Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four

by Livia Ellis

  How much does a plumber cost?

  I sigh. It will cost more than her car is worth to get the plumbing up to code. In fact it will cost three times what her car is worth to get the plumbing working properly. The thing that really pisses me off is that everything was more or less working before my Former Fiancée and her army of builders fucking tore it all out. As far as I can foresee, it will not get fixed until I find a wife. But if she'd like to give it a go, there are plenty of pipes and joints down in the ballroom. That’s all been paid for. I’m missing the pound of flesh to prove it. The labour is the truly expensive part of the job. She wouldn’t happen to know any Russian plumbers willing to work off the books?

  She very well might she growls at me as she walks into the bedroom. There will be a bath. One of the four nights we are in the castle, there will be a bath. She cannot leave without getting into that bathtub.

  I check the kettle. It's full. I'm going to need to thank Mr. Gresham. I know that Olga will have her bath. He's saved me one step. I tell her she can have her bath.

  I never know what to do when there is nudity that isn't business related. I don't know how many times and in how many ways I've been intimate with Olga. But her changing out of her riding breeches into her jeans in my bedroom seems somehow different. So I busy myself. I unpack the cash I brought with me in my messenger bag. It goes into my dresser in the cigar box along with the rest of my treasures.

  Olga's chin is at my shoulder as she stands behind me.

  I snap my cigar box of treasures closed.

  Too late.

  She already saw it. She kisses me on the cheek. Are those my treasures?

  They may be.

  Can she see?

  Not now.

  Maybe some other time?

  Maybe some other time.

  She thinks Wold Hall is beautiful. She understands why I'm working so hard to hold on to it. Her hands are on my waist. Another kiss on my cheek. She still thinks marrying for money is a bad idea. She kisses my neck. For certain I should marry for love. Those hands slide under my jumper and around to my stomach. Is the money really that important?

  Unfortunately, it is.

  The sound of the gong ringing through the halls hits my ears like a dull bong. Lunch time. Cottage pie. I practically start jumping up and down.

  Olga is relentless. Or not hungry. Or both. We must finish the conversation. If I loved someone, could I still really marry someone else for the money?

  My eyelids drop. I need her not to do this. But I don't say this. We're together for the next fifteen days. I don’t know what I was thinking agreeing to this time together before we leave for Japan. What I need is some time to think and reflect. Not concentrated time with a woman actively trying to worm her way into my life.

  She knows as well as I do why I have to do what I'm going to do. I don't have the luxury of relying on the power of love to pay for the educations of the children I'm hoping to have. So what do I tell her?

  If I loved someone, I'd still do what I had to do. I've already done the noble thing once. I can do it again if I have to.

  She kisses me on the cheek. If I say so. Her hands release me. She knows what she needs to get, but we can make a list on the way. That's it. Conversation finished.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I should have been an archaeologist

  When I fall into bed, it is with the knowledge I've done a good days work. The rose garden is done. It took both of us and Mrs. Gresham, but we managed. A lot of the work was a bit quick and dirty, but none of my grandmother's prize rose bushes will suffer over the winter from wind rock. Next summer they'll be in full, glorious bloom.

  In the shed along with the garden tools, I found a book on rose gardening. There were sticky notes in my father’s handwriting scattered throughout. I knew he’d taken an interest in the garden. I just didn’t realize he had become so keen. Which I would have known if I’d paid more attention during those last few months between my grandfather’s death and his death.

  Every lunch, dinner, and tea he badgered me in to in the name of father son relationship building had included a dedicated portion of the conversation to rose gardening. What else did I miss in those final conversations? I want to know, but then again I don’t want to go back through my diaries and read what I wrote because I fear I may not have marked anything down about what he said, but rather concentrated my efforts on my own selfish musings.

  Olga turns on one bedside lamp to give us some light. She walks past me, heading to the bathroom, stops, pulls my shoes off, but doesn't scold me. Technically they're not on the bed. I do get a firm look. Shoes don't belong in bedrooms. Does she really need to repeat this?

