Guilty Pleasures (34 page)

“Shame on you, Molly. She’s your best friend.”
 

“I regretted it—I did, especially as he wasn’t great shakes. Quick off the mark, he was,” Molly confessed, wiping a regretful tear.

Lance and Serge watched in fascination as the evening unfolded, and the guests’ collective grief continued unabated and inconsolable, oblivious to the glaring absence of the chief mourner and the maître d’.
 

“The wake must go on,” Serge said, solemnly. “Let this be a lesson to you, my boy. The death of love waits for no man.”

Right on cue, a “priest” in a dog collar approached the coffin to conduct the solemnities. “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to bid farewell and good riddance to our dear brother, Seamus O’Donnell. We wish him eternal rest, and should he indeed rise again, may he come quickly.”

The “priest” slowly gyrated out of his vestments—keeping only the dog collar—to the delight of the female mourners who hurried to tuck green carnations in his black lace G-string. He served up generous slices of the Execution Cake and drank Irish whiskey from several slippers.

This joyful ceremony was concluded by Millie firmly escorting the “priest” and two nearly nude “mourners” to the front door and forcefully ejecting them.

At three o’clock in the morning, Millie called cabs for the remaining guests, told the very drunk waiters in their green hats and hose to go home, and crossly berated Serge and Lance for their decidedly tipsy state.

“I can’t believe this! My entire staff . . . get a cab and go home, Serge.”

Serge waved happily and staggered outside.
 

“Will, you better sober up
quickly!
We have work to do.” Muttering darkly to herself, Millie brewed up a pot of pitch black, powder-keg Turkish coffee. She found Lance in the locker room, shirtless but still in his lurid hose, obviously much the worse for the wear. “Oh, Will, strong drink doesn’t agree with you, does it?”

“I’m fine, better than fine. I’m fan-bloody-tastic.”

“Yes, I can tell.” She pulled him to his feet, where he swayed like a young birch in a high gale. “Come along, then; to the showers with you.”

“No . . . no showers.”

“Come along now.”
 

He leaned forward and nuzzled at her neck. “I had an Irish grandfather, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Oh yes. I went to Ireland with him as a young boy, and got away from my bloody mother for two whole weeks. I saw the Emerald Island from end to end. Kissed the Blarney Stone, you know. Which is why I’m such a good linguist. The Irish are famous for the agility of their tongues. Wannasee?” Lance licked at her ear and staggered.

“Here, Will.” Millie pushed him firmly into the shower and turned on the water. “Nice and cold!”

Gasping and trembling, Lance shook his head under the icy deluge.
 

“Meet me in the kitchen in ten minutes for coffee, and you’d better be sober.”

Ten minutes later, a contrite and cold Lance shivered his way into the kitchen where Millie served him many tiny cups of truly horrid, scalding coffee.
 

“What on earth possessed you two to drink like this? Really, I expected better from you,” Millie said crossly.

“It just happened . . .” explained a shamefaced Lance. “We just kept toasting the dead, one after another. We didn’t want to leave anyone out.”

“The dead?”

“Well, if you extrapolate the concept, every ex is a dearly departed. We just kept remembering people. Some of these girls I hadn’t thought about in years. We decided to erect a monument to the unknown soldiers of the War of Love. Some names I never even got, but Serge said—”

“Disgusting. You’re like little boys comparing scabs. Well, Will, I’m going shopping on my own. You are in no condition to walk, let alone drive. Go sleep it off. There is a
chaise longue
in the small salon. I expect you to be up and about for the afternoon shift.”

“I’m sorry, Millie.”

“No, you’re not. But you
will
be.”

The next day, an exhausted and thoroughly irritated Millie stumbled home at eight thirty after doing the morning shopping on her own. With a little luck, she’d manage a few hours’ sleep before she had to start prepping for the evening’s event.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Things are definitely getting out of hand. Last night, every man on my staff was stinking drunk or absent. God knows what happened to Hendricks, or what state he’ll be in tonight, and Will was paralytic.

I would have never believed it to be possible. Serge handles his drink better, but still . . .
 

But he did look good in those hose—Will, not Serge. Yummy, actually. I’d been looking forward to peeling them off him with my teeth, and he got drunk.

