. ‘Here is a voucher for a day spa. Make sure you use it.’

  ‘A what?’ Sam felt like her head was spinning.

  ‘A day spa. Massage, facial, manicure, the works. It’s all paid for.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, dazed.

  ‘Not at all.’ Alex stood up. ‘Now I have to go.’

  Sam followed her out to the front door just as Josh arrived home.

  ‘And here’s Joshua,’ said Alex. ‘Look at the size of you. I suppose you don’t kiss aunties any more?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Do you speak?’

  ‘Yes Aunty Alex,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Well, you’re the man of the house now, Joshua. I hope you realise how important you’re going to be to your mother.’

  Josh blinked as a glimmer of realisation dawned in his eyes, momentarily. Then he looked at the floor.

  ‘Bye now, Joshua.’

  ‘Bye Aunty Alex.’ He disappeared out into the kitchen.

  Sam opened the door and Alex paused on the threshold. She took hold of both of Sam’s arms and pressed her cheek against hers. She still didn’t actually kiss her but at least they were touching. Alex stepped back and looked at Sam for a moment before starting down the path towards her car with a cursory wave of her hand.

  ‘I’ll call you next week with the details. Oh, and remember,’ she turned briefly. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Mum. Bye now.’

  Sam wandered thoughtfully back into the kitchen. Josh was leaning against the kitchen bench nursing a biscuit tin, intent on emptying it. He looked up at his mother, swallowing down a mouthful.

  ‘She’s pretty scary.’

  Friday

  ‘I really have to get another job,’ Sam moaned into the phone. She’d called Max as soon as she’d got in from work and the afternoon runaround.

  ‘Oh no, Sam, how did it go today? Did Stewart come anywhere near you, did he talk to you? Did you spit on him?’

  ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘Thank God, he avoided me like the plague all morning. I walked into the tea-room at one stage and he nearly knocked me down in his rush to get out. Then he was in meetings all afternoon.’

  ‘That must have been a relief.’

  ‘This is all too hard.’ Sam propped the phone on her shoulder while she opened a bottle of wine. ‘I want to be one of those Hollywood celebrities who book themselves into a sanatorium due to emotional exhaustion.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve always found that hiding under a rock is one of the best ways to move forward,’ Max sniggered. ‘Okay, what we have to do first up is get you a date, someone nice this time.’

  ‘Or I could swallow a packet of razor blades.’

  ‘You can’t let one bad experience sour you off men for good,’ Max implored. ‘It’s like riding a bike. You have a fall, you get right back on.’

  ‘I thought that was riding a horse?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t want to date. I didn’t even mean to go out with Stewart that night.’ Sam climbed up on a stool to reach the wine glasses. Max was right, she was going to have to move them. ‘Need I remind you, I haven’t dated since I was a teenager. I wouldn’t know the first thing –’

  ‘That’s like riding a bike,’ Max exclaimed, relieved. ‘I knew the analogy fitted somewhere.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Dating is like riding a bike. You never forget how.’

  ‘Look,’ Sam said firmly, pouring the wine. ‘I need a new job, not a date, okay?’

  ‘I’ll help you with your resume.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Sam drank down one glass of wine while she decided which takeaway to have tonight. She settled on pizza because it could be delivered. She finished another glass waiting for it to arrive. Then she shared it out amongst the children and left them to eat, poured herself another glass and wandered out to the family room. She sank down onto the lounge and reached for the remote control, turning on the television. She laid there flicking channels, realising she was feeling decidedly tipsy and would probably fall asleep if she wasn’t careful. She didn’t have that option until she put Ellie to bed at least. Mummy passed out in front of the telly clutching a wine glass was not a good look.

  Sam flicked over as A Current Affair came back after an ad break.

  ‘How often have you thought,’ the presenter was saying, ‘I can’t do all of this?’

  Hardly ever, Sam thought smugly.

  ‘In past generations women stayed at home, handling not only the housework, but all of the myriad details cluttering our day-to-day lives.’

  What did she mean, past generations?

  ‘Now the new breed of young power couples are finding that while they can hire a cleaner, a gardener, someone to do the ironing, wash the car, walk the dog, they need someone to co-ordinate their lives. What they really need is a wife.’

  Sam sat up, pointing the remote at the TV and turning up the volume. A plump, fortyish woman appeared on screen. She sat behind a vast desk and was wearing a red power suit, her dyed platinum hair styled to within an inch of its life.

  ‘Meet Sheila Boland,’ a male voice-over continued the story. ‘She’s the founder and managing director of Wife for Hire, a home help service with a difference.’

  ‘No, this is not an escort agency,’ the woman explained, her smile slightly strained. It was obviously not the first time that had been inferred. ‘We don’t provide that particular service, but just about anything else a wife would do. Or used to do, before women left the home to build their own careers.’

