Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four

by Livia Ellis

  And it is. It takes me only a moment more to make out Renata in the passenger seat.

  The temptation to return to the house and get my shotgun is almost overwhelming. But I can’t. Because Olga appears along with Mr. Gresham on a pair of familiar thoroughbreds. Legally they’re still mine. At least they are until the Logans, the family who owns the stable where I keep my horses boarded, takes them in lieu of payment.

  There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Elon stops his car. Before I have time to think he’s standing in front of me. I have no idea what to say.

  It turns out I don’t have to say anything.

  Elon hugs me. He tells me he’s sorry. He should have been more understanding. He was a prick. He was a jerk. Whatever I need to do he’s going to support me. He doesn’t have to like it, but he’s there for me. Are we okay?

  We’re okay. I’m sorry I left like I did. That was a bit prickish of me.

  He lets me go.

  We’ll talk later. I have to tell him about the past couple of days.

  Olga puts her hand on my arm.

  Right. Introductions. Olga. Elon. Renata.

  Renata gives Olga a look that I only recognize as dangerous a moment too late.

  Renata takes Olga’s offered hand with a smile. That scimitar of a smile. Thin lipped and long across her face. I know that smile. It’s the one Renata uses when she’s busting with meanness that is itching to get out.

  Mrs. Gresham comes out of the front door. She stops suddenly the moment she sees Renata. It is entirely possible we men will have to pull a belligerent woman off of Renata.

  Wold Hall might be mine, but there is an understanding that Renata is never to visit.

  Olga walks past me in the direction of Mrs. Gresham. In the way women do, the two understood each other immediately. It didn’t matter what initial impressions might have been (they were good regardless) the two were one in disliking Renata.

  All thoughts of going to town to take care of my outstanding accounts and to buy sugar and oranges are forgotten. Now is as good a time as any to call my mother. I’m in the right mood for it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  How I Find Out My Mother is Terminally Ill

  My mother is dying. Now that I know this the one thousand subtle hints dropped in my lap make perfect sense. Uncle Harvey and Mrs. Gresham were trying to tell me not just to call my mother, but to give her the opportunity to tell me herself she was flying down the slippery slope to her own coffin. It was that or one of the two of them would have to tell me when she was hospitalized.

  There is this wondrous thing about looming death. All sins of the past aren’t necessarily forgotten or forgiven, but they are put in their place. In one twenty minute conversation (just that long because that’s all she had the strength to endure before my Aunt Lucy got on the phone) I did as Mrs. Gresham told me to do earlier in the day. I grew up.

  What is wrong with my mother? Heart failure. I don’t understand this as well as I wish I did. What I know is that she’s dying and I don’t even have an internet connection so I can Google heart failure. My father knew this. This very possibly had something to do with the paternal push to make amends with me before he stepped in front of a bus. He knew my mother was dying. His father had just died. This was why he kept on talking about us being in it together. I get this now. Hindsight is annoyingly illuminating.

  This is a moment in which I take stock of things I do know.

  •I will do whatever I need to do to make certain my mother has the best care possible.

  •Aunt Lucy is not a wealthy woman but she is a proud one and will not take my money directly so I need to work around this.

  •My mother plans on staying with Aunt Lucy in Croydon.

  oThe negative being it’s Croydon.

  oThe positives being:

   Aunt Lucy lives near the hospital.

  Aunt Lucy is a nurse.

  It’s Croydon. From the house I’m about forty minutes away in the car.

  Who would have ever thought I’d be happy to be near my mother?

  As I sit at my grandfather’s desk with the Balmoral blue Queen’s Silver Jubilee telephone with the dial label embossed with acanthus leaves, crown and 1979 in silver, the separate bell set attached to the wall rings. I’m so startled by the sudden sound I pee myself a little. Very little. It’s not like I widdled in my trousers. But still.

  Elon reaches around me and grabs the phone.

  It’s Uncle Harvey. He’s heard from Aunt Lucy I’ve talked to mum. Am I okay?

  That’s rather relative. Why didn’t he tell me?

  Because Martina didn’t want anyone to tell me. She wanted to talk to me herself.

  What the fuck was she doing in India for the past six months when she should have been home in a proper English hospital getting proper treatment? (I’m yelling and I don’t care. Uncle Harvey is a big man – he can take a few verbal punches)

  There is some mumbling and jumbling about holistic bullshit and that sort of yada yada yada. None of it worked. She came home to die. Unless of course she gets a heart transplant. Then she stands a chance.

