Cream cakes?
Frank and I both stare into the box. “Okay,” he says. “I give up. What…?”
“He likes me to throw them at him,” she explains, her eyes twinkling.
Wtf?
Frank rubs the end of his nose. “Run that by me again.”
Her lips quirk. “After we’ve chatted for a bit, he undresses and stands in the bath, and then I have to throw the cream cakes at him. And for every one where I, um, score a direct hit, he pays me a bonus.”
Frank creases up. So do I.
“How long’s this been going on?” I ask.
“About four years now.”
“And how much of a bonus does he pay you?”
“A ten for every bulls-eye.”
“And I’ll bet,” says Frank, “that in that time you’ve become a f*****g Olympic grade shot with a cream cake.”
“Damn right,” she chuckles. “I hit the gold five times out of six. It’s earned me a nice li
