Why do we feel so guilty about paying another woman to clean our house?
Once every week, without fail, I spend a couple of hours decluttering and tidying the house in anticipation of a visitor whose judgment I truly fear.
every rogue sock finds its way back into a drawer, piles of books and magazines are neatly stacked, I empty the bins and even plump the sofa cushions.
It leaves me exhausted and as a busy working mother –— I have two teenagers at home, plus two sons who regularly visit from university — you’d be forgiven for asking why I don’t get myself some domestic help.
But I already have a cleaner. She’s the regular visitor.
It’s not that my cleaner, let’s call her Margaret, isn’t dynamite. By the time she’s through, the shower doors gleam as brightly as any breakfast TV presenter’s smile.
And when it comes to the alacrity with which she delves into murky corners of a student’s bedroom . . . she deserves a medal for her courageous sorties.
The problem is that because she’s so vital to my world, I feel I have to work hard to keep her happy. And as I pay her handsomely to clean my home for six hours a week, it should be the other way round.
But, like many of my friends, the idea that I have staff, like a cut-price downton Abbey dowager, makes me feel uncomfortable.
While I don’t have a problem paying other people for their domestic services when they’re outside the home — I’ll happily take my filthy car to be valeted, and dishevelled posh frocks to be dry cleaned — the dynamic I have with those who come to work in my home is very different. Which is where the tidying comes in. For a start, I don’t want Margaret to think I’m a Lady Muck, a woman who is either lazy or thinks she’s above lifting a finger when it comes to such ‘trivial’ matters as cleaning.
I want her to know I’m just as prepared to get my hands dirty, if only I had more time.
Once, I even bleached the bathroom sink and shower tray just before she arrived so she wouldn’t think the worst of us.
And I don’t want to remind her of the financial imbalance that means I earn enough money to be able to afford, well, a cleaner.
Margaret wears clothes from Primark and doesn’t drive a car, so I’ll do anything to avoid semaphoring that I’ve got the money to splurge on nice things.
THeother day I went shopping to find something to wear for a smart function, and some nice bits for my holiday. As well as items from up-market High Street shops Reiss and Ted Baker, I’d picked up a gorgeous pair of strappy Kurt Geiger sandals.
However, since Margaret was vacuuming when I arrived back, I kept my purchases in the car until I knew she was in the kitchen.
Then I grabbed my stash, raced up the stairs and smuggled my finds in to the wardrobe. I also squashed flat various fancy cardboard shopping bags and hid them under the bed so she wouldn’t spot them.
On one level I know it’s ridiculous. After all, I work hard for my wages, so why shouldn’t I spend them on what I please? But I don’t want Margaret to resent me for being able to afford nice things. I want her to think we’re equals in every way. Though as my husband Martin once observed, when she’s on her knees scrubbing our en-suite she might just twig the disparity in our incomes.
And it’s the same when it comes to holidays.
Recently, we decided on a lastminute trip abroad while our youngest, Sophie, 13, was on halfterm. The problem was that we’d been away only six weeks before, and I did not want Margaret to know we were jetting off again.
So instead of telling her about our plans, I simply cancelled her for that week, blaming the school break and the fact the kids would be at home, making a mess.
Since she was due to clean the day after we arrived back, the moment we got home I raced round the house unpacking suitcases, stowing the luggage.
And I even took all the dirty laundry for a service wash so that Margaret wouldn’t spy a line of swimsuits and sundresses drying in our utility room.
The irony is that for all my guilt and worrying about coming across as an entitled snob, the fact is that, these days, having a cleaner doesn’t place you in an elitist section of society. A recent survey revealed that one in three British households now employs someone to help with the chores, and collectively we spend £26 billion a year on this.
Part of my guilt and discomfort may be down to the fact that I grew up in a house where there was not much money. My parents were not professional people. My mum was a secretary who did all her own cleaning and so I feel that — even though I’m already busy with a media career — I ought to be doing my own as she did.
Where I live there’s also hot competition to employ the best cleaners. If you’ve got one you trust, you do absolutely anything not to offend them. However, I’m so desperate to keep mine, she holds the balance of power.
It’s why I say nothing when Margaret swaps times, or even days, with a last-minute text.
I’m even frightened to say anything when something isn’t cleaned properly.
I once had a cleaner who mopped around the doormat in the porch. When I lifted it there was a perfect rectangle of dust, like the outline in a crime scene.
DIdI murmur my disapproval? Only a sheepish: ‘ Would you like another cuppa?’ However, perhaps the most obvious way I indulge Margaret is listening to the weekly litany of what’s gone wrong in her life.
Paralysed with fear of upsetting her, I arrange my face to suggest that I’m absolutely riveted by her nan’s failed knee op or her son’s prowess with a football.
I’m not alone. One friend, a freelance business analyst, takes her laptop to a cafe — despite having a home office — so she can avoid facing her cleaner.
Finally, the other week I feebly tried to break the cycle of domestic dependency and disproportionate power.
Margaret was chatting about being hard up. So I said I knew what she meant: that I was from a very modest background, that I was told that if I ever wanted anything in life I’d have to work hard to get it.
She nodded sagely. And then added: ‘ Yeah, you have worked hard. We both do. Let’s sit down for a chat and a cup of tea.’
Then put the kettle on.