by Bea Paige
Frankly, if you’d told me at the start of my dancing career that by the age of thirty I’d be crippled and about to willingly spend the rest of my life as an assistant to some wealthy aristocrat, I would’ve laughed. As it is, I’m desperate for this job. Desperate enough to yank myself out of the depths of depression that has plagued me every day since I returned home. It still hangs over me like a dark cloud threatening to unleash its wrath but, for today at least, it’s under control enough so that I can make it through this interview. Happy pills, as my mother used to say, taking the edge off. I hate that phrase. These pills don’t make me happy, they make me even. Just.
Stepping up to the main entrance, I ring the doorbell. From inside I can hear the sound of footsteps against a stone floor. A few seconds later the door swings open and an attractive woman in her mid-seventies smiles warmly at me even as her hazel eyes assess me astutely. She doesn’t ask me who I am or why I’m here, she simply waits. It’s unnerving. Realising she isn’t going to start the conversation anytime soon, I fill the strange silence.
“I’m here about the job. My name is Rosemary Gyvern. Rose for short,” I ramble.
“Indeed,” she says, cocking her eyebrow. “You’d better come in.”
She moves aside, pulling the door wide as I step into the entrance hall. A cold blast of air lifts the dark tendrils of my hair against my cheek as she closes the door behind us.
“Mr Sachov isn’t here to take the interview, but he has entrusted me to ensure the right person is hired for the job. Please, follow me,” she says, striding off towards a door at the other side of the hall.
“Oh, okay. That’s perfectly fine, Mrs…” I start, realising she hasn’t introduced herself.
“Ms Hadley. I am the housekeeper here at Browlace Manor. I have looked after the Sachov family for most of my adult life. I know all there is to know about these men and their… ways.”
“Men?”
“Sorry?” she says, looking at me with confusion.
“You said men.”
She shakes her head, plastering on a broad smile. “No, I didn’t,” she replies, and something about the way she looks at me prevents me from challenging her.
“I must’ve misheard…” I mumble, biting my tongue, my upbringing successfully curbing my insatiable need to know everything.
Nosy, that’s what my mother had called me. Inquisitiveness was not appreciated in my family. Too many secrets to be kept hidden for that personality trait to be encouraged.
“I trust you’ve read the job description and you understand what is required of you?” she asks, barely turning to look at me.
I nod my head, even though I’m still trailing behind her and she can’t see my response. Ms Hadley is surprisingly sprightly for someone her age. I feel suddenly inadequate with my achy and swollen joints.
“Yes, I’ve read the job description. Mr Sachov needs a personal assistant to help him manage his affairs.”
“That’s right,” she says, stopping in front of a door on the other side of the hall.
I almost walk into her back, not expecting her to stop moving so abruptly. I watch as she pulls out a set of iron keys. They chink heavily against one another. She pulls one free, puts it in the lock and turns. It strikes me as odd, that the door is locked. Who locks internal doors?
A sense of foreboding scatters over my skin.
“Ivan is very particular about the doors remaining locked when he’s not home. We were broken into once and a lot of personal items were stolen. I abide by his rules. Everyone does,” she says by way of explanation.
“Sure, rules are important,” I respond, thinking her weirder by the minute.
Ms Hadley seems to like my response, because she looks over her shoulder at me and smiles brightly. It changes her face dramatically. From stern and aloof, to warm and welcoming. I relax a little.
“This way please,” she says.
I follow her through the door and into a dimly lit corridor on the other side. At the far end is another door, and two on either side of the corridor. We enter the one on the right. I’m pretty sure I can hear a violin being played from behind the furthest door away, but Ms Hadley ushers me into the small office and shuts the door before I can be certain.
“You can hang your coat and bag on the hook over there, then take a seat. I have some questions to ask you,” Ms Hadley says, pointing to a coat rack.
