Guilty Pleasures (4 page)

She will then proceed to tell me all about her friend’s daughters’ stellar achievements, how many children they have produced, and how happy other women are to have such successful children. Then she will really sharpen the knives and start on Father: his inadequacies, his weakness, and of course, how I inherited all those traits from him.

My lovely cannibal mother.

Still, I can’t say no to her. I agreed to see her for lunch tomorrow at one o’clock sharp.

Oh, Shakespeare, forgive me. “Come, you Spirits that dwell on human thought . . . fill me from crown to toe with heavenly patience . . .” Lady Macbeth would have sorted this out, no sweat.

Chapter 3

One of my most surprising cases was a seventy-six year old grandmother who firmly told me she didn’t plan on dying a virgin.

She’d had four children and she still felt as ignorant as a bride.

The anatomical mechanics were no mystery, but the rest . . .

Her husband, a cheery, quite uninhibited, and accessible man, was horrified to discover she’d been
biting the bullet
for fifty-two years.

He’d firmly believed their sex life was better than fine. It was. For
him
.

The
blame
, in this case, can be firmly set at the lady’s door.

She was afraid to hurt him by telling him she wasn’t aroused. She was ashamed of her unresponsiveness, and so, believing herself to be frigid, she faked her pleasure in order to ensure his. It was a recipe for disaster.

The loving husband laboured away happily believing she was in heaven, and she submitted with growing resentment, until she simply started to refuse him.

Their active sex life dwindled to nothing, until one of her granddaughters shattered all of her preconceptions by telling her casually that she was
teaching
her new boyfriend how to pleasure her. She resolutely sought out a solution, and came knocking at my door, looking for help in finding her missing orgasms
.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Cold as it was at four in the morning, Lance opted to top his outfit with a V-neck cashmere sweater in a soft charcoal grey. After his frugal breakfast and morning ablutions that included a clean shave down to his bellybutton, he set off for Glass Street and Millicent Deafly.
 

The London streets were empty with low fog settling on the corners and embracing the lampposts. It was still dark, with daybreak hours away, when Lance stepped onto the curb in front of Guilty Pleasures. It was a late nineteenth century building, with a grim, brick façade of narrow windows.
 

“Wilfred Peckerless?” The voice that grated out of the London fog was anything but feminine. It was, in fact, decidedly harsh and threatening.

“Um, Peck
lise
, Wilfred Peck
lise
, actually.”

“That’s what I said.” A large shadow loomed out of the mist and resolved itself into an odd, short silhouette. “I’m Serge Moreno—the cook.”

Lance’s gaze dropped down sharply as he studied the short man in front of him. “
Oh
. I was expecting a Miss Deafly.”

Serge’s dark visage stared up at him. “Yeah? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you! I’m the one’s gonna be running you. Might as well see if you can take the heat, eh?”

Lance winced back. “Um, I’m at your service, of course, Mr. Moreno. I’m a hard worker, and I want to learn—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know
that
speech! I hear it at least twice a month! There’s no work, they say. Unemployment is rife, they say, but still they quit. Well!” Serge Moreno peered up from his diminutive height. “You look like you can carry a load. Let’s try you out.” He threw him a keychain with a Toyota car key. “You ever driven a box van?”

“No, sir, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“I can’t drive, see; can’t reach the pedals. Bloody things are built for beanpoles.”

Lance nodded respectfully. “It can’t be easy, sir, you being a little person . . .”

Serge Moreno gasped in outrage. “A
little
person? Did you just call me a
little person
? I’m a fucking dwarf, boy, understand? A dwarf! There ain’t nothing
little
about me. Nothing.”

Lance stammered out, “S-sir . . . M-mr. Moreno . . . I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”
 

“You forget that polite and politically correct bullshit with me and we’ll get on better. I call a spade a spade, and a cock a cock, get it? Now then, Willie, to the fish market!”
 

