Guilty Pleasures (5 page)

Lance took a deep breath and was about to agree when Millie interrupted.
 

“And we can hold off on doing all the hiring paperwork for now, just until we are all satisfied it’s going to work out for you at Guilty Pleasures.”

Lance smiled. “That seems very sensible, Miss Deafly. When do I start?” he asked.

She laughed. “Why, you already have! Be back here at three this afternoon, and please call me Millie.”

“Thank you, Millie. Please call me Will.” Lance smiled shyly and glanced down bashfully.
Yikes!
The entire front of his trousers, groin and inner thighs were soaked with the fishy-smelling runoff from the ice packing of the dastardly crabs
.
So much for a gallant exit. Backing toward the door, Lance nodded to Millie and Serge. “Three o’clock then, Miss . . . I mean Millie. Mr. Moreno.”

Millie waved good-bye, and Serge gifted him with a snarly smile.
 

Lance walked down the stairs. He definitely had to rethink Wilfred’s wardrobe, and wear something more suitable for the job—such as heavy duty denim—from now on.
 

Back at his apartment, Lance thought about his day
. Hmm, not bad for the first contact. The woman was quite acceptable. Not a stunner, but her eyes were kind and her smile mischievous. Her skin was quite lovely, and she projected a sensuous warmth. Her figure was definitely on the lush side, but pleasantly so.
Millie was not at all what he had been expecting from her picture. He found himself quite liking her.
Things might just work out.
With a bit of luck, he would worm himself into her affections, and seduce her.
 

Lance decided Wilfred would take up cotton boxers, and leave Lance’s silk G-string thongs in the drawer. There were a myriad of new skills to be acquired, and solutions to be found. His immediate future, it seemed, would be full of the weird and the unexpected. An immersion in a strange new world far from the rigid and rigorous structure he had created for himself.
Yes, things would work out
.
 

Lance shook his head to dispel a sudden vision of Millicent Deafly’s clear, honest gaze, and dived headfirst into writing his book, taking on the challenging task of trying to explain women to men, getting Venusians and Martians, if not onto the same planet, at least into the same bed.

“Do you think he’s going to work out, Serge?” Millie asked as Lance walked away.
 

“Too soon to tell, darling,” Serge said, staring at Lance’s backside. “But he sure looks yummy . . .”

Millie laughed. “I’m going home to take a nap, Serge. You behave yourself!”
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

I had a great morning today.
 

I got the confirmation for the Fifth Annual Food Fest for Fashion Victims dinner for thirty five supermodels, none of whom are anorexic or bulimic, according to their relevant psychiatric reports.

Serge actually
liked
the new assistant, Wilfred, and says he has a nose. Wilfred seems pleasant, but vaguely geeky, like Pee-Wee Herman on steroids! He has nice eyes, though, and a sweet smile. I hope he lasts.

In other news, I had lunch with dearest Mum. She took me to one of those horrendous places where you pick out your food from a menu that lists the calories before the price.

Mother looked splendid—perfection, as always. I’m happy to report she was in fine fettle and she weighed me to the last ounce, commenting I had gained a “little” weight.
 

She then proceeded to praise my perfect peach velvet skin with a distinct tone of sour grapes in her voice, then kindly advised me to be careful about my breath. But, of course, she was only telling me this out of concern for my well-being. Because she loves me, and doesn’t want me to go through the pain of rejection . . . again.

Ugh! Being with her was really unpleasant.
 

Ah! I nearly forgot. Our visit wouldn’t be complete without her questioning me if I had met anyone, or tried to meet anyone. She also asked me if I had considered speed dating, or maybe tried the Internet. When I sighed, she told me that a woman like me, especially at my age, couldn’t be choosy.

I told her I didn’t want anyone. But of course, she told me that the frigid facet of my personality must have been inherited from my father.

It took everything in me not to throw my drink at her and walk out, so instead I ordered a nine-hundred calorie sundae for dessert. She sat in furious disapproval, biting at her augmented lips. I can’t tell you how good that sugar tasted.

Chapter 4

Every woman is a world apart. Each speaks a different language; every word has a different meaning and every touch, a different reaction. What is paradise to one woman is hell to another. What makes you a fantastic lover for one woman will be your undoing to another. Forget pick-up lines and tricks. Get to know her, discover her, let her be your great adventure. Like any good explorer, draw up a map of your woman’s inner world. Respect her limits, write the cautionary phrase, “Here be dragons” in sensitive areas and
don’t go there
.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

That afternoon, at three o’clock on the dot, Lance bounded up the staircase at Guilty Pleasures, two steps at a time. His eagerness surprised him, and the fluttering sensations in his perfectly smooth belly announced excitement undreamed of in years.
 

