There is a grey woman standing in front of him. She has been answering his questions, politely enough, uttering words through colourless lips in a flat voice. Her eyes rarely meet his, and when that happens, he sees a dull, lifeless blue.
He should not care.
"You will be all right with the long hours?" Bates asks. "Starting at six, finishing at eleven. Two breaks, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. One free day a week. On Sundays we finish after lunch."
She nods, not exactly the wordy type.
"You can have your meals here", through the window of his small office, he points at a table in the back of the busy kitchen. "No taking food home."
She nods again.
"When can you start, Mrs…?" he looks at the single sheet of paper in front of him. The photocopy of her ID. "Smith?"
"It's Miss," she says. "Tomorrow, if that suits you."
It did. Since he had to fire the last cleaning lady, two weeks ago, he had had to do most of the cleaning himself, helped by the apprentice of the chef and the two waiters, who were not exactly thrilled with the demotion. The solving of the cleaning problem would definitely give him some peace of mind.
"I'll meet you tomorrow, then. 6 am. The back door."
"I'll be there," she says. It seems she is about to turn around and go, but she looks at him for a moment. "Thanks."
"Do your job and there won't be need for that."
There is the shadow of a tight lipped smile, which disappears almost as quickly as it came. With a nod, Anna Smith leaves the office and, sidestepping one of the waiters, she walks to the back and exits through the back door.
With a sigh, Bates heads to the kitchen, where, as it is usual, the tiny chef is yelling her head off, while the young sous-chef, without even flinching, skillfully flames a piece of streak.
"So?" Patmore barks at Bates when she sees him approaching them.
"Tell the boys there's no need for them to come early tomorrow," he says distractedly, fixing the contour on a plate that is about to go out.
"About time," she grunts.
The only good thing about prison is that you don't spend money. Nobody warns you, though, that once you get out you have to struggle again, with the additional unwelcome load of having to carry that stigma along with you.
A criminal record. Even if you are innocent, but there is no point of following that train of thought.
She has managed to get a job, and her new employer, the poor sod, has not even bothered checking the records. At least, not yet, which suits her beautifully.
With a final sigh she reaches the attic room that these days is her home. It is tiny, with barely enough room for a bed, a desk and a small kitchen. It is a good thing she will not have to eat here, or the fumes of the cooking would suffocate her. A door in the far end leads to a bathroom. The collection of her things, scattered about, and the piles of cardboard boxes, make the situation much more dramatic.
But Anna is not a slob, and now that her work situation is fixed, she needs to do something for herself. With a sigh she starts running through her belongings, the boxes that contain what her old life was. Dresses, high-heel shoes, even a hat she bought for a friend's wedding. For a moment she considers throwing the lot away. It is almost a miracle her previous landlady didn't do it, choosing to pack it all and send it to her, the minute she learned Anna was free.
There are things that she might use, though. Some jeans, old sweatpants, t-shirts. Trying her best to stop memories from better times, Anna sorts the contents of the boxes, and closes most of them again. In the small wardrobe now there is only a handful of things, all comfortable, nondescript, dull. The sort of thing you would expect the average cleaning lady would wear to work.
There are just two boxes remaining. Somebody has written "stuff" on them, and they are considerably heavier. She is not ready for that yet: books, work stuff, diaries and the like. Who, in her situation, would need any of it?
Anna piles the boxes behind the door. It does not look pretty, but at least it is tidy, and the small attic room even seems to be a tad larger than before. The only surface occupied is the small table. A cheap newspaper lies open in the classifieds, circles hastily traced on some of the advertisements. She folds the paper neatly and puts it on the bottom of the single drawer, an old habit she had learned from her late grandmother. Over it, she places her few new belongings: a yellow highlighter, a cheap pen, a small notebook.
She is tired, but sleep eludes her. The mattress is lumpy and there were no linens in the boxes. She wraps herself on a jacket and, after fixing the t-shirt with which she covers the old pillow, she curls up, facing the wall.
Just like the previous nights, after her release, she cries herself to sleep.
AN: This is my first attempt at modern AU. I'm both scared and excited.
I expect the next chapters will be longer. All feedback is greatly appreciated!