  No.

  Start the fire. It's chilly. She goes into the bathroom after pulling some things out of her suitcase.

  I lift my head up and watch the bathroom door close. My head falls back against the pillow. I stare at the ceiling for a minute. I find the will to get up and start the fire. It doesn't take much to get the wood burning. When Olga exits the bathroom the fire is blazing.

  I'm not certain what I expected, but her pale pink hooded robe hanging open over a white camisole and pants was not it. But again, it's right. It's what she wears for bed when she's alone. I'm not a client. I'm me. I also need to manage my expectations.

  It is then that I remember I don't have any condoms. Of course I don't. The last woman I had in my bedroom was my Former Fiancée. We didn't use condoms. It wasn’t even the same bedroom. My old childhood bedroom down the hall and around the corner, up a flight of steps and then a little ways more down the hall. It’s a big place. After my back to back scandals she never came back.

  Just so we’re clear, is her body still a temple I’m not allowed to enter?

  That would be correct. I watch Olga as she goes to her tote-bag and pulls out a dogeared paperback and her reading glasses.

  What is she reading?

  Gone With the Wind. Again. Do I know I'm like Scarlet O'Hara? Wold Hall is my Tara?

  I laugh. I suppose she's right.

  Scarlet O'Hara would have prostituted herself out to save her home too.

  She probably would have.

  She even married for money rather than love. More than once.

  This is also true.

  But, in the end, she married her real love. Even though he often pissed her off.

  Fact.

  Then he left her because her bullshit pissed him off. She looks up at me. Do I know why her bullshit pissed him off so much?

  Why doesn't she just tell me.

  Because he loved her, could give her anything she ever truly needed or desired, but she wouldn't give him her heart. That's all he wanted. He could have given her everything. He just wanted to know she loved him and not his money. That the money didn't really matter. It's only when it was too late that he realized how much she loved him.

  Doesn't she mean it was only when it was too late that she realized how much he loved her?

  Isn't that what she said?

  No.

  Olga shrugs and opens up her book. I think it's possible she's read Gone with the Wind more than once.

  I do what I need to do in the bathroom then join her in bed. She's wearing what she normally wears for bed and so am I. With the fire going, the room will get warm. She's propped up with her book on her knees. I put my head on her shoulder. She smells like the remnants of her rose perfume, toothpaste, and face cream. It takes a second for me to realize I can't read a word of her book. It's written in Cyrillic.

  Did she know that the Cyrillic alphabet is derived from the Ancient Greek alphabet?

  Am I bored? She's not my entertainment committee. Go get a book. Go read my rose book. I seem to like my rose book.

  I don't want to read my rose book. Does she want to watch a movie? We could watch a movie. This gets me out of bed.

  Can she read her book and pretend to be interested in the movie?

  Can she watch the first twenty min
utes and then if she really doesn’t like it she can read her book and pretend to be interested in the movie?

  That’s reasonable. But then I have to agree to watch no less than four Keira Knightly movies with her. Only one of them can be a Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

  Fine as long as two of them have decent shots of her tits.

  Unbelievable. Fine.

  My fist thumps the TV and it comes to life. The pictures a bit greenish and I’m dearly tempted to keep the rerun of Father Ted on, but I find the Indiana Jones tape and slip it into the VCR.

  Olga makes a big show of closing up her book, marking the page with a finger.

  Indiana wins her over in the first twenty minutes. She watches the entire movie with me curled into my side like a shrimp.

  She wants to go to Egypt. She wants to see the pyramids. Have I seen the pyramids?

  Actually I haven’t. I’ve never been to Egypt. I’d love to go to Egypt. We can go to Egypt.

  She does not want to go to some South American jungle. Being an archaeologist seems really interesting.

  Unfortunately Indiana Jones is not an accurate depiction of the modern study of archaeology.

  That’s disappointing. No bullwhip?

  No.

