Guilty Pleasures (37 page)

He had to think of a suitable wedding present for George and Francine.
Something Victorian, perhaps? Bric-a-brac? A painting?

He remembered seeing a lovely old mantle clock at the antique shop where he had bought his Sherlock Holmes pipe and monocle.
Was that Georgian, Edwardian, or Victorian?
Damned if he could tell the difference. Nor did he care at this particular moment.
 

Their bloody wedding was tick-tocking away his peace of mind, threatening to destroy his newfound happiness. He might not survive this as a sane man. He was starting to feel distinctly paranoid. Something was out to get him. Whatever could go wrong
would
. A nervous giggle burst from his lips.
 

There was only one way out.
 

Tell the truth.

He resolved to go through George’s wedding fiasco as originally planned—a farewell performance to Lance—then he would sit down with Millie. He’d somehow find a way to explain how he’d ended up embroiled in what he now saw as a thoroughly sordid scenario, unless the perfect opportunity presented itself before.
 

He had to stop thinking. He needed some rest. He would take a long afternoon nap, get up at two thirty and go to work a new man. He was still in control. It was all going to work out, somehow, if only he had faith.

On her way out to work, Millie smiled at herself in the hallway mirror. She looked as good as she felt, and she felt fabulous. “Oh! Before I forget . . .” She walked back over to her desk to write down her thoughts.
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

I’m feeling quite rested! I slept like a baby then went out to pamper myself at the salon. I had a massage, a manicure, and a new hairdo. I feel great.

Hope tonight goes well. I’m looking forward to seeing the Pavlonovitch girls again; it’s been almost a year. I expect Vassili and Serge will give their usual virtuoso performance.
 

At least it will be an early evening. The two old coots can soak up vodka till all hours if they like, but I plan on dragging Wilfred Pecklise back to my place and work on those kinky hose.

I haven’t seen him naked in two whole days. I’m so horny, I could just about scream.

Chapter 29

Most women have body image issues.

Seriously beautiful women have problems with how their body looks.

Almost every woman I’ve ever worked with firmly believes she has minute/huge breasts, a midget’s/giant’s hips, ugly/muscular/flabby buttocks, is too thin/fat. Not
one
is satisfied with what nature gifted her with.

The fashion/cosmetic/health/food industries invest huge amounts of money each year in maximising women’s insecurities and undermining their self-confidence. Let’s strike a blow for
real
tits and cuddly bottoms. Love whatever comes attached to your woman passionately, and make sure she knows it drives you
wild.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

That afternoon, Lance, restored to a semblance of his former self, trotted briskly into Guilty Pleasures to find Serge stirring steaming pots and muttering darkly over sauces and roux.
 

Serge set him to washing and cleaning bushels of green beans, cabbage, beetroots, and sundry vegetables, then cutting them up for the cabbage soup.
 

Cabbage soup?
Lance read through the menu. Russian Caviar with Blinis and Sour Cream, Cabbage Soup, Langoustine à la Moreno, Grilled Sturgeon with Lemon Mousse and Boiled Potatoes, Squabs in Madeira with Candied Ginger and Truffles in Pastry Shells, Roast Saddle of Lamb with Glazed Green Beans and Mint, Buckwheat Mush, and Russian Black Bread with Wild Honey.
 

Millie breezed in, practically walking on air. Her hair had been styled into a soft dark cloud around her piquant face, and she was wearing a red, shimmering shift with high strappy heels. “Serge baby, Will. What a lovely, lovely day. And the night bodes to be even better.”

“Hello, Millie.” Serge snarled. “Happy camper, are you? Can’t imagine why!”

She winked at Lance surreptitiously. “I always enjoy the Pavlonovitch dinners. I love the girls, and Vassili is just adorable.”

Serge growled. “Bloody Bolshevik. I suppose that’s why you’re wearing red?”

“Nope, that’s just to rile you.” She pranced off singing “Tonight” from
West Side Story
. She actually leaped into the air, arms wide, and whirled.

Serge watched, mouth agape. “This is not good . . . no, I like things normal. What’s going on, Willie?”

Lance gulped, fishing around frantically for a safe reply. “Um, nothing really . . .”

“Are you fucking my Millie, Wilfred?”

Lance stepped back before the dark threat in Serge’s lowering visage. “I can honestly say that Millie and I have never had sex.”

“All right then, you behave, Willie. I love that girl, she’s sacred to me. If things go any further, you’d better be serious about her.”

“I’m serious, Serge, and I can promise you, things won’t go any further until she’s just as serious about me.”

“Good, that’s good. Now, let’s get this bloody show on the road.”

