Guilty Pleasures (18 page)

“Nothing! The girl was kissing
me
.”

“Tabitha Jones was trying to remove his tonsils with her tongue and he wasn’t exactly screaming for help!” Millie said, clearly irritated.

“Shit, Willie. Tabitha Jones is grade-A meat. You should have got her number!”

Lance opened his mouth to reply and was cut short by Millie’s indignation.

“Serge! I’m trying to explain some ground rules to Wilfred!”
 

“Ground rules . . .” Serge remarked with a smirk. “Oh! Is
that
what you were doing? Sorry, carry on.”

Millie stamped back to the salon muttering darkly to herself.

Serge sighed. “I just love cocktails. They eat less, drink more, and get into more shit than you’d ever imagine was possible. Millie has all the fun!”

“Let me tell you, it’s a lot safer in here!” Lance exclaimed.

It was ten thirty before Millie, Hendricks, and the waiters dragged themselves out.

“Miss Deafly, I’d rather prefer a team of drunken rugby players than a bunch of ballerinas! Such language! I never saw such goings on!” Hendricks gasped.
 

“Thank you, Hendricks, for your forbearance. You were a tower of strength, and an example of grace under pressure.”

He straightened up, and a faint flush tinged his ghoulish cheeks. “Miss Deafly, working with you is always a privilege! Good night, Madam, Mr. Moreno, Wilfred.” He left with a spring in his step, humming the theme from
Bridge on the River Kwai
.

Millie shuddered. “God help us! Tomorrow we have the Miss Marple Society!
And
they’re staging a crime of passion! I dare not even imagine . . .”

“If they misbehave, we’ll just take away their dentures.” Serge cackled, and Lance grinned. “By the way Mills, here is the shopping list. A true Brit menu for the old geezers. See if you can find some of that really old-fashioned treacle for the tart, and some really nice rhubarb.”

“All right, boys, let’s all go home and leave the cleaners to do their thing. Let’s get an early night for once. Four o’clock tomorrow morning, Will?” Millie asked.

“Of course, Millie. Would you rather I picked you up at home?”

Millie hesitated. “No, that’s all right. I’ll meet you here. Goodnight, Serge.” She left, and Serge reached under the counter for his bottle of brandy and poured two glasses. “One for the road, Willie?”

“Thanks, Serge. Cheers.” They toasted each other solemnly, said their goodnights, and shut the door on the evening.

An exhausted Millie dragged herself up the steps of her home at Regency Square, dropping her black satin six-inch heels in the hallway.
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Tonight I had a hideous experience! God save me from the refined and the erudite! I must say this job is never dull! Apparently, the dancer who got his genitals “iced” is going to be just fine. Thank God. I don’t think my insurance policy would have covered that.

That’s it. No more string quartets. I must look for a jazz band, maybe accordion players, or a harpist. From now on a solitary violinist is all I’ll be offering on strings! What is it about cello players? Musicians, composers, dancers . . . what is it with these people and sex?

And wait until I tell you about Tabitha Jones! That bony ballet bitch was French kissing Will and she had her hands all over his arse. To make matters worse, he wasn’t exactly fighting her off! I am absolutely
rabid
.
 

She is such a slut.

The cello player is a slut.

I wish I was a slut.

That’s it. I’m very tired, my feet hurt, and I’ve still got to walk my dog.

Goodnight.

Chapter 13

Make sure you are caring and attentive outside the bedroom, as well as in.

Having an orgasmic, responsive woman requires commitment and hard work, but it is well worth the effort. Invest as much time getting acquainted with her mind as you do on arousing her body. Become a good listener.

Good listeners are very attractive.

Be responsive. If she’s telling you a story, or recounting details of her day,
look at her
. Nod, smile, respond in an appropriate manner and
speak
when asked for an opinion. Don’t grunt, don’t mumble, and
don’t ignore her
.

Don’t make her feel you find her concerns boring, futile, or worst of all, irritating. Conversation with your woman is not a chore. It’s a pleasure.

Think of it as the foreplay that’s going to get you the best sex you’ve ever had.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Falling out of bed with a hard-on was getting to be a habit for Lance. Waking up from a dream of Millie and a hot slippery, sudsy shower, Lance picked himself up—stiffly—and headed into the bathroom.
 

He lathered up his face and chest and picked up his razor. He looked himself square in the eye. “You are so fucked, Lance my man. This is supposed to be just a job. You’ve lost all perspective.”

Lance couldn’t finish the sentence. If he succeeded, he had a bigger problem. He suddenly pictured Millie, rosy and joyful, glowing. An overwhelming tenderness surged through him.
What am I doing? Can I really walk away?

Four o’clock in the morning found him at Glass Street with his heart thumping, waiting.
 

Millie bounced into the van, smiling and cheerful. “Hey there, Will. Get any sleep?”

“Hello, yes I did, and you?” Lance asked politely.

“Like a baby.” Millie grinned. “Let's get going. Butcher, greengrocers, flowers—all the stops today.”

At the meat market, they bought rosy lamb, plump quail, and a quarter of a pound of pure white lard. At the greengrocers, they got rhubarb, cucumbers, asparagus, baby peas, small oval tomatoes, tender lettuce, and a selection of traditional fruit: pears, grapes, oranges, purple-black plums, and pretty red apples.

“No bananas,” Millie explained. “They find the banana too suggestive.” She smirked. “Cucumbers, you see, are all right, because they always show up sliced or diced.”

At the fish market, they bought sandy-coloured spotted soles and shrimp. The flower market yielded old-fashioned posies of primroses and violets.

“Right, Will. Just the treacle, and off we go.”

They unloaded at Guilty Pleasures, and Lance watched as Millie briskly moved around the kitchen and slipped the lamb into a white wine marinade, liberally strewn with crushed garlic, rosemary and a bouquet garni.

“Go on home, Will. I have to stay today. The Miss Marple Society do their own décor because of the murder—clues and things—and the movers will be here in a little while, at half past nine, so it’s useless to go home for just an hour and a half.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick around. I don’t think you should be here on your own with strangers traipsing in and out.”

“That’s very kind of you; thank you. How about I make us breakfast while we wait?” She started moving happily around the kitchen humming. “Huevos rancheros, do you like that?”

“Never heard of it, but let’s do it.”

She grinned at him, and handed him a generous handful of ripe red tomatoes and a purple onion. “Chop till you drop.” She simmered red beans and corn with chilies in a dark meat stock, chopped in the garlic, the tomatoes, and the onion.

Lance watched her, fascinated.
 

Millie fried up thin rounds of spicy sausage and cubed bacon in a skillet, hovering over her pot like an alchemist looking for the secret of the transmutation of beans into gold. She added cinnamon, cumin, cloves, ground coriander, and a single bay leaf. She scooped up a spoonful of the dense gravy and dripped some onto her palm.
 

Lance found himself shuddering as she licked it up, extending the spoon for him to taste. It was delicious. Enticing scents rose from the pot.
 

She poured the boiling beans into a deep oven dish and arranged the sausages and bacon over the top. Carefully, she hollowed out spaces in the mix into which she cracked eggs. She sprinkled fresh bruised coriander leaves over the top, ground fresh black pepper onto the golden egg yolks, and popped the lot into one of the ovens. “There. Fifteen minutes tops.”

“I can’t wait.” Lance smiled.
 

Chattering happily, she laid out plates, cutlery and crisp white napkins. It was a far cry from Serge’s impromptu picnics, invariably eaten by hand from the common platter. Millie hesitated. “Would it be terribly decadent to drink wine with our breakfast?”