Guilty Pleasures (17 page)

I had a bit of a surprise. It seems that Jane De Mondio and Will know each other, and quite well, too. I get the feeling there was something more than friendship between them; something like intimacy. She kept smiling at him in the oddest way, and he looked quite uncomfortable. Rosebuds, indeed.

I’m starting to feel I overreacted to the whole Will thing. Everything is under control—namely me—and as Serge said, he is quickly becoming indispensable. He does smell absolutely delicious.

In kitchen news, a Booker Prize winner—who shall remain nameless—wanted us to recreate the dinner from the
Isak Dinesen’s
short story, “
Babette’s Feast”
, turtle soup included. I turned him down flat. We do not cook endangered species.

Regarding the Victorian wedding I have coming up, the baker agreed to do the Havisham cake according to my sketch. I think it will be an absolute showpiece.

I’m tired as a dog, but I’m very unsettled. I hope I can get some sleep.

Good night.

Chapter 12

Earlobes are hypersensitive to delicate little nibbles, to sensuous flickers of the tongue, and to soft brushes of parted lips, as are the dainty little hollows immediately behind them. But
watch that saliva!

Sucking the whole earlobe into your mouth and tonguing it can work on some women, but I advise some caution as choking on an earring will land you in hospital faster than in her bed.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

More than a little flustered and deeply disturbed by yet another of his now endless erotic dreams about Millie, Lance walked into Guilty Pleasures for the second time that day, at three in the afternoon. He changed in the locker room and joined Serge in the kitchen.
 

The man was busy assembling piles of fancifully cut raw vegetables in pleasing patterns of colours and shapes on large trays. “Hey, Will. Glad to see you made it back from this morning’s shopping. Getting used to the schedule, are you?”

Lance nodded.
 

Serge glanced down at the food he was preparing. “Crudités, for those fucking anorexic bitches. Wild Garlic Dip, Cucumber Mousse, Wild Salmon in Aspic, Cold Capon, Marlin Carpaccio, Tahini, Taramasalata, Smoked Trout Terrine, Scotch Eggs, Quail Eggs with Coriander Mayonnaise, Sevruga Caviar, Baby Potatoes with Sour Cream, Lobster Mayonnaise, Smoked Duck, Smoked Venison, and Mushrooms stuffed with Bacon and Stilton.”

“Wow.”

“That’s not all. There’s also Cherry Tomatoes stuffed with Crab Pâté, and Pâté de Foie in Pastry Shells.”

“Sounds like quite a meal.”
 

“God knows I try. I just don’t know if they’ll eat anything other than the raw vegetables. I’ll do a few salads, orange and beetroot, maybe, or spinach and brie with walnuts, Parma ham and lettuce always goes down well with the thin and mean.”

“It sounds bloody good, Serge. What about, I mean, I know it sounds a bit garden-variety, but how about a cheese board with fruit and stuff?”

“Yes . . . I have an excellent selection of goat’s and sheep’s cheeses. I’ll surround them with tropical fruit: pomegranate, guava, guaraná, pineapple, papaya, nectarines, and sliced kiwi. It will look great. I’ll roll the chèvre in black peppercorns.”

“What about that black Spanish cheese?”

“Machengo? Yes, good idea! And I’ll add sweet black cherries to complement . . .” He rushed off to the pantry, muttering to himself, and returned just as quickly.

Lance smiled and set to work. He washed fruit, vegetables and different coloured lettuces until his fingers wrinkled, then was set to carefully peeling the boiled beetroots, excavating the minute potatoes and the cherry tomatoes. Lance grated until his fingers were numb, fetched and carried until he was dizzy.
 

“We did good, Willie,” Serge said.
 

Finally
. Lance was glad to hear the blessed words.
 

Lance and Serge helped Hendricks and his boys organise the long buffet table, already decorated with lilies of the valley and baby’s breath in cut-crystal vases. A life-sized ice ballerina arched gracefully out of a veritable garden of white gardenias. They laid out the enormous variety of delicacies on their crystal platters, the towering fruit arrangements and the silvery baskets of tiny crusty bread rolls, studded with rye, sesame and pumpernickel seeds.

Lance was surprised to see the string quartet warming up—minus the singer. He noted the cello player was new, a younger woman with bold eyes. Millie was talking to a tall saturnine man in a red silk scarf, who spoke earnestly, with broad sweeping gestures. The salon sparkled with lights. Two long black glass bars graced one side, opposite the string quartet.

Millie was wearing a long-sleeved black gown with a very sober neckline and a pearl choker. Her hair was swept up and she looked almost severe. She was nodding at the tall man’s extravagant declarations, her lips tight. She looked up and her eyes met Lance’s. She signalled to him, the slightest lifting of eyebrows, a pleading gesture with her lips.

He walked over, and touched her elbow lightly. “Excuse me, Miss Deafly. I know it’s most inconvenient, but a matter has arisen that requires your attention.”

She frowned. “Well, Will, I hope it really
is
important.” She turned to the tall man with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Anton, I’ll return as soon as possible.”

She hurried towards the kitchen at Lance’s side. “Thank you, thank you.” She gasped, making sure the door closed behind her. “You have no idea
what
you saved me from.”

