Guilty Pleasures (50 page)

“No questions.”

“Good. Please start on the medication and get the tests done. We will see each other in two weeks. Kate will give you my emergency number. Now then, let’s pop next door and take a look at the little chap . . .”

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Today was a great day. We had the day off, and I spent it with my love.
 

This morning, Will and I went to my first OB appointment. The doc is great, just as nice as S. promised. He’s set my mind at rest on a lot of things.

I have to go get blood and urine tests tomorrow, so no food after midnight.

I’m so apprehensive, but also so very happy.

Will and I spent the afternoon window shopping for baby clothes and furniture. He wanted to take me over to his place, and to meet his grandmother. I’m ashamed to say I don’t feel ready for that. I asked him how he’d feel if he never met
my
mother, and he was surprisingly amenable and understanding. He told me he had no intention of presenting me to
his
mother.
 

I wish
I
didn’t have to meet my mother . . .
 

Chapter 40

On human bondage, as opposed to animal or other kinkier shit, the attitudes are as varied as the number of people on the planet. Some type of soft, light bondage seems to be acceptable or downright arousing to some women, especially if they get to wield the whip and wear very high, spiky red shoes.

If
you
like to be the one doing the tying up, the rule of thumb is to establish a safe word and respect it. Remember consent means just that:
no
is
no
;
stop
is
stop
. It’s only fun if you are
both
having fun.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

At three forty-five on Tuesday morning, a very crotchety Millie woke up from her warm bed and sent a protesting Lance off to meet Serge. She planned to leave at seven to have some tests and he’d wanted to go with her. She kissed him thoroughly and hugged him tightly. “I need to do this alone, Will, okay?”

“All will be well, Millie, you’ll see.”

“I’m frightened, Will! What if—”

“No ifs, okay? We’re doing this together. Count on that.”

At Guilty Pleasures, an impatient Serge hopped from foot to foot in front of the streetlamp. “About bloody time.”

“Hello, Serge, it is now—” Lance looked at his watch. “Exactly three fifty-five.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . so spill the beans.”

“We went to the OB, we’re doing tests—I mean, Millie is—and going back in two weeks for the results.”

“That’s all? When is it due?”

“We don’t know yet. I mean, I didn’t ask! I think he said . . . I’ll ask Millie.” Lance flushed defensively. “I was pretty nervous.”

“So in fact, you know fuck-all!”

“Yes, that pretty much sums it up.”

Serge sighed. “Let’s get to work, Willie. We have those kook vampire lovers for dinner tonight. I keep expecting them to ask for bat fricassee . . . does anyone still remember Alice Cooper?”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Serge sighed.

That evening, the salon was filled with black candles, the tall mirrors were covered with black tulle, and the mirrored black table was back, set with black plates, red and silver goblets and even more black candles, setting a scene of serious designer gloom.

In the kitchen, things didn’t look cheerier. Serge was busy basting a slowly roasting huge bird with a reddish paste redolent of garlic and pepper, a bubbling pot held glossy red tomato soup, lurid purply-red beetroots were busy boiling, and a basket held blood oranges. “Stupid idiots. Can you believe it? Picking out a colour-coded menu. It’s all supposed to look bloody.”

Lance picked up the menu from the counter. “Cream of Tomato Soup with Red Peppers, Steak Tartare with Blood Oranges and Beetroot Salad, Black Swan with Devilled Mushrooms, Redcurrant and Blackberry Pie . . . my God, Serge, you’re cooking swan?” Lance gagged.

“Don’t be a silly, Willie, it’s a goose. The idiots can’t tell the difference. No one eats swan anymore—bloody tough, stringy and not at all tasty. I always serve goose for swan and no one’s called
fowl
yet!” Serge chuckled happily. “Fowl, you get it?”

Millie arrived looking quite cheerful. “Hey there, boys, has Hendricks arrived yet? Time for our weekly get-together.”

Lance called in Hendricks and the four of them looked over the week’s schedule.

“Tonight’s event is all organised, right, Serge?” Millie asked.

“All on the go, Millie.”

“Tell me, Hendricks, did you manage to get us some background music?”

“Well, Miss Deafly, I went into my personal collection and mixed us a CD: Swans, Bauhaus, Sisters of Mercy, Joy Division, Dead Can Dance, The Creatures, Moonspell . . . it
should
be adequate.”

“You were a Goth, Hendricks?” Lance gasped in astonishment.

“I am.” Hendricks sniffed.

“All right then, people. Tomorrow we have the Football Family again. We’re serving hamburgers with all the trimmings, okay, Serge? Thursday is a fundraiser tea for the Breast Cancer Association. S. is the hostess. She’s hitting up celebrities and businesswomen for cash for research on breast reconstruction techniques.”

“S. is an amazing woman, Mills, just amazing!” Serge exclaimed, and Hendricks nodded enthusiastically.

“Friday is the General’s poker night—Serge, the usual menu—and on Saturday it’s another birthday dinner. Annette Fitzgerald’s turning forty so she wants a buffet dinner for seventy. That’s going to be a hard one so, Hendricks, for tonight you’re set, tomorrow you can play hooky, Thursday I need at least four waiters, for Friday two will suffice, and on Saturday a full complement. Maybe we can get Roger to help Will and Serge in the kitchen, too, what do you think, Serge?”

“That would be a help. He did quite well last time, and seventy people . . . it’s a lot for just Willie and me.”

“Great, we’re all set then. Remember, I’ll post the schedule up on the kitchen notice board in case anyone needs a refresher. Let’s go take care of our so called vampires.”

Later that night, Millie left Will sleeping soundly in her bed and crept downstairs to get herself something to eat. She took her late-night snack over to her desk and nibbled her way through it as she set down the day’s events.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Today was a lovely day. It ran smooth as silk.
 

The Feast of Blood went very well. There were lots of fake fangs and red and yellow contact lenses. It was really silly and quite harmless. Hendricks was disgusted. Says it’s an insult to the true Gothic Movement. I think it’s quite sweet in a creepy way.

I brought Will home and took a “bite” out of him. Though I won’t tell you where. He wants us to go shopping tomorrow for preggy lingerie, preggy clothes, and baby clothes. He seems to find me sexier than ever.

Whenever I look around at work, his eyes are on me, with the sweetest, most loving expression. He tells me the most wonderful things. He makes love to me with words, beautiful words. I sometimes feel as if he is pouring his heart, his soul into me.

Entering my mind and my body.

Becoming my love.

Chapter 41

Now we will deal with a particularly sensitive subject:
the penis.

Does size matter?
Of course it does.
Don’t be a chump!

If someone has ever told you it doesn’t, it means you are definitely underprivileged, or at the very least under par for what she’s used to.

Don’t be intimidated. Remember, use
all
your assets.

Fingers, thumbs and tongue all work wonders.

If she’s squirming in delight she’ll hardly be in the mood to whip out the measuring stick . . .

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

The Football Family’s Humungous Hamburger Night was well under way. Lance kept going back for more. More hamburgers, more chips, more soft drinks, and more salad. The voracious horde devoured everything. As fast as Serge could flip a hamburger onto the grill, those kids could flip it down their throats. Even the skinny thirteen-year-old was valiantly doing her bit to keep the species carnivorous. The parents sat limply, holding hands, enjoying watching someone else run for their lives at their devilish offspring’s beck and call.