Doris

Three weeks passed with agonizing slowness. The initial surge of determination Doris had felt at the King's Tennis Club began to curdle into impatience and doubt. Had Sandra been playing with her? Was it all some elaborate joke? She saw Arthur in his usual habitat – barking orders into his phone, leaving his muddy shoes in the hallway, treating her with the casual indifference one might afford a piece of furniture – and the bitter taste of her powerlessness returned. She was about to call Sandra to demand an explanation when the call came.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The number was withheld. Doris, who was usually fielding calls from the butcher or the plumber, answered with a curt "Hello?"

A woman's voice responded, smooth and measured, without any discernible accent. It was a voice that could have belonged to anyone, and therefore to no one. "Am I speaking with the lady who had a conversation with a mutual friend about a significant domestic difficulty?"

Doris froze, her heart giving a sudden thump against her ribs. The phrasing was clinical, almost absurdly formal, but there was no mistaking the reference. "I... I'm not sure what you mean," she lied, her voice barely a whisper.

"Of course," the voice continued, unperturbed. "Discretion is paramount. Let us simply say that our friend believes your situation requires our particular brand of assistance. We are available, by chance, to take on a new case. We offer 100% discretion in all our dealings, and we expect the same in return. Is that acceptable?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and absolute. This was it. The strange, abstract possibility was now a concrete proposition on the other end of the phone line. Doris thought of Arthur's sneer, of the hotel rooms on his credit card bill. "Yes," she breathed, the word escaping her lips. "Yes, that's acceptable."

"Very good," the voice said, as if ticking a box on a form. "You will come to 17b High Street, Rochester. Tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Please be prompt. The entrance is located above the Cancer Research charity shop. Do not be late."

The line went dead before Doris could ask another question.

The next day, Doris found herself standing on the bustling pavement of Rochester High Street, the scent of roasted nuts from a nearby vendor mingling with the diesel fumes from the passing buses. She felt conspicuous, out of place. Her designer handbag and smart coat felt like a costume. She checked the address again: 17b. It was indeed the Cancer Research shop, its window filled with a jumble of second-hand books and colorful knitwear.

A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. This felt wrong. Seedy. She peered at the buildings on either side. There was no obvious doorway, no grand entrance. Just a narrow, grimy alley between the charity shop and a closed-down pub. Tucked away beside the shop's grubby front window, almost hidden by a large collection of donated vases, was a plain, unmarked door with a tarnished brass buzzer.

This had to be a mistake. A prank. Sandra wouldn't send her to a place like this. She was about to turn back, to retreat to the safety of her car and her miserable life, when she remembered the voice on the phone. The calm certainty. The promise. Be ready.

Taking a deep breath that tasted of street food and regret, Doris glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then slipped into the alley and pressed the buzzer.

The buzzer emitted a harsh crackle, and the lock on the door clicked open. Hesitantly, Doris pushed it inward and stepped into a dim, narrow hallway that smelled faintly of dust and lemon polish. The door swung shut behind her with a decisive thud, cutting off the noise from the street. A steep, carpeted staircase led upwards. At the top, a woman was waiting.

She was in her early sixties, with immaculate silver hair cut in a chic, expensive-looking bob. She wore a simple but elegant navy-blue dress and a string of pearls. Her smile was polite and professional, but it did not quite reach her sharp, intelligent eyes. "Do come in, Mrs. Collins. We're so glad you could make it. I'm Eleanor."

Eleanor led Doris not into a surprisingly comfortable office. It was tastefully decorated with a deep-pile rug, a mahogany desk, and two wingback armchairs positioned by a window that overlooked the bustling high street below. It felt less like a place of mysterious business and more like a solicitor's private consultation room.

"Please, sit," Eleanor said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. "Can I offer you a tea? Or perhaps coffee?"

"Tea, please," Doris managed, her throat feeling dry.

"Of course." Eleanor didn't move towards a kettle or a phone. Instead, she picked up a small silver bell from her desk and gave it a single, clear ring.

The door to the office opened almost immediately, and a woman walked in. Doris's polite smile froze on her face. The woman was clearly meant to be a maid, but her uniform was unlike anything Doris had ever seen in any household. It was made of a gleaming black rubber that clung to her body, exaggerating her ample figure in a way that was both absurd and grotesque. The material strained at the seams, and the cut was all wrong, bulging at the hips and chest. Her thick, fleshy feet were painfully crammed into impossibly high-heeled patent leather boots, forcing her to take mincing, unsteady steps.

Around her neck was a thick, black leather collar, stark against her pale, fleshy skin. Her hands were clasped submissively behind her back, thrusting her chest out at an unnatural angle. Her face was a mask of cheap, garish makeup – thick blue eyeshadow, smeared red lipstick, and heavily powdered cheeks that made her look like a desperate, aging clown. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor.

Doris stared, her mind struggling to process the bizarre spectacle. This had to be some kind of joke.

Eleanor's voice was calm and clear as she addressed the newcomer. "Two teas, Patricia. And do be careful with the cups."

The rubber-clad woman, Patricia, gave a clumsy curtsy, her boots wobbling precariously, and then shuffled back out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Doris finally found her voice, but it came out as a choked whisper. "What on earth...? Is this some kind of costume party?"

Eleanor smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "Not at all. I find it's always best to begin with a practical demonstration. It saves so much misunderstanding later on." She leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing. "Patricia was one of our clients. About two years ago, she came to us with a problem very similar to yours. A wealthy, dismissive husband. We were, of course, successful. Her husband is now a reformed man."

She paused, letting the information sink in. "However, Patricia found our methods... thrilling. She enjoyed the power she gained so much that she began to tell her friends. She named names. She described processes. She broke our one and only rule: absolute discretion."

Eleanor's smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold finality. "So, as part of her settlement, Patricia now works for us. Indefinitely. She pays for her breach of trust not with money, but with service. And a permanent, humbling reminder of what happens when you cannot keep your mouth shut."

A cold dread washed over Doris, extinguishing the last embers of her righteous anger. She looked at the closed door through which the ridiculous, pathetic maid had disappeared and finally understood. This wasn't therapy. This wasn't counseling. This was something else entirely. Something dark and absolute.

"We value our privacy above all else, Mrs. Collins," Eleanor said, her voice soft as silk but sharp as glass. 

"Now, shall we discuss your husband?”