The Writer and The Housemaid by Chris Lloyd

New York 1971.

Alex Cameron, a New York Times Best Selling author and top feature writer, was pacing the floor of her writing room in a state of agitation, her face looked stressed which spoilt her good looks. Another magazine assignment stared at her from under a large paperweight that sat on the desk, as if daring her to write it. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply, feeling the initial dizziness of the first nicotine hit of the day, poured a drink from the hot coffee jug and took a draught, straight down in one.  Outside it was getting lighter with every second; she took a look at her watch, twice, not believing what she saw the first time.
“My god, four hours?” Her 5’10” frame sagged, feeling the pressure.
She ran her hand through her long auburn hair, lips pursed.  She couldn’t afford not to deliver on this one; there was a new guy at the top and she got the impression he didn’t like her. Reluctantly she walked out of her room to the landing and shouted down the stair well to her housemaid, telling her to come up.
The housemaid was in the middle of her early morning cleaning duties when she heard the writer asking her to go upstairs. What now, she thought, assignment time?
She ran up the stairs two at a time and entered the writer’s room, slightly breathless, her long strides and noisy footfall, making the writer turn quickly.
“Ursula, I’m blocked again, need your input.” She was tetchy and straight to the point.
“Of course Ms Cameron, what is the subject?”
“I have to write a piece about women writers in today’s society, six hundred words and it has to be good. I have to get it to them in four hours max, can you do it?”
The housemaid was tempted to blow her off but she needed to work for now, at least until she’d finished her novel about a writer.
“Not sure I can do that ma’m, you should have given me more time.”
“Time is what I don’t have, Ursula, it needs to be done today, this morning. Do it or not?”
The housemaid considered her options, she needed three more days. Next week it would be done.
“I’ll do it ma’m, you have notes?”
“Sure, here they are.” She handed some pieces of paper to the housemaid.
“OK. Is this it?
“Yes that is it. Again do it or not?”
“I said I’d do it, ok?”
“I’ll let you get to it.” The writer poured some more coffee and walked out of the room, her room.
The housemaid sat down and read what notes there were; the banging of the old Remington’s keys could soon be heard. The writer relaxed a little, hearing the housemaid at work, hoping that she could come up with the goods - again.  Despite the help she was about to get, it irked her that her housemaid could simply sit down and start to write from her scant notes, which by the way, was becoming a habit, she told herself.  How many times was it, three, four? She has to go, she thought determinedly. The more she used the girl the less she could write. Yes she has to go.

The writer went back to the room and watched the housemaid; she was a picture of concentration.  She watched awestruck, amazed, but mostly jealous that this young woman could write to order, something she had never been capable of. What if it came out that she, Alex Cameron, had to use her damn house maid to do her writing, oh dear God that cannot happen, she poured a drink, another habit recently acquired. A second Marlboro came out of the pack and suddenly all became clear, crystal clear, as clear as the vodka she now had in her hand.
She walked out of the room and went downstairs intent on calling her agent but noticed the housemaid’s door was open. She went in and took a look; it was ultra-tidy and organised, shelves stacked with Alex Cameron novels, one on top of the other. A slip of paper stuck out of one them. The writer took it off the shelf. She remembered this novel, her third best seller, with affection, particularly the ending, an event which she had personally experienced. She took the slip of paper out – there were some notes written on it. She read the notes with interest, they seemed to have been made by an editor but that was impossible given it was already published. Wait a minute, they were rewriting notes and written in a hand she recognised - the housemaid’s. She started looking closer at the books; they all had similar notes. “What the…….?”
She started poking around in the housemaid’s desk; lots more notes about her books, all neatly filed and annotated. What she found next shocked her; it was a manuscript for a book, about her. She  read some of the draft, it was dynamite and would finish her as a writer if it was ever published.
“Hell, the bitch is gonna sell me out – I don’t think so.”
She checked the time again, an hour to deadline.   
The writer walked to the desk keeping her feelings in check, stood next to the housemaid and eyed the paperweight.
“Hey how’s it going?”
“I think it’s good, I’m nearly done,” banging the keys for the last few words, “There it’s done, see what you think.” She remained seated while the writer stood reading.
No way should it be as good as this, thought the writer; it was better than any assignment she had written. She was angry with herself for letting this happen and furious with the housemaid for thinking she could hang her out to dry and ruin her career. She took the aggressive route.
“Where in hell did you get this from – it can’t be yours. Who’s copy is it?”
“What, are you jealous that it’s mine, is it better than your last effort?” she said sarcastically.
“You are dreaming if you think you can be as good as me, you’re a fucking housemaid for god’s sake  with serious delusions of grandeur which will never happen.”
“Says who, you? Your writing days as the great Alex Cameron will be finished soon; I will take your place on the best sellers list. Alex Cameron is dead.”
“Fuck you,” said the writer as she grabbed the paperweight and smashed it down on the housemaid’s skull. She was dead before her head banged floppily on the desk.
“I don’t think so, bitch, who’s the one alive now?”

“Hey Joe, I got the piece for this month, sending it to you by cab right now, it’s awesome.”
“All your own work?” he asked, “Just kidding , Alex, see you.” The line went dead
She put the handset back in its cradle, hands shaking, not believing what Joe just said. She truly hoped he was kidding.
She lifted it again. “Marty, I got another one for you, yeah, sure, five grand is ok.”
A heavy weight seemed to lift off of her shoulders, she was back.
She called for a cab, sent the piece to Joe and wrote the title of her next novel, “The Housemaid’s Tale,” then a want ad for a housemaid / trainee writer, accommodation and writing tuition included.