4. Cathy
4
CATHY
Two months later…
T he office reception feels unnaturally bright, fluorescent lights washing out the colors and giving everything a harsh, sterile glow.
I glance around, taking in the other people seated around me—polished, put-together professionals who look like they were born knowing how to hold their shoulders back and keep their faces calm.
I feel conspicuous enough in my frayed navy blazer, my hands fidgeting with the strap of my only bag, my fingers tracing its worn edges. That’s before I even compare myself to the other interviewees.
I shift in my seat, wincing as the pain in my leg flares up. It’s been two months since the accident, and a month since I got out of hospital. My leg still hurts, a dull relentless ache that serves as a reminder of how close I came to losing more than just my pride.
I’ve done my best to look capable for every interview. It hasn’t worked. Maybe it’s the scar on my cheek. Perhaps it’s the sense of desperation.
I can’t even get a job as a waitress, the only thing I’m qualified to do. They all say the same thing. We’ll be in touch. Spoiler alert, the only ones who get in touch are the scammers.
The receptionist behind the desk glances up, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Catherine Taylor?”
I wince at the sound of my full name. Only my mother called me Catherine, normally just before slapping me.
I snap to attention, my heart pounding. “Cathy. Yes, that’s me.”
She gives a small, polite smile, though I can’t tell if it’s genuine or just part of the job. “Ms. Grant will see you in a few minutes. She’s just finishing up a call.”
She turns back to her computer. I take a deep breath, the ache in my leg reminding me why I’m here. My medical debt isn’t going anywhere. The weight of it presses down on me as I think about all the bills stacked up in my shitty illegal sublet.
Since I got to New York, I’ve taken whatever work I can find, a week here, a day there, scraping together enough to pay for the damp basement room I’m staying in. Most of my food is out of dumpsters. Same with my clothes.
I don’t even know why I came here. Did I think my father would just pop up out of the crowd and recognize me? Beg my forgiveness for not being part of my life up to now? God, I’m stupid.
Didn’t have to be this way, my mind whispers. Could have stayed with Jimmy, stopped having morals you can’t afford.
I won’t go back to him, no matter what. All I need is a steady job and I can start sorting my life out. Please, make this be the one.
The receptionist’s voice cuts through my thoughts again, snapping me back to the moment. “Ms. Taylor, Ms. Grant is ready for you. Straight through that door.”
I straighten up, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands as I stand, my leg aching. I smooth down my blazer, and give a quick nod. “Thank you.”
I walk into an office that feels worlds away from the sterile reception area. It’s warm, with mahogany shelves lining the walls, filled with neat rows of files, books, and framed certificates.
A large poster of the Kremlin hangs behind the desk, lending the room an exotic elegance. A small arrangement of fresh smelling white flowers in a simple glass vase brings a gentle brightness to the space.
A woman sits at the desk, flipping through a file that I assume must be mine. She’s in her early forties, tall and composed, with a sharply tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit that fits her perfectly.
Her straight black hair is pinned back, not a single strand out of place, and her green eyes, deep-set and keen, flick over me with a quick, assessing look before she closes the file.
“Ms. Taylor,” she says, her voice calm and businesslike as she gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “I’m Amanda Grant. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” I sit down, smoothing my skirt over my knees and trying to ignore the way my leg aches as I settle into the chair. She watches me, appraising but reserved, her gaze giving nothing away.
She taps the file. “I understand you’re looking for work?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat, trying to sound composed. “I can start straightaway if that helps?”
She nods, glancing down at her notes. “I see here that you’re interested in writing in your spare time?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed. “That’s always been a goal of mine, though I’m not in a place to pursue it full-time yet.”
“What kind of writing?”
“Thrillers mostly.”
“Have you had anything published?”
“Oh, I’m not quite at that stage just yet.”
She studies me for a moment, and her eyes soften just a touch. “Your situation isn’t unique. We often work with clients who’ve gone through transitions and need to find solid ground.” Her gaze returns to my file. “Your mother raised you on her own?”
I frown. “I don’t remember writing that on the form.”
“Father?” Amanda asks, ignoring my comment.
“Is that relevant?”
“I need you to answer the questions if I’m going to help you.”
“No, I never knew my father. Didn’t even know his name.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied, and looks up at me with that same professional calm, yet there’s an intensity in her gaze, as if she’s weighing a decision.
“Ms. Taylor,” she begins, closing the file with a soft click, “I believe we have a position in our organization that might be better-suited to someone with your experience and qualifications than the typing pool.”
I sit up a little straighter, my heart beginning to race. Is my luck finally turning? “You do?”
“Yes,” she replies, pulling a second file from her drawer. “We need a cleaner for our CEO.”
She slides the file across the desk toward me. Inside, I see a map of a sprawling mansion, large enough to seem almost like a maze. I glance up at Amanda, unsure if I’m imagining things, but her calm, measured expression tells me she’s serious.