I do as she asks, pulling off my woollen coat and hanging it alongside my bag. My skirt has ridden up a little because it’s so close fitting, and I have to pull it down to a more respectable length. I’m kind of glad Mr Sachov isn’t the one to interview me, given he would have seen more than I’d bargained for.
Turning around, I find Ms Hadley watching me closely from her seat behind the oak desk. Her eyes trail up from my feet to my face. That same astute look reappearing in her eyes as she takes her measure of me. I feel my cheeks flush under her gaze. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m a broodmare being sized up for mating?
“Sit, please,” she says, holding her hand out and pointing to the chair opposite her.
I take a seat and fold my hands in my lap, crossing my legs at the ankles. I may be a disabled ex-dancer, but today, it seems, I can still just about manage to be graceful despite my long walk in the cold. Years of good posture from dancing is still ingrained in me despite my medical condition that tries daily to twist my body into something less than perfect.
Ms Hadley takes it all in, her eyebrows rising minutely. She seems a little… surprised that I’m sitting like a lady, or perhaps it’s something else entirely, I’m not sure. Whatever the reason, my palms become sweaty, and it isn’t because of the heat from the open fire.
“What makes you think you’d be a good personal assistant to Ivan… Mr Sachov,” she corrects herself.
I lock eyes with her, glad to be back to safer territory. I’m here for an interview, I can answer these questions. Being scrutinised like she’s looking into my very soul, I’m not so keen on. I should be used to it. As a ballet dancer my technique, my ability to dance effortlessly was studied continuously when I was in the Royal Ballet. I could be utterly exhausted and in pain, but if I didn’t dance with perfection every single time, then there was always someone ready to take my spot. It’s a wonder my disability wasn’t spotted sooner. I guess I’m an expert at hiding. There’s a kind of irony in that given my past.
“Miss Gyvern. I asked you a question,” Ms Hadley says tersely, successfully drawing me out of more dark memories that threaten to break free.
“Yes, sorry…” I mumble, trying to bide some time.
“What attributes do you have that would make you suitable for this job?” she asks once again. The question is phrased slightly differently but the answer I have is still the same.
I straighten in my seat and look her in the eye. Bethany at the recruitment agency said that maintaining eye contact in an interview is extremely important. So even though I want to look away from her gaze, I don’t.
“I’m very organised. I have good interpersonal skills. I’m a great timekeeper. I can type fifty words per minute, I understand confidentiality is extremely important and I will remain professional with all personal matters that might arise. I work hard, and am available to start as soon as possible,” I reel off without taking a breath.
These are all the things my recruitment officer at the agency suggested I say. The truth is it’s all lies, well, except maybe keeping things confidential. I know what it’s like being on the receiving end of gossip, I certainly wouldn’t dream of sharing any personal matters with anyone. Not that I have anyone to share anything with. My cat, Bud, doesn’t count. Uncrossing my ankles and lifting my leg to place it over the other, I wait for the next question.
Ms Hadley purses her lips. Her eyebrows pinch together, and she sniffs loudly. I almost ask if she’d like a tissue, but then realise her reaction isn’t from a cold, but from distaste.
“Did I say something wrong?” I bl
urt out, unable to help myself.
Ms Hadley stands abruptly and holds her hand out for me to shake.
“Thank you for coming,” she says sharply.
I get to my feet, shock and disappointment propelling me upwards. I don’t reach for her hand, instead I cross my arms over my chest defensively.
“That’s it? I’ve come all this way to answer one question?” I can’t help the sharpness in my voice. Despite the warmth of the fire, my joints are beginning to ache. Walking here had been a mistake, coming here at all an even bigger one it would seem. What a waste of time.
“You’re not what we’re looking for,” she says. Her voice is level, without an ounce of sympathy in it.
“And you know that by the answer to one question?” I respond, blanching.
“Mr Sachov is very particular. Please, if you wouldn’t mind…” She moves around the table and gathers my coat and bag from the rack.
