Loyalty
It was partially a whim which caused Liam to sign up for a FreshFields SupaSava card, promising him a range of offers across the store if he collected enough points. Partially. It was also, he told himself, a wise move, he rarely shopped elsewhere, it was on his way home, so he might as well, it was a prudent thing to do, it would save him money in the long run. Mostly, though, it was because the girl on the customer service desk, who was holding out the form for him to fill in, was really quite pretty. Sam (her name tag said) had a wide, beaming smile, and was able to somehow transcend the luminous green and red of her uniform to look to Liam like quite the loveliest girl he'd ever seen. And when she'd said "Excuse me sir, do you have a FreshFields SupaSava card?" he'd thought, no, no I haven't, but I'm going to get one now.
He managed to avoid staring as he filled the form out in block capitals, signing his name with somewhat more brio than he usually did, trying to prolong the moment. He tried to say something clever as he handed back the completed form, but even as she melted his heart afresh with another smile, it switched off, as quickly as summer rain, and he heard her say: "Excuse me madam, do you have a FreshFields SupaSava card?" The woman behind Liam averred that she did, and she wasn't here about that but, rather, about the poor quality of a jumper from the "Fred at Freshfields" range of inexpensive clothing, which she presented accusingly. It was beige, had a motif of a puppy on the front and bore the legend "You got this". Acutely aware that he was now holding things up, Liam shuffled off as Sam turned her full attention, her epic compassion and total concern, to the woman's problem.
He shopped listlessly beneath the strip-lights, tipping the odd tin into his basket. Beans, tomatoes, tuna. Colour seemed bleached from the world, shopping itself an exercise in futility. He couldn't even enjoy the sharp-elbowed scrum at the reduced section, normally a highlight of his shopping trips. His mood only started to lift when he got to the self-service checkout. He normally avoided these, always suspecting that he would somehow get it wrong, put the bag on the scale at the wrong time, fail to scan something, but they afforded him a better view of the customer service desk, where Sam was by now besieged by shoppers with whom she was dealing calmly, patiently and with infinite kindness. What a woman, thought Liam, his spirits improving with each successful beep of an item scanned. He was doing this, he was definitely doing this. Things got even better when the computer screen asked him if he had a SupaSava card, Liam replied proudly that he did, tapping the screen with emphasis and placing the card on the reader with something of a flourish, noting fondly the bold, masculine sweep of his signature as he did so; the giddy high of seeing that he'd earned 47p off his next shop, as well as a voucher for two for one on non-dairy spread saw him float right out of the door, feeling that perhaps things weren't so bad after all.
Over the next few weeks, Liam kept telling himself that there were variety of perfectly logical reasons for the increased frequency of his visits to Freshfields. It was on his way home, he needed to shop more healthily, which meant little and often, even that he, perfectly normally for a heterosexual man of his age, wanted to see Sam. He felt sure they had a connection. The illicit thrill of watching his SavaPointz balance mount up to the by now meaty sum of £6.47 was one that he only admitted to himself every so often, reasoning it away as saving. Liam, who'd had a grand total of seven pence in his ISA for the last fifteen years felt that now, he was saving, now, he was starting to rebuild his life. The only downside was that, try as he might, he never saw Sam again; each visit, he scanned the checkouts anxiously, peered at the customer service desk, but that seemed to normally be manned by an enormous man named Clive, who's habitual expression didn't give the impression that a customer-facing position was really for him.
One coolish evening in March, he had to change his route home from work. He'd recently gotten into cycling, meeting up with other people every Thursday for a group ride which he was inevitably some way off the back of, and was anxious to catch the cycling shop before it shut. There was a Bittern Foods just over the road, so it made sense to pop in there and pick up a few bits for dinner. Liam felt a momentary pang that the money spent wouldn't add up to points on his SupaSava card (now standing at £11.46, with the offer of 25% off some rattan effect garden furniture), but bundled the items (some rolls, some tinned tuna and an avocado - he had the vague idea that he wanted to be the sort of person who ate avocado) blithely into his bag without any other thought, and went home.
