Come dine with me: Monday

So, I've made it onto this reality television show. The premise is simple, there are five of us, and each day one of us hosts the rest for dinner. The rest judge them, awarding them points out of ten, and at the end of the week the person with the most points in the winner. There's some kind of prize involved, but frankly I don't much care about that. All I care about is winning.
My competition is: Alan Spackle, a mechanic who's got a workshop a couple of streets over from me; Carmina Alliatori who apparantly specialises in erotic merchandising; Melissa Holywell, a single mother of six; and Vince Treblizie, a musician I've seen perform a few times at the local Conservative Club. On the surface, there doesn't look like there'll be a lot of competition, but I'm not willing to take any chances. I shall be making sure that they don't beat me.
Carmina is going first, and she's invited us all over for six. According to the menu she'll be offering a starter of field mushroom salad with poached quail eggs, a main course of pheasant a la King, and for dessert there'll be erotic Sundaes. On the whole, this sounds quite impressive. The theme of the evening is to be discretely exotic.
I pop over to her house around twelve on a reconnaissance mission. She turns out to live in quite a nice little semi-detached that backs onto the golf-course making it easy enough to mug a golfer in the car-park, nick his clubs, and sneak into her back garden. I catch her leading the camera crew into the living room while her preparations in the kitchen are left for the moment.
She's left the back-door unlocked, so it's the work of just a few moments to slip in and tip half her jar of curry powder into the chocolate sauce that looks destined for the Sundaes. She sounds like she's trying to avoid questions about erotic merchandising so I take a chance and check the fridge. Bingo! there's the cream for the a la king sauce. I add a healthy squirt of tobasco, slip the lid back on and give it a quick shake.
I'm just about to leave when I spot what must be her outfit for this evening hanging on the back of the door. It's all silk and spangles, glittery, low cut at the neck and high cut at the leg. Very lady-of-the-night. I slip back to the spice rack, dip my fingers in the chili powder and rub it on the inside of the dress where I think it might chafe.
On the whole, I'd say this evening's just got a whole lot hotter.