My Boy-Lollipop. I’ll get him for that if it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter 26

Go read an erotic book such as
The Perfumed Garden
,
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
, or
The Kama Sutra
if you must.

Or try some poetry by Walt Whitman, John Donne, E.E. Cummings, Sappho, or Catullus—anything that will inspire you—but not
Playboy
or
Hustler
magazines, or anything with nude pictures in it.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Lance groaned awake with a crick in his neck and a sticky, furry tongue. He was cold, uncomfortable, and very hungover. Buzzing sounds fuzzed up his brain. He looked around him and he realised he was not at home, but had obviously slept alone.
 

Dimly he recalled the night’s events, culminating in him squirming naked in a cold shower under Millie’s merciless glare.
So not good
. He glanced at his wristwatch.
Two thirty in the afternoon? Even worse . . .
 

He stumbled to the locker room and into a hot shower. There was no razor, but at least he was clean. He slowly pulled on the previous day’s clothes, a T-shirt and jeans, wincing at the sight of the unfortunate discarded hose. He heard movement in the kitchen, and muted voices. He sneaked into the corridor and shamelessly eavesdropped.

“Can’t tell you how I regret my behaviour, Miss Deafly.” The contrite tones were Hendricks’s. “Never in my life has anything like this happened to me.”

“Mr. Hendricks, in all these years we have worked together, you have never let me down. Last night we both learned a valuable lesson: you are human, like everyone else. Let the lesson we both learn be tolerance and humility.”

“Thank you, Miss Deafly. I guarantee it will
not
happen again.”

“Go home, Hendricks. I’ll expect you at six this evening.”

Lance heard him leave, and he cautiously poked his head into the kitchen. A decidedly tired-looking Millie was moving assorted odds and ends around, and cleaning up the damage from the previous night. Lance walked in and silently started helping her. He felt embarrassed, shamed by his vaguely remembered behaviour.

She looked him up and down and frowned. “Are you feeling better? Quite rested?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. The staff let me down very badly last night. The cleaning crew are here, and we have a coffin to get rid of. God only knows where to.”

“I’m so sorry. I have no excuse I can offer; I behaved badly.”

“Yes you did, but you had plenty of company.”
 

A shamefaced Lance joined her in tidying up the ungodly mess the aftermath of the “wake” had left in the usually immaculate kitchen.

As the afternoon progressed, she slowly mellowed. A bustling group of women in blue uniforms had taken over the salon, cleaning, vacuuming and sterilizing every surface. They left at four in the afternoon. The salon was splendidly restored to its usual order, gleaming and smelling of floor polish.
 

“Are you hungry, Will?”

Lance winced at the thought of food.

“Well, you should eat something. It will help you feel better.”

“I’m really not hungry,” Lance said.

“I am. Steak and salad okay?”

Lance quailed under the steely glint in her eye. “If you insist.”

Soon the delicious smell of grilling meat filled the kitchen, and Millie tossed a crisp green salad with a light lime dressing as accompaniment. The meat was just right: tender, seared on the outside and pinkly moist on the inside.
 

Lance found himself eating with unexpected gusto, crunching happily at the crisp lettuce salad and the succulent tomatoes.
 

She poured a glass of Tuscan red for herself, and water with a liberal hand for Lance. “Drink up. No alcohol for you.”

Dessert was a Bartlett pear, succulent and delicious with a slice of Camembert. Lance had to admit he felt infinitely better.

“I’m going now,” Millie said. “I’ll be back at eight. Hopefully both you and Serge will have recovered your wits. Dinner is at eight thirty tonight. See you then.”

Lance reached out and took her hand. He pulled her to him. “I am so sorry, Millie . . . please love . . .”

“Don’t you
love
me . . . you were absolutely sodden.”

“I know.” Lance kissed her cheeks gently, stroking back her hair, caressing her temples. “Forgive me . . .” He kissed her lips softly, tenderly.
 

Millie sighed and leaned against him. “All right, I forgive you. I’m tired, Will, and not in the mood for this conversation. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” She smiled up at him wearily. “Keep those hose. I have plans . . .”

Lance winced. “Not the hose.”

“Oh yes . . . I’ve been imagining all sorts of vicious things. I’m going to do some very bad things to you.”