He was puzzled, upon returning home, to find his key turning uselessly in the lock. He experienced momentary panic at the thought of being locked out before trying the handle, the door opened and he went inside, mentally berating himself for not locking the door. Anyone could have got in, he said to himself, it became immediately apparent that anybody had.
The flat was a mess, pillows had been pulled off the sofa and their stuffing ripped out, his TV was in the bin and his X-box had been stuffed in beside it; his posters were torn from the walls and the front wheel-forks of his bike were buckled as if they'd been struck with some force. Feeling sick, he inched his way though the flat, there were similar scenes of carnage in his bedroom, and the bathroom, where someone had left a turd in the sink. This was enough to send Liam lurching to the toilet, where he vomited copiously.
When the heaving and retching had subsided he headed weakly to the kitchen, dreading what he might see there.
What he saw was Sam, sat demurely at the kitchen table, neat, beautiful, smiling. He stared. The kitchen, like the rest of the flat, was a mess, broken jars, upturned chairs; but in the middle of the chaos, the eye of the storm, she sat, hands folded, eyes bright, hair perfect. She seemed to exist in a different reality, as if shot on a different sort of film, luminous and sunny against the sordid stramash of his ruined kitchen.
"Did you enjoy the non-dairy spread, Liam?" She asked sweetly, her voice as musical as he remembered.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The non-dairy spread" she was still smiling, but a note of steeliness had entered her voice. "The one that FreshFields, at great cost to itself, subsidised the sale of to bring greater choice to you, the consumer." She cocked her head to one side "You do remember?". Liam felt dizzy, what was she talking about? Slowly, realisation dawned and he headed to the fridge, opened the door gingerly, mercifully it seemed to have survived whatever had happened to the rest of the flat, there were one and a half tubs of non-dairy spread inside, he remembered buying them, recalled scanning the voucher with a sense of accomplishment.
"The two for one voucher?"
"Precisely. The two for one voucher. Good, wasn't it? A valuable saving. And the third off toilet roll, another valuable saving, and the money-off bleach, another valuable saving. If you'd bought the garden furniture you'd have found that it's surprisingly durable and excellent value" She wasn't smiling now, she was standing, and fanning a series of photographs across the kitchen table. They were all of Liam in various aisles of Bittern foods, peering at the yoghurts, weighing up the inexpensive wine. "So what, Liam" she was across the floor, at his ear, all pretence of friendliness gone, hissing "the fuck is this?"
"I"
"Shut up." She said "and sit down." Feeling unable to argue, Liam did so. "Do you know what loyalty means, Liam?"
"Um, what?"
"Loyalty. Noun. The quality of being loyal, faithful, constant, devoted. Of maintaining fidelity. Of not fucking cheating on your partner. That's what loyalty means, Liam." He looked at her aghast.
"But you're not my partner?" His voice was invested with a sort of wistful horror, for, despite the undoubted weirdness of what was happening, there was also the incontrovertible fact that Sam was in his kitchen, a few feet away, and she was, undeniably, the most beautiful woman Liam had ever seen.
"Commercial partner, Liam" she was smiling beatifically again. "That means you don't shop elsewhere. You don't sleep around. You don't cheat on me, Liam, it's all on the form." She pushed a piece of paper across the table towards him, his application form for the SupaSava Card, his signature, bold and looping, at the bottom. A passage highlighted in fluorescent green:
That I the undersigned do certify that I undertake to cease any commercial activities in non-FreshFields premises viz: purchase of any item except if not within a thirty mile radius or if unable to locate the item required of or in a FreshFields Store in accordance with the Consumer Exclusivity act (1996) sec 3 subsection IV paragraph 11
"That, that doesn't make any sense" said Liam, "I've shopped in lots of other shops", Sam's index finger, its nail painted a tasteful pale green of a middle-class front-door, jabbed at part of the clause.
"If unable to locate, Liam, if unable to locate. We don't stock cycling gloves, yet, and we don't stock the sort of films you like to watch." Liam's stomach gave a horrible lurch, she was looking at him with distaste. "It's a family supermarket. But we stock toilet roll, Liam, we stock tuna, we stock fucking avocados." He heard a noise behind him and turned. Clive from Customer Services was stood behind him, he'd retrieved the avocado from Liam's bag and slowly, horribly, squeezed it in his meaty fist. Liam watched, mesmerised as the avocado pulp burst from it's skin and oozed over Clive's knuckles. The huge man was grinning, he was the happiest Liam had ever seen him. "It's time, Liam" Sam continued, more quietly "that you learned what Loyalty actually means."
