Ella Dean is a (chanteuse) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-26 16:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | scarecrow, white rabbit |
Who: Ella Dean and Ian Russell
What: Job interview
When: Recently
Where: Ian's home
Warnings: None!
The house in Summerlin was cream coloured stucco, a bright and airy feel that was a stark contrast to the man who called it home, at least when taking his reputation into consideration. Bright lights, open walkways, an airiness that was welcoming and inviting in the same breath, there was nothing about the place that spoke of darkness or disaster, two things that seemed to follow Ian around like well loved pets. That afternoon, he had cleared out the rest of his meetings to set aside his time for Ella, making sure that there was nothing that could possibly interrupt the pair of them. The couple of twenty-somethings who had been staying with him had parted the day before by their own decisions, but Ian welcomed their departure. There was no one around to spoil his plans, to say anything that could be construed in a way he wasn't prepared for. Ian had always and would always be a man who worked best on his own.
He was dressed sharply in black trousers and a white button down, the top three buttons left undone for an air of casualness, but little about Ian Russell could be called 'casual'. He carried himself like a man who enjoyed being watched, who expected others to watch him, and as he sat outside his home, a glass of wine in hand, waiting on Ella's arrival, he looked perfectly relaxed, polished and pristine. His feet were left bare, one ankle resting on the other knee, a table PC in hand as he went through various emails and messages, managing his day to day business as he waited.
It might be cream and real pretty on the outside, but finding it half across town was some kind of pain. Ella had left Beth with the sitter, a new one with references long as her arm who didn’t mind ‘uncertain’ when it came to work hours finishing up. She’d written down the number of the clunky, old phone in her bag and she’d written the paediatrician’s number as well for good measure. She’d washed off the baby food and spit-up and she’d taken long enough to rinse through her hair, twisting it up high so it looked maybe a little more professional, a little older. Ella wasn’t sure how old you were supposed to be, cleaning houses, but she figured maybe it was older than Ella herself. She’d taken one bus, and then another when it had pulled over and she’d walked the last little way when it seemed like she wasn’t going to make time. Her dress was one of the better ones in her closet these days, soft and white and loose and it fanned around her knees as she walked right up to the address on the post-it note in her hand.
It was pretty. Real pretty, even after the work getting on over there, and she stopped at the gate and she admired it for a long minute like a picture on a wall or an exhibit in a museum. It was pale against so much wide-stretched blue sky and there wasn’t a soul walking around, in and out, no noise and hustle. She lingered, long enough to trace along the house’s lines with her eyes and remember all Coop’s books, on things like architecture and design, things he liked to read the way she read books about people, about music. And then - with a sigh of regret, because she wasn’t there to admire his house, was she? She was taking advantage of a real good offer, one unbelievable that would make enough, maybe, to slide the work on the side down a little, or even keep it up and pay off the bills more steadily - she pressed the buzzer. Spoke hesitantly, a voice all rich, molasses-slow syllables, “Hello there, it’s Ella Dean. From the book?” before she thought about other people perhaps answering the door to the fancy house on his behalf.
The system of his buzzer was advanced enough that it came through on his tablet, interrupting the email he was reading with a buzz of its own. There was no video attached, only audio, but Ian could tell a sweet voice when he heard one. "I've been expecting you, Ms. Dean," Ian said, his voice warm and rich, a cadence that didn't sound foreign but hardly sounded strictly American in nature either. "And you're early. I appreciate that. Just a moment while I buzz you in." The audio cut out moments later, just before the gate buzzed for a moment, swinging open to admit his guest. The walk up to the house wasn't far, a circular drive that was obscured from the road by the trees that filled the front yard, creating an air of privacy against a busy city that bustled nearby. Ian got to his feet moments before she appeared, the tablet left on the table out front, bare feet on the walk as he moved to greet her with his hands clasped behind her back. She was pretty enough, in that sweet way that had someone thinking of those songs where boy met girl and they lived happily ever after, and that simple thought drew a smile to his own lips.
"Ian Russell," he said by way of introduction as the distance between them closed, a hand offered to her, eye contact kept and held the entire time. "It's good to finally meet you, Ms. Dean." The charm and polite nature wasn't completely natural, something learned over the years, skills he had grabbed hold of to keep.
It was quick, the silent snap-to of the gate; Ella backed on up in worn sandals and her bag swinging from her arm, surprised - but the walk to the house, gritted drive and lush, rich green, was pleasant, cool. Ella spread out a hand, caught fingers against a tree-trunk and smiled. When he came toward her, he looked like maybe he suited rich, cream colored houses and philanthropic gestures. It wasn’t a kind look, but people who looked kind weren’t always and people who were kindest, sometimes looked real unpleasant. She held out a hand, slim and tanned and she slid it into his with a grip both firm and eager.
