The thirteenth annual conference of the International Tarts Society was to be held in London this year. The year before it had been held in Singapore, which pleased Almond Tart very much as she could travel to the venue by taxi rather than by airplane, and the year before that in Montréal, which had pleased Tarte Française for the same reason.
Three months before the conference Custard Tart, the organizer, announced the agenda through whatsapp. “On our first day we will experience the pleasures of shopping at Harrod’s in the morning. We’ll enjoy afternoon tea at the Ritz,” her text read. “On the second day our visit to the Spa Salon will reveal the very latest techniques in relaxation and massage.”
“But what about frottage?” Cherry Tart, whose niche was lesbian world leaders, texted back.
All the Tarts held daytime jobs as personal assistants to their respective statespersons or world leaders. During the day the assistance was confined to office work, but at night the assistance became personal. “Quite personal,” said Lemon Tart, relishing the memories.
Each Tart dedicated herself to her culture’s version of the Goddess of Love, vowing to provide her chosen beneficiary with such lubricious delights that the idea of waging war would never enter his or her head. “We’re the opposite of Vestal Virgins,” Tiramisu Tart had proclaimed at last year’s conference in Singapore. “We keep the flames burning, all right—
“But they’re the flames of desire,” Almond Tart interrupted, and giggled.
“—and for pretty much the same reason,” Tiramisu Tart continued, ignoring the interruption, “although the Vestals were concerned only with avoiding the fall of Rome. We’re avoiding the fall of the entire world.”
The minimum age for membership in the International Tarts Society was twenty-one; retirement was mandatory at age thirty. A few Tarts married after their term of service finished, but some opened their own businesses and some took up new causes such as combating homelessness, saving laboratory animals, or becoming active in local government.
“London, here I come!” Lingonberry Tart texted from her Scandinavian country.
“May we all come!” the other Tarts texted back.
“’Ere’s the Ritz, lydies,” the driver said as he stopped the minibus at the front door of the famous hotel. “Enjoy your tea today.”
As the Tarts left the vehicle one by one, he looked at Custard Tart, whose décollétage came close to violating the standards for daytime dress, and muttered, “Wouldn’t mind a nice bit of ’ot crumpet meself, come to that.”
Custard grinned. “Better luck another day, boyo.”
After the Tarts had settled themselves around the long table in the Palm Court, Apple Tart, who hailed from a large country in Europe, said, “You know, it’s a good thing all our politician friends went home this morning. What were you thinking, Custard, to schedule our conference so close to theirs?”
Custard shrugged. “It actually was the best time. They’ll all be taking off for a long weekend after they return home. We couldn’t really leave our respective offices while they were here—someone has to do the work, you know.”
As waiters began to circulate around the table, bearing pots of tea, pitchers of milk, and small dishes of sliced lemon, the Tarts studied the menu and the conversation became general.
Payasam Tart, whose cinnamon-colored skin, dark brown eyes, and rippling black hair were the envy of the other Tarts, said, “I am studying for a new position.”
“A new position?” The other Tarts gasped. “We didn’t know there was one!”
“I found it in a very old manuscript of the Kama Sutra. It hasn’t been translated into English yet, but it involves a lot of feathers, three fingers’ measure of sweet oil, two pearl necklaces, and…” Payasam had just leaned forward to whisper the rest to the other Tarts, when a sudden commotion at the door made them all turn their heads.
Before the appalled gaze of a dozen Tarts the leaders of twelve nations surged through the entrance of the Palm Court.
Transfixed, the Tarts watched in silence while whispers swept through the room.
“—all supposed to fly home this morning—”
“—Euro crisis, so of course they canceled their flights—”
“No one knows how long the crisis will take to resolve—”
Lemon Tart’s beneficiary, the prime minister of a major European country, suddenly caught sight of her and went pale. “Nom de nom!” he whispered. His knees giving way suddenly, he sank to the floor.
Tarte Française’s minister turned to look at the Tarts’ table. Tarte Française was wearing a saucy little black hat with a half-veil; she lifted the veil and winked at him. He turned purple, his eyes bulged, and he promptly fell backwards to the floor, hitting the legs of a chair on the way.
Custard’s beneficiary took one look at her, then at her décollétage, and fainted.
The lesbian minister of a certain small country, catching sight of Cherry Tart, fainted into the arms of a waiter who unfortunately was carrying a large tray filled with glasses of champagne at the time.
Chocolate Tart’s minister took out a large white handkerchief, mopped his perspiring brow with it, and keeled over.
In the meantime, Almond’s minister seemed to be in the throes of a heart attack.
“What are we going to do?” whispered Lingonberry Tart in horror.
Custard took charge. “We’ll go help them and do our damnedest to keep them quiet. Let me do the talking.”
Waiters circled the room frantically while security personnel tapped their mobiles and other guests in the Palm Court busily filmed or snapped photos of the world leaders.
Security tried to wave the Tarts away as they advanced toward the front of the room but Custard thrust her décollétage forward and fixed the officers with a stern gaze. “We are nurses on holiday. We will render CPR to these unfortunates until the ambulances arrive.” Indeed, all Tarts were required to complete courses in first aid and CPR in case the recipients of their attentions blissed out to the edge of Eternity.
“I am overcome by beauty,” murmured Tiramisu Tart’s beneficiary, the minister of finance in their country, and fell into her arms. She staggered under his weight, but managed to lay him on the floor.
Quickly the Tarts tended their charges, all of whom were either unconscious or pretending to be. “Not much we can do until the medical teams arrive,” Lingonberry said, rising to her feet.
The other Tarts, coming to stand beside her, gazed dispassionately at their beneficiaries, lying side by side on the floor like so many newly caught fish.
When the medical teams arrived, a person who appeared to be their leader advanced into the room and spoke to Custard. “What happened here?”
“This room is far too hot,” Custard said, looking him in the eye. “They became overheated.”
The leader’s gaze traveled from Tart to Tart. “Understandably,” he muttered. When his gaze met the hot black eyes of Chocolate, who’d just secretly invoked Oshun, the Orisha Goddess of Love, his knees buckled and he toppled over too.
“This event will be famous in the annals of strumpetry,” Almond whispered to Peach Tart.
“Another triumph for the Tarts,” Peach agreed, and smirked.
As the afflicted were carried out on stretchers to the waiting ambulances, Custard’s voice could be heard rising over the hubbub. “And now, please, may we continue with our afternoon tea?”
The End