Helen, the housemaid, stood nervously in the doorway of the large marble kitchen. Her apron was spotless, her hair neatly tied back, and her expression carefully measured — polite, but determined.
She cleared her throat softly. “Ma’am, I’d like to talk to you about something… personal.”
The boss lady — Mrs. Wellington, a perfectly manicured woman sipping chamomile tea — looked up from her iPad and adjusted her diamond glasses. “Yes, Helen? What is it?”
Helen took a deep breath. “I’d like a raise.”
The boss lady arched a finely plucked eyebrow. “A raise?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helen clasped her hands. “I believe I’ve earned it.”
Mrs. Wellington set her tea down and gave a small, knowing smile. “Oh really, Helen? And why do you think you deserve a pay increase?”
Helen nodded, as if she’d rehearsed this. “There are three reasons.”
Mrs. Wellington leaned back, crossing her legs. “Three reasons? This I must hear.”
Helen held up one finger. “First, I iron better than you.”
The boss lady frowned slightly. “Who said that?”
Helen smiled innocently. “Your husband.”
Mrs. Wellington blinked. “Oh.”
Helen raised her second finger. “The second reason is that I’m a better cook than you.”
The boss lady’s eyebrow twitched. “Who said that?”
Helen replied simply, “Your husband.”
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Mrs. Wellington’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh…”
Helen hesitated, then raised a third finger. “And the third reason…”
The boss lady’s tone sharpened. “Yes? Go on.”
Helen took a deep breath. “The third reason is that I’m better in bed than you.”
The boss lady froze, her teacup halfway to her lips. “Excuse me?”
Helen repeated calmly, “I’m better in bed than you.”
There was a long, tense silence. The boss lady’s expression turned icy. Then, in a voice as smooth as glass, she asked,
“Did my husband say that as well?”
Helen shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Wellington narrowed her eyes. “Then who did?”
Helen smiled politely. “The gardener.”
There was a pause. A long, dangerous pause.
The clock ticked.
A bird chirped outside.
And then — Mrs. Wellington’s teacup shattered in her hand.
“THE GARDENER?!” she shrieked. “You’re telling me that the gardener— my gardener— thinks you’re better than me?!”
Helen stepped back, clutching her apron. “Well, ma’am, not just him… the driver said so too.”
Mrs. Wellington turned red. “The DRIVER?!”
Helen nodded meekly. “Yes, ma’am. And the pool boy agreed, though he said you make better lemonade.”
At this point, Mrs. Wellington was standing, trembling, and muttering something about ‘betrayal in broad daylight.’
“Helen,” she said through clenched teeth, “I am this close to firing you on the spot!”
But Helen, bless her heart, wasn’t done yet. “Oh, ma’am, please don’t be upset! I only meant that I go above and beyond in my work. Everyone in the household says so!”
The boss lady took a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. “Helen… I need a moment. Please go finish polishing the silverware.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helen curtsied and left the room — humming a cheerful tune as if she hadn’t just detonated a social grenade.
That evening, when Mr. Wellington came home, he found his wife pacing the living room like a storm in heels.
“Darling,” he said cautiously, “what’s the matter?”
She turned sharply. “What’s the matter? You want to know what’s the matter? Helen asked for a raise!”
Mr. Wellington blinked. “Ah… well, she does work hard.”
“Work hard?” Mrs. Wellington snapped. “She told me you said she irons better than me!”
He froze. “I— well, yes, I might have said something like that. She does get the creases just right—”
“She also said you told her she cooks better than me!”
Mr. Wellington hesitated. “I—uh—maybe once? When you were on that juice cleanse, and I was… hungry.”
Mrs. Wellington’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “And then she said she’s better in bed than me.”
Mr. Wellington’s face turned white. “She WHAT?!”
“And when I asked if you said that,” she continued, glaring, “she said no.”
He blinked. “No?”
“No,” she hissed. “She said the gardener did.”
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Mr. Wellington took a deep breath, his face twisting in confusion. “The gardener?”
Mrs. Wellington nodded. “Yes, the gardener! Apparently, the gardener and the driver and the pool boy all have opinions about my—”
“Darling!” he interrupted quickly. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
She pointed a trembling finger at him. “You hired them!”
“Technically, you interviewed the gardener,” he countered.
“Because you were too busy golfing!”
“Well, I didn’t tell him to rate the housemaid’s—skills!”
“Someone clearly did!”
Their shouting echoed through the halls, startling poor Helen in the kitchen, who was quietly baking a pie.
A few minutes later, she heard a door slam, followed by the unmistakable sound of Mr. Wellington retreating to the garden.
Then came another slam — the wife heading upstairs, muttering something about lawyers and locks.
Helen sighed. “Oh dear,” she said softly, “maybe I should have stopped after the second reason.”
The cat meowed in agreement.
Later that night, Mr. Wellington wandered into the kitchen, loosening his tie. “Helen, about earlier…”
She looked up, wide-eyed. “Oh, sir, I didn’t mean to cause trouble!”
He chuckled awkwardly. “Well, you certainly did that. My wife’s threatening to hire a private investigator.”
Helen gasped. “Oh my!”
He sighed. “Still… you do iron well. And your cooking is phenomenal.”
Helen blushed. “Thank you, sir. I take pride in my work.”
He hesitated, then added quietly, “And for the record, I never said anything about… the third reason.”
Helen smiled politely. “Of course not, sir. I would never assume.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Although, the gardener’s wife stopped by this morning.”
Mr. Wellington frowned. “What about her?”
“She asked if she could borrow some of your wife’s perfume,” Helen said. “Said she wanted to ‘remind her husband what loyalty smells like.’”
Mr. Wellington groaned. “Good grief. This house is turning into a soap opera.”
Helen nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, sir. Though in fairness, if it were a show, I’d probably be the fan favorite.”
The next morning, Mrs. Wellington came downstairs in a calm but cold silence.
“Helen,” she said, “I’ve made a decision.”
Helen braced herself. “Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Wellington smiled sweetly — too sweetly. “You’re getting your raise.”
Helen blinked. “I am?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Wellington, “and a week off.”
Helen’s face lit up. “Oh, ma’am, thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the boss lady said, sipping her coffee. “You’ll be spending that week supervising the gardener’s marriage counseling sessions.”
Helen froze. “Oh…”
“And when you get back,” Mrs. Wellington added, “you and I will have a little chat about… boundaries.”
Helen nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Wellington smiled. “Good. Now, please bring me my tea. And Helen?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
The boss lady’s eyes sparkled with a wicked grin.
“Make sure it’s stronger than your confessions.”
Helen scurried off, cheeks flushed, muttering under her breath, “Next time, I’m just saying I dust better.”
And as she disappeared into the kitchen, Mr. Wellington leaned around the corner and whispered, “So… what’s for dinner?”
Helen sighed. “Maybe humble pie, sir.”
Moral of the Story:
Be careful when giving reasons for a raise — sometimes honesty can raise more questions than your salary. 😄
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