The Dreams of the Succubii Page 4

  Connie sucked in her breath, and let it out in an exasperated sigh.

  'Okay,' she said, stooping to reach under the counter to the pile of baskets to pick one up again, intent on gathering what was laid out on the rolling mat at waist level, and stuffing it back in the her basket. As she stooped, her head bumped painfully against the counter's edge.

  'Ooow!' cried Connie, raising a hand to her brow and glaring furiously at the little cow opposite her.

  The girl stared back, almost blankly, except for the hint of a smirk at the side of her plump lipped mouth.

  'No sympathy there then,' thought Connie, feeling a rising wave of anger clotting in her chest. She placed the basket she had picked up on the counter, and started firmly placing her items back in it. Just as she had almost finished, the roller mat suddenly jerked, and instead of placing the infamous breaded cod in the basket, she caught the nail of her index finger on the rim instead. Her nail, treated, lacquered and polished that very morning, split cleanly off, leaving her with one red capped finger looking significantly shorter that the others on the same hand.

  Connie stared at it, temples starting to throb, and seriously considered whacking the shop girl around the side of the head with the breaded cod packet.

  'Whoops!' said Amelia, grinning in what could kindly be called an impish manner, 'That's not supposed to happen.'

  Connie had had enough. 'Right. I want to make a complaint!' she shouted.

  Amelia's eyes swivelled heavenwards, and if anything, her grin grew wider. 'Good luck with that,' she snorted, turning to look at the other customers to share her amusement. Several answering grins told Connie that she could expect no support from that quarter. The selfish bastards only wanted her to move on so they could get their own baskets processed.

  Connie was so incensed that she did something totally unusual for her, and just left her basket on the checkout as she strode away.

  'Oi! You can't leave that there,' squealed Amelia, as Connie strode of in search of the manager's office.

  'Just watch me,' called Connie over her shoulder, as she stomped, high heels clicking, off down the tiled aisle towards the exit. She could feel the eyes of the whole crowd of people, milling around the sliding doors, upon her as she clattered towards them. She concentrated on staring straight ahead, avoiding acknowledging their amused expressions, and so she almost missed the shabby door with it's equally shabby sign.

  'Customer complaints,' proclaimed the engraving on the brushed aluminium, though years of inept painting had blurred the sign's edges with cream coloured emulsion.

  'Right,' thought Connie, and altered tack so she could step towards the door and grasp the handle, 'For once in my life I am going to complain.'

  She half expected to door to be locked, and the timid part of her would have been happy enough if it was. After all, she had tried the handle and that proved she was serious didn't it? The handle turned and she half tripped in to the dingy corridor beyond. She stepped completely through the door and self consciously closed it behind her. The worn, yellowed linoleum of the floor and the scuffed , crackling paint of the skirting did not inspire a sense of confidence in her. A row of flickering, dust encrusted neons cast a nauseating, unsettled light over the narrow corridor she found herself in, and a slightly panicky sense of claustrophobia rose in Connie's chest as she cast her eyes about for where to go. There was an unmarked door, to her left about halfway down, that positively screamed 'Cleaning cupboard.' Her eyes adjusted to the strange light and settled on the door at the far end of the corridor. Unlike the rest of the corridor, it gleamed. The sign that hung on it was made of highly polished brass and declared that it's occupant was 'Mr Cheveaux'.

  'Mister Horses,' thought Connie idly, as she gathered her confidence and stepped towards it. Her shoes sounded strangely muted on the lino floor, and she noticed at that moment how silent it was in the corridor. The door she had closed behind her must be a fire door, she thought, because all noise from the busy supermarket had ceased as soon as she closed it. Connie didn't like it, for it seemed as if she was closed off from the world, and her growing unease was fed by the sudden imagining that she would try the door again and it would not open, trapping her forever in this shabby little corridor. Feeling foolish, but too nervous not to make sure, she retraced her few steps back to the corridor's entrance and slowly turned the handle. To her relief, the door opened immediately she tried it, and the sounds of the busy store outside barked down the corridor she was in, like a kennel of hounds. She shut the door again, feeling lightly stupid, and all sound immediately ceased.

