Guilty Pleasures (45 page)

“You’d be surprised. Women live under a huge load of expectations, most of them self-imposed. They have to be successful, beautiful, thin, bright, and talented. And they are, except they bring the same exaggerated expectations and merciless scrutiny into the bedroom, tightly focused on themselves having to look good, be great, and feel fantastic.”

“And?”

“Usually they have these very satisfied lovers or husbands who think their women are terrific in bed. Most never even realise these women never have orgasms. They never tell them, or anyone. Everyone else is laying claim to these incredible orgasms, finding G-spots and discussing whether the vaginal orgasm is a fact or myth, so they play along.”

“And then?”

“Something gives. They decide they want more, or the husband or friend discovers she’s been faking it for twenty years and they come to someone like me.”

“Jane! Jane and the rosebuds!”

“Yes. I shouldn’t divulge this for patient privacy issues, but I trust you, Millie. Jane’s husband, Jake, realised the very first time they made love that something wasn’t working for her. They tried everything, then she went to a psychologist. He referred her to me. Jane had four husbands and countless lovers. She was a sex symbol and was petrified of failing. So of course, she did.”

“You can trust my discretion. And I see what you’re talking about. Like men with impotence.”

Lance held her hand in his. “Exactly, but worse because usually the partner isn’t aware of it, so the woman doesn’t get help from the person most concerned with her. Also, they believe their partners will think that not having an orgasm reflects on their abilities as a lover. They fake it to protect their lover, while blaming themselves.”

“Incredible. Wow! So . . . you talk to women about sex all day, and go home alone?”

“Not anymore, Millie. I quit. I’m writing my book, getting a new perspective on life, in fact a whole
new
life. I was hoping I’d get you.”

“Um,
me?
”

“Yes, as in a life, a relationship. What my clients call
The Next Level
.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means serious. It means more, maybe even everything. What do you think?”

“So . . . tell me, how did you choose this career? Did you suddenly decide to help women have orgasms?”

“Well, I told you my best friend’s mother seduced me. She was in her forties and with me she finally had an orgasm. I went away to college in the States, got a couple of psych credits, got hooked on understanding her and women like her, then got my degree and somehow things just developed.”

“Did you ever see her again, Will?”

“Oh yes, I still do sometimes. I told you she’d married one of my ex-stepfathers. Curiously, the same man who’d so generously financed my college education in the States.”

“You think she had something to do with it?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure. She was ready to move on, but I was stupidly in love, so she made a plan for a painless extraction. Well, painless for her, obviously.”

“Do you think he knew? Your stepfather?”

“No. He loves me, and I love him. He’s a very decent man.”

“Thank you, Will. Thank you for telling me. I kept feeling you weren’t being totally frank with me. I didn’t like that. I’ve lived my whole life with a manipulative, vicious liar for a mother, and it’s made me paranoid about dishonesty. You felt so sincere, so open . . . I didn’t want to find out you were hiding something ugly from me. I can’t abide that, Will. Anything but ugliness and cruelty. So sex therapy . . . cool!”

Lance felt a giant hand of fear clamp down on his heart. He could not mention her mother, he could not tell her he was here under a false name—couldn’t justify that subterfuge with the book research story. This was as far as he could go. At least for now. He took a deep breath. After George’s wedding he’d find a way to tell her everything. This was a good start. “Millie, I’m so in love with you. I want more. I don’t want to sneak around so people won’t know you’re sleeping with the help. I want to be with you—upfront, free and clear, for better or for worse. Marry me.”

“What! Are you quite mad?” Millie gasped, let go of his hand, and gripped the sides of the table. “I mean . . . God, Will. We haven’t known each other that long! What happened to the long old-fashioned road?”

“That didn’t work out, did it? We ended up having sex just as quick. Quicker! Remember Mrs. Belmont? Love isn’t about time or how long you know someone. It’s about being with a person you can’t close yourself off from, even if you try. It’s about having the courage to
stay
open, to be naked, to be yourself completely with someone who’s doing the same with you. Dear God, Millie, I need to love you. Please let me.”

Later that night, Millie thrummed her fingers nervously on her desk, unsure what to write, or how she felt.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

I just had a weird and scary evening. Will wants to marry me. I nearly ran; I’m so confused! Help! Luckily, I composed myself. I told him I needed some time to think about it, and he agreed.
 

We came back home and had extremely hot and bothered sex. Made it to the first floor landing this time. I’ll probably have bruises on my backside from the steps.