  Sam listened, mesmerised. The woman spoke about their typical clients and the sorts of services they provided for them. Everything from paying the bills to organising dinner parties, shopping for gifts, making travel arrangements, dental appointments or booking the car in for a service.

  ‘All our staff are highly disciplined women who have incredible organisational skills,’ Ms Boland explained. ‘They are good at juggling a dozen things at once, keeping a household running smoothly, tending to every detail. We like to call them “lifestyle managers”. Our clients can get on with their careers, assured someone is in charge of their home.’

  Sam felt as though she was having some kind of epiphany. She could almost hear the hallelujah chorus in the background as she wrote down the woman’s name and the name of the company. Wife for Hire. Sam had found her calling.

  Monday

  ‘Hello, I’m ringing in response to the interview I saw on A Current Affair on Friday night.’

  Sam had been preparing for this all weekend. She had looked up the phone number and listed questions on a sheet of paper, as well as any details about herself she considered relevant. Sh
e had the children ready for school and out of the house slightly earlier than usual. Then she made the call.

  ‘Yes, that was us. How can we help you today?’

  ‘Well,’ Sam faltered. ‘I was actually wondering how I might go about applying for a position.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I was interested in applying for a position with your organisation.’

  ‘You want to work for us?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to maintain her confidence.

  The woman laughed. ‘We’ve had inquiries all morning but you’re the first person who’s asked for a job!’

  ‘Oh,’ Sam’s voice dropped. So much for showing initiative.

  ‘When can you come in for an interview?’

  ‘What? You’ll see me?’

  ‘Of course! Like I said, we’ve had inquiries all morning. We’re going to need more staff to cope with the demand. How soon can you come in?’

  Wednesday

  ‘Why do you want to work for us?’

  Sheila Boland was smaller than she appeared on camera, but even more formidable. Sam was not intimidated, however. The more she thought about this job, the more she realised it was perfect for her. She would be able to work around the children and she would be doing what she knew best. Now she just had to convince Ms Boland.

  ‘The kind of work you described on the television is what I love doing,’ Sam explained. ‘And I believe I’m good at it.’

  ‘Why do you think you’re so good at it?’

  ‘My husband has an executive position. He hasn’t lifted a finger around the house in years, he doesn’t even close doors. I do everything. But I don’t mind, I enjoy it.’

  ‘That still doesn’t tell me why you want a job with us.’

  Sam hesitated. She had to be honest with this woman if she was going to work for her. It would come out soon enough anyhow. ‘My husband and I have separated.’

  ‘I see,’ said Sheila, pursing her lips together. She sat back in her chair, considering Sam.

  ‘I need the work, that’s true,’ Sam admitted. ‘But I already have a job one day a week and I’ve been offered more shifts. I just feel that if I’m going to have to work longer hours, I would rather be doing something I love.’

  Sheila was still studying her. Sam found it a little disconcerting.

  ‘So, separated,’ she said eventually, writing it down. ‘How many children?’

  ‘Three,’ Sam replied. ‘Two girls and a –’

  ‘Are they all in school?’ Sheila interrupted, apparently not interested in the details.

  ‘My youngest is in pre-school two days a week.’

  ‘And you say you do everything around the house?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘We’re not interested in housework, you understand. This isn’t a cleaning service. It’s how you manage the house that’s important. Who pays the bills?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Did your husband allot you a certain amount of money for housekeeping?’

  Sam had to smile. ‘I’m not sure that my husband was even aware what was in his pay packet each week. I used to give him pocket money, for want of a better term.’

  Sheila was busily jotting notes. ‘Good, good. Who dealt with tradesmen, repairs, that kind of thing?’ she continued.

  ‘I did. We had a pool put in earlier this year and I handled everything.’ She’d had trouble even getting Jeff to have input on the colour of the tiles.

  ‘What about gift-buying?’

  ‘I do it all.’

  ‘For his family, his mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. Most of the time they would actually be in the car, on the way to family birthday celebrations, when Jeff would say in a startled voice, ‘Did we get something for Mum/Dad/Aunty Sal/whoever?’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ Sam would reply tartly. ‘But I bought a present, wrapped it and signed the card. It’s slippers, by the way.’

  ‘What about gifts for yourself?’ Sheila continued.

  ‘Oh no, my husband handled that.’ Most of the time. If she was honest she’d admit that it was probably his assistant more often than not.

  ‘Mother’s Day included?’ Sheila stopped writing notes to look directly at Sam. ‘I’m thinking of the school Mother’s Day stall in particular. Who organises the gifts to donate to the stall?’

  ‘I do,’ said Sam in a small voice.

  ‘And who gives the children money on the day?’

  ‘I do,’ she repeated, feeling pathetic. The kids enjoyed buying something themselves, and Jeff was always gone long before they left for school. He would have given them the money if he’d been around. But that wasn’t really the issue. It didn’t matter how she rationalised it, the fact was that Mother’s Day largely only endured because of all the mothers who kept it going. And that was not the most comfortable realisation.