  'Amazing,' thought Connie, and turned back to face the shabby box of a corridor and the strangely shiny door at the end of it. She walked more confidently now, as she headed towards that door, knowing that if things did not go as she wanted she could make her exit easily. She stopped at the gleaming door in front of her, amazed again by the contrast between its splendour and the rest of the drab corridor. She knocked politely at the mirror smooth paint of it's centre, and was rewarded by an immediate soft call of,' Come in,' from within.

  She reached for the polished door handle, conscious again of the broken off nail on that hand, and grasped the slightly greasy feeling knob.

  The word 'knob' clicked and clacked around her mind, like an off beat echo, and she had to stifle the smile that threatened to bloom on her handsome face, as she turned the handle and stepped in to the room.

  A wave of warm, cinnamon scented air wafted out at her as she stepped within, noting the polished wooden floorboards immediately, for she had been expecting tile or carpet. The room was dimly lit, and dominated by the leather topped desk that nearly filled the half furthest from her. She was acutely conscious of the way her heels clicked as she advanced towards the desk, and was reminded of entering the head master's study years ago, when she attended the local private girls school. For some strange reason, Connie felt a wave of sudden nostalgia for that old school that threatened to bring actual tears springing to her eyes. All at once she was convinced that it was the last place she could say she had been truly happy. Before children, before Geoff, her husband, before work, and before the dismal reality of grown up life had chastened her hopes. Feeling ridiculous, she immediately stifled the emotion and chided herself for being so unstable.

  Her half misted eyes cleared, and she found herself in front of the impressive desk looking at the oddest man she had seen outside of a cinema screen. He sat, in a winged arm chair, wearing the most expensive looking off yellow suit, and idly considering her and the high polished shoe that his crossed legs had raised off the floor.

  'Madame,' he said, in a slightly foreign accent, and indicated a seat that had been placed off centre to the front of his desk. 'Please be seated.'

  Connie continued her surreptitious observation of him as she took the indicated seat. It swivelled as she sat, and she found herself gripping the sides to prevent herself from tumbling on to the floorboards. Oddly, it had no back, and she had to sit completely upright, with her both feet firmly on the floor to feel entirely comfortable that she was securely seated on the strange piece of furniture. Connie had a degree in History, and she had glanced at enough socio-political studies to realise that this might be a ploy to make her uncomfortable so she wouldn't press her complaint too hard.

  Perversely, this idea hardened her resolve, and she folded her arms and announced in a firm, but gentle voice to the strange man opposite that she had a complaint.

  The man immediately sat up straighter, and fixed her with an intense, but slightly sympathetic smile. She couldn't stop herself from staring at his ludicrous moustache. A kind of Hercule Poirot, waxed and twirled affair, that curled up beside his small ears like slivers of black wood. His dark hair was slicked directly back in an attractive widow's peak, and the whole man was actually very charming, if slightly in the wrong century for his dress code. She noticed the discretely striped socks, the absolute immaculateness of his tan brogues, the crispness of his shirt
, and the peculiarly exact way his tie knot bisected the shirt in the area above his un-rippled waist coat.

  'A complaint, Madame?' he asked, one elegant black wing of an eyebrow raised in enquiry to support his prompt to her.

  'Yes,' said Connie firmly, deciding to some straight to the point before this charming man softened her. 'About one of your staff.'

  'My staff?' he asked, but Connie had the strange feeling the question was not directed at her. He smiled at her again, deep brown eyes twinkling, and continued, 'My staff can be unruly sometimes, this is true.'

  The double entendre seemed to pass him by, but Connie again had to stifle a giggle. The intense quietness of the room, and his strange appearance were beginning to give her the giggles, and she fought to keep the laughter from her face and voice, as she raised her right hand, back towards him and showed him the broken fingernail.

  Immediately he sat bolt upright, a look of deep concern on his elegant, if slightly comical face, and asked her, 'One of my staff, she do this?'

  'Well, it was her fault,' said Connie, trying to be fair, 'Though she didn't actually break the nail herself.'

