Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four

by Livia Ellis

  The odometer hasn't even broken a thousand kilometers.

  As I fill the tank and text the Gresham’s to warn them I’m coming home, she gets coffee and about four dozen magazines.

  Does she want to drive? Practice might help. When we get on the open road we can switch.

  No. She hates driving on wrong side of the road. I can drive. She can read Vogue.

  Why does she have such a beautiful and expensive car if she hates to drive?

  She already told me. It was a birthday present.

  I ask her in all truth who did she have to fuck to get a £200,000 car for her birthday and does he like men?

  She tells me not to be vulgar.

  Her father bought her the car.

  She's mad at him.

  He thinks a pretty car will make her nice to him again.

  A pretty car will not make her nice again.

  Getting rid of the stupid whore fifth wife will make her nice again.

  If her mother were alive, she'd put bullet between the eyes of the stupid whore fifth wife.

  She points at her forehead where the entry wound would be.

  I don't doubt this for a moment.

  Olga didn't just spring into being. Someone made her the way she is. That someone probably wouldn't think twice about putting a bullet between the eyes of the stupid whore fifth wife.

  I hesitate to ask about her father.

  The hints that I've gleaned from our hours of conversation have led me to one conclusion.

  He is both a criminal and he has something to do with a trucking company.

  Or logistics.

  I'm not sure.

  There was something about a grocery store.

  She's purposefully vague, which is fine with me.

  But I do have ask just this time.

  What exactly is it her father does for a living? And why, if he can afford to buy her £200,000 cars, is she working for The Matchmaker?

  Then she launches into the diatribe that will last the better part of the three hour trip to Wold Hall. In summery...

  •Vladimir is stupid man.

  •He tells her she has no concept of money.

  •She tells him yes she has a concept of money.

  •He tells her she has no concept of money. She'd starve if she had to support herself.

  •She tells him that yes she can so support herself.

  •He tells her that unless she can find someone to pay her to spend their money and sleep until noon that she won't last five minutes.

  •So she gets a job.

  •Working at Chanel.

  •But working at Chanel doesn't mean you can afford Chanel.

  •The Matchmaker is a friend of her uncle Boris.

  •By uncle she doesn't really mean uncle.

  •She means someone her father hates with a passion.

  •She gets a job with The Matchmaker.

  •A good job.

  •English men like Russian girls.

  •She makes lots of money.

  •And she can sleep until noon.

  •And it pisses her father off.

  •So hah.

  I'm not sure how to respond to all of this information.

  Part of me wants to know what her father thinks of her career as a high end escort.

  The other part of me, the one that knows better than to ask, has fallen asleep.

  So I ask. Does her father know what she does for a living?

  •Of course he knows.

  •What would the fun be in pissing him off if he didn't know?

  •She showed him.

  •She makes her own money.

  •She doesn't need him or his money.

  And she's getting upset.

  Of course.

  Because I just don't know when to shut up sometimes, I ask. Has she considered that perhaps her working for The Matchmaker might hurt her father very much? If I had a little girl I'd be heartbroken if she did the same. Maybe the car was a peace offering?

  I don't want to mess with her head.

  I don't.

  But I like her.

  I can see this problem with her father bothers her.

  She tells me to shut the fuck up and mind my own business.

  I don't say anything when she lights up a Gauloise.

  In fact, I help myself.

  It's time to get out of the car.

  Release the tension.

  Fortunately we have reached the turn onto the property of Wold Hall.

  I tap on the dashboard.

  I want her to stop brooding.

  I want her to marvel and be amazed at my home.

  And she is.

  Wold Hall comes into view as we round the copse of trees that shields it from prying eyes.

  The sea stands out stark and deep blue beyond the green fields stretching behind.

  The sky is a perfectly clear aquamarine blue.

  The gray stone of the manor house does me the favor of looking pristine and stately in the sun.

  The fortune I paid to have the exterior cleaned still counts as a complete and total waste of money in my estimation, but the result is impressive.

  The round tower, which is the part of the original fortifications, looks imposing and stern.

  This is my castle?

  This is my castle.

  The whole thing?

  The whole thing. As far as the eye can see and stretching out to the water.

  Who do those cars belong to?

  I have no idea.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Castle on the Sea

  The Gresham’s drive a Land Rover. There is a select of expensive cars parked in front of my castle

  I pull the car to a halt at the front.

  The drive has a relatively new covering of stone.

  From the outside, the stately pile looks impressive.

  It's really not hard to believe looking at it, that there was once a time when kings and queens were frequent visitors.

  That a staff of dozens of servants was required to keep the place running is not hard to imagine.

  Before he died, my grandfather had spoken of how it was the end of an era.

  Only Russian gangsters and Saudi princes could afford to be English. The same people that kept on trying to buy my home.

  Which makes me wonder who the people are that are standing on my property staring at my home.