Lance smiled. “You looked desperate! Who’s that man? A dancer?”

“No, that’s Anton Libinski, the choreographer,” Millie explained.

“No, don’t tell me! Anton Libinski wanted to show you what he inherited from his Mongol ancestors?” Serge asked, highly amused. “You know what a womaniser he is.”

“He says he has tribal tattoos on his buttocks.” Millie frowned. “It’s not funny. I’m going to be out there by myself all night with all those neurotics and a man who wants to show me his arse.”

“Well, Millie.” Serge adopted an evil grin. “Like they said to the men going out into the trenches, ‘Suck it up.’ ”

Millie grimaced and went back into the salon.
 

The buzz of conversation increased; the intake of alcohol significantly upped the volume, and soon shrieks of laughter indicated the loosening of all restraint.

Millie stumbled into the kitchen, flushed. “The new prima ballerina is stripping on the buffet table, and I just saw Libinski’s buttocks. The cello player is giving him a blowjob behind the bar! I’m not going back. Ever.”

“Millie, Millie, you have to, love. Here, have a drink.” Serge poured a stiff tot of brandy into a balloon glass and gave it to her.
 

Millie downed it and shuddered. She marched bravely out into bedlam. She was back in five seconds. “Serge, warm water, quick! One of the dancers has his tongue
and
his penis glued to the ice sculpture. Will, come with me. I’ll take care of the tongue, but I’m
not
touching his nether bits.”

Serge quickly filled two pitchers with tepid water, and Lance followed Millie into the salon carrying them on a tray.

A man stood foursquare on the buffet table, his tongue frozen onto the ice dancer’s sculptured lips, and his erect penis apparently vanishing into the sparkling tutu. He glanced sideways at them. “Theth tho therthect, tho therthect . . .” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Helth me . . .”

Millie slowly poured a stream of warm water over the spot where the man’s tongue was fused to the ice. He cried out in mingled relief and pain as it came loose, minus a few strips of skin.

Lance was faced with a harder chore. The unfortunate had managed to insert his penis into one of the folds in the ice tutu, and the heat of his body had melted it just enough that it was now locked in solid.

“Millie, I think we’ll need an ice pick,” Lance said. “Maybe a hammer as well. I’ll have to chop around his prick to get a chunk loose, and
then
melt off the ice.”

The man emitted a squawk of alarm. “That’th my penith you’th talking abouth . . . I’m vethy atathed to my penith.”

“I advise you to carefully consider where you stick it next time, friend,” Lance retorted.

A few of the other guests had stopped by to watch.
 

“Harold, darling, this is the most fun I’ve
ever
had with your prick!” a female voice shrieked. Laughter greeted her witticism.
 

Meanwhile, Millie arrived carrying an ice pick, a meat hammer, and a bone saw.

Harold gasped. He swayed, dead white, apparently instantly cured of his drunkenness.

“If you faint, your prick will just rip out. You’re going to get a radical circumcision, absolutely free,” Lance warned.
 

Harold nodded dumbly and wrapped his arms—luckily protected by his long sleeves—around the ice statue’s neck.

Lance picked a spot and started chipping away at the tutu, a generous distance from where he thought Harold’s penis might end. Harold had
not
been a wise man. A huge crowd of onlookers, all female, watched the proceedings with avid malice.
 

“His prick’s not that big. Believe me, I know,” called out a slim doe-eyed girl.

“Go ahead, big boy, wallop that shit where it hurts!” screamed a raucous female with a Cockney accent.

“Oohh! I can’t wait to see Mr. Big after this!” exclaimed an ethereal redhead.

“You mean, Mr. Little,” commented a long-necked blonde beauty.

“I never imagined Harold’s prick could give me soooo much pleasure . . .” added doe-eyes.

Finally the chunk of tutu came free and Lance quickly poured the warm water over it, signalling Millie urgently for another pitcher. Harold sobbed as the increasingly transparent ice revealed its hidden treasure. At long last, his much abused penis flopped free, having acquired an alarming bluish tinge. Harold cradled it lovingly in his hands, crying with relief.
 

“I think you should go to the emergency room, and have that looked at. You don’t want to get frostbite. That leads to gangrene, and then . . .” Lance chopped sharply at the air with the edge of his palm.
 

Harold paled and nodded.
 

Anton Libinsky hurried over, doing up his fly. “Come along, Harold,” said Anton breathlessly. “I’ll drive you.”

Lance was surrounded by a wave of admiring female flesh, all talking and laughing at the same time.
 

A tall, graceful girl in very skimpy underwear walked over and kissed Lance soundly. “I want you to know that this is a memory I will treasure all my life. Thank you.” She kissed his lips again even more enthusiastically; in fact, her inhibitions were definitely somewhere with her now-vanished cocktail dress.
 

“Tabitha Jones, he is
not
on the menu.” Millie gripped Lance by the arm and marched him firmly into the kitchen. “Really, Will! I’m
very
disappointed in you. We do
not
get friendly with our guests.”

“But . . . Millie . . .”

“What happened? What did you do, Willie?” Serge asked.