Serge Moreno was a curious figure. He was under four feet tall, with an oversized square head dominated by a pair of large, lucent dark eyes. He was black, wrinkled, and had the soured expression of one who has discovered his half-full glass contains mule piss. His personality seemed likewise lacking in any redeeming sweetness.
 

Lance decided such an unpleasant demeanour must be rooted in astonishing talent and thought it might be expedient to flatter him. “From what I understand, Mr. Moreno, you are a legend in your profession.”
 

“Trying to butter me up already, my lad? Forget it! I grew up on board the sorriest tramp steamer that ever sailed the Indian Ocean. I’ve seen just about every sorry kind of creature put on earth by God who calls himself a man, and the sorriest of them all is an arse-licker! So now, hang a right at the next intersection, and we’ll take it from there.”

Lance wisely maintained radio silence until they arrived, then carefully manoeuvred the van into a parking space and got out.

“Come along. You get to carry the groceries home for Mama. I’ve got a bad back, you know.”

Lance nodded and followed the small, strutting figure into the bustling market. Sounds and smells overwhelmed him. Colours blossomed in the harsh neon lights. On the tables, squirming, slapping shapes tumbled over glistening ice.
 

“Jerry!” Serge cried, addressing a small redheaded man with a heroic handlebar moustache. “A dozen lobsters for Millie. And throw in some sea urchins, six dozen oysters, and three or four she-crabs. Make sure you tie up their claws properly this time; I nearly lost my johnson last time!”

“Wouldn’t happen if you kept it in your pants, you old perv!” Jerry grinned and peered curiously at Lance. “Who’s this, then?”

“This here is little Willie Peckerless. My brand new muscleman.” Serge smirked suggestively and giggled at Lance’s outraged expression. “Come along, little Willie, time’s a-wasting!”

Lance picked up a large green plastic box filled with ice and shifting armoured crab shapes, balancing a smaller one filled with oysters on top, while Serge took charge of a small container full of spiky sea urchins.

“Sweets for the sweet, and pricks . . .” Jerry cried out as they moved away.
 

Lance heard Serge reply in some guttural language, drawing a shout of laughter from the redheaded man.
 

Serge watched with an eagle eye as Lance carefully placed the boxes in the back of the van. “Now, little Willie, fruit and vegetables!”

“Mr. Moreno, I really would rather you called me Wilfred!”

“Ticked off already, are you?” Serge scrunched contentedly into the van. “I knew you couldn’t take no shit! Written all over you!”

Lance was indignant. “Sir, I’m not a quitter!”

“Well, Willie little, that’s what we’ll see! Right, left, left again at the third intersection, and step on it!”
 

Lance followed Serge’s curt instructions and drove them briskly to the greens’ wholesalers where Serge bought a great variety of vegetables and fruit. Lance had never even seen some of the colourful produce before. He disregarded Serge’s brash behaviour and immersed himself in the intoxicating new scents rising all around him. He struggled to identify them: peach, melons, sweet apples, oranges, limes, and pineapple. Other strange and exotic perfumes overwhelmed him. He turned to find Serge watching him.
 

“Like wine, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Like wine.” Lance smiled back, surprised by the sweetness of the dwarf’s smile.

“Come along, Willie, more to do!” They took their purchases back to the van and settled them in carefully. “Now, some coffee before sunup!” Serge directed him to a small café on the waterfront.
 

A plump woman greeted Serge affectionately and settled them at a small table by the window. Without asking, she brought over a large plate heaped with delicate sugar-dusted pastries and a pot of steaming coffee. She poured out the first round into small china cups and left with a smile.

Serge smacked his lips and shuddered at his first taste. “It’s crap without sugar, but if I want to eat my pastries, I’ve gotta cut down somewhere, or else Millie’ll burn my arse. Eat up, my man!”

Lance found the coffee hot and delicious, and he thought the pastries, though sugar loaded, were nonetheless delectable parcels of unidentified delights.