  I get out of the car and approach the group. There are four of them. They don’t look like tourists. Tourists often ignore the signs at the head of the road letting them know they are driving on to private property. As a rule we don’t chase them off the land. Usually they just want to picnic and if they clean up after themselves, which they always do, we just let them be.

  I approach the group.

  A woman of more than middle years with a tightly styled poof of gun metal gray hair approaches me just as Olga walks up and takes my hand into hers.

  She is Betty Crusher. She offers me her hand.

  I take it. Curse my inbred need to be polite.

  I must be Prince Ibn Mustafa al-Jawziyyah and Olga must be Princess Fatima. She is delighted to meet us. She hopes our drive from London wasn’t too stressful.

  Do I look like a bloody Prince Ibn Mustafa al-Jawziyyah? I’m Lord Harklon.

  I’m Lord Harklon? That’s very curious. She was assured that no one would be on site while she showed perspective buyers around the property.

  What is she doing on my property?

  She is Betty Crusher.

  She was hired by my Former Fiancée’s father - The Evil Bastard – to help me sell Wold Hall. As she understands it, either I need to sell or I will lose the property to auction when it’s seized for unpaid taxes. She was left with the impression after her conversation with The Evil Bastard that I had made the smart choice and decided to sell to cover my extensive debts.

  I turn to the drive where the sound of an approaching car gets my attention. Not one, but four cars pull to a halt.


  She needs to leave along with her group. I’m not selling. I won't sell. I'll burn it to the ground before I sell it. Wold Hall is my home. Before Wold Hall existed, my family still lived on the land. My grandfather told me we'd been on the land since the time our Roman ancestors laid claim to it.

  Betty Crusher with her gunmetal gray poof of hair smiles like a gargoyle at me.

  She is aware of my financial situation. She is also aware that The Evil Bastard will not rest until Wold Hall is ripped out from under me. Why don’t I just accept my fate and allow her to do her job. Everyone will get what they want in the end.

  Which is what?

  The Evil Bastard gets his revenge, she gets her commission and I get a tidy enough profit to pay my bills and maybe make some kind of life for myself. I am to be very charming and let her do her job. If I cooperate, show the nice wealthy Kuwaiti couple and their family around, tell them a few stories, promise to leave behind whatever they take a fancy to, she might be able to talk up the price.

  Olga lets out a yelp and I realize I’m crushing her fingers.

  I smile at Betty Crusher.

  Don’t move.

  I’m going to go inside and open the door.

  I give Olga a tug and we walk up to the main door. I don’t have the key for the door and normally it’s only locked when the Gresham’s aren’t home for the night.

  The door is locked.

  Of course they’re gone. They would have chased off Betty Crusher. But are they gone for the morning or the weekend? I try to think about where they might be, but I can’t imagine. I wonder if they received the message I sent. Betty Crusher planned out her visit when she knew they would be gone. I find all of this very worrying. How tightly am I being watched by The Evil Bastard?

  I take Olga around the side to the glass conservatory.

  All the while we are walking she’s cooing and oohing.

  This is not how I wanted to give her a tour of my home.

  I pull my keys out of my pocket and unlock the conservatory door.

  We go through the house which is made dark even in the day because of the general gloom of being a castle and the fact the curtains are drawn in most of the rooms.

  I whistle and the sound is rewarded by barking and scrambling. The dogs are home. The Gresham’s wouldn’t have left them for more than a few hours unattended. Betty Crusher knows more than I do about the goings on of my home. But how.

  I drag Olga with me into the trophy room.

  The massive polar bear my great-grandfather bagged more than a century earlier menaces silently, fangs barred and clawed paws reaching out. If only I have the power to animate the beast and send him after Betty Crusher and her clients.

  I leave her at the door as I go to a map case.

  From inside I pull out the key to the gun cabinet.

  Five English pointers come rushing up to me. They are so very happy to see me! Look at their tails twitch! Look at them! Look at them!

  I bend down and give them a bit of love before I move on to the task at hand.

  As tempting as it is, I do not take my great-grandfather’s elephant gun.

  Instead I take a pump action Remington shot gun and a pocket full of shells.

  Oliver…

  What?

  What am I doing?

  Defending my castle.

  Am I going to shoot those people?

  Tempting darling. Very tempting.

  Olga and the dogs follow me as I walk through the house to the main doors. I load the shotgun as we walk. Our footsteps echo in the silence as we cross the flagstones of the great hall.

  The entry hall is lit only by the sunlight which manages to creep into the darkness through the mostly shuttered windows. I would have liked to have it opened up so she could see the staircase, the vaulted ceiling, and the fireplaces. There is no more furniture in the entrance. It's stacked up in the ballroom. Along with the components of the extremely expensive heating system, the new plumbing, the restaurant quality kitchen equipment, the double glazed windows, and the rest of the stuff I'd stupidly sunk the bulk of my trust into. I wonder if I can sue my Former Fiancée for half of the cost. I wonder. The remodel was her idea. I was content to leave all as it was. But she wanted the whole thing redone for the wedding.