“I don’t believe this,” I say, anger marking my words now.
She doesn’t respond, merely passes my coat and bag to me. I snatch them from her, wincing as my fingers curl around the material. I don’t need to look at my fingers to know the joints are swollen.
“What’s wrong?” she asks abruptly, her eyes flicking from my face to my hands.
“I don’t have to answer that, given the interview is already over,” I snap, yanking on my jacket even though it hurts me to do so. I sling the strap of my bag over my shoulder and glare at her.
“You’re in pain. Why is that?” she presses, stepping closer to me. I take a step back. Christ, this woman is creepy.
“That’s none of your damn business.”
She steps forward again and pulls at my hand, grasping it in hers. Her fingers run over the bulbous joints of my middle and fourth finger.
“You’re sick,” she says.
“I am not sick,” I protest, snatching my hand back.
“What is wrong with you?”
I almost tell her to shove her questions up her arse, but then figure it makes no difference whether she knows the truth or not. Either way I haven’t got the job.
“Rheumatoid arthritis…”
Her eyebrows inch closer to her hair line, whilst the cogs whirl in her head. I have zero clue what she’s thinking or why she seems so interested in my health. All I want is to get out of this place as quickly as possible.
“But you seem so graceful,” she mutters, almost to herself. The way she says graceful is just plain odd, as though it’s a dirty word or something.
“You hold yourself like a dancer,” she continues, her gaze roving over me once more.
“Ha! This body is incapable,” I respond tightly. It’s not a lie. I can’t dance anymore. I won’t ever dance properly again. But what the hell has dancing and my ability to move gracefully got to do with whether I get the job or not? This is all just weird.
“Well, if that’s all?” I ask, turning on my feet and striding to the door. I pull it open, hissing through my teeth as another sharp pain lances through my finger joints and the small of my back.
“You start Monday, eight am sharp.”
I stand still, one foot in the corridor, the other still in the room. Did she just offer me the job after all that? What the hell is happening here?
“Mr Sachov will return Wednesday. It’s better you start before he arrives home. That way you can learn the ropes before he’s back.”
Turning to face Ms Hadley, I pull a face. “I don’t understand. Have you just offered me the job, after turning me down just a moment ago?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why doesn’t matter. Do you want the job or not?” she asks.
I stare at her open mouthed, unsure what answer to give. Part of me wants to tell her to stuff the job up her scrawny backside. The other part needs the money.
“Well? Yes or no, Miss Gyvern?” She locks eyes with me a final time, the kind smile back again. This woman is completely nuts. I can only imagine what this Mr Sachov is going to be like if she’s anything to go by.
“Yes,” I say, finally.
“Good. I shall see you at eight am Monday morning.” Her smile widens, and instead of making her look kinder and more approachable, it makes me shudder. I nod curtly then make my escape, the mournful sound of a violin being played following me out of the house.
Chapter Two
After a weekend in bed watching Netflix and eating what’s left of my pantry, I wake up at six am without the need for an alarm clock. Nerves, anxiety and a very real need to pee has me climbing out of bed. My knee joints are aching and my fingers throbbing, but rather than ignoring the pain, like I used to do, I stop and stretch out my limbs gently.
I know this could be a bad idea. That sometimes all my body needs is rest. That even stretching is potentially dangerous. But I can’t be the Tin Man all the time, this is my way to keep my body lubricated. It’s my way of saying fuck you to this condition I loathe.
Holding onto the chest-of-drawers to steady myself, I draw in a deep breath and raise my arms into first position. With my arms bent at the elbow, my palms facing me, the tips of my fingers a hands width apart and held opposite my navel I raise up onto the balls of my feet. Then, drawing in more deep breaths I prepare myself for the inevitable pain I know I will feel in my knees as I lower my heels to the ground then draw them together, turning my toes outwards. I pull in a sharp intake of breath as my knee joints groan under the pressure. Refusing to be defeated, I hold the position, the tenseness in my muscles slowly relaxing as I do.