“My employer,” she explains, “is a highly private individual who, amongst other assets, owns this estate just outside New York. He travels frequently, and at the moment, he’s busy in Moscow.
“However, he requires all his homes to be kept in impeccable condition, ready for his return at any time. Your job would be to stop the dust gathering, so to speak.”
The thought of cleaning a mansion is daunting, and I feel a small knot of uncertainty twist in my stomach. “So…I’d be cleaning the whole place? On my own?”
Amanda nods, her tone even. “Not the entire place. Certain areas will be entirely off-limits.” She points to the map, outlining sections that are marked in red. “These rooms are for his private use only and are to be avoided completely. However, you’ll have access to the main living spaces, kitchens, and entryways.”
“Kitchens, plural? How big is this place?”
She smiles. “Big. Now, Mr. Morosov is highly particular about his privacy, which means you won’t have to interact with him directly. You’ll be working alone, and I will arrange for a car to pick you up and drop you off each day. Any questions so far?”
“What kind of pay are we talking about?” I ask, my voice coming out more hesitant than I intended.
Amanda’s mouth curves into a small smile. “Five thousand dollars.”
“Per year?” My heart begins to sink.
“Monthly. There’s also a twenty-thousand-dollar signing bonus if you accept today. The salary is paid monthly in advance, so if you’ll just sign here, I’ll have twenty-five thousand dollars wired to your account immediately.” She holds out her pen and a contract.
Twenty thousand dollars just to sign on, plus monthly pay that would finally let me pay down my medical debt, finally give me the freedom I’ve been craving. The idea of turning it down feels almost impossible.
“This sounds too good to be true,” I murmur, still processing the offer, the opportunities this could bring.
Amanda gives a slight nod, as if she expected my hesitation. “The position isn’t for everyone. Our owner requires a high level of discretion and reliability, and it’s essential that any staff members follow his guidelines precisely. It’s a lot of responsibility and the pay reflects that.”
I nod, trying to keep my mind focused on the good things—the financial stability, the solitude. “Yes, I understand. And I’d be okay, alone in the house?”
Her eyes meet mine, steady and reassuring. “Yes. You’d have a safe, structured environment with everything arranged by our agency. I’ve got a couple of calls to make. You sit and look over the contract. I’ll be back in five. Do you need a coffee or anything?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head in a daze. “I’m fine, thanks.”
She heads out of the door. She’s barely gone a minute when my phone buzzes. I cringe, I forgot to silence it. I pull it out and check the screen. A name flashes up, familiar and unwelcome. Jimmy.
A surge of anxiety washes over me, tightening my chest as I open the message.
Cathy, please. I miss you. I know things got bad, but I was under a lot of stress, and I made mistakes. I know you’re struggling without me. You don’t have to keep doing this on your own. Come back, and we’ll fix things together. Let me take care of you. You know you need me, Cathy. You always have. I love you.
The words hit me like a punch, sharp and familiar. My hands tremble as I read it, my mind flooding with memories, each one tugging at the fragile resolve I’ve been trying to build.
He always knew just how to phrase things, just the right tone to make it sound like he was offering me security instead of control. For a moment, the doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe he’s right, that maybe I can’t do this alone.
I look at the contract and then at the message. A simple choice, I guess.
Go back to my old life or embark on a new one?
The desperation in his words tugs at the part of me that remembers the comfort of having someone else take charge, the relief of not having to fight every single day. But I can’t shake the suffocating feeling, like invisible hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing until I can barely breathe.
I remember what it felt like, living under his thumb, watching every move, feeling my own thoughts and dreams shrink to fit into the tiny corner of life he allowed me.
I take a deep breath, forcing the memories to the back of my mind, but I can still feel the doubt lingering, gnawing at me. My thumb hovers over the reply button, a small, desperate part of me wanting to reach back, to feel the comfort of familiarity. It would be so easy.
But then I look up and see Amanda is back, her expression calm, waiting for my response. She sits down again. “Sorry,” I say, turning my phone off, tucking it back into my bag.
“I understand if this feels like a big step,” she says, her voice measured and reassuring. “But if it helps your decision, I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up immediately. You can start right now.”
The offer feels both daunting and liberating, the idea of beginning now, right this moment, as though the door to my old life has just slammed shut behind me.
There’s no time for second-guessing, no chance to slip back into familiar patterns or to let Jimmy’s words sink their claws back into me. If I take this job now, it’s a commitment to move forward, to leave the past where it belongs.
I swallow, feeling a strange blend of excitement and fear. I’ve never made a choice like this for myself. Every decision until now had been shaped by someone else’s influence, someone else’s control. But now, for the first time, I’m standing on my own, ready to make a choice for me.
“Yes,” I say, the word feeling oddly foreign on my tongue, like it belongs to a different version of myself. “I’ll take the job.”
I sign the contract at the bottom.
A small smile touches Amanda’s lips as she nods. “Excellent. I think you’ll find it suits you well. Peter, your driver, is out front whenever you’re ready. Just look for the black limo.”