  ‘And lastly, contraception, birth control. Who took the responsibility?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Sam, taken aback.

  ‘Who took responsibility for contraception?’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit personal?’

  Sheila paused, considering her. ‘If you’re coy about getting personal, this is not the job for you. Our clients expect you to handle some highly intimate matters for them on occasion. You need to be able to take it in your stride.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sam said, drawing in her breath. ‘At the time of our separation,’ she faltered, ‘I suppose we shared the responsibility for contraception.’

  Sheila lifted an eyebrow. ‘So, your husband “took responsibility” some of the time?’

  Sam nodded. Once in a blue moon.

  ‘Who purchased them?’

  Now that they sold condoms in the supermarket it was hardly that big a deal. ‘I did.’

  Sheila hit the end of her pen on the notepad. ‘Right, that’s it.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll have to check your references, of course, but I’m not expecting any problems. I’ll call you next week with the names of three clients to start with, and we’ll take it from there.’

  Sam felt a little stunned. ‘Just like that? Isn’t there any training involved?’

  ‘How could I possibly train you, Mrs Holmes? You’re single-handedly bringing up three children and, until recently at least, you looked after a grown adult as well. You’re already a lifestyle manager. You have the skills we need. Welcome aboard.’

  November

  ‘Sounds like a glorified housekeeper to me,’ Bernice sniffed.

  Sam pulled a face, her back turned to her mother.

  ‘Way to go being supportive, Mum,’ said Max.

  ‘Maxine,’ Bernice frowned, ‘it isn’t cute to speak like an eighteen year old when you’re in your thirties.’

  Now Maxine pulled a face. Sam grinned. The second weekend in November was always set aside for the traditional Christmas cake and pudding baking day. Sam was disappointed this year because it was the children’s weekend with Jeff, but Bernice wouldn’t hear of changing it. You’d think it was written in stone somewhere – any sooner was impossibly early, and any later was unthinkable. Sam thought about swapping weekends with Jeff, but she knew that Joshua wouldn’t have come anyway, and Jess would no doubt have complained. But Ellie would have loved it. It was just the first of many traditions that would be compromised from now on, and it made Sam heartsick.

  ‘Tell her, Sam,’ said Max. ‘You don’t even have to do any housework, do you?’

  ‘No, but we can arrange a cleaner if the client requests it.’

  ‘What, these “clients” can’t pick up a telephone?’

  ‘They are very busy, pressured people.’

  ‘“Precious” more like it,’ Bernice smirked.

  ‘Mum, it’s a good job. I can work around the kids’ school hours and I can do a lot of it from home.’

  ‘But you already have a job. The MRA is a proper job, with benefits and a regular pay packet.’

  ‘And I’m bor
ed stupid with it.’

  ‘Well, excuse me!’ Bernice scoffed. ‘These days a job has to entertain you as well as put food on the table?’

  Sam wondered why she even bothered to explain anything to her mother, she was so intractable.

  ‘How many clients do you have so far, Sam?’ Max asked.

  ‘Just three. Sheila wants me to get them started and then she’ll pass along more.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘The clients pay an upfront annual fee,’ Sam explained. ‘Then I’ll be paid according to the time I put in. On top of that, clients are billed for any unusual or extra services, and I get to pocket all of that.’

  ‘Have you met your clients yet?’

  ‘I have two appointments next week – with a married couple, and an older, semiretired gentleman.’

  ‘I thought they were all busy executives?’ Bernice sniggered.

  ‘Well, apparently his eyesight is failing and he needs a personal assistant for a couple of hours every week.’

  ‘Who’s the third?’ asked Max.

  ‘A Mr Buchanan. He’s some kind of IT executive. I’ve emailed him, but I haven’t had a response yet.’

  ‘What’s does IT stand for?’ Bernice asked blankly.

  ‘Information Technology,’ said Sam.

  ‘Computers, Mum,’ Max added. ‘I think it sounds interesting, Sam. How long before you’ll be able to quit work?’

  ‘You’re not going to quit the MRA, are you?’ said Bernice, horrified.

  ‘Eventually, if I can build up a solid client list.’

  ‘And what if the country goes into recession and all these rich, pampered people have to make their own phone calls? Then what happens to your house? And the children?’

  ‘The rich are usually the last to be affected by a recession,’ Max informed her drily.

  ‘Besides, Jeff would never let the children go without,’ said Sam.

  Bernice stopped, wooden spoon midair. ‘Are you even going to attempt to reconcile with your husband, Samantha?’

  Max groaned. Sam turned to face her mother.

  ‘Mum, my “husband” is living with another woman! He’s not interested in reconciling. I have to move on, make my own life.’