Samvida
The Penthouse, Docklands
March 2013
Samvida
When I returned to the Penthouse after my husband’s funeral, all the servants I knew were gone. Even poor old Maria and Pedro had retired to Portugal. Some bean counter at Edeldico had replaced them with agency staff.
The new housekeepers and I avoided each other. They polished the antique furniture, wiped the glass walls and kept the pantry stocked with ready meals. I lay on the chaise longue where Urban and I used to make love in the afternoons, drinking wine and listening to sad songs. This stand-off continued until a new maid came to work at the Penthouse. Katya was older and more thoughtful than the others. She made time to prepare fresh food for me. I had no appetite but I was grateful for her kindness. One day she made me a perfect Caesar salad. When she saw I hadn’t touched it she folded her arms across her chest and swore in her own language.
‘Madam,’ she said, ‘You have to eat.’
I propped myself up on my elbows. ‘Please call me Vida. Everyone else does. When you say “Madam” I look around for my mother.
‘Where is your mother? Why don’t you go to her? Maybe she can make you eat something.’
‘Mum and Dad are on an adult gap year. They’re in Costa Rica, saving sea turtles.’
‘Have you no other family?’
‘Only my brother Gus. He’s at boarding school.’
‘After my sister’s husband died she wrote letters to him. She used to write about the happy memories the shared. She said it eased her pain.’
‘I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to. I don’t have enough memories of Urban,’ I said bitterly. ‘We were together for such a short time. It isn’t fair.’
‘Life is not fair, Miss Vida. Your husband left you wealthy. Many widows are poor. My sister can only afford to eat meat once a week, but you own this superb apartment. Look around you and be thankful.’
I could see most of the master suite from my chaise longue. What I saw didn’t make me feel thankful. For a start, the Penthouse didn’t belong to Urban. He’d bought it through his firm, Edeldico, as an investment when Docklands was being developed. His first wife, Frankie, chose the decor. She sadly died of cancer ten years before Urban and I met. Since then, not much had changed in the Penthouse. The exception was the master bedroom, which Urban had redecorated at enormous expense. It was supposed to be my wedding present, but I didn’t like the ornate fabrics and dull colours his designer selected.
Urban also hired a personal shopper to buy suitable clothes for me to wear in my new role as his wife. He knew I was a jeans and jumper kind of girl, and he didn’t want me to show him up. When we returned from our honeymoon in the Maldives, I found thousands of pounds worth of outfits waiting for me in my walk-in wardrobe. I didn’t like those either.