He managed to avoid staring as he filled the form out in block capitals, signing his name with somewhat more brio than he usually did, trying to prolong the moment. He tried to say something clever as he handed back the completed form, but even as she melted his heart afresh with another smile, it switched off, as quickly as summer rain, and he heard her say: "Excuse me madam, do you have a FreshFields SupaSava card?" The woman behind Liam averred that she did, and she wasn't here about that but, rather, about the poor quality of a jumper from the "Fred at Freshfields" range of inexpensive clothing, which she presented accusingly. It was beige, had a motif of a puppy on the front and bore the legend "You got this". Acutely aware that he was now holding things up, Liam shuffled off as Sam turned her full attention, her epic compassion and total concern, to the woman's problem.
He shopped listlessly beneath the strip-lights, tipping the odd tin into his basket. Beans, tomatoes, tuna. Colour seemed bleached from the world, shopping itself an exercise in futility. He couldn't even enjoy the sharp-elbowed scrum at the reduced section, normally a highlight of his shopping trips. His mood only started to lift when he got to the self-service checkout. He normally avoided these, always suspecting that he would somehow get it wrong, put the bag on the scale at the wrong time, fail to scan something, but they afforded him a better view of the customer service desk, where Sam was by now besieged by shoppers with whom she was dealing calmly, patiently and with infinite kindness. What a woman, thought Liam, his spirits improving with each successful beep of an item scanned. He was doing this, he was definitely doing this. Things got even better when the computer screen asked him if he had a SupaSava card, Liam replied proudly that he did, tapping the screen with emphasis and placing the card on the reader with something of a flourish, noting fondly the bold, masculine sweep of his signature as he did so; the giddy high of seeing that he'd earned 47p off his next shop, as well as a voucher for two for one on non-dairy spread saw him float right out of the door, feeling that perhaps things weren't so bad after all.
Over the next few weeks, Liam kept telling himself that there were variety of perfectly logical reasons for the increased frequency of his visits to Freshfields. It was on his way home, he needed to shop more healthily, which meant little and often, even that he, perfectly normally for a heterosexual man of his age, wanted to see Sam. He felt sure they had a connection. The illicit thrill of watching his SavaPointz balance mount up to the by now meaty sum of £6.47 was one that he only admitted to himself every so often, reasoning it away as saving. Liam, who'd had a grand total of seven pence in his ISA for the last fifteen years felt that now, he was saving, now, he was starting to rebuild his life. The only downside was that, try as he might, he never saw Sam again; each visit, he scanned the checkouts anxiously, peered at the customer service desk, but that seemed to normally be manned by an enormous man named Clive, who's habitual expression didn't give the impression that a customer-facing position was really for him.
One coolish evening in March, he had to change his route home from work. He'd recently gotten into cycling, meeting up with other people every Thursday for a group ride which he was inevitably some way off the back of, and was anxious to catch the cycling shop before it shut. There was a Bittern Foods just over the road, so it made sense to pop in there and pick up a few bits for dinner. Liam felt a momentary pang that the money spent wouldn't add up to points on his SupaSava card (now standing at £11.46, with the offer of 25% off some rattan effect garden furniture), but bundled the items (some rolls, some tinned tuna and an avocado - he had the vague idea that he wanted to be the sort of person who ate avocado) blithely into his bag without any other thought, and went home.
He was puzzled, upon returning home, to find his key turning uselessly in the lock. He experienced momentary panic at the thought of being locked out before trying the handle, the door opened and he went inside, mentally berating himself for not locking the door. Anyone could have got in, he said to himself, it became immediately apparent that anybody had.
