Guilty Pleasures (6 page)

“Wig!” He gaped like a fish, his large eyes bulging alarmingly. Hoarse, raucous sounds erupted from his throat.
 

Lance found himself savagely biting at his lips to prevent a suicidal burst of laughter.

Millie backed away quickly, smiling and nodding. “You’ll be fine, Serge. Just keep breathing. I’ll be right back.”

“Fucking pseudo-French fucking bitch; a fucking dwarf in a fucking wig!” Muttering, Serge scampered off the bench and rushed out, swaying on his bandy legs, leaving Lance to wrestle with his perplexed amusement.

Half an hour later, Millie popped her head around the door to the dining area. “Um, sorry, Will. Could you lend me a hand in here?”

“Yes, of course.” Lance walked into the salon, awash in candlelight from four man-high candelabras standing at the corners of the room. A large chandelier glittered above his head; every facet of every crystal fracturing rainbows onto the pale walls and the polished parquet floors.
 

Cream and gold drapes festooned the tall windows, graceful ottomans offered perfect poises for gossips, and an array of creamy roses tumbled from oriental vases on spindly tables. At one side, an ice angel presided over a gold damask covered buffet table and gilded rococo cherubs twisted up the four posts of a huge canopied bed.
 

The bed was covered with scarlet embroidered silk and huge frothy lace pillows. Next to it, a round dinner table was set for twelve and draped with a creamy tablecloth that showed off the gleam of silver, painted porcelain, and Bohemian-cut glass.
 

Opposite the bed was a raised dais which held the accoutrements for a string quartet, whose members seemed to be busily arguing with a buxom young lady whose best feature threatened to overflow from a pink satin and lace bodice.

“Will, could you help me lower the chandelier slightly? I think it’ll look better.” Millie led him over to the far wall.
 

Lance carefully loosened the steel chain and lowered the chandelier another foot.
 

“Perfect,” Millie said. “Thank you. Almost ready. I think it looks quite good, don’t you?” She fiddled with peacock feathers gracefully arranged in a huge yellow Chinese vase, straightened an enormous crystal-framed mirror, and sighed. “I can’t wait for the guests to arrive.”
 

Lance noticed that she looked astonishingly pretty. The white wig offset her lustrous dark eyes, and a small beauty patch turned her pouty mouth into an invitation. The small waist of her silver-grey costume flattered her wide hips and pushed her small breasts into tempting mounds.

“Here is Mr. Hendricks.” She cheerfully greeted a tall lugubrious looking man in black livery—obviously the maître d’—and introduced him to Lance. “Mr. Hendricks, this is Will, Wilfred Pecklise. He will be assisting Mr. Moreno in the kitchen. Will, Mr. Hendricks is a tower of fortitude and valour under fire, an absolute master of taste and tact.” She dimpled up at the dour man, who nodded curtly and waved a graceful hand in his direction. “See you later, Will, and wish us luck.”
 

Charmingly dismissed, Lance hurried back to the kitchen and met a smouldering Serge Moreno.

“There you are!” Serge snarled viciously. “No time to wank off on the job, Little Willie. We have to do the garnishing of the bloody dishes just before they go in, so everything is fresh and dewy. Here, give these to Hendricks.” He gestured at several heavy trays standing ready on a steel table by the door. “For the cold buffet.”

Lance felt that silence was the better part of valour, and quietly proceeded to carry out each of Serge’s invective orders in an orderly manner.

Sometime later, Lance heard the strains of a plaintive violin announcing the arrival of the revellers. Giggles, gasps, and exclamations of praise announced manifest delight in the ambiance Millie had created.

Shortly after, Hendricks was flitting in and out of the swinging doors leading from the salon to the kitchen, wheeling out the groaning trolleys of delights as soon as Serge and Lance finished preparing them: a terrine of fragrant crab consommé, heaps of golden paper-thin toast, platters of scarlet-clawed lobsters, glittering beds of ice cradling rough-shelled grey oysters, and pheasant pie with an entire bird posed on top of the golden crust, oozing a delectable savoury perfume.