  He rolled his chair nearer to his desk edge, braced both neat hands under his chin, settled his elbows on the leather desktop and, in an intensely interested tone said, 'Please explain.'

  And so Connie recounted the whole affair with Amelia, virtually word for word, incident for incident, while Mister Cheveaux stared intently at her, brown eyes serious and concerned. Occasionally he would tut or grunt in sympathy, and when she mentioned the breaded cod, he said at once, 'But they are two for one all week, no?'

  'Exactly my point,' said Connie, feeling a glow of satisfaction that this charming, odd man was in sympathy with her.

  He spread his hands in a gesture of agreement, and indicated that she should continue, so Connie explained about the girl's reaction to Connie bumping her head, and the 'nudging' incident that had led directly to her breaking a newly manicured nail.

  'Forty pounds, those nails cost me,' concluded an outraged and slightly flushed Connie, and Mister Cheveaux nodded sympathetically.

  'If you will give me one moment to verify certain facts, Madame?..' Cheveaux raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  'Masterby,' replied Connie, confirming her married name.

  Cheveaux gave a slight grunt of approval. 'Masterby, it is an interesting name.'

  The strangeness of his accent made it sound like he had said, 'Masturbate.'

  Connie felt her flush deepen, and kept silent, as he consulted a screen to his right hand side. He fiddled with a keyboard, elegant fingers tapping quietly as she waited, trying not to fidget on the backless stool. Her skirt hem had ridden up a little, sliding upwards over her smooth thighs, and she tugged discretely at the hem. Mister Cheveaux glanced over at the movement, deep eyes lingering for a moment as he studied her smooth knees. Connie felt her heart give a little skip when he glanced back up at her, after looking at her bare legs for what she felt was a moment too long for decency. He looked back at the screen, and absently twirled the left spoke of his moustache as he seemed to see something on screen that disturbed him.

  Finally, he nodded, as if satisfied, and swivelled back to meet Connie's gaze.

  'Amelia,' he announced, in a voice that managed to convey mild regret with a certain level of resignation.

  'The noble tradition of service has fallen somewhat in to decline, Madame Maserterby.'

  Again, his odd pronunciation of her last name made Connie squirm. She had always felt a little self conscious about it since her marriage to Geoff, but she swept her feelings to one side and concentrated on what he was saying next.

  'You wish me to punish her, I think?' he enquired, and Connie put his odd choice of phrase down to his obviously foreign roots.

  'Yes, please,' she said, perhaps a little too eagerly, for he raised that eloquent eyebrow again in a look that seemed to slightly censure her lack of charity.

  'Not too much,' said Connie, feeling a little mean, 'After all, she is very young.'

  Mister Cheveaux stroked the side of his nose thoughtfully with one elegant finger and said, 'But it is the young who most benefit from instruction, I think. We must correct them before they are incorrigible.'

  The use of the slightly archaic word reinforced the feeling of being in a dream that Connie was feeling. She watched as Mister Cheveaux leaned forward to press an intercom switch on his keyboard and said, 'Miss Amelia to come to Mister Chapeaux, please.'

  He turned to her, and said, 'It will take her some moment to hand over her till, Madame Masterby. May I offer you a coffee?'

  Connie nearly said no, but a slight sense of awkwardness had entered the atmosphere between them, for she had noticed Mister Chapeaux seemed very interested in the hem of her skirt, and the way she had to keep tugging it down, so she asked for a white coffee, hoping he would turn away long enough for her to properly arrange her skirt. He duly obliged, and she sat up quickly, tucked the skirt further under her bottom, smoothed the hem and sat down again, all while his back was turned.

  'It is not the most comfortable of seats, madame,' he said, without turning round, 'I will have it changed, I think.'

  Connie started, wondering how he had seen her surreptitious arrangement of her skirt, then decided it was just a general comment prompted by his earlier observations of her difficulties with her hem.

  'It is rather awkward actually,' agreed Connie, conversationally.