  I don’t want to hear this. What do I need to do to make this happen?

  We just have to wait. She’s on every list. She’s still young enough. Prayer?

  Fuck prayer. My mother is a dowager countess that has to count for something in this country. That has to bump her up the list. If the Queen needed a heart they’d get her one. We’re not the same as regular people. (The most wrong thing I could EVER say to Uncle Harvey – I girded my loins in preparation for a speech that would surely involve references to the working class, my maternal grandparents, and what it truly meant to be English…)

  All people on the waiting lists are treated equally. And before I get my big girl pants in a twist, keep in mind I’m not so far removed from the proletariat as I’d like to imagine I am. My grandfather, a good man he was too, was a butcher that wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and me own grandmother took in ironing to put food on the table. If I want to know what makes me English, that’s what makes me English. So I best get off me high horse your majesty. (Uncle Harvey slips into this cockney taxi driver speak – I love how his accent changes according to the circumstance. I couldn’t do cockney if I wanted. I could maybe do Geordie, but probably not).

  I am duly chastised. What can I do? What does she need? Mum told me she needed nothing. Aunt Lucy told me nothing, nothing at all, not a thing, they were perfectly fine. I don’t believe either of them.

  Go visit her. That’s what she really wants.

  I plan on it. Is he ready to move into the house?

  He’s ready. Been watching Downton Abbey, Upstairs Downstairs, and Wooster and Jeeves.

  Wooster and Jeeves? (This actually makes me laugh when I desperately need to laugh)

  I’m to call him Wright. He’s typed up a CV. When am I home?

  Couple of days. I have to sort a few things out. Will he go visit mum?

  He goes to visit every Sunday evening for dinner.

  I gesture to Elon as I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Does he have any cash in the London house?

  Probably. But never mind. He’ll sort it out with one of his lawyer bitches in London.

  I don’t object. I don’t need to be proud at this moment. This is something else. I tell Uncle Harvey to expect an envelope from a courier. It’ll contain cash. Make Aunt Lucy take it. Tell her it’s from me to take care of mum. Can he do that?

  He knows how to handle his sisters.

  Elon is on his mobile with one of his flying monkeys giving them instructions when I finish the call with Uncle Harvey.

  I am so tempted to have Elon erase my burdens. Or, at least have him instruct his trained dogs to just make my troubles disappear. But I don’t. And I won’t say anything ever about the money for my mother. This is his apology. Beyond the hug and the words there would have to be a grand gesture in Elon’s mind for it to count. This is what he lea
rned from his parents. An apology wasn’t words. It was a car.

  Neither of us say anything for a long moment.

  Do I want him to go and visit mum whilst I’m in Japan?

  Would he? Mum likes him. Proof she has terrible taste.

  I’m an ass hole. I should have called her sooner. I shouldn’t have let what happened after my father died fester for so long.

  I know.

  Do I want a few minutes alone?

  Would he mind terribly?

  Not at all.

  That evil bastard reaches around me with one arm and hugs me as I’m sitting in my grandfather’s chair. It’s not like Elon hasn’t seen me crash emotionally, but I’d rather be alone for my second breakdown in a twenty-four hour period.

  The door to the office closes behind him. I’m not unaware that Olga, who has without a doubt been lurking around on the other side of the door, switches places with Elon in the room.

  Those freakishly strong arms of her hold me yet again. I am well assured that she was in fact eavesdropping and is wholly aware of the situation.

  How have I only known her for a few days, but yet it seems like we’ve been together forever? I don’t understand this. I’ve never been like this with anyone before. Not even my princess.

  Olga is different. Special. It’s like we’ve jumped from an airplane and she’s the one with the parachute. So I cling to her as if my life depends on the embrace.

  She sits on my lap with her arms around my neck and her cheek against my head. Again she promises me that everything will be okay. She’s been thinking about what needs to be done. It’ll all be okay. No more drop cloths on the furniture. No more busted down pipes. It will all be okay. She promises me.

  As much as I know I need to rest firmly in reality I know that I can’t. At least not at that moment. At that moment I indulge myself in her vision of a future that seems implausible.

  We sit in the green leather wing back chair that was my grandfather’s and his father’s before him – I can’t be certain but it might go another generation or two back (Mr. Gresham would know). Our heads together and arms entwined.

  Lovely. I can’t recall ever sitting in such a way with any of the women that have marched through my life like some disorganized passive-aggressive cadet review in Gucci.

