Marketplace (52 page)

“Of course, Sir. It will be my
pleasure.”

“I’m sure it will. Now let’s go see
the trainees and beat some sense into them.” And with that, Chris
slipped the invitee list into his clipboard, tucked the board under
one arm, and unclipped the strap from his belt. That, too, was a
pleasure, albeit of a different sort.

* * * *

“What about lamb? I could easily
finish up a nice roast.”

“That would be if we had a nice roast;
remember that terrible piece of flesh that was supposed to be a
Sunday joint? That wee Claudia had to give the butchers a piece of
her mind over it. No, no, I don’t like the lamb we’ve seen lately
at all.” Muira McLanahan was most often addressed as Cook,
especially when there were clients in the house, and she was proud
of that appellation. “A chef’s nothing but a man in a puffy hat
doing the same job women have done for centuries. I cook; who the
bloody hell chefs?” she had demanded, years ago, when Alexandra
first hired her. Completely unfazed by the presence of naked slave
trainees, she enjoyed the variety of her duties and was more than
capable of whipping up a splendid gourmet feast from time to time.
Chris sat with her over the kitchen table, his butler book and her
recipe files at hand.

“Pork then?” Chris scanned the guest
list notes and sighed. “No, wait, Nancy and Lawrence are coming;
they were at the April dinner and we did a pork roast
then.”

Cook allowed a slight sound of scorn
to escape. “Sure and they’d perish if they had one
again?”

“Definitely,” Chris teased. “How
about... ”

“Duck!” She started writing across her
notepad with a finality Chris knew from experience.

“Duck?” he repeated. “Remember, I have
to finish it. What were you thinking of, cassoulet?

“Not this early, no, although I was
going to put up some legs for confit... but last time I was at the
farm, they had some lovely ducks.” Muira enjoyed visiting one of
the local farms for baskets of fresh produce and eggs. “I can make
a cherry and port sauce with the last of those glorious cherries,
too.” She was continuing to write and Chris attempted to read her
handwriting upside down.

“That’s a lot of... red items...” he
offered.

“It’s called a theme, you heathen.
Long Island, in scarlet.”

Chris thought of the snowy-white
shirts and gloves for the serving staff and sighed. But there was
no denying Muira at this point. She was an artist in the midst of
creation, all protests to her common roots aside. He could change
the shirts to black, or even red to match her theme, and skip the
gloves. And really, nothing looked too hard to finish and plate,
even upside down.

* * * *

“In... in charge? But... am I ready? I
don’t know if I’m ready!” Brian Cohen, senior trainee in the house
and almost ready for his auction, looked likely to faint or vomit,
or perhaps both.

“You’d better be,” Chris warned. “Not
only are you being relied upon to conduct yourself with confidence
and expertise, but you must manage Ramesh and Enid as well. They
will be looking to you for guidance and correction.”

“Where will you be?” Brian could
hardly believe how terrified he was at the mere thought of Chris
not being there, being in charge. Was it really just a few weeks
ago he had seen this man as an enemy? Or at least an encumbrance, a
barrier to getting what he thought he really wanted. Now, Chris
seemed more like a lifeline, full of information, encouragement,
coaching and support, plus one hell of a hand on a well-worn
leather strap. That hadn’t changed. Brian’s attitude toward such
correction had changed instead.

“I will be in the kitchen, finishing
the meal. When duties permit, and you will make sure they do, you
will all have some time helping me with one task or another. But I
will be strictly back of the house staff for all intents and
purposes, and the kiddies will be forbidden to come to me for
help―they must go to you and you must be able to supervise
them.”

The kiddies—his fellow trainees.
Chris’s nickname for them was wildly inappropriate, as they were
both older than Brian. But they were, as he had been, novices at
slavery, just barely a month into their training and struggling
with things he remembered keenly. There were times when he
despaired of them ever learning how to do things he took for
granted, like knowing when to kneel and when to bow and when to
just nod. But at the same time, when he caught them studying his
form or heard what sounded like actual respect in their voices when
they asked him for advice, he felt like an impostor. Didn’t they
realize what he had to go through to get here?