“That’s it, Rose, you can do this,” I say softly.
For the last year I’ve been living with this pain. At first it was horrific, and I’d cry hopeless tears as I forced myself to work through it and dance. The damage I had done to myself in those first few months of denial almost crippled me. Now, I know better. When I relapse there’s nothing to do but take the pills, rest, and hope that soon the inflammation will pass. I mean, the pain never really goes, but the levels of pain vary greatly day to day.
I’ve learnt to listen to my body far better now than I have ever done before. It’s why I’m able to place my body in first position this morning, because I know, today, my body can take it.
I won’t kid myself into thinking that I’ll be dancing like I used too, but I can still maintain a little of my flexibility so long as I keep working with my body and not against it.
For a few minutes I work through each of the five positions slowly, allowing my body to form each pose as I stretch out my spine and loosen the tightness that has formed overnight from sleeping. Not only does it help me to keep as flexible as I can with this condition, but more than that, completing the basic ballet positions helps to ease my anxiety. It’s a form of meditation, I suppose. Being without dance would kill me quicker than this physical pain ever will.
Eventually, my full bladder forces me to stop and I head into my en-suite to relieve myself. Then I step into the shower, the powerful jets of warm water helping to ease the lingering pain further. Today is a good day. I feel almost normal, at least as normal as I can be with the dull pain I live with constantly.
With a towel wrapped around my body and the smell of coconut shampoo in the air, I walk over to my wardrobe and survey my newly bought work attire. Ms Hadley hadn’t mentioned what I should or shouldn’t wear, but I figure smart over casual is a better guess. At least until she tells me otherwise, which I have no doubt she will, given her outspoken nature.
Grabbing a pair of smart black trousers, a cream silk shirt and flat shoes, I get dressed. A few minutes later my dark hair is dry, and my face made up with a dash of mascara and some clear lip gloss. One of the things I don’t miss about dancing is having to cake my face in makeup. It took my skin ages to become blemish free after years of wearing thick layers of foundation and heavy powder. Now it’s smooth and healthy looking. I even have a little natural colour in my cheeks. I suppose you could call it an English rose complexion bu
t with my mother’s dark hair and green eyes, a throwback to her Mediterranean heritage.
I brush my shoulder length hair, deciding to put it up in a bun rather than wear it down as it looks smarter that way, then head downstairs for a quick breakfast of tea and toast. At seven o’clock sharp I’m making my way up to Browlace Manor and towards my first day of work.
“This will be your office,” Ms Hadley says, unlocking the door to a huge room with two large desks facing each other from opposite sides of the space. The office would have been really dark given the wooden panels and maroon carpet had it not been for the floor to ceiling window allowing as much winter sunlight into the room.
“Will I get a key?” I ask, pointing to the one Ms Hadley is holding.
She nods towards the desk on the left-hand side of the window.
“In the top drawer you shall find three keys. One for this room, one for the corridor leading to this room and one for the front door. Everything else is locked unless Mr Sachov agrees you should have access. I’ll leave that decision up to him.”
“Sure, okay,” I respond, not bothering to question the weirdness of all the locked doors. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t know what’s behind them.
“All the passwords you need to access the computer and Mr Sachov’s files are in the notebook on your desk. I suggest you log on and familiarise yourself with the computer system,” she says, pointing to my new desk.
“You’re not staying?” I ask as Ms Hadley begins to back out of the door.
“No. I’m needed elsewhere. I shall come back in a couple of hours. I assume you’ve brought lunch?”
“Actually, no,” I say, kicking myself at my stupidity.
Why hadn’t I thought of bringing any food, it’s not as if I’ll be allowed to make myself a snack in their kitchen.
“Then I shall return at midday with something for both of us.” Ms Hadley smiles kindly, throwing me off once again. I can’t seem to figure her out.
