by Bea Paige
“Thank you.”
She nods her head and retreats, shutting the door behind her and leaving me to settle in.
Pulling off my coat and bag, I hang them on the coat rack then survey my new work space. The room is warm and though a little bare, it’s beautiful. My desk is massive and made of solid, dark wood. It’s surface shines as though recently polished and beneath the table are three deep drawers all of which are empty, bar the keys Ms Hadley mentioned. I pick them up, marvelling at the weight of the heavy iron.
Pulling out the leather chair, I take a seat and turn on the computer. The monitor lights up revealing the login screen. Grabbing the notebook on the desk, I flip it open and type in the password: La Bayadere.
La Bayadere?
My fingertips hover over the keyboard. How odd that the password would be an iconic 19th-century Russian ballet, and the first performance with my company back when I was part of the corps de ballet. Anxiety fizzes in my chest. Could Ms Hadley know about my past? And if so, why would she want to remind me of what I’ve lost?
Deciding it must be a coincidence, I type in the password and hit return. It takes less than half a minute to load before I’m presented with the desktop screen. It’s empty apart from three folders. The first is labelled House, the second Business and the third Personal.
I double-click on the House folder and it opens to reveal a list of files all labelled alphabetically. I scan over them, there’s Grounds, Kitchen, Staff and Utilities. Clearly these folders hold all the information about running Browlace Manor. I close it, then open the Business folder. Similar files appear, all pretty self-explanatory. It would appear Mr Sachov is a property developer. The files are all listed by names of developments. I open one excel spreadsheet linked to a property development in France and nearly keel over at the total money spent on the development; 3.5 million euros to be precise. Just how much money does Mr Sachov have? His business must be worth a fortune.
Swallowing, I close the spreadsheet and file, then click on the last folder labelled Personal. This folder has a few files within it. I click through them. There’s a document with general information about Mr Sachov’s measurements, shoe size and a list of Saville Row tailors. Another word document has a list of restaurants in all the main cities of the UK, and some in other countries. Every single restaurant listed has the name and contact numbers of the Maitre’D. There’s also a document with a list of five-star hotels in London, Paris, Rome, New York and Moscow.
“Jesus, Mr Sachov has expensive tastes,” I mutter, suddenly feeling woefully inadequate.
My hands drop to my lap and flex over my black polyester trousers. My outfit cost me less than thirty pounds. My silk top, found in a charity shop and though my trousers are new, they’re from a cheap clothes store in town.
“What have I got myself into?” I say, continuing to have a conversation with myself.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I reach up to the mouse and place the cursor over the x to close the Personal folder, when I notice a sidebar in the pop-up box indicating that there is more beneath the whitespace. Curiosity piqued, I scroll down. Sitting at the bottom is one more file labelled ‘Brisé’.
Brisé?
White noise fills my ears as my heart starts pounding again. Why is there another ballet reference? One is a coincidence, surely two is significant? Is Ms Hadley playing with me? I double click on the folder and it opens to reveal an unlabelled word document. Something tells me that if I open it I’m not going to like what I see inside. Another thread of doubt pulls inside my chest.
My finger hovers over the mouse. Part of me really wants to open the document, the other part is afraid. There’s something about this place. Not just Ms Hadley and her strangeness, but the locked doors and the lack of people. It’s a big house, surely Mr Sachov has more than just one member of staff? Two now that I’m working here. Yet, this place is empty apart from us both.
A light knock at the door makes me jump, and my hand falls away from the mouse. I straighten myself up. Just get through today. This is probably a classic case of anxiety, I think to myself.
“Come in?” I question, wondering why Ms Hadley has returned so quickly, and why she’s not just walking in. I look at the time on the computer screen, it’s been less than an hour since she left. Another knock sounds, a little more urgent this time.
“It’s open Ms Hadley. Please, just come in,” I say.
When the door remains stubbornly closed and the knocking becomes more insistent, I get up and stride over, pulling it open.
The corridor’s empty.
The hairs on my arm stand as I peer out of the room. I half expect someone to jump out from a hidden alcove and shout ‘surprise’ whilst waving their hands in the air. Frankly, I’d prefer that to an empty corridor and the muffled sound of a Violin being played in another locked room somewhere in the manor. I freeze, fear chasing up my spine. The music wasn’t playing when I arrived this morning, but it most definitely is now. Or at least I think it is. I thought I’d heard someone knocking on the office door but there’s no one here.
No one but me.
Withdrawing back into the room, I shut the door and lean against it, trying to calm my racing heart. This place is full of ghosts. Ghosts that play violins. Ghosts that want to torture me with references to my past.
Chapter Three
For ten long minutes I stand with my back pressed against the door, my heart pounding erratically. I don’t feel safe and I’m not sure whether it’s my anxiety kicking in, or whether I really have a right to feel scared. How would the average person react in this situation?
When I think about it logically, I realise that I do have a right to feel afraid and that I should bring it up with Ms Hadley. If there’s someone in this house who thinks it’s okay to play tricks on me and scare me like that then I think she should know about it.
