by Bea Paige
“Dead,” I respond. She can figure out what that means herself.
She nods again, seemingly satisfied. This woman really is crazy.
We both continue eating in silence. Every now and then I catch Ms Hadley looking at me, as though she’s trying to figure me out. Well, she can go ahead and try. I’m a closed book, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting anyone crack the spine and flip through my dusty pages.
My past is mine, my memories my own. No one is going to shine a light on the darkness I harbour in my heart. I’ve cultivated it for a very long time and am not about to give up my secrets to some weird old woman.
Ms Hadley coughs, snapping me out of my thoughts. She looks at her wrist watch. “I must show you the files before I go. They should keep you busy for the rest of the day.”
“The ones on the computer? I’ve familiarised myself with them already,” I respond.
She cocks her eyebrow at me. “Not those,” she says, annoyance creeping in her voice.
“What files?”
Ms Hadley gets up and walks towards one of the wooden wall panels. I’m about to ask her if she’s okay given she’s standing in front of the wall, when she presses her hand against a tiny square button I hadn’t noticed until now and a section of the wall swings inwards opening into a gaping black mouth. Well, clearly not a mouth, a room or corridor or a secret passageway. I’m reminded of the frantic knocking on the door earlier and feel more than a little unnerved.
“What’s this…” I start, standing abruptly.
Ms Hadley reaches forward, her hand and forearm swallowed into the dark momentarily before I hear a clicking sound and a light turns on.
“These are the files I’m talking about,” Ms Hadley says, stepping aside so that I can see into what is, very obviously, another room. A room filled to the brim with cardboard boxes full of papers and files, and rows and rows of filing cabinets.
Shit. There’s me thinking I’ll just be tapping away at the computer, sipping coffee all day. This is more work than I’d bargained for.
Ms Hadley smiles sweetly. “Mr Sachov is a very clever man, but he’s not particularly good at this kind of thing.”
“What, filing?” I say, probably a little too sarcastically. Thankfully Ms Hadley ignores my remark.
“Most of what he knows is stored up here,” she says, tapping her head. “But, he needs someone to keep all his paperwork organised. You’re that person.”
“What about you?” I ask. She seems to be more than capable of being organised, why didn’t she take the job as his PA?
“Me? Don’t be silly, I’ve far more important things to do with my time than filing. Why do you think we hired you? Besides, I run the household.”
I almost ask ‘what household’ given there’s only me and her in it, but refrain. I’m already aware that Ms Hadley always has a reasonable answer for everything. I’m sure she’d come up with a plethora of reasons why she needs to run an empty household and why filing is beneath her.
“Now, I’ve things to be getting on with, and so do you,” she says, gathering up the plates and stacking them on the tray. “Your day finishes at four o’clock. I expect you to leave on the dot. Not a moment later, is that clear?”
“Sure, okay,” I agree, more than happy to be out of this place in just over three hours. She nods her head, picks up the tray and heads towards the door.
“Oh, one last thing,” she says turning back to face me.
“Yes?” I ask, expecting another backhanded insult.
“Please ensure you lock this door when you leave.”
“No problem…” my voice trails off as Ms Hadley pulls the door shut on my reply.
Left with a mountain of filing with no real clue where to start, I step into the room and grab the nearest box. Four o’clock can’t come around quick enough.
Three hours later, tired and with an aching back, I survey my afternoon’s work. I’ve already managed to fill three separate filing cabinets with paperwork all filed in alphabetical order in appropriate sections under business, household and personal, just like the files on the computer. There are still at least half a dozen boxes to go, but I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, even though my body is cursing me for abusing it.
Rubbing at my back, I push open the door and head out into the main office. Opposite me is a man sitting at Mr Sachov’s desk with his head clasped in his hands.
Hands that appear to be covered in blood… I let out a screech, back peddling into the wall behind me.
The man snaps his head up, his eyes widening when he sees me. His loose hair falls about his shoulders, as he stands.
“Who are you?” I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice steady. It occurs to me then that this could be Mr Sachov returned home early, and that I’ve been incredibly rude. Except something tells me that this man is not my boss, but one of the ‘household’ Ms Hadley keeps referring too. What I’d initially thought was blood is, in fact, paint, given the paintbrush he seems to be grasping tightly in his hand.
“Who am I? Who are you?” he retorts. “And what are you doing in Ivan’s office?”
“I’m Mr Sachov’s personal assistant. I started today.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, stepping around the table and into the fading afternoon light where I can get a better look at him. He’s looks about my age, maybe a few years older, and he’s wearing a paint splattered t-shirt with long black trousers that are slung low on his hips. His t-shirt is a little short in length and doesn’t quite meet the tops of his trousers, showing a portion of smooth skin, firm muscle and the hint of hair leading lower down... I snatch my eyes up, concentrating on his face.
“I work here,” I retort, folding my arms against my chest. There’s something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel as though I’m being studied under a microscope. What is it with people in this house and all the staring? First Ms Hadley, now this man.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling a little indignant, and a lot unnerved.
I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t be here either given Ms Hadley’s insistence on locking every damn room in the place. It makes me wonder where he’s been hiding.
“You shouldn’t be here now,” he repeats once more.
“This is my office,” I respond, more slowly this time.
Perhaps he’s unwell, maybe that’s why Ms Hadley is keeping his existence secret. I know families like to keep secrets, mine is proof enough of that. Big, fat, ugly secrets seem to hover over me like a damp mist on Bodmin Moor.
“Ivan won’t be happy…” he starts, then clamps his mouth shut.
“Why not?” I ask, taking in the depth of his brown eyes and the dark rings that circle them. I watch as he swipes his paint splattered hand over the beard covering his chin, leaving a smear of red paint across his face
“It’s past four o’clock. You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, ignoring my question.
“I didn’t realise the time. I’m going to go now,” I say, taking a step towards the door as he moves closer. He continues to stare at me as though he’s purposefully absorbing every detail of my face and storing it away in his memory.
“Yes, you should go,” he says, tracking a hand through his hair.
“I will. I’ll go,” I murmur, backing up into my desk. I feel the hard edge of the wood dig into my backside as this man steps ever closer.
“It’s past four…” he repeats, reaching up a hand and trailing a finger across my cheek. I feel wetness against my skin, the same red paint marking me now.
He's so close that I can see tiny shards of blue in the muddy brown of his eyes. He’s handsome, yes, with wide shoulders and muscular arms, but he’s also a little odd. Odd in a troubled way, like his past is as fucked up as my own.
“You have strange eyes. What colour are they?” he asks, a frown pulling his tawny eyebrows together. They are the same colour as his long chin length hair and stubbled cheeks.
“Gree
n?” I respond, completely unnerved now.
“Green? That’s a colour I’ve not seen in a while.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He steps back abruptly, shaking his head. “You should leave before Ms Hadley finds you here still. She won’t be happy.”
“I thought it was Ivan, I mean Mr Sachov, who won’t be happy…”
“You’ll get hurt, you know,” he whispers. “They all do in the end, just like her.”
My heart stutters. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He steps back quickly. “Ms Hadley isn’t someone you should disobey. You need to go,” he responds.
I feel like saying that I don’t care if Ms Hadley finds me here, that I want to know who the hell he is and what the fuck he’s talking about. Instead, I ask a completely different question. “Was that you earlier, knocking on the door?”
“No,” he responds immediately.
I don’t know this man at all, but I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth even if he does scare me. “Then if not you, who?” I press, expecting more riddles than answers.
“Erik.”
“Who is Erik?”
“He lives here too,” the man responds. His gaze sweep over me once more before he turns and heads out of the room. For a moment I just remain fixed to the spot, stunned. Then, coming back to my senses, I run after him hoping he doesn’t disappear like Erik appeared to have done earlier.
“Wait, I don’t know your name,” I say, peering out of the door.
He stops, turning on bare feet. I hadn’t noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes before. “It’s better you don’t know. I’ve said too much already. You should leave. It’s after four,” he repeats.
“Please,” I plead, my need to know making me beg a little. It’s been a long time since I heard my voice sound so… so desperate?
Submissive, you mean, a long-buried voice says inside my head.
I push the sound of his voice, and memories of that man out of my thoughts. He stopped existing a long time ago, and I refuse to let the memories of him creep back in and haunt me now.
“Anton,” the paint splattered man says, before slipping through the door at the end of the corridor and disappearing from view.
Chapter Five
The following morning at Browlace Manor passes uneventfully. More filing and another awkward lunch with Ms Hadley pass the time quickly enough. After clearing another three boxes of files I glance at my watch, it’s three o’clock. I’ve not had a break for the last couple of hours, so decide to take a quick five minutes to stretch out my back and have a drink.
I grab the glass on my desk and take a sip of water, eying up the plate of biscuits Ms Hadley left behind. After yesterday’s encounter with Anton I’ve been even more wary of Ms Hadley today given his veiled warning. I almost didn’t come to work, but the very real need to pay my stack of growing bills had me pushing my concerns aside and walking to work in the biting wind. The whole journey I’d been thinking about Anton and the strange way he’d looked at me, about the mysterious Erik, and my very particular boss whom I’m yet to meet.
I’ve not seen Anton at all today, or Erik. Not that I met Erik yesterday, but there hasn’t been any strange knocking on the door at least. Most of me is grateful for that fact, but a small part of me is a little disappointed. There was something about Anton that was alluring beneath the odd behaviour. Then again, I’ve always been partial to a man who has secrets, and Anton seems to have plenty of those.
I’m guessing he’s an artist given the paint and brush, but other than that I know nothing about him. Even Mr Sachov’s personal files don’t allude to any family and it’s not as if I can straight out ask Ms Hadley given her clear need to hide the fact Anton lives here, or Erik for that matter. It’s all so odd.
So far today, on the surface at least, Ms Hadley has been nothing but kind. She even asked me how well I was feeling at lunchtime after noticing me rubbing at my lower back. A morning of sorting through Mr Sachov’s files has certainly stiffened me up a lot, add that to yesterday’s efforts and I’m feeling sore. But despite her concern, I still don’t trust her. There’s something very unnerving about that woman. I feel like I’m undergoing a test, one where she knows all the rules and I’m oblivious. One mistake and I’m out.
