Femme Fatale

I studied her as she stepped into my no-nonsense office. She surveyed her surrounds with brief wonder, taking in the clear-cut lines: the straight up and down, black and white, no in-between that marked my territory.

Two pointed toe shoes slinked their way to the chair across from my desk. There was something about her curled hair, the way it toppled from her head, blazing a trail through the dim light wafting from my reading lamp. I knew when the scent of her perfume touched my nose that her sculpted curves did not belong here. Her kind belonged in designer couches sipping champagne, definitely not perched on a straight-back wooden chair. Regardless, I afforded this woman my opening spiel. I offered her my unlimited services at a price that should not roll off my tongue but rather get caught in my throat.

‘Roxanne,’ she said in a low voice that danced around the room. She commanded every trace of my attention with those stunning crimson lips. She’d done this before. I was sure of it. The same glazed perfection adorned her every move; it like she’d seen this scene play out already and was merely imitating. Without a stumble she pronounced the ‘situation’, as I had seen many beauties do before. Roxanne’s presentation was especially exceptionable. Fluttering eyelids flicked with mascara shuttered her eyes occasionally, but the intense glow of determination still shone through, illuminating the stark rigidity of my own countenance.

‘I didn’t do it,’ she murmured. And of course, they never do, but I nodded obligingly, as I scrawled a few candid notes. After just three years in practise I’d learnt the lingo of the guilty. “I’m a suspect under investigation, thought I should cover my bases…” – You mean, the cops have found you out but they have no evidence to interview. “I spent the day as I usually do…” – Yes, of course you did, except the part that you stabbed your husband. “I didn’t do it. I could never hurt anyone like that...” – It was inconvenient to kill him. Your mild façade hides the true intentions, though. My own cynical translations have come to save me in the courtroom. It was essential that I straighten out the story. “The eyes are the window to the soul,” – it was true, even for murderers.

We sat for the next few hours digging into the finer details, combing out all the discrepancies I could find: especially those that caused unplanned tears to slip from those drawn on eyes.

You started to look uncomfortable on my sensible wooden chair. Composed as you were, your shoulders had started to slump, and no doubt, your gaze was averted because of this. As gently as I could, I lead you over to a couch aligned perfectly with a monstrous pot plant. I didn’t believe in that bullshit about clients appreciating the ambience of an office, but I obliged the study anyway.

You reclined a little where you sat, our conversation briefly sidetracked from the reason you were here. You looked tense still, but you’d again lifted your head to bear the green hue of your eyes. I was acutely aware of every breath you took although we sat at a dignified distance. Separate cushions separated us, but it seemed clear to me that you had a connection with my mind. Later, I reflected that I’d mirrored your own posture: leaned in with bowed heads, you, cheekily bearing a little too much leg for my mind to handle. No longer was I preoccupied with the impending murder charges. It didn’t seem that you were either. Your gaze was particularly intense and I flicked my vision away from you to stare at the motion of my hands. Unconsciously, I was crushing my fingers, creating a purple tinge at the tips. You knew I nervously waited for what would come next.

Light conversation continued punctuated by your melodious laugh. There was suspense in the air, though. Our words swirled in a dizzy ride on the merry-go-round. I contentedly giggled as your words gained the strength to push the ride faster. I felt like a child again, watched and adored by my parent. – Someone with the magic powers to create happiness in such a simple way.

My senses returned momentarily. Was the ride over, or merely just begun? I studied you much like I would a particularly complicated case. Starting with the facts I knew – hair, eyes, smile, I scoured deeper, taking note of each freckle and the lustrous shine on your nails. You also had a habit of twirling your hair. Hypothesizing now, I imagined the exotic lotions that smothered your skin to leave it like flawless ivory. You caught my stare as I examined where your creamy legs disappeared under your black skirt and I blushed as you traced an ‘R’ into the back of my hand.

‘So, what’s your name?’ You purred. It occurred to me that you already knew my name, but I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t utter a word. You had me frozen.

‘Doesn’t matter then,’ you crooned as ruby lipstick began to paint my neck like the evidence of a vampire.

It was a week later before I heard anything from her again. An anonymous letter came in the sort of loopy cursive I would expect from her delicate fingers.

Thank you for your help, but the case has now been dropped due to an arson attack. All the available evidence was destroyed. The culprit won’t be found, I’m afraid, but your invaluable services will always be remembered. I’m sorry for any inconvenience but I must thank you for your particular attention. Please forward your bill to the following address…

She signed it with an ‘R’. And so, I fulfilled her wishes. Her invoice was forwarded on to the appropriate address, but I knew I’d see her one last time before she disappeared forever.

It was a stormy afternoon that she flew through my door, much to the despair of my receptionist. Another client was perched on my hard-backed chair taking in the surrounds of my straight and pristine office. She looked much like Roxanne had when I first met her: alone, worried and afraid; and I told her that for a price, she too would be offered my unlimited services. As not to disturb my newest client, I stepped out into the hall, taking Roxanne by the arm. Fury was like an electric current running through her but I calmly took the offending piece of paper from her hand. It was her bill. Her painted fingernail stabbed at the total column and she chocked out some inaudible sounds. I took the liberty to interpret her inability to speak.

“When we first met, I offered you an hourly rate that covered my unlimited services.’ I spoke evenly, with practised precision. ‘On this occasion, I recall that you left my office at 4 am, taking with you my tailored blazer to wear home, is this not correct?’ She nodded sullenly. ‘And now you have received your bill, covering the time I afforded you, correct?’ Again she returned a reserved nod of her head. The vitality had faded from her triumphant face. She looked defeated.

‘We are done here,’ I concluded.

I watched her writhe with anger, struggling to contain her outrage. The well-dressed man walking down the hall must have been a fine incentive to remain her fine, alluring self. At this sight I called to my receptionist and she returned with a business card for both Roxanne and my awaiting client.

‘Mr Ryan needs to attend a previous engagement now,’ she explained.

I tipped my hat to the two women and locked up my perfectly straight, black and white office.

That well dressed man and I entered the elevator, emerging with boyish grins. We waited in the street for a taxi to dinner, talking casually in the brisk night air. A horn blasted, acknowledging Roxanne’s departure. We both waved to the speeding car heading for red traffic lights. She didn’t return the gesture; neither did I expect her to. Now was the moment I knew that she’d disappear forever.