  Drinking contests?

  Probably on occasion.

  Nazis?

  I look at her out of the corner of my eye. No Nazis. I should have been an archaeologist. I would have liked that. My grandfather would have approved of such a pursuit. There’s a very Lord Carnarvon air to being a gentleman archaeologist. Or some kind of scholar. I would have been good at that. Reading books and pontificating on lofty matters until I bored everyone ridged.

  I give her a nudge and pull her out of bed. The moon is close to full outside so there is a good clear view of the world outside my bedroom window from the castle to the sea.

  There. I point to the semi-permanent campground where a bonfire is burning as she looks. Those are archaeologists.

  The people camping in the tents?

  Yes. They’re excavating a Roman site on the land. No small wonder they’re still there and their money hasn’t run out.

  Because it’s expensive to scratch around in the dirt?

  Yes. It actually is. My Former Fiancée’s father the Evil Rat Bastard started funding them when their last grant ran out.

  It’s as if gears and wheels start creaking and cranking in my mind.

  That evil son of a bitch. He’s spying on me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Return of Elon and Renata

  Sometime around dawn Olga slips out of bed waking me for a brief moment before I roll over and go back to sleep.

  When I finally wake it’s late. I get out of bed. Shower. Don't even think about shaving. Dress. Go wandering. Mrs. Gresham is in the kitchen with tea and the papers. Something that smells like home is in the oven. Am I aware that it's nearly eleven in the morning?

  Is it? Olga?

  Was up at dawn. Unlike some people. I'm given a look over the paper. If Mrs. Gresham had lasers shooting out of her eyes, she'd burn holes in her glasses looking at me. Country people can't abide late risers. I've had a lifetime of getting up at the crack of dawn. I can sleep in on occasion. Where is Olga? Mr. Gresham drove her to the stables. What a lovely girl. Can we all assume my period of practically criminal indiscretion has passed?

  One can only hope. I help myself to tea and make toast.

  Are Elon and I squabbling?

  Yes. If he calls tell him I don’t want to speak to him every again. Actually tell him… I pause and think for a moment… tell him…

  I’m sorry?

  No. Not that. I’m not sorry. He was the big jerk.

  Sometimes just saying I’m sorry even if you’re not really sorry is a good way to start the conversation.

  Why can’t he ever be sorry?

  Because he’s Elon. Apologize to him before we get too entrenched in our infantile snit. What are my plans for the day? Subject changed.

  I'm going to tackle the kitchen garden. What does she have planned?

  She and Olga are going to put up the marmalade. She's been meaning to get to it and Olga is very keen.

  Does Olga actually know anything about making marmalade?

  No. But there was something about Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, and making jam. Bit literary our Olga. She has me nailed to rights. I am Scarlet O'Hara. Her question is, would that make Olga my Rhett Butler or my Ashley Wilkes? Based on initial impression, Mrs. Gresham thinks Olga would make an excellent Rhett Butler. But then again for Former Fiancée was the one who would have done anything for my love even though I did everything I could to make her hate me.

  Thanks.

  Is she wrong?

  So would this make her Mammy or Prissy?

  She swats me with the newspaper. I'm incorrigible. But never mind. Olga is still lovely none the less. She hears we'll be going to Margaret's wedding. Good. It's about time. Turning myself into a recluse isn't helping matters. I've gone from Oliver who can't keep his trousers on to Oliver that has gone into hiding. What am I doing in London anyhow?

  Working.

  Mrs. Gresham stares at me over the paper. Since when do I work?

  I'm working with Olga. Public relations.

  Stop bullshitting her. What am I really up to?

  If I tell her will she promise not to tell Mr. Gresham? Or Aunt Maisie? Or, god forbid, Uncle Albert?

  Do I really need to ask her that?

  No. So I tell her. I keep the more sordid details to myself, but she gets the idea.

  She nods. How much have I made?

  I tell her.

  How long do I plan on keeping this up?

  Until I find a rich wife.