He’s fast asleep now, so here I am, thinking.
 

I don’t know what to do.

I love his sweetness, his kindness, his cock. But do I love him? Really love him in a let’s-get-married kind of way? Just what the hell is love anyway?
 

I love the way we are together, relaxed and easy. He makes me laugh and I clown around with him like I’ve never done with anyone else before.
 

Is that love? Now that I think about it, I don’t feel lonely when I’m with him. I don’t worry about looking foolish. Is that love? He also makes me feel safe. I want to do everything to him. I want him to do everything to me.
 

Is that love?

Chapter 36

Men and women take sex, and each other, much too seriously.

Lighten up and have some fun!

Tickle her, make her laugh, or play the fool.

It will do wonders for your sex life and for your relationship.

Please note that humour is neither mockery, nor sarcasm.

If you can’t tell the difference,
don’t go there
.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

At three the next morning, after a miserly hour and a half of sleep, Millie heartlessly kicked Lance out of her bed. He groaned and opened bleary eyes. The love of his life stood over him, fully dressed, fists on hips and a decidedly unfriendly expression on her face.
 

“Come on, Will! We have a wedding to shop for, plus you’re going on your day off, so I really need us to get going early today!”

Lance dragged himself into a quick shower and stumbled downstairs five minutes later feeling like shit. Last night’s red wine was pounding out a fandango on his temples, his poor battered body hurt, and he had a foreboding feeling that his day had already hit its high point.

Millie poured a large measure of what tasted like boiling-hot pure caffeine down his throat and dragged him out the door into an icy-cold drizzle.

After endless stops and squabbles with hapless suppliers at the market, they headed for Guilty Pleasures. Tim would be delivering the flowers and Jennifer’s Supreme Baked Goods the wedding cake in the afternoon. All the arrangements were made. Serge would be working already, and Lance would be helping him until three when, hopefully, Roger would be stepping smoothly into his shoes for the evening.

Not a word was said about the previous evening’s revelations. Lance decided to take the bull by the horns. “Millie, did you think about what I proposed last night?”

“Listen here, I am not hanging off that banister while you—”

“Not that! I meant us, our future, together.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Millie, don’t try to avoid this conversation. We’ll get around to it sooner or later.”

“Will, please. Could it be later? Today is not a good day for this. Like I said last night, give me time to sort it out in my head, okay?”

“Okay, but don’t think too much, Millie. Feel. Try
feeling
your way through this.”

At seven that evening, Lance tucked his monocle under his left brow and clamped his pipe between his teeth. His hair was combed back and liberally anointed with Oil of Makassar. Imposing, lush sideburns framed his lean features. A carefully coiffed mustache shadowed his full lower lip and curled arrogantly onto his cheeks.
 

His eyebrows were full, expressive and intimidating. The man
was
an artist. His face sported a becoming pallor, dark shadows under his eyes and slight lines of dissipation around his mouth hinted at a less than frugal lifestyle. He’d even tinted Lance’s impeccably white teeth with the slight yellowish tinge of pipe tobacco.
 

He turned sideways before his mirror and marvelled at how different he looked.
 

The black brocade smoking jacket over the crisp white dress shirt and the black velvet waistcoat fit perfectly. The sharply ironed narrow pants and the gleaming spats all added up to a vision of understated sartorial magnificence.

He added the black top hat and the three-layered black cloak with a shimmering white satin lining. It was worth every extravagant penny. A saturnine, debonair Sherlock sneered back at him with cold arrogance. His own mother wouldn’t recognise him.

He was ready for the last act, Lance’s farewell performance. One last bow, then Lance Packhard would become Will Pecklise for good.

Lance paused briefly before ascending the stairs at Guilty Pleasures. He breathed deeply, centred himself, then uttered a brief, heartfelt prayer and proceeded to what was surely to be one of the most memorable evenings of his life.

The salon glittered with candlelight and glamour. At one end the suitably attired orchestra played, and a flowered arch, entwined with pale perfumed roses and enchantingly candlelit, hinted at the solemnities to be celebrated. Swathes of pale tulle and draped satin covered the walls.
 

Tall, graceful, spindly legged tables—interposed with man-high candelabras—held silvery baskets overflowing with tea roses, violets, and primroses. The long table was a vision in linen and lace, their flower-filled silver bowls adding a delicate hint of colour to the pale gleam of the silver and crystal.