Then it occurs to me that it could well be Ms Hadley, or worse my own imagination. My anxiety kicks up a notch at the thought. Perhaps bringing it up with her isn’t such a good idea after all? Indecision keeps me glued to where I stand. My hands become clammy, my body begins to shake, and I find it hard to breath suddenly.
“Rose, snap out of it,” I tell myself angrily. If I let myself spiral now I’ll not only be out of a job, but out of my mind too, and I won’t allow that to happen again.
Gathering courage, I push myself off from the door, stride over to my desk and pick up the keys knowing I’d feel safer if the door was locked, just like all the others are in this place. I try each key, the final one locking the door. As soon as it’s done I feel calmer. The racing of my heart subsides and my breathing returns to a steadier pace.
Now what?
Placing the keys back on the table, I wander over to Mr Sachov’s desk. It’s as bare as mine. A computer monitor sits on top of it, alongside a keyboard and mouse. A phone accompanies it. There are no photos, no personal items. Not even a pen. I scoot around the desk, running my hands over the thick leather inlaid within the wood. This desk probably cost more than all the furniture put together in my house. I sit in Mr Sachov’s chair. It’s the same as my own and is comfortable despite the hard wood of the arms and back. The padded leather seat supports my aching joints well enough.
Under his desk, Mr Sachov has three drawers too, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I decide to see what’s in them. Perhaps there’s something, anything, that will allow me a glimpse at the man I’m going to meet in a couple of days. The top draw opens to reveal a pad and pen. I pick up the pad and flip the pages. It’s completely blank. Shutting the drawer, I pull on the middle one. Inside, I’m surprised to find a length of red silk. It’s not a tie, it’s too long for that. Picking it up, I hold it in my hands, allowing the material to run over my palms. For reasons unknown to me, I raise the material to my nose and breathe in.
It smells of florally perfume and a hint of musk. No, not musk…
Sex. It smells of sex.
“Jesus Christ
,” I exclaim, dropping the red silk into the drawer and slamming it shut. I find my hands trembling a little, anxiety and a thread of something more unnerving running through my veins. Who the hell is this man? And more to the point, why is there a length of silk in his drawer that smells of sex?
I’ve not had sex in a very long time.
Five years to be precise.
Pushing that errant thought away, I give myself a moment to recover, then reach for the bottom drawer.
It doesn’t open. It’s locked.
“It’s locked for a reason, Rose. You need to stop this.”
There I go, talking to myself again. Realising that I’m now talking to myself in the third person, I decide that getting back to my own desk on the other side of the room is a far better, far safer option.
Back at my own desk and chewing on my lip, I wonder what I should do next. Ms Hadley hasn’t left me any instructions other than to familiarise myself with the files stored on the computer. I think about looking up Mr Sachov on Google but find that there’s no internet access on my computer, which is a little odd in and of itself. Surely, I’ll need it for my job? Then I remember the three files on the computer and all the information listed in them. Ms Hadley said that Mr Sachov is very particular. Clearly, he likes what he likes, maybe that’s why he doesn’t have access to the internet? He doesn’t need to know about anything other than what he’s already interested in.
Or maybe this is some kind of test? Perhaps I’m meant to study the files a little more closely and when Ms Hadley returns at midday, she will have questions about the contents of those three files? I wouldn’t be a very good personal assistant if I didn’t know all I needed to about my boss in order to assist in the smooth running of his life, now would I? And there really is nothing else I can do.
“That must be it,” I murmur, moving the mouse and logging back into the desktop, clicking on the Personal folder once more.
I avoid the file marked Brisé.
Yes, my curiosity is begging me to open it up, but common sense and something else, intuition, I suppose, is telling me to steer well clear. I’ve already uncovered something about Mr Sachov that has unnerved me, and even though I’m trying to forget what I saw, what I smelt, it’s proving harder than expected.
I’m not an idiot, clearly that piece of silk has been used in some kind of sexual conquest. I’m not naïve either, just a little surprised as to why it’s in his desk drawer and not hidden away in the privacy of his bedroom…
I wonder what that looks like?
A thread of excitement startles me as I imagine swathes of red silk, a darkly decorated bedroom with a four-poster bed and a naked, blindfolded woman tied to the bedposts…
I feel heat rise up my neck and spread across my cheeks. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? My imagination is going into overdrive.
I need to get laid.
I swallow an almost hysterical laugh at the thought. Who’s going to want me now? I’m damaged goods. Broken a long time before my condition took the one passion I had left.
Turning my attention back to the computer screen, I familiarise myself with the contents of the files, paying more attention this time.
I learn a lot about Mr Sachov from those three files. Of course, he has expensive tastes, I figured that out earlier, but he also appears to prefer Mediterranean food over any other, given the kinds of restaurants listed in the Personal file. He is clearly a very astute businessman given his job and the revenue he earns on all his developments. As far as I can tell he has never made a loss on any of his projects.