  That's really my plan?

  That's really my plan.

  Would this have anything to do with the fight with Elon?

  It might.

  Have I considered calling my Former Fiancée and asking her to please ask her father to back off?

  Why? To what end? So she can tell me no? So she can have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve been brought to this?

  Does that sound like the sort of thing she would take pleasure from? Think about it. I know her better than that. Her father is that low, but she’s not. How possible is it she’s just washed her hands of me and doesn’t realize the extent her to which her father is persecuting me? Let’s be honest – the man never liked me.

  I’ll think about it. I have my public relations job to keep my head above water for the moment.

  So Olga is also in public relations? I find the use of air-quotes unnecessary.

  Yes. But please don't say anything. Please. I really like Olga. God help me. We get each other.

  What about Elon?

  Elon’s a big jerk. And he hurt my feelings.

  I need to make up with Elon. We’re like brothers and I know it. As for Olga or my career move, she wouldn't dream of saying anything. Olga is lovely. Very kind. She can see the kindness in her eyes. Probably why she's so good at her job. That empathy. I'm clearly as blind as I've always been if I don't see what's obvious. But never mind. Maybe I'll figure it out. Maybe I won't. She's done mothering me. I'm a grown man and not a little boy anymore. I am a ship she set sail on the dark seas of life. But, if I ever need a port in a storm, she's there for me. She loves me and she likes to see me smile. And do use condoms. And no, she won't tell Mr. Gresham or Aunt Maisie or Uncle Albert. The public relations lie will suffice. Do try not to get involved in another scandal.

  I’m going to do my best. If it helps, I’ve got Uncle Harvey in on it with me.

  She sighs and laughs. How is Harvey?

  Sober. More or less. He’s going to be my gentleman’s gentleman. Not that I need a gentleman’s gentleman, but if I can wrangle work for him, then I’m going to do it.

  I am making notes of this in my journals?

  Extensive.

  Good. Maybe I can turn it into a movie script one day. Have I spoken t
o my mother?

  I have not spoken to my mother. Although I hear from Uncle Harvey she’s back from India and living with Aunt Lucy. Which is unnecessary. As much as I loathe her at the moment this is still her home. I wouldn’t kick her out.

  It’s a bit remote here. I should really call her.

  Has she spoken to my mother?

  Of course she’s spoken to my mother. Will I promise that I’ll call my mother before I leave?

  No.

  Life is short. Didn’t I learn this with my father?

  I’m not discussing this with her. Was dad getting into rose gardening before he died?

  God yes! He was practically obsessed. Drove my mother crazy.

  Not surprising considering his attention was focused on something other than her.

  Grow up. Stop being such a little turd.

  I’m really getting tired of her telling me to grow up.

  Then I best get on with it so she doesn’t have to keep on reminding me. And call my mother.

  Fine. I’ll call my mother. What are her thoughts on the archaeologists?

  She doesn’t have thoughts on the archaeologists. They stay to their dig site. They’ll probably be gone in a few weeks. They usually pack up their gear around the first of November. Mr. Gresham is the one that deals with them when they want to come back in the spring.

  Any chance their spying on us?

  Son of a bitch.

  My sentiments exactly.

  Get rid of them.

  I plan on it.

  She gets up from the table. Kisses me on the crown of my head. Tells me there's pheasant stew for lunch and possibly dinner. Would I be her petal and pop into town? After I’ve sorted the archaeologists out?

  Sure. I need to go anyway.

  Mr. Gresham has the Rover. The car, which she assumes is not mine, is in the garage. The key is on the board. I'm handed a list and twenty pounds. Sugar and citrus. Lovely. I'll have marmalade to bring back to London with me. I'll have to keep it in my room, but I'll still have it.

  As I walk out of the front door into a day that is crisp with a diamond blue sky I spy a car rolling up the drive. It takes perhaps two seconds for my mind to register what I am seeing. The only person I know of that would be driving up my road in an Audi would be Elon.