Free Guilty Pleasures by Manuela Cardiga

useful. You sift this shit while I prepare the yeast.”
    “What are we making?” Lance asked.  
    “Bloody hamburger buns and fucking hot dog rolls, what else?”
    “Oh, I thought you’d buy those.”
    Serge’s eyes popped. “Not in my kitchen! You ask for genuine crap, you get genuine crap. You get the best crap available in any shit-hole on the bloody planet!”
    “Right.” Lance sifted conscientiously, keeping his head down, concentrating on the clean smell and the soft, whispering drifting of the flour into the bowl.  
    After a while, Serge scuttled over, clambered up on the step next to him and sniffed. “Enough now. That should be enough. Not even those starveling bitches can eat more than a pound of bread each. Come over here and learn how to mix the yeast.” He crumbled a flesh-coloured substance into a bowl, added a teaspoon of sugar, and carefully poured in a small amount of water.  
    Lance watched his capable hands attentively.
    “Tepid water, Willie—not hot, or you’ll kill it. Then it needs sugar to feed it, and a loving hand to mix it. It’s alive, you see, and this is what’s gonna make that bread great.”  
    An overwhelmingly warm, sweet smell rose from the bowl.  
    “And now? You mix it in the flour?” Lance asked curiously.
    “Now you cover it with a cloth. You let it breathe, and give it time to grow.” Serge tenderly covered the bowl and placed it in a small cupboard. “Go see what Millie needs, Willie. Get out from under my feet for the next half hour.”
    “Yes, sir.” After rinsing his hands, Lance hurried off through the doors leading to the salon.

    An astonishing transformation had taken place in the salon. The glittering chandelier still hung above, but it was now reflected from the gleaming surface of a long black glass table. From the walls, lustrous black and white posters of beautiful girls alternated with large black-framed mirrors. The entire room was filled with reflected light and lush flesh. He gasped, turning on his heels, and met his own image multiplied by the tall mirrors, enfolded by dizzying images of women offering the viewer their generous flesh with unembarrassed sensuality.
    Tall floor lamps with silver shades created conversation areas, furnished with armchairs upholstered with zebra skins. On the table, the black and silver sunflowers nodded at their own reflection.
    Millie’s voice startled him.  
    “Good timing, Will. I was just about to call you. I need to get a chaise longue from the small salon, and some cushions from storage. Would you mind giving me a hand?”
    “Of course not.” Lance bowed gallantly. “At your service, madame.”
    She flashed him a shy, startled smile and led him out through the salon’s main door and into the corridor beyond, onto which several tall doors opened. “Here. This is the small salon. We use it for small intimate dinners for two to eight people. It’s booked for tomorrow. A thrash-metal rock star celebrating his grandmother’s birthday, would you believe?” Millie pointed out a curvaceous purple velvet chaise longue . “That’s the one.”
    They each moved to one end and lifted it. With a little manoeuvring, they got it out through the door and into the corridor, then into the main salon.
    “Perfect. Just the touch of colour I wanted to offset the black and silver.”
    “Looks great. Do you do all the decorating yourself?”
    “Most of it. We have a decorator on retainer, but I help with the décor, the creativity, and I personally handle all the public relations. Serge cooks. Sometimes, he even lets me cook. But don’t get me off track. Now we need the cushions.”
    The third door led to a storeroom full of the strangest odds and ends. A bull’s head stared down from the top of a Doric column. Dozens of large sealed boxes, carefully labelled, were piled up to dangerous heights. A busty nude statue of Venus smirked, and a likewise leafless Adonis leered. Mandolins, tubas, saxes, and a gold baby