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 blurt 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.
Read the full story here: https://books2read.com/Steps