“Here are the parameters for the
dinner,” Chris said, passing Brian a folder. “Guest list, menu, the
china and crystal Ms. Selador has selected, and my own notes. I
want to see entries in your butler book tonight. Tomorrow morning,
you and I will select some wines for approval, tomorrow afternoon
you will meet with me and Cook to discuss what will need to be done
to order, store, and prepare the menu items. Over the weekend, you
will drill your staff in table service. Is this all
understood?”

Brian stiffened at the instructions.
“Yes, Chris.”

“Then get your ass out of here and let
the kiddies know you’ll be their boss for a while. Speaking of
which, are you still lusting after Ramesh?”

Brian barely suppressed a grin. The
trainee in question was almost forty-six, and in a leather bar
Brian probably wouldn’t have noticed him except for the novelty of
seeing an Indian man there. But here, in a sexually charged yet
sexually frustrating world, the quiet, older man with his
toffee-colored skin and deep, brown eyes and silvering hair was
quite the sexpot. More to Brian’s taste, at least, than their other
roommate, Enid. Also, after getting a chance to know him, Brian
found him sensitive, thoughtful, a true intellectual; his accent
gave him an edge of cosmopolitan elegance and he carried himself
with dignity even in terribly undignified circumstances. To Brian’s
surprise, Ramesh seemed more and more like his type of man—a daddy
type, wise and patient and sexy.

“He still looks good to me,” he
answered honestly.

“Good. If your dinner is passable,
then you may have him for the remainder of your stay, once a day,
for whatever activity you prefer inside of thirty minutes.” Chris
waved Brian off and Brian knew enough not to stand there gaping and
asking stupid questions. Instead, he bounced on out, gleeful. The
glee lasted until he opened the folder and realized the scope of
the task ahead of him. Typically, he responded as he usually did
when faced with difficult tasks and decisions; he did not tell his
fellow trainees what was in store for them all until the following
day, after Chris kicked his ass well and good for not following
orders.

* * * *

Still, the trainees were prepped,
their rehearsal sessions honed to exact timing and movement
standards, and Brian found himself automatically doing things he
would never have imagined two months ago. Almost without thinking
he swatted the painfully thin Enid on her unpadded ass when she
fretted instead of walked; he schooled Ramesh to not frown when
given an unexpected order or questioned about the menu.

“I only mean to show that I am very
seriously considering their request,” he had explained, when the
behavior was pointed out to him.

“Yeah, well here, it looks like you’re
confused, or you, uh, don’t approve. So, you look kind of...” Brian
paused and composed his face into what he hoped was his best
how-may-I-help-you expression. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
Chris watching them and giving a very slight nod. I can do this! he
thought, feeling dizzy. Oh my God, I can do this. Confidence and
excitement grew all week as the day of the dinner party
approached.

* * * *

“Oh, Chris, it looks like we’ll have
five guests tomorrow,” Alexandra said, right before dismissing him
to send the trainees to bed. “Ali called to say her date couldn’t
make it. Also, Nancy and Lawrence decided to train it out. Make
sure to get them?”

* * * *

“But... we practiced doing the plates
two at a time!” Brian stammered. “What do we do now?”

“Now, you will also carry a plate, and
stagger the presentations so no one has to wait longer than thirty
seconds to get theirs. We’ll cover it tomorrow morning after
breakfast.” Chris’s checklist had notes already, and he showed them
to Brian. “We also need to change the table settings, make sure not
to use the extra floral decoration, and the seating has been
rearranged like this. Make your own notes and meet me at six a.m.
for review.”

* * * *

“Car’s up at th’ garage,” Jack said
when Chris visited him. “Had a bit of a bingle this morning, ran it
over to th’ Shell. Richie there gives me a mates rate. I can use
the big one, then?”