Right now, I’m looking forward to meeting Mr Sachov. His arrival tomorrow can’t come quickly enough. At least when he’s here I won’t have to suffer Ms Hadley’s constant scrutiny. She acts as though she runs this house, but when I look at all the information about Mr Sachov in his paper files and the ones on the computer, I get the distinct impression he’s not a man who’ll let any woman run his life, even a woman like Ms Hadley. He seems very certain of himself, I guess you must be to run a successful multimillion pound property business.
Placing the glass back on the table, I walk around the desk to the centre of the room and begin some simple stretches. First, I raise my right arm and lean over to my left, stretching all the muscles in the right side of my torso, then repeat the same movement on the opposite side. It helps a little to relieve the tension in the muscles that run along the sides of my chest but doesn’t do much for the pain beginning to radiate from my lower spine and out across my hips.
“Fuck,” I mumble, pressing my fingertips into the small of my back, moving them in a circular motion.
I don’t know why I bother really, it doesn’t help. The pain I feel isn’t caused by tight muscles, it’s caused by inflammation around the joints in my bones, but still I stretch. Keeping my muscles loose might not help with the pain, but it keeps me supple enough to survive it, supple enough to dance even just a little.
Dreaming of a long hot bath and a glass of wine, this time I raise both my arms above my head then lean forward slowly reaching for my toes. I can feel the muscles strain, and the joints beneath them groan, but still I continue.
Before I was diagnosed with my condition, I could get my forehead against my knees and my palms flat on the ground, now I’m lucky to reach my calves with my fingers.
“Who the fuck are you?” a deep voice says from behind me.
I straighten quickly, groaning with the sharp pain of moving so fast. Twisting on my feet I face the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Beautiful in a dangerous, raw, wild animal kind of way. His blue-grey eyes regard me with a mixture of disdain and mild interest, the kind of interest which precludes a main meal.
“I’m Rose Gyvern,” I say, my voice is surprisingly level given my heart has decided to pound like a bass drum. There’s something about this man I recognise, he’s familiar somehow. He steps into the room, his presence making me feel small. I back up a little. “Nice to meet you...?”
He doesn’t respond, he simply waits, crossing his arms over his chest. The shirt he’s wearing is white and slim fitting and is tucked into a well-made pair of navy trousers. I see his arm muscles bunch beneath the material as he tenses.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growls, the dark shadow of his stubble, and dishevelled hair juxtaposing the rest of him that appears so well turned out.
“I’m Mr Sachov’s personal assistant. I started yesterday,” I reply, wondering if this is Erik.
“Is that so?” he says, regarding me. His gaze trails slowly over my body, starting at my turned out feet. For some reason his eyes narrow at that. I notice how his fingers curl into his palms and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. Instinctively, I turn my feet inwards, and the tenseness disappears from his face. His gaze rises slowly, and my breath catches at the way he takes in every detail. I feel instantly naked.
Vulnerable.
“I’ve just finished some filing. Ms Hadley tells me Mr Sachov will be home tomorrow and I wanted to get most of it done before he returns,” I ramble, my cheeks flushing as his gaze stops at my chest. The turbulent blue-grey of his eyes darken like an oncoming squall at sea as he watches my nipples pebble beneath my thin silk shirt and lace bra.
My physical reaction to his presence is wholly inappropriate and completely unnerving. He takes another step forward, and I take another step back, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel a red heat flush my cheeks. A strange kind of rumbling noise rises up his throat at that. My arms cross tighter.
Finally, his gaze rests back on my face. His expression is blank, careful.
Controlled, that’s the word I’m looking for.
“What were you doing when I walked in?” he asks.
His voice has taken on a dangerous edge. I mean I know it probably wasn’t very professional of me to be bent over, stretching in the middle of the office, but to be fair I wasn’t expecting anyone to walk in on me doing it.
“I was stretching…” I respond, feeling bloody ridiculous.
“Stretching?”
“My back has been hurting a little from all the filing and lugging all those heavy boxes.” I point to pile stacked by my desk. He doesn’t bother to look at them, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on me.
“Do you stretch often?” he persists, taking a step closer to me.
“Every day,” I respond, feeling more and more intimidated by the glowering look he’s giving me.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you stretch every day?”
“It’s just something I do.”
“Why?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes at me.
Is he for real? I frown, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “It really doesn’t matter why, it just helps to ease the pain.”
“It matters to me. Tell me,” he insists, glowering at me. There’s something inherently dangerous about this man. He reminds me of someone I used to know, someone I’ve tried very hard to forget. A man who took my virginity, showed me a world I’ve never been able to forget and broke my heart in the process. Maybe that’s why he seems so familiar.
Smarting a little at his probing questions and the reminder of my past, I straighten my back, haul in my stomach muscles and pull myself upright. My feet automatically turn out into first position. Somehow standing this way makes me feel a little stronger. Ballet has always been my shield to ward off dangerous memories, and the man who caused them.