The flat was a mess, pillows had been pulled off the sofa and their stuffing ripped out, his TV was in the bin and his X-box had been stuffed in beside it; his posters were torn from the walls and the front wheel-forks of his bike were buckled as if they'd been struck with some force. Feeling sick, he inched his way though the flat, there were similar scenes of carnage in his bedroom, and the bathroom, where someone had left a turd in the sink. This was enough to send Liam lurching to the toilet, where he vomited copiously.
When the heaving and retching had subsided he headed weakly to the kitchen, dreading what he might see there.
What he saw was Sam, sat demurely at the kitchen table, neat, beautiful, smiling. He stared. The kitchen, like the rest of the flat, was a mess, broken jars, upturned chairs; but in the middle of the chaos, the eye of the storm, she sat, hands folded, eyes bright, hair perfect. She seemed to exist in a different reality, as if shot on a different sort of film, luminous and sunny against the sordid stramash of his ruined kitchen.
"Did you enjoy the non-dairy spread, Liam?" She asked sweetly, her voice as musical as he remembered.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The non-dairy spread" she was still smiling, but a note of steeliness had entered her voice. "The one that FreshFields, at great cost to itself, subsidised the sale of to bring greater choice to you, the consumer." She cocked her head to one side "You do remember?". Liam felt dizzy, what was she talking about? Slowly, realisation dawned and he headed to the fridge, opened the door gingerly, mercifully it seemed to have survived whatever had happened to the rest of the flat, there were one and a half tubs of non-dairy spread inside, he remembered buying them, recalled scanning the voucher with a sense of accomplishment.
"The two for one voucher?"
"Precisely. The two for one voucher. Good, wasn't it? A valuable saving. And the third off toilet roll, another valuable saving, and the money-off bleach, another valuable saving. If you'd bought the garden furniture you'd have found that it's surprisingly durable and excellent value" She wasn't smiling now, she was standing, and fanning a series of photographs across the kitchen table. They were all of Liam in various aisles of Bittern foods, peering at the yoghurts, weighing up the inexpensive wine. "So what, Liam" she was across the floor, at his ear, all pretence of friendliness gone, hissing "the fuck is this?"
"I"
"Shut up." She said "and sit down." Feeling unable to argue, Liam did so. "Do you know what loyalty means, Liam?"
"Um, what?"
"Loyalty. Noun. The quality of being loyal, faithful, constant, devoted. Of maintaining fidelity. Of not fucking cheating on your partner. That's what loyalty means, Liam." He looked at her aghast.
"But you're not my partner?" His voice was invested with a sort of wistful horror, for, despite the undoubted weirdness of what was happening, there was also the incontrovertible fact that Sam was in his kitchen, a few feet away, and she was, undeniably, the most beautiful woman Liam had ever seen.
"Commercial partner, Liam" she was smiling beatifically again. "That means you don't shop elsewhere. You don't sleep around. You don't cheat on me, Liam, it's all on the form." She pushed a piece of paper across the table towards him, his application form for the SupaSava Card, his signature, bold and looping, at the bottom. A passage highlighted in fluorescent green:
That I the undersigned do certify that I undertake to cease any commercial activities in non-FreshFields premises viz: purchase of any item except if not within a thirty mile radius or if unable to locate the item required of or in a FreshFields Store in accordance with the Consumer Exclusivity act (1996) sec 3 subsection IV paragraph 11
"That, that doesn't make any sense" said Liam, "I've shopped in lots of other shops", Sam's index finger, its nail painted a tasteful pale green of a middle-class front-door, jabbed at part of the clause.
"If unable to locate, Liam, if unable to locate. We don't stock cycling gloves, yet, and we don't stock the sort of films you like to watch." Liam's stomach gave a horrible lurch, she was looking at him with distaste. "It's a family supermarket. But we stock toilet roll, Liam, we stock tuna, we stock fucking avocados." He heard a noise behind him and turned. Clive from Customer Services was stood behind him, he'd retrieved the avocado from Liam's bag and slowly, horribly, squeezed it in his meaty fist. Liam watched, mesmerised as the avocado pulp burst from it's skin and oozed over Clive's knuckles. The huge man was grinning, he was the happiest Liam had ever seen him. "It's time, Liam" Sam continued, more quietly "that you learned what Loyalty actually means."
posted by Matt at 4:57 AM
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