My throat tightens.
The bidet gleams, smug and pristine, and suddenly—
I’m four years old again.
A tiny, wide-eyed dreamer, still wholly devoted to the Tooth Fairy and my extremely realistic life goal of becoming a princess / astronaut / actress.
It was my first time at the Cavendish estate, the ivy-choked beast of a house that looked like it had devoured half of England and was eyeing Wales for dessert.
Mum had laid down one ironclad rule—stay away from the big house. I was supposed to stick to the staff cottage with my older cousin Billy (useless babysitter).
But I’d heard rumors. Specifically, from Sophia Cavendish, who was five and already a posh gossip, swearing on her favorite pony that there were actual fairies in the castle. And really, what self-respecting four-year-old could resist the promise of fairies?
The house was magic. Ceilings so high they could tickle the clouds. Walls covered in massive paintings of judgmental ancestors. And right in the middle of the entrance hall, a statue—completely starkers. My first glimpse of the male anatomy: cold, chiseled, and wildly misleading.
I crept up the grand staircase, every squeak of my tiny shoes exposing me as an intruder, poking my nose into rooms that seemed designed to send children scurrying back to their mummies with nightmares about taxidermy and dusty chandeliers.
Then I found the main bathroom. My fingers hovered over the gilded handle for just a heartbeat before I shoved open the door.
And there he was.
Charles “Charlie” Cavendish, in all his posh glory, being ceremoniously escorted from the toilet to the bidet by his personal maid.
And that maid? None other than my mum.
I froze, caught in four-year-old Charlie’s mildly irritated gaze as he made his leisurely, shameless transition.
And why would there be shame? For Charlie, this was just another day at Chez Cavendish, where a bum escort was a basic human right.
Looking back, I think that was the moment my tragically impressionable, fairy-hunting heart fluttered, sighed, and declared,That’s the love of my life.
Move over, Romeo and Juliet. This was the real doomed love story: the cleaning lady’s daughter and the future lord of the manor who needed a personal assistant to use a bidet.
God, I was an idiot.
I gulp hard, dragging myself back to now, to the task of convincing strangers to buy overpriced toilets.
“The Smart Bidet Deluxe,” I say, my voice miraculously steady.
All that time I wasted pining over that posh prick.
I reach out to caress the bidet’s sleek, curvaceous form with all the serene elegance of a professional product demonstrator. Instead, my hand slips, sending a bottle of “signature bidet cleansing solution” skittering across the set.
“And with just the touch of a button,” I plow on, ignoring the clatter, “you can experience the ultimate in cleansing comfort.”
The promises Charlie made. Bollocks, all of it.
“They all warned me.”
Wait. Did I just say that out loud?
I jab at the control panel. The bidet, clearly taking issue with my attitude, retaliates with a jet of water so aggressive it nearly takes out Camera Two.
Oops, maybe that was a touch too much gusto.
Simon’s voice crackles in my earpiece with barely contained rage: “Daisy, if you don’t pull yourself together right now, I swear to god, I’ll shove you headfirst into that thing and hold you under till the bubbles stop.”
I drag in a wobbly breath, blinking like mad to keep the tears from spilling over and ruining what’s left of Michelle’s slapdash makeup job.
