Kept for His Appetites by Alice May Ball Page A

was. It came from somewhere way below the floor. It was rich, dark and cultured. But firm. Almost rigid. His eyes twinkled like he was playing a game. I was hanging on to the side of the booth just to keep steady. He said,
     
    “You can fix me something,”
     
    and I was thinking, ‘Oh, I really could,’ and he said,
     
    “Can’t you?”
     
    I just managed to say,
     
    “yes.”
     
    It was the only way I could think of to get away, and if I didn’t get away I was going to suffocate. Or something.
     
    Only, now what? I didn’t cook here. That idiot chef would be reaching for a knife if he caught me on the kitchen side of the counter. But I had to do something. I looked at my pad for help. Guess what, there was still nothing written on it. Well, I’m OK with food, you know? I love it, you could maybe guess, and I like to think that I have a little style with it. Simple ingredients, nicely presented, pleasing cock - no, NO , pleasing combinations . It was hot in the kitchen.
     
    I put a soft poached egg into some fresh leaves of lettuce and watercress and shook some dressing. It would be better with smoked salmon, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you’d ever find in this kitchen. I did find some potatoes cut for fries, though, and a fish, so I put the the fries on to fry and got the fish ready to grill, and I picked up the salad to take it out to him. What was I doing? He didn’t ask for any of this. He just said, ‘I’m hungry.’ What kind of an order was that? And what kind of manners are they? And who the hell did he think he was? And who the hell was he? And worst of all, what if he didn’t like what I brought him? What if he didn’t want what I had to offer?
     
    Oh, no, I told myself. Don’t get off the subject. I grabbed the plate of salad and shoved myself through the swing-door.
     
    Anyway, he did like it. He liked it just fine. He wolfed the salad down, he relished all of the fish, left nothing but a bone. When I said,
     
    “Pie?”
     
    - I could really only manage one word at a time by then - his eyes raked up from the table and dragged the whole length of my body. He didn’t hurry over my curvy hips, he didn’t miss any of my waist, he took in all the slopes, valleys and curves he could see through the silly, too-tight waitress uniform, before he got to my shoulders. He looked slowly from the open collar up my neck to my ear, and he stayed there a while, before he finally wandered across to meet my eyes, and he said,
     
    “What pie?”
     
    My voice squeaked,
     
    “Cherry.”
     
    His eyes widened, I know he wasn’t thinking of anything in pastry. After what felt like a couple of long, dry summers he said,
     
    “Are you working at the weekend?”
     
    What did that have to do with anything? What did it have to do with him? What business was it of his if I was thinking about a weekend drenched in sweat, clawing and crawling all over the bulges and humps of his ramrod body? Just for instance. Which I wasn’t. Obviously. Before I could begin to put an answer together, he said,
     
    “I really need,”
     
    he paused on the word, ‘need.’ I remember it distinctly,
     
    “I really need someone to cook this weekend.”
     
    I was just staring at him, I’m sure of it. My mouth must have been hanging wide enough for… well, never mind what for, but he said,
     
    “Would you?”
     
    Ah, now I could safely roll back on the one word that I knew I could form and use without stammering or stumbling,
     
    “yes.”
     
    He began a grin, but he didn’t finish it. He pulled back about an acre of cuff, consulted a massive watch and said,
     
    “Got to go. If I send a car to pick you up, outside here? Saturday morning at 7.30? OK?”
     
    And I was thinking, ‘No. We’ll negotiate. We’ll discuss it, OK? Fix some terms and a price, and then maybe I’ll consider your offer, mister.’ So I nodded like an idiot. He said,
     
    “Good. Saturday.”
     
    He left two hundred dollar