“Italian pastries, my boy. Good shit.” Serge swallowed the last pastry on the plate, licked his fingers, and burped hugely. “Let's go, Willie Wanker. Gotta get to Guilty Pleasures before eight.”

Lance was starting to enjoy the foulmouthed little man. His salty language was refreshing after years of sensitivity, sweet talk, and suggestive flirtation.

Parking in the loading zone, Lance opened the back doors of the van and began unloading the boxes onto the curb in front of Guilty Pleasures. Just as he was carefully manoeuvring the box of restless crustaceans out without soaking his cashmere sweater, he heard Serge address someone behind him.
 

“Morning, darling! Got everything you wanted! Juicy Jerry came through like always!”

“Good morning, Serge. Excellent! It’s going to be quite a day! Are you going to introduce me?”

“Miss Millie, this here is my new assistant, little Willie Peckerless.”

Lance felt a deep wash of heat rising up the back of his neck. He turned around quickly and found himself looking down at a short, pleasantly plump woman with a contrite smile he recognized as Millicent Deafly.

“Serge, behave!” she said.

Serge chortled evilly.

“It’s quite all right, Miss Deafly,” Lance said. He slanted a grin at the dwarf. “Mr. Moreno and I are coming to an understanding.”

“You wish, Willie Wanker, you wish!”

Grinning, Lance followed Serge up the oak-panelled stairway to the first floor.

“This way; I’ll show you what goes where,” Millicent said, smiling.

“Why, darling, at his age I expect he knows!” Serge smirked.
 

“Shush, Serge! That’s quite enough now,” Millicent scolded.

Lance grinned and followed them into the heart of Guilty Pleasures.
 

The kitchen was large, well lit, and with shining aluminium workstations running around three sides of it. Some of the counters had a running step alongside, which Lance immediately saw was for Serge’s benefit. The stoves, with their huge stainless steel exhausts, gleamed. A calm, tranquil atmosphere permeated the airy space.

“So, Wilfred, has Mr. Moreno discussed pay and work conditions with you?” Millicent’s voice was calm, melodious.
 

“No, Miss Deafly. Not yet. I think he was waiting to see if I lasted the morning.”

“I see. Well, like I said in the ad, the hours are odd, but the salary is quite reasonable, plus we offer benefits and health insurance. You will be expected to be here in the early morning to do the shopping—our daily purchase of fresh supplies—usually from four to eight. After that, you can go home until three in the afternoon when you will return to work. You will help Serge in the kitchen and to set up the meal up until whenever the dinner ends. Helping Serge entails you driving him wherever he needs to go; also you get to chop, carry, and clean for him as needed. Is this all right?”

Lance nodded.
 

“We do
only
dinners, Tuesday to Saturday. Sundays and Mondays are off. We sometimes deliver to special customers, and you’d be doing that, too. I must explain something to you: Guilty Pleasures is not a restaurant and we are
not
open to the public.”

Lance raised an enquiring eyebrow. “You’re not?”
 

“No. We are a members-only private dinner club, Wilfred. Our philosophy is to give our members an unparalleled culinary and sensory experience, in privacy. What happens at Guilty Pleasures stays in Guilty Pleasures. As I said, you will be primarily assisting Mr. Moreno. We have a maître d’, Mr. Hendricks, and he handles the waitressing staff in the dining rooms. I’m mostly involved with liaising with the club members and suppliers, and working with our decorator to create the ambiance they desire. The heavy cleaning gets done by a professional crew after hours, but the kitchen will be your province.”

Lance nodded. “That sounds just fine, Miss Deafly.”
 

“I’m not going to gild the pill here, Wilfred. Mr. Moreno is not an easy man to work with. He uses up a lot of assistants, and your work experience is not exactly what I was looking for, so I’d like to wait a few weeks to see how you fit in with the rest of the team before we sign a contract. Though you will still be paid, of course, but you will be on a probationary status for the first three months. Your benefits would start after you’ve completed this period. Does that seem acceptable to you?”