Guilty Pleasures (48 page)

“Who are the other widows?”

“Wait and see, my boy. The relics of dead millionaires are always good entertainment.”

At six thirty that evening, Millie arrived looking rested and tranquil. She kissed Serge on the cheek as always, then walked over to Lance and reached up to kiss his lips. She took his hand and smiled up at him. “Serge, Will and I have something we’d like to share with you. It’s very early days yet, but . . . well, you’re going to be an honorary grandfather.”

Serge’s eyes filled with tears. He stumbled forward to embrace them both, his surprisingly powerful arms wrapped around their waists, his face turned into Millie’s tummy. “Your dad would be so glad . . . so glad.”

Lance shifted uneasily in the dwarf’s embrace.

Millie was crying, too. “Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? I love you, Serge.” She wiped at her face and laughed. Lance felt a wash of unmanly tears rise in his eyes as Serge turned to him and fiercely squeezed his hand in both of his.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Millie said. “I called S. this morning and she got me an appointment with her OB first thing Monday morning. It pays to have influential friends. We’ll take it from there, okay guys? Now, for the Merry Widows, do we have enough booze?”

“We do indeed, Millie darling. Enough to drown in. Willie and I will be manning the bar. I’ve spoken to Hendricks and it’s all organised. No worries, my pretty.”

“Well, I hope you will both keep sober this time.” Millie raised a warning brow in Lance’s direction.

“My dear Millie, we’re doing this purely to further little Willie’s education. We won’t be drinking, much.”

“Really . . . let’s hope Hendricks doesn’t run off with one of the widows.”

“No worries! He’s popping the question to Mrs. O’Donnell of the starry tits. The man’s completely infatuated.”

“My God, is everyone getting married?” Millie flounced off irritably.

Serge grinned and winked at Lance. “You’ve got her on the run, Willie, my boy.” He started setting out the trays of finger food. “What about that little secret you’re keeping, Willie? You came clean on that?”

“Yes, Serge, I did. I’m writing a book. Actually, I’m a . . .” Lance coughed. “I’m a recently retired sex therapist. There. Now you know.”

Serge laughed uproariously, tears running down his face. His legs gave way and he sat on the floor laughing himself into a fit of hiccups. “Sex therapist. Oh my . . . guilty secrets indeed! Poor Millie.
Sex, sex, sex!
” He kept laughing as he pottered around the kitchen, chuckling and giggling as he readied the spread for the Merry Widows.

Lance smiled obligingly and felt the sick emptiness in his chest grow wider. He should tell the whole truth. But tell her what? Our child is the product of your mother’s malice and my greed, or I love you but everything about me is a lie? Fear curbed his tongue; his horror at Millie’s imagined pain and disappointment stripped him of his resolve.

Serge was still laughing when Hendricks arrived with his waiters an hour later. “Hey, Hendricks, Miss Deafly doesn’t want you showing off your
swordsmanship
to any of the widows, and tell your boys to keep their zips up. We’re a respectable place of business, we are. No sex, absolutely no
sex
. Ha! Ha!” And Serge was off again, much to Hendricks’s indignant astonishment.

Lance shrugged at Hendricks and widened his eyes innocently. “Too much chocolate.”

In the salon, the tall mirrors were back, the long buffet table was strewn with delicious appetisers and the bar was generously stocked.

“No live entertainment tonight?” Lance asked Serge.

“Plenty. Wait until the ladies arrive.”

And arrive they did. Each dressed to kill and carrying more diamonds than Tiffany. They hugged each other fervently, planting
real
kisses on each other’s cheeks, careless of smudging lipsticks.
 

Lance was reminded of the complicity of survivors from some natural disaster who can count on true understanding only from each other.

Hendricks and the waiters circulated with cocktails and champagne, returning with monotonous regularity to the bar for refills. Serge and Lance could barely keep up.

“Oh my God, do you remember Darrel? He dressed like Aragorn and swished around a broken sword at the crucial moment screaming, ‘Frodo, the king comes! The king comes!’ ” the hostess cried.

“How you suffered, my dear Deidre.” Her friend spilling out of Givenchy and with a cleavage sparkling with diamonds sighed.

“He made me dress like a hobbit, for God’s sake. The man was seventy when I married him, Jeanette. Who knew he’d last another twenty-nine years?” Deidre asked.

“Surely he wasn’t so . . . eager towards the end?” Jeanette asked.

“You have no idea. I sometimes think sex kept him alive. I can tell you it nearly killed me.”
 

A youngish blonde in magnificent rubies smirked. “I just upped the stakes. I started insisting on sex three times a day. He lasted ten years.”

“Darling, he was eighty when you married him, and in a wheelchair,” Deidre remarked. “Seriously, they keep looking for the secret of longevity. I tell you it is money and sex with a young partner.” She smoothed her fingers down her throat and winked. “And let me tell you ladies . . . it works.”

Giggles and gasps greeted her declaration.

“Gosh!”

“Deidre! You didn’t!”

“Oh yes, girls, I did. I had my tits hoisted and found myself a juicy twenty-year-old.” Deidre giggled. “Be truthful girls, does a facelift do
this
for sixty-something skin? No! Forget the rest, girls, take a hint from our dearly departed. Get some fresh young flesh and pump away. It adds years to your life, a sparkle to your eyes, and a glow to the complexion.”

“Deidre is right. After all, we worked for that money. Let’s have the fun.”
 

“I’ll drink to that!”

“Harriet, you’ll drink to anything.”

“Oh, look . . . that waiter is really cute. Did you see that tight little arse?”

“Yummy, and his friend looks good, too. I like blonds.”

“Ginny, you’re losing it, dear. He is so obviously gay.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes.”

“He is so not gay!”

“Wanna bet? Go on, put your money where your mouth is.”

“All right, bitch. You know that little Cassatt portrait you always coveted? I’ll bet
that
against your Mondrian.”

Hendricks sidled up to Lance a few minutes later. “Wilfred, if you could . . . most embarrassing, one of the . . . um . . . ladies dragged the new waiter, Paul, into the corridor. Could you . . . step in?”

“Sure, Hendricks.” Lance walked out into the corridor leading to the cloakroom to find poor Paul cornered with his pants down while a very enthusiastic “lady” practised what seemed to be a very skilful act of fellatio on him. Paul was variously calling on God and his mother, but never did he call for help, so Lance tiptoed away and left them to it.

More and more drink-filled trays circulated. The widows lived up to their reputation, laughing and exchanging war stories.

“Oh, Davina, darling . . .”

“What now, Ginny?”

“Pay up.”

“You didn’t!”

“Oh, yes . . . blondie was delicious.”

“I don’t believe it. Prove it!”

“Well . . . ever heard the expression
penis breath?
”

Serge was grinning from ear to ear. “I love these things. Love them! You want to study human nature, Willie? Here it is. Write a book about that!”

“Well . . . I probably couldn’t get it published.”

“Nonsense. People love dirty, raunchy sex. I’ve thought about writing a cookbook, you know.
Tit-bits from the Bordello.
Get it?
Tit
-bits . . . or maybe,
Cock-Porn: Low-Calorie Postcoital Snacks for the Sexually Addicted
?”

“Serge, I think you’ve had enough to drink.” Lance sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

Millie woke up hungry, with the misty predawn light suffusing the room. Will was curled up around her, his hand protectively cupped to her abdomen. Smiling, she slipped silently out of bed without waking him and padded downstairs for a cup of tea and a toasted crumpet with strawberry jam.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

The widows’ celebration was a resounding success. Will actually stayed sober, Serge didn’t, and only one of the waiters was assaulted. Curiously enough, the waiter refuses to press charges.