  The key for the front door is on the mantle of the great fireplace just where it is supposed to be.

  Just as I knew it would, the door needs to be pulled forward just a touch so I can get the key to turn in the lock.

  This is my home.

  I know these things about the locks.

  I know where the keys are hidden.

  I suddenly remember where I hid a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover when I was twelve.

  I know that the fifth step leading up from the third floor to the servants’ hall creaks.

  I will never sell my home.

  I don’t care if I have to go Ruby Ridge on these people.

  I pull the door open and walk out. The dogs are gathered around me. They know what it means when I have a shotgun. They are practically dancing in anticipation. I send out Rex and Ophelia with a click of my tongue.

  The men are in white dishdasha. The women in black hijab. They are talking animatedly with Betty Crusher.

  The distinct sound the action of the shotgun makes as I engage the pump is more satisfying at that moment the sound of Olga crying out my name as she orgasms.

  Rex and Ophelia are a couple of stars. A bouquet of pheasants take to the air as they crash into the trees.

  Before Betty Crusher and her group of a dozen or so eager buyers notice me, I get their attention in a way they will never forget. I fire my shotgun into the air. I have their undivided attention. I fire the second round. A pair of pheasants goes careening to the ground.

  Dinner is sorted. I wonder what Olga thinks about having to clean a brace of pheasants. This makes me smile before I turn serious.

  Get off my land.

  I crack open the shotgun and reload.

  My home is not for sale. Not now not ever.

  I fire a second time.

  Rex and Ophelia return, each with a pheasant placed between their jaws.

  The Kuwaitis scramble into their cars like flocks of black and white birds. They fly down the road and off of my land.

  Betty Crusher and her sales team are not so easy to dislodge.

  Have I lost my mind? She’ll call the police.

  There is nothing at all illegal about me pheasant hunting on my private property. She’s trespassing. She’s the one that is behaving outside the law.

  Do I have any idea how much money those people have? Would I really have been able to say no if she had come to me with an offer for the amount of money those people were willing to pay?

  Wold Hall is not for sale.

  She is trespassing.

  She can give a message to The Evil Bastard.

  I’m not selling.

  I’ll burn the place to the ground before I sell it.

  Betty Crusher shows no fear as she stands up to me. We shall see.

  Olga puts her hand in mine as Betty Crusher and her sales team pile into their cars.

  Are they going to call the police?

  Probably not.

  What if they call the police?

  They were trespassing. I’m well within my rights to hunt on my own land.

  She likes my castle.

  The Evil Bastard will never let me be. He won’t. It is never going to end. It needs to stop, but how?

  What can she do? How can she make it better?

  I kiss her on the cheek. She can’t. But I appreciate the offer. Does she want a proper tour?

  Yes. What do we do with the dead birds?

  We make lunch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wold Hall

  The first building constructed on my family land was a Roman villa. The foundations of it which lay to the south east of the castle proper are being excavated and studied by a group of archaeol
ogists.

  According to family legend, the family was Roman merchants. According to the archaeologists who spend an inordinate amount of time brushing at the dirt with toothbrushes, they had vast holdings. They like scratching at the dirt and I have to admit I envy them.

  If I’d had any sense at the time I was at university, I would have paid more attention in lectures and less time at the pub. I studied Classics for fuck sake. I know things about the Romans in Britain and they’re quite literally buried in my back yard.

  My grandfather would have appreciated a scholarly interest in their pursuits especially if it involved our family. It would have been the sort of thing that struck him as a proper occupation for a gentleman. A very sort of Lord Carnarvon gentleman archeologist kind of thing to do.

  I look at Olga. Does she think I would look good in a fedora?

  A what?

  A fedora. A hat. Like Indiana Jones wears.

  She casts a critical eye upon me. Yes. I have a hat sort of face. But she doesn’t know Indiana Jones.

  What does she mean she doesn’t know Indiana Jones? Who doesn’t know Indiana Jones?

  She doesn’t know Indiana Jones.

  Unbelievable. I know what we’re doing that evening. We’re watching Indiana Jones. The three movies that matter. Not the fourth. That one just makes me sad.

  Can she read Vogue while I’m forcing her to watch a stupid boy movie?

  No.

  Fine. Big sigh. Will I show her around? Or am I going to accuse her of demanding to be entertained?

  I'll show her around.

  With the two pheasants in one hand and the shotgun in the other and the dogs dancing around my feet, I return inside with Olga. The gun is returned to the cabinet and the birds are left in the kitchen.

  What are her thoughts on plucking feathers?

  These are not thoughts she has ever had. Can she keep the feathers for a hat?

  In her body beats the heart of a woman with the country in her blood.

  Does that mean she can keep the feathers?

  She can keep the feathers.

  I walk out of the kitchen and she follows. We go through the formal dining room, the library, the map room and finally end up in the games room. I stand in the middle of the games room with its jumble of small tables for card players, the snooker table, the dart board, the skittle alley, the chess board, the backgammon table. All shrouded under dust cloths.