Chris nodded. “We’ll need it in the
morning to pick up some of the food, but we’ll be long done with
errands before the train gets in.”

Jack nodded and looked up at the dark
sky. “It’ll be a storm, y’know.”

Chris examined the cloudless evening
sky with skepticism and checked the weather report for the next
day. Sure enough, a storm was coming in. So much for cocktails in
the garden; they’d move them to the library instead. The last
minute changes would be good practice for Brian to think on his
feet.

* * * *

Brian stayed awake until he heard the
clocks chiming nearly three in the morning. With a flashlight, he
re-read his scrawled notes over and over, and the instruction book
on dining practices he’d been given when he started the second
stage of his training. Just as he was falling asleep at last, he
heard Ramesh wake up with a violent sneeze.

* * * *

“Go the fuck away!”

“Rachel... sweetheart, I need you
today,” Chris said cajolingly.

“And I need fucking Advil! And a
massage and I need to get fisted and if you are not here with drugs
and a fucking glove on, get the fuck out!”

With the wisdom of years of
experience, Chris backed away and massaged his own temples. Rachel
did occasionally have hellish periods. And this one was early. Good
thing the house was mostly spotless and prepared; there was some
work to be done in the library, and the second bathroom on the main
floor needed a run through, but if he just adjusted Enid from her
second floor duties, handled the library himself, asked Jack to
make the market pickups and requested delivery for the other
items—oh, yes, and booked Julio to come by and give Rachel a
massage...

* * * *

Ramesh kept sneezing with an almost
explosive quality, and Brian pulled him off the final buffing of
the silver before he covered the eating and serving utensils with
snot. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked, as panic started to
rise.

“It is the hay fever, the seasonal
allergies,” the older man said, blinking his watering eyes. “It is
very bad today. Perhaps it is the flowers for the table as
well.”

“Well, got God’s sake, take some
Benadryl! I need you at one hundred percent!”

Obediently, Ramesh went in search of
the drug and Brian tried not to crumple the notes in his hands
about rearranging the table and the service order. Enid came out of
the kitchen where she had been slicing the tomatoes for roasting,
and he grabbed her by one arm, making her squeak in alarm. “Enid! I
need you to tackle the second floor bathroom, the one with the
shower stall. Get in there and make it sparkle, OK? And quick, I
have, like, a thousand things left to do!”

“Yes, Brian!” she said in her
sweet-toned voice. Brian had teased her about it being “dark brown”
like Lola’s, but she hadn’t taken well to that little quip. He’d
learned to be more sensitive since that day. He’d never seen a
transsexual woman so tiny before; she had the shape of a skinny
adolescent girl, tiny, sweet tits, and a tangle of reddish hair
where her cock used to be. Pale as snow, too. Definitely not his
type at all. But she was a hard worker, thank God. He checked his
notes again and realized he couldn’t even read the next
line.

* * * *

As a pebble creates the avalanche,
Chris thought, as Jack shouldered his way into the kitchen, bearing
bags from the market. “Talk to me about why there’s a cab outside,”
he said, his voice steady.

“Well now,” Jack said depositing the
bags on the chopping block. “There’s a bit of trouble with th’
steering.”

“The steering? Bad enough so it’s not
safe to drive?”

“Oh, yeh. Locked up on bloody Main
Street, didn’t it? Fuckin’ power steerin’, bloody waste of money. I
had Richie come and fetch it. He’ll call when it’s
ready.”

Chris took a deep breath. “OK. Let’s
assume it won’t be ready by tonight. Brian!” he raised his voice
enough to reach the dining room. “We’ll need to rent a car or
engage a car service. Get my butler book and meet me in the
library!” He ducked away from Cook as she started sorting through
the bags, hearing her cry, “These are not Meyer lemons, you Aussie
nitwit!” and did not stay for the following hors de
combat.