The sounds from the dining room were muted, although loud, crunching noises and an alarming hammering sound seeped through to the kitchen as Hendricks moved back and forth between the two rooms. The strains of the quartet vied with the bursts of laughter, popping corks, and an occasional orgiastic groan of delight. The light, frothy voice of the soprano wove through the melody, apparently unabashed by the competing noise from the guests.

While a muttering Serge ducked into the locker room to change, Lance set out the engraved silver trays for the dessert.
 

On the trays, Serge had arranged a colourful waterfall of fruit and orchids, poured the white chocolate sauce over the chestnut bombe, and set a silver pot which steamed the odour of bitter chocolate, cinnamon, and cloves into the air, next to a golden pyramid of flaky croissants.

“Clotted cream and blueberry compote. That’s the last of it. Breakfast in bed for the French poodle bitch.” Serge had arrayed himself in a powder-blue velvet livery, complete with square-heeled buckled shoes, and pristine white silk stockings. On his head, the square-set white powdered wig with a blue-ribboned queue gave his dark face a sinister cast. Far from ridiculous, the costume lent him a strangely compelling dignity.

“You look great, Mr. Moreno. Scary, but great,” Lance said.
 

“Yes. I’ll bet.”

Hendricks whirled in and removed the dessert trays.
 

Serge hefted the breakfast tray with its crisp linen and lace cloth, the chocolate steam swirling around his head. “Here goes.” He backed out of the door and vanished into the sudden glow of the salon, his mutters swallowed by exclamations of delight.

Hours sped by in an endless shuttling to-and-fro of wait staff and a dour-faced Mr. Hendricks.
 

Serge finally returned, stripping off his wig and jacket, snarling in a strange language under his breath. “Willie, help me here. We need another case of champagne. Those fuckers are bleeding sponges.”

Lance followed him into the cold room, hoisted the box down, and helped Serge twist the bottles into a large bucket full of ice. “How did it go in there, Mr. Moreno?” he asked hesitantly.

Serge sighed. “I’m so glad this is almost over. Amazing what supposedly well-mannered shits who faint at a fart will do when they let their hair down.”
 

Lance laughed.

Serge grinned back at him. “Bloody educational, Willie! One of Jackson Rivers’ guests was trying to lick chocolate from the singer’s tits, the cello player’s missing, and I swear the cover on that bed was heaving around a hell of a lot.”

Millie staggered in, removed her wig and collapsed onto Serge’s stool. “Thank God it’s over. Next time Jackson Rivers pays double!”

“You’re letting him come back?” Serge asked.

“He is a charter member of Guilty Pleasures so I have to, don’t I?” Millie replied crossly.
 

Serge shrugged.

“Oh, and the cello player’s off the list! You wouldn’t believe what he and Charlene Rivers were doing under the covers. No more beds. That’s
it
.” Millie kicked off her high heeled brocade pumps and wriggled her stocking-covered toes. Her calves were plump, her ankles graceful and slim. “Thank God it’s Sunday! Tuesday’s Food Fest for Fashion Victims will be a walk in the park compared to this. Do you want to come in tomorrow and do the run-through on the menu, Serge?”

Serge nodded. “All right, love, tomorrow’s another day. Off you go. Will and I’ll clean up the kitchen. Go rest; I’ll be here at three in the afternoon tomorrow.”

Millie heaved herself off the stool and stooped to kiss him. “Thank you, Serge; you were
magnifique,
as always. I love you. Good night, Will, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Serge smiled up at her without a trace of his usual cynicism. “Millie, I love you, too, dear, with all my heart.”

“Goodnight, Millie,” Lance said shyly. “Thank you, again, for the opportunity.”

Millie walked down the stairs reviewing the night’s events and how well things were working between Will and Serge
. If only Serge keeps his temper, Will might stay . . .
She sighed. “Oh Serge, I do hope so. I adore you, but you are impossible!”

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly: