The Client (Short Fiction)

When Poppy wrote and told Vincent she didn't want to see him again, he returned the silver signet ring he always wore on his left pinkie. Or more exactly, because it refused to be eased over the puffy ridge of his thick knuckle, he returned it, complete with the obstinate digit, wrapped in a labelled freezer bag.

Poppy was horrified, yet the gesture, gory as it was, told her something. It was proof that he loved her and, once over the initial shock, she found herself obssessed with the romantic absurdity of his action. And her finer sense of compassion became mixed with the undeniable stirrings of sexual excitement.

Meanwhile, Vincent waited patiently by the phone. His left hand cradled, neatly bandaged, the absent finger throbbing distantly under the calming influence of four-hourly pain-killers. He knew she would call. He also knew that he'd won.

"Vinny?"

"Yes." His voice was quiet. Tired-sounding but gentle.

"Oh, Vinny! Why'd you do it?"

He listened to her soft, rapid breathing. Then, "I dunno. I guess I went a bit crazy..." His words trailed off and she heard him sigh: a sound like the sea in a shell, wistful, evoking memories.

"Can I come and see you?" she asked.

"Sure." His tone altered a fraction but he was careful to subdue any hint of triumph.

They were married two days later by special licence.




Now, Poppy had been around some. She'd worked as a waitress in a seafood restaurant, as an usherette in a back-street cinema showing foreign (mainly blue) movies and, for a short time, she'd also been on the game. Vincent knew all this. He knew about her talent for surviving. Since leaving home at the age of fifteen, she'd got by and, despite the odds, at nineteen she was still surprisingly naïve, still impressionable. Pretty appealing too, in a gauche, urchin-like way. He liked her thin, pale body and big eyes. Best of all, he liked the way she always did as she was told.

"You'll have to learn to cook, Poppy," he told her, "I need you to be able to entertain clients."

"We could send out," she suggested, not enthused by the prospect.

"No," he insisted, "you learn to cook."

So she enrolled at night school and found she enjoyed her classes. The tutor, a young, French commis chef, paid her a gratifying amount of attention. Her soufflés were, he assured her, quite superb. She didn't mind when his hand grazed her thigh or lingered, over-long, on her bare forearm.

The course carried a diploma and, when she presented Vincent with the fancy scroll, he rewarded her with a state-of-the-art split level ceramic hob and double oven.




Vincent's business was barely staying afloat on the traitorous tides of economic recession. A middle-sized company that owed him a lot of money went into receivership and his cash flow all but dried up. He mortgaged the house and sold his Jag - letting it go for a good deal less than it was worth. He bought some time.

When a fax arrived from a potential client, Vincent experienced a surge of hope. Mr. Solomon P. Shanks III of Thermotech Inc., Silver Falls, Ohio planned to arrive in England on May 12th and would be in London for five days. He would like a meet.

Vincent faxed back a formal invitation to dinner. Mr.Shanks was charmed to accept. Poppy nervously planned a menu and experimented with table settings. The new dinner service - 68 pieces of cool, white china with restrained art deco geometry - pushed Vincent's credit card to its limit. It would have been far cheaper to take Mr. Shanks to a swanky city eatery but Americans, as Vincent understood it, appreciated the more genuine hospitality of home cooking. And he wanted Mr. Shanks to stay charmed.

"Poppy" he said, holding her narrow shoulders and fixing her with his solemn eyes, "Poppy, this is a very important contract for me - for us," he corrected himself. "It's make or break time, y'know?"

She nodded. "Shall I get my hair done?"

He fingered the long, fair strands that wisped over her collar. "Nothing too drastic," he warned.




He approved the menu and her choice of dress - a pale blue silk shift that skimmed her boyish hips, falling in straight, classy lines. She wore minimal make-up and a simple, but expensive, Cartier necklet. She looked fresh, almost virginal.

Solomon P.Shanks III seemed to approve of everything. He beamed, showing his gold fillings, his gold-rimmed spectacles gleaming as he mopped gravy from his chin with a peach linen napkin. The honeyed lamb roast disappeared from his plate, the wine from his glass and conversation became easy and informal. They were on first name terms by dessert. Poppy went to make coffee and Vincent took the opportunity to talk business. Sol waved a pudgy hand airily.

"Vinny, Vinny. I like your product, I like your style and, provided we can agree on a few minor details - like price," he paused and allowed himself a small belch, "then our lawyers can get down to the paperwork."

"I think I can offer you an attractive deal, Sol. - Cigar?" Vincent offered the open box.

Sol took one of the fat, hand-rolled Cuban specials and sniffed it appreciatively. Poppy reappeared with a tray and Vincent watched Sol watching her. Aware of Sol's interest, she flashed encouraging glances from beneath lowered lashes.

"That was some meal!" Sol complimented her. "You're a lucky man, Vinny."

Vincent smiled, noting Poppy's flushed cheeks.




The contract was signed on the Friday and Sol flew home the following day. With Poppy. Vincent saw them off at the airport.

Before she walked through the barrier in Departures, Poppy turned and kissed his cheek. "No hard feelings, Vinny?"

He shook his head and looked down at his left hand. After all, there were times when small sacrifices had to be made.



THE END