When Hendricks arrived, dinner was practically ready. The blinis were stacked in golden towers, the gleaming jet caviar was on ice, the soup was bubbling, the red lobster was on its bed of frilly lettuce under a creamy blanket of saffron and vodka sauce, the sturgeon waited for the grill, and the tender squabs were drowning in their glossy dark sauce waiting to be heated and transferred to the delicate pastry casings and garnished, while the lamb slowly sizzled its way to succulent perfection in the oven.

Soon, a babble of feminine voices came from the salon and Millie herded in what seemed to be a crowd of women. Actually, there were only three plus Millie, but they made enough noise—chattering and giggling—for ten schoolgirls.
 

Following reluctantly behind them was a large stony-faced man in his early sixties with the classical flattened features and slanted eyes of a true Slav.

The gaggle of girls submerged Serge in a perfumed wave of soft arms and kisses, all talking at the same time.

“Serge darling, we missed you.”

“Yes. We wanted to come out last month.”

“But Daddy had a problem with a factory in Byelorussia, you know, labour, or something.”

“And now we’re finally here.”

“My little Russian princesses, how pretty you all look. I’ve prepared some of my father’s favourite dishes for you girls.” Serge glared over their shoulders. “And cabbage soup for the Bolshevik peasant.”

“Peasant yourself, you loose-arsed mongrel piece of shit.”

“Daddy! We haven’t had dinner yet,” cried the tallest of the three, a slender blue-eyed girl with high cheekbones and a gentle pink mouth.

“Exactly!” exclaimed a smaller curly-haired brunette with fierce dark eyebrows. “The insults are for dessert, and you know that.”

“You’re setting him off early, Serge, you naughty man,” complained the third, an exquisitely featured and pale blonde, intermediate in size.

“Come along everybody, to dinner.” Millie herded her four guests out into the salon, and gestured at Hendricks and his boy.
 

The intricate minuet began, the courses being greeted by muffled exclamations of feminine delight and indignant male mutterings and vituperations.
 

Each dish seemed more delightful than the last, the aromas more pungent, the colours mouthwateringly enticing. Even the maligned cabbage soup smelt hearty and comfortingly homely. The final offering, thick slices of still-warm black bread slathered in dark honey, was served in a pretty silver basket, garnished with chunks of jewellike honeycomb and accompanied by a bowl of double cream.
 

Vassili Pavlonovitch stormed into the kitchen, brandishing a chunk of the black bread. “Disgraceful. My mother, sainted be her memory, did better in a shack with sawdust for flour. You’d better not be thinking of charging me for this slop.”

Serge looked at him with profound disdain. “Cheap, miserly bastard, your poor mother—God rest her soul, for He surely punished her in life—was a long-suffering, poor woman who deserved a better son.”

“Don’t you talk about my mother, you sawed-off little freak. I can’t imagine your father feeling particularly proud of
you!
I’ve made something of my life, out of the ruins your beloved aristocrats made of our Mother Russia; I’m helping to rebuild an economic success.”

“The only economic success you’re working on is your own, you fucking Commie sellout. You Bolsheviks ruined the country. Where is the treasury of the Russian Empire? Where is the gold of the Romanovs?”

“I piss on the Romanovs. You hear? Piss, piss, piss! I bought myself a crystal tankard with the Romanov arms, and do you know where I keep it? By my bed, to piss in!”

“Of course, my dear Vassili, shit and piss are the only two things you Bolshevik arses still produce in both quantity and quality. Even that fucking excuse for vodka you sell stinks.”

“I sell great vodka. The best vodka.”

“Crap. The best vodka is being made by those wimpy shits in Finland. Finland, I say. Where is the greatness of Russia today, when we can’t even make good vodka?”

“I challenge you! I dare you to prove your allegations. Show me, if you can, this marvel of Finnish piddle.”

Serge marched to the freezer and extracted several bottles of ice-encased vodka. He lined them up on the counter and slammed down two small, thick glasses. He poured the vodka. They reached simultaneously for the glasses and drank.

“You call this good? This prissy tap water? It is obvious a mongrel with no Russian blood knows nothing about good vodka.”

“I may be a mongrel with no Russian blood, but I have a Russian soul.”

They moved on to the next bottle, their insults heating and becoming increasingly politically incorrect. They variously insulted each other’s beliefs, both political and religious, sexual orientation, race, culture and ancestors. They re-fought the Russian Revolution and the Cold War, and revisited each and every single motive for rancour and dissatisfaction they could remember or invent.
 

Lance watched aghast as in the short span of a little over an hour they managed to empty two bottles of vodka and were working on the third when their legs finally gave out and they sat down side by side at the counter. Their aggression seemed to have mellowed into Slavic melancholia, and they toasted each other and wept, then toasted again.