The entire afternoon whirled by in a dizzying maelstrom of frantic activity. He found himself running from kitchen to pantry to wine store in an endless marathon of fetch and carry. At seven in the evening, a sudden calm descended on the kitchen.

“All under control now, Willie. All that’s left is last-minute stuff.” Serge clambered up onto a barstool at the end of his workstation. “Be a good boy and go and get me a bottle of port, a key lime, and tonic water. Oh, and two glasses with plenty of ice.”

Lance handed Serge the lime and watched him intently.
 

Serge rubbed the slices of translucent lime on the inside of the glasses, poured in a generous tot of port, and topped it up with tonic water. He bruised mint leaves and dropped them in. “Here, try this. Cheers!” The dwarf gulped his drink and sighed.

“Cheers, Mr. Moreno. So what happens now?”

“Well, now the crazies will be arriving at nine. Millie’s helping with the décor and the entertainment, the oysters are on ice, the stock for the she-crab consommé is done, the pâté, the tongue in aspic, and the chestnut bombe are ready, so we can relax for half an hour.”
 

“Do we get to see the guests at all?” Lance asked.

“Hopefully not!” Serge squinted at him through his glass. “You’re doing okay for a dork, my boy. You’re willing, fast on your feet, and not overly stupid. We might get on.” Serge set out a round of cheese, sliced pears, walnuts, crusty bread, and a yellow slab of salty butter, then poured a second round of port with a generous hand. “Eat up while you can. Once the customers arrive, we won’t even get a chance to piss.”

Lance savoured the peppery taste of the crumbly cheese and the sweetness of the crisp pear.

“I remember once in Istanbul, I got the runs on New Year’s Eve. What a night . . .” Serge reached over and cracked a walnut shell between his large, square teeth. “What a crazy, crazy night!”

“Good God! You shouldn’t do that, sir! You’ll crack a tooth at the very least!”

Serge laughed. “I’ve got good teeth, boy, and strong jaws. Always did!” He started singing a dirty little ditty he’d written long ago.
 

As a young man I became a whore

And sucked on big cocks for my life

And the muscular strength that it gave to my jaw

Has lasted the rest of my life!

Lance choked on his port.
 

Serge cackled gleefully at Lance’s startled expression. “Don’t look so shocked, my laddie. Something about you tells me you’re not quite as naive as you seem. No, not quite. I reckon you know quite a bit about life, and so do I. More than I wanted to as a boy. More than was good for me. But I found my place, Willie. A good place where I do good work, and can say what I like, and be with people I like.”

“That
is
a privilege; there’s not many can say the same, myself included.”

“There’s something about you, Willie, something . . . you have a feeling for things, a nose, maybe. Millie’s the same, you know. I sensed something in her. Twelve, she was when she came with her dad to the restaurant I was working in—oh, how he loved that girl. She asked to see the kitchen, but when she walked in, she just froze—closed her eyes and sniffed away like a bloodhound. She started coming round every week, on Tuesdays, stating she wanted to cook.” Serge shook his head as he smiled. “Great girl, that Millie.”

“Hello, boys, everything on the go?” Millie asked as she walked into the kitchen.

Lance grinned inanely and nodded a silent greeting.

“Sure is, Millie dear, no worries,” answered Serge. “What about your end there? Everything all right?”

“Yes, the musicians are here. The singer’s complaining about the wig, but loves the costume. The bed was troublesome; it weighs a ton. Um, Serge dear, I wanted to ask you for a rather large favour . . . would you serve the hot chocolate and croissants, please?”

“The chocolate?” Serge frowned. “Why me?”

“Well, Charlene Rivers—Jackson’s wife—read the Madame de Montespan diaries, and now wants to recreate her breakfast-in-bed scene . . . you know, the one with the hot chocolate served by a dwarf in the Louis XV era.”

“Athéna de Montespan was Louis XIV’s mistress, not the XV.”

“Serge dear, I can’t argue with a client. Our business is culinary fantasy, not historical rigour, and Jackson Rivers is paying an obscene amount of money for the whole thing.”
 

Lance had a sudden vision of Serge with pink cheeks and a baroque love patch.

“Shit on a stick and call it a corndog! I can’t believe this. You want me to cavort to the whim of some fat cat’s wife?”

Millie looked at Serge pleadingly.
 

Serge sighed. “
All right,
Millicent, but this is absolutely the last time.”

“Serge, I adore you. I’ll go get the wig and livery.”