The House with the Face

Immaculate, the pale marble foyer gleamed its cold purity. Following the well-dressed woman who’d opened the imposing front door, I glanced around. Chrome, mirrors and impossibly white walls complimented the oppressive artificiality of the floor. I was suffocating in it.
Passing into a room off the foyer brought no relief. The cleanliness of white leather couches boasted their lack of use. Perfectly plumped, caramel, silk cushions verified that few, if any, ever sat on these lounges. Gesturing me to do so, the non-descript woman who’d guided me, left the room. I sat, realising the emptiness of the house had swallowed her.
It would eat me too if I let it!
Recognising this, I decided not to sit, not to wait for the rude homeowner who had not had the courtesy to greet me at the front door. I felt as if an opaque film surrounded me, blurring the outside world. Already the house was trying to devour me, delay my departure. I could never work here; I could never function properly in this house. I didn’t belong here, I had to leave!
Forcing myself, I walked towards the door, only to be ensnared by the extravagance of jasmine perfume, floating and dancing in circular motions from an open window. It enticed me completely, drawing me towards the window, to a vista that swelled my heart. Jasmine roofing a pergola outside the window created a haven of shade. Bees flocked to it; I could almost taste the sweet honey they would make...
My eyes flew open, I’d lost all sense of time and place. For a moment, just one traitorous moment. I felt like the garden was my saviour. Drawing me towards the natural light with open arms. It was beckoning me, reassuring me that it would save me from drowning in the black emptiness of the house. My heart tripped with fear. Fear that the house had enchanted me, forced to delay, to stay. I would not let this house drag me into the shadows. Spinning away from the window. I started towards the door again, my eyes sliding off the black coldness of the room. I wanted to run, but I also wanted to maintain my dignity. My mind was struggling with the conflict: run, walk, run, walk. What would I do? Throwing the door open, my decision was made for me. A man stood there, a man whose cold elegance stopped me in my tracks. He was forty something, greying at the temple, tall, lean, in charge.
“Hello”, he purred, “you must be the applicant. My sincere apologies for running late, please, take a seat”.
Trapped, I backed into the room, sat stiffly on the perfection of a couch. The sterility of the room was choking me, the artificiality of it numbing me. I wouldn’t be able to talk, the black coldness of the room would take my breath away. This wasn’t going to work out. I didn’t belong here; I didn’t belong in any workplace for that matter. Mr ‘suave’ was watching me, I couldn’t stand it.
Suddenly, the circular scents of jasmine perfume began to gracefully dance around the room. Snake-like, the circles drew tighter around him, blocking him from my mind. My mind took over, took me to the garden, let me sit beneath the jasmine, let me luxuriate in the natural world. I didn’t have to be in that room or listen to that man. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t!
The music of the bees was far more interesting.
*
It was embarrassing running so late. I’d been warned not to unsettle the poor man, not to make him feel uncomfortable or unusual. Apparently his exceptional musical ability was worth all his oddities. Autism, they’d said, but that didn’t stop him from editing electronic music to a new level of perfection. I was informed that he would work when he wanted to work, he would achieve the best possible results, however I was to ensure that he always felt comfortable.
I was told to interview him in a comfortable room, that he hated the chrome and glass look. That’s why I was using my mother’s house; I personally didn’t know another place warmer or more comfortable. And the carpet, stuffed velvet couches and wooden windows all had a traditional welcoming air about them. There was absolutely no way this house could be compared the coldness of chrome and glass. Anyone could belong here. Anyone!
*
Two men sat on overstuffed velvet couches. One asked a question. The other failed to acknowledge it because he was in the garden, where he belonged, listening to the music of the bees.