  He turned and came towards her, holding a delicate white cup and saucer which he proceeded to hand to her. She smelt his aftershave, and couldn't place it. As he walked back to his desk she noted his height was about average, or slightly taller, and that his shoulders, under the linen jacket, were broader than one would assume on first sight of him. He gave off the false impression of being a delicate man.

  'When one's skin is very smooth,' he said abruptly, eyes flicking to the bottom of her thighs where they protruded from her skirt's hem, 'one can often find that clothing misbehaves.'

  Connie was still computing the implications of the slightly impertinent statement when he continued by saying, 'I have the same problem with my socks, at times.'

  He looked at her, as if for sympathy, and Connie was too startled by the intimate turn of the conversation to do much beyond a gentle nod of understanding. She sipped her drink, not looking at him, but aware of his cool scrutiny. She began to be acutely conscious of the bare flesh of her knees.

  'Do you think that older people such as you and I can be corrected, Madame Masterby?' he asked gently, the tone of his voice contemplative and vaguely sad. It was a strange question to ask, but it took Connie's mind off his attention to her legs, so she did her best to answer honestly.

  'I don't know, Mister Cheveaux,' she answered after a moment, then tittered nervously. 'I'm not sure I like to think of myself as old.'

  'Forgive me, Madame,' he said at once, 'My English can some times lead me to be misunderstood. You are a woman in her prime, and very charming. I merely meant those of us who have grown out of the foolishness of extreme youth.'

  Connie was uncertain of how to turn the conversation away from the direction it was taking. He had said she was charming, and in her prime. At thirty eight, Connie felt a long way from her prime, but she accepted the compliment with genuine pleasure and again tried to answer his question.

  'I'd like to think I am still capable of doing the right thing, once it is pointed out to me,' she said, after a moments deep thought. 'After all, it would be a pity if a person were to continue in error once they have been shown the right path.

  'A pity indeed,' agreed Cheveaux, and their gazes locked uncomfortably as Connie considered her life, and Mister Cheveaux considered whatever it was he regretted.

  The sound of a sharp, impatient knocking at the door broke the moment, and they both turned to look as the pretty blond head of Amelia poked around the jamb and asked, rather superfluously whether she could come in.

  Mister Chev
eaux winked at Connie, before turning back to Amelia and saying, 'You are already part within young lady. Now is not the time for hesitation.'

  Connie snorted her coffee slightly as a quick pulse of laughter escaped her, and she turned to see the annoyed looking face of Amelia cast her a withering glance before it was brought under control.

  Amelia took up position two feet from Mister Chapeaux's desk, brought her hands behind her back and stood to something approximating attention.

  'You wanted to see me, Sir?' she asked, swaying her hips slightly forward and back. Now that the girl was upright, Connie could see that she had quite a nice figure.

  'Probably too pretty for the job, really,' thought Connie, beginning to have doubts about bringing trouble on the girl.

  'Yes,' said Chapeaux, interrupting the train of her thoughts, as he answered the young woman's question. 'It appears that you have been a little naughty, Amelia, eh?'

  'How's that then, Mister Cheveaux?' the girl asked, slightly slightly saucily Connie thought.

  'Curb your impertinence, Amelia,' said Cheveaux sharply, and Connie was gratified to see the girl jerk straighter. 'Remember what happened last time, and learn your lesson, eh?'

  Cheveaux continued, coming out from behind his desk to inspect the girl more closely. It was at this point that Connie noticed with a frisson of alarm that Cheveaux had what looked suspiciously like an erection disturbing the clean lines of his immaculate slacks. She immediately dismissed it as an impossibility, and concentrated instead on what he was saying to Amelia.

  'Your behaviour has resulted in actual physical harm to a valued customer,' he accused the girl, speaking so violently that the expelled air from his mouth caused Amelia's hair to flicker. She started a little, swaying slightly backwards as if to make some space between her body and the man who spoke so virulently to her.

  'What have you got to say for yourself?' he asked her, stepping forward so that their chests nearly met. He stared down at the girl, though his advantage in height was slight, for she was tall for a female. She refused to meet his gaze, but still mumbled a slightly spirited answer.