The information about his measurements tell me he’s well-built, tall, with a toned figure. I’m guessing over six foot, tall enough to tower over my five foot seven inches. Again, money is no object for him. Bespoke suits made by Saville Row tailors seem to be his preference. Last year alone he spent triple my yearly wage on suits. For a personal assistant, I get paid very well. The thought I will be taking home almost two and half thousand pounds a month after tax is overwhelming in itself, but even more so that he spends three times that on suits. This man has way too much money to burn. But, I guess that’s his prerogative. Who am I to judge? If I earnt as much as he did, wouldn’t I be buying the finest clothes and drinking the finest wines and dining at the finest restaurants around the globe? Being a ballerina in a huge company such as the Royal Ballet afforded me a piece of the highlife, I suppose. Not necessarily in monetary value, but the places I was able to visit and the people I met given my profession.
Now look at me.
Back to my quiet village in Cornwall, surrounded with memories of a past no one will let me forget and working as an assistant to one of the wealthiest men in the area, probably the country. I know I should be grateful, that it could be a lot worse, but I can’t help but feel a little disappointed as to how my life has turned out.
I hope I live up to Mr Sachov and Ms Hadley’s expectations.
Closing down the folders, I look for a calendar and find one attached to the email. According to the calendar, my new boss spends a lot of time away from Browlace Manor on business trips. This year alone he’s been away more weeks than he’s been home. He tends to go away, presumably on business, for at least three weeks at a time, returning to the Manor in between, but never staying longer than a month. Ms Hadley hasn’t mentioned a wife. I’ve seen no evidence of one either, at least not in the few areas of the Manor I’ve been allowed into. But then there’s the red silk in his drawer, indicating there is much more to Mr Sachov’s personal life that I can establish from the files on the computer. Girlfriend perhaps? That in itself throws up a load of questions. Does she live locally? I somehow doubt that. Perhaps she travels with him and I’ll meet her Wednesday too? Or maybe he doesn’t have girlfriends, just fuck buddies. The questions I have are endless and will only be answered when I meet Mr Sachov himself. I know Ms Hadley won’t be telling me anything, not that I’d ask her, or him frankly. But in time, I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
Gazing at the calendar on the computer screen, I can see that he’s been away for almost a month this time. Assuming I’ve interpreted the pattern of his movements correctly, he’ll be staying for the same amount of time when he returns on Wednesday. I guess I’ll have a month to figure out what really makes Mr Sachov tick.
Strange that I feel the need to do this without having met him, but the small snippets of information have me intrigued enough to want to.
A sharp knock on the door, has me leaping out of my skin again.
“Who is it?” I ask, my voice shaking a little.
“It’s me, of course. Why have you locked the door?” Ms Hadley responds, annoyance clear in her voice.
“I’m sorry. Give me a moment,” I say, picking up the key and rushing to open the door.
“It’s quite unnecessary to lock this room whilst you are in it. Only when you leave,” she says, tutting.
I pull open the door and step aside as she bustles in with a tray laden with sandwiches and tea. There’s even chocolate cake. My stomach rumbles. I’m suddenly starving. Since being chucked out of the company my appetite has returned and I’ve put on weight. My body curves in all the right places, I even have breasts now after years of being underweight.
I watch her as she places the tray on my desk before turning around to face me.
“Why did you lock the door?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me before she casts her gaze about the room. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, evidence of theft? Because there’s nothing to steal unless you count that piece of red silk. My cheeks flush making me look guilty.
“I thought it was a requirement.” I’m not sure why I lie, it just seems the right thing to do.
“Just because the other doors are kept locked, doesn’t mean you have the authority to lock this one. I gave you the key so you can get in, not so you can lock us out,” she says, smarting.
“Us?” I ask.
A little nerve in her faces twitches at that, but her gaze rem
ains steady.
“Mr Sachov and I, of course,” she responds.
“I see. Apologies, I misunderstood.”
“No harm done. Please, come and eat. Tell me what you’ve been doing this morning,” she says, kindly.
Too kindly.
Her question isn’t as innocent as it sounds. Something tells me I’ll need to be wary of this woman. Very wary indeed.
Chapter Four
“So, do you live in the village?” Ms Hadley asks, as she watches me eat.
I nod my head, swallowing the mouthful quickly. “Yes, I’ve lived here all my life,” I respond. It’s not a complete lie. It’s always been the house I’ve come back to, I just haven’t lived there for the past twelve years, visiting as infrequently as I could get away with.
“You’ve been a personal assistant before?”
Picking up my cup of tea, I take a sip, stalling for time. I get the distinct impression she’s trying to trip me up somehow. The fact of the matter is, the last time I was anyone’s assistant was the summer I turned sixteen and worked for a man who broke my heart. It’s not a time I wish to remember, even though everyone else seems intent on doing just that.
“Yes,” I say, not willing to elaborate further. If she wanted to interrogate me about my work history she should’ve done so in the interview.
She nods her head, not pressing further.
“You like living here, in the village?” she asks, as though knowing my answer would be no. The answer is no, but no would lead to more questions, questions I’m not willing to answer.
“Yes.”
“Family?” Ms Hadley drops that one worded question with a sharp look. A question that could be answered in a multitude of ways. Do I have a family? Not anymore. Do I like my family? Nope. Do I want a family? No. Am I married? Well, there’s no wedding band, so… Do I have a partner? Ha, no! Kids? Absolutely not.