Poppy blushed the deep scarlet of her namesake, and nodded.
‘OK. I like that,’ he said. ‘The girls here like their work. This feels better for me.’
‘Did you think we might be prisoners?’
‘It happens.’ He gazed pensively into his cup. The tea looked revolting, Poppy realised with a pang. It was weak, and the splash of milk made it almost white.
‘I suppose it does.’
Poppy felt that same little chill she’d experienced on entering the building for her interview. Sex work, with all the age-old implications of degradation and human trafficking it brought with it. She’d told this client she was willing, but how could he take her word for it? What kind of man did that make him?
He had, at least, asked the question.
‘So you have done this in your real life? With your lover?’
‘I, well, that’s a personal question, but …’
‘I’m sorry. Am I being … rude, is that the word?’
Poppy waved her hand, well out of her depth, and strained her eyes to see where the bouncers were.
‘Not rude,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s against the rules for us to talk about ourselves, while we’re in the club. I’m sorry. It’s meant to be for our safety.’
‘Meant to be?’
‘Well, they turn a blind eye to girls meeting clients, after-wards. But while we’re here …’
Poppy made a palms-up gesture and lowered her eyes again.
‘OK, I understand. So, you have poured me the tea. I don’t really want to drink it. What happens now?’
Poppy wished she knew.
From another cubicle came distant slapping and ouching, which Pan-Pipe Moods XII, leaking from the stereo speakers, did little to drown.
‘If you want a more experienced girl—,’ she said, her throat closing up, eyes hot with pre-tears.
‘Non, non, non, shh. You are good, don’t worry. I am new, you are new. I just want to know if there is a … routine.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy smiled.
He looked so earnest, and a little anxious. Such sweetness was completely unexpected and had thrown her for a loop; she had been expecting cartoonish sadistic bastards in business suits.
‘Well,’ she mused, ‘I suppose you have to act a little stern. Like maybe you think I’ve done something wrong. Or—Yeah! You don’t like the way I made the tea. And you tell me off.’
‘Tell you off?’ He frowned.
‘Rebuke me, uh, scold or—’ She wagged her finger in pantomime show and he nodded with recognition.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Then I?’
‘If you want.’
‘I can try.’ He took another sip of the tea, and pulled a face. ‘This is not good.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
Poppy, much more comfortable now the pretence had begun, threw herself energetically into the role, staring at the floor and bowing her head.