“I don’t know all about finally,” and she laughed, a bright bubble of sound in the quiet of the front yard, the city stilled to a hum beyond, “But it’s real nice to meet you, Mr Russell.” It was formal, he was formal and she caught herself on that Russell and slid back into New York solemnity and the shyness that sidled up alongside it. Her smile was open, it was a warm, easy-spirited thing that reached up to the blue eyes without effort. “You got a lovely place here. Pretty.” An admiring look around her.
Ian held to her hand long enough for a firm shake before he released her fingers once again, gesturing towards the house and the open front door that beckoned yards away. He decided, then and there, that he quite liked that smile, the way her eyes brightened along with it, and even if she had been a horrible housekeeper, he would have offered her the job regardless. "Thank you," he responded to her compliment about the house, leading the way to the open door and allowing her to step in ahead of him, following close behind, hands coming together in front of him. "I'm afraid I can't take much credit for it. It's been here many years before me, and I wasn't even responsible for the decorating. I've never had an eye for it, I must admit, so I leave that to those with better taste."
The interior was just as bright as its exterior, open windows and plenty of afternoon sunlight. It was comfort mixed with technology, and just enough art and sculpture to allude to the man's taste. Soft music filtered through the air, instrumental, something with strings that just managed to catch the ear. "So, would you like to sit and have a drink, or shall we get right down to the reason for this meeting?" Ian had moved to the side, heading towards the kitchen as evidenced by the visible counters and appliances that were visible through the entranceway.
Ella lifted her head, the music a marionette string pulled taught; the smile that surfaced was soft, delicate - it was opening a box that had been closed but not without regret. “You like Ravel?” The place was prettier inside than out; Ella didn’t know all that much about expensive interiors to put all that decoration and art into quantifiable understanding but it looked expensive, in a quiet way that meant it cost even more. “Debussy’s my favorite Impressionist, but Ravel’s real lovely too.” Her head swung to look at him, she smiled once more. The sunshine that outside sat on her shoulders and weighed her down with the heat was muted through glass to plain brightness. She shook her head, as if throwing off the music and what came with it, the smile slipped, became something more usual, cheerful.
“This is your meeting, Mr Russell,” she said and she looked on past him into that kitchen, full of things that looked like they came from catalogues, like a matched set. There wasn’t a matched set of knives and forks in her own apartment. “We can get right down to brass tacks, if you want.”
Ian's attention swung back to her at the mention of the music, brows arching as she voiced her opinion, a soft laugh coming moments later. "I enjoy Ravel, yes, but I've never been a connoisseur of music. I know enough to be able to say if I like something or not, but beyond that..." He trailed off with a shrug of his shoulder, a confession to an area where he professed no expertise. "Music is something you enjoy, I take it?" he asked, leading the way to the kitchen and pulling out a chair at the table, heavy wood that was well-loved; it wasn't a new piece, judging by the scratches and marks on the surface, but it was well-cared for, history etched into its surface. "As for brass tacks, I believe that calls for a drink first. I've water, wine, juice. Do you have a preference?"
Ella’s hand lingered on the back of her own chair, tracing out the marks and scrapes, the scratches. She liked old things fine, there was plenty of history in the things in the Louisiana home and the things in the apartment were all collected, dragged home from street corners by Coop or picked out in consignment shops. When she sat, she was hands folded neatly in her lap, shaped, unpolished nails and fingers laced together on cool white cotton, and she grinned, broad and bright and something very much unafraid of music or enjoying it. “I love music. Wasn’t my favorite, instrumental, but I liked it a whole lot. Listen to it still, when it’s on the radio.” He was being hospitable, real hospitable and it wasn’t like a job interview she’d been to in her whole time in Vegas. Ella relaxed, perceptibly; the shoulders went slack beneath the white dress, she watched him move around the room unabashedly curious.
“I don’t remember the last time I drank. Water’s fine, honey,” and the diminutive came as easily as it did with anyone who wasn’t would-be boss, formal or not.
Water was got for both of them, tall glasses with ice cubes floating, and he sat one in front of her as he took the seat across from her, hands folding on top of the table. "Do you play an instrument? Perhaps sing?" It wasn't like a traditional interview, and that's because there was little about Ian or the position he was offering that could be classified as 'traditional'. The atmosphere might have had a formal air, but he was relaxed, all easy attention and warm eyes, attention upon her as she spoke. "I must admit that I've never had any musical aptitude. I dabbled in art when I was in university, but little came out of it other than an appreciation of it that lingers into today."
Her fingers closed around the sweating glass and Ella’s eyes danced, all bright mirth. “Yeah, I sing. I used to sing. I studied music a while.” She sipped at the water demurely and she didn’t say one word about where or when, and she thought the art appreciation showed itself in the walls and the house itself, all that architecture folded into one place. It wasn’t a bit of a traditional kind of question, but she warmed to him right then; he looked at things. “So I guess this would be the place I’d spend a whole heap of time in, huh?” She twisted in her seat as the curiosity climbed.
"Perhaps," Ian started, his voice thoughtful, "you might demonstrate to me your singing abilities sometime." There was something bright in his eyes as he said it, something different than his words moments prior, and though it wasn't directly malevolent, there was something there. "As for your question, yes, this would be. And the rest of this house, obviously. I'm in need of someone to keep things looking well, the dust off the frames, the floors swept, laundry done. I'm rather undemanding, and you will not find me going around with a white glove. There are several bedrooms, several bathrooms as well, and I would expect all of it to be maintained. I have an outside company come once a week to do the lawn, and a service for the pool, so you would not be expected to do anything there. And," he started, taking a drink of water to wet his throat once more, "as I said, you would be able to keep your child with you, if you so please. I think it's absolutely horrendous the prices charged for child care in this country, and I would hate to put a further burden on you. It's hard to keep one's thoughts on a job when there are worries elsewhere, isn't it?"
Ella was if not open book, then lines on a page written in easily formed letters; there was nothing heard in that suggestion, nothing but the idea of singing once again and she colored, a low flush that smoothed itself over as the list rattled off of things to do. It didn’t sound like it was impossible. Sounded real possible, actually - she did the damn same at home, didn’t she? The place was big, real big and maybe that wasn’t manageable but it could be. Better a lot of rooms clean than a restaurant, better that than working nights even the nights she wasn’t out. Relief, gratitude, some measure of disbelief, they chased each other in flits across Ella’s face, shining very brightly.
“It is,” she agreed, and her words fell over themselves, “I figure it sounds reasonable, Mr Russell. It’s a big house, and I never cleaned anywhere but my own place before, but I guess I can do it and I’ll do it well.” A smile. Shy, but not lacking confidence.
He could read those emotions going through her, the thoughts that ran through her head, and he knew what he offered was better than anything else she had seen. "I'll be sure to take you through the house, make sure you know my expectations. And if something is missed, then we shall work on that. I can already tell that you'll do your best, won't you, Ms. Dean?" Ian shifted to the side, pulling a pad of paper from his hip pocket, and a pen from the front pocket of his button down. "As for your pay, this is the number I had in mind. You are free to tell me if you disagree and we can certainly negotiate until we are both satisfied." A number was scrawled down, generous for what he asked, and the pad of paper was slid across to her, his eyes upon her, taking in every reaction to his offer.
There wasn’t a bit of Ella that didn’t look surprised at the figures on the pad, the pleased sort of shock that colored up again, peach flushing out to tan once again as she reached with tentative fingers for the pad itself, picked it up and looked at the scrawl there. It was more than she’d figured, not break the banks, and finish up with the side work (and she hadn’t thought about that one bit) but it was hauling it on back and having something to save on each week, put money aside for Beth. “Honey, I don’t do less than my best,” and she let go the pad as though it had burnt her, and she smiled at him, like the sunshine streaming in through the glass. “You can call me Ella. I didn’t get used to Missus Dean in a while yet, it’s always been Ella.”
"I'm quite quite sure that you don't, Ella," Ian said as he reached across to take the pad of paper back, folding his hands over it as he simply took her in for a long moment. Her reaction to the wage he had offered told a story of someone who needed money, and even though the amount he offered wasn't extraordinary, it was enough to leave her surprised. It was a good reaction, the one he looked for, and the lack of negotiation was good. "So. I would like for you to start as soon as you are able. I will have a contract drawn up for you, nothing out of the ordinary, of course, and as soon as we get the paperwork out of the way, you can consider the position yours." Ian reached across the table to her with one hand, his eyes shining bright, nearly sparkling. "Shall we shake upon it, Ella?"
He was good, Ella decided, the kind of good that didn’t show, surface-side but was quiet and there all the same. People who gave out jobs like they were nothing had to be good, and his eyes shone like she’d given him something instead of clear the other way around. She held out her hand, plastic watch on her wrist and her fingers were blunt and strong for all their slimness, and she shook, eager and quick and she laughed, a peal of it in that kitchen, all sunshine. Paperwork didn’t seem like a bit of difference, just something to sign that said she’d do as well as she could, and with that kind of money each month, she’d do her damndest, keep the house so clean he wouldn’t know it wasn’t brand new.
“Thank you, Mister Russell,” she said it sincerely, and she said it, all heart-in-mouth. “I can start Monday, and the paperwork is no problem at all.” And she smiled because even if Vegas had meant heart-ache and being stuck in someone else’s world, even if it had meant losing a job, it was gaining another. There’d been a saying, back in church, God closes a door and He opens a window. Ella thought maybe He’d opened two windows at once, just right then.
Strong shake, sweet smile, all blue skies and sunshine, and Ian simply smiled back in return as he gave her fingers a strong shake of his own. "I shall see you first thing Monday, then," he said, releasing her fingers as he pushed his chair back, coming up to his feet and his full height.
"And please. Call me Ian."