  The things Olga wants to do:

  •Get the plumbing fixed. Ridiculous that water needs to be boiled for her bath.

  oI wholly agree. Plumbing first. A steam room would be simply delightful.

  oTurkish bath. Absolutely. And a sauna.

  oIt’s as if she’s reading my mind.

  •New windows.

  oPossible. Might be a problem. Need to talk to the National Trust people. Should be able to manage as long as we follow their guidelines.

  •Hire a proper staff.

  oAnd why not?

  •Get the stables up to date with proper heating and such.

  oCould we get a few horses?

  oOf course. She knows someone that’s very good with horses. She’ll talk to him when the time is right.

  •Open up the house. Get the covers off the furniture.

  oWe couldn’t do it soon enough.

  oA party would be nice.

  oYes. A big party.

  •What are my thoughts on a swimming pool? Directly out the back. Between the terrace and the sea?

  oI love this idea. In fact I think there are plans somewhere for a swimming pool that was going to be installed then that whole nasty business with the Nazis and Hitler put the kibosh on it.

  oHow annoying.

  oIsn’t it just?

  •The heating. That should have been on the top of the list. The heating must be seen to.

  oWithout a moment’s hesitation.

  She loves these plans. This sort of nonsensical dreamy talk takes me out of my world filled with tax bills, busted radiators and dying mummy to another world. One in which Olga cuddles me and talks about what the world should be like rather than what it is.

  In a practical sense I understand that I have house guests. But in a more practical sense I know that Elon is family, Renata is a pain in my ass, and Mrs. Gresham will keep her on a leash. Elon will also have informed Mrs. Gresham that I have spoken to my mother. No one will bother us until we chose to emerge from my sanctuary.

  We are allowed privacy which we use to watch the other two Indiana Jones movies and a few episodes of Young Indiana Jones. Other dreams are woven during this time. A trip to Egypt and a town house in London. I could get lost in this. Snuggling under the covers with the fireplace throwing off heat as Olga fondles me gently to a climax more than once is the perfect way to ignore my troubles.

  Unfortunately the dinner gong won’t allow me to continue to live in ignorant bliss.

  We’ve hidden ourselves away the whole afternoon. Time to be gracious.

  Olga nods. Yes. We have to be polite to our guests. Even if she doesn’t really have a good feeling about that Renata.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Long Room

  Wold Hall has a main dining room. It’s called the Long Room. It’s a long rectangle that is notably narrow with French doors the long side. On a rare warm evening, the doors to the Long Room and the doors to the Ball Room can be opened on to the terrace. There is space for a band on the terrace and a room for a dance floor. It all comes together beautifully for a party. The last time the room had been used, was for my parents twenty-fifth anniversary. My grandparents were still alive. We’d just received an injection of cash from the movie studio that had used the grounds and the house for filming one of those embarrassingly inaccurate Regency period dramas. Someone please tell me how many times a Jane Austen novel can be turned into a movie? How many?

  Anyhow…

  What do we Adairs do when we have a windfall? Do we get the hot water sorted out? Do we modernize the electricity? Heavens No! We throw a party! God I love my family! This is why everyone used to love the Adairs. This is probably why a lot of my foolishness has been readily forgiven. There is an historical expectation that there is always one or two amongst us that is disreputable. We Adairs have a reputation for being a good time.

  This is why Uncle Albert is such a crushing bore.

  But again, this goes along with tradition. The eldest son and future earl is the fun one. The other sons are the responsible ones. I am still annoyed with my parents that I’m an only child. If only I had a younger brother to drive bananas my life would be fully complete.

  The last party we had in the dining room was mum and dad’s anniversary. Twenty-five years. I resented their happiness because I was never really a part of it. They were one of those couples who loved each other best – then there was me. The afterthought. The thing dad needed to produce to make his dad happy and to annoy his brother. The focus of their love was always each other.

  I understand that it’s very cool to proclaim to love only your spouse passionately then to write an article or a blog post about the glory of selfishness expounding that the best thing a parent can do for their child is to show them what true love looks like from up-close. Bullshit. The truth is, being a child of one of those couples’ burns. My parents adored each other. Then me. Sort of. I’m pleased they were so close. I want that kind of love with my own wife. But not to the detriment of my child.

  I digress into my own childishness again. I really need to get over this. I really do.

  The night of their anniversary party was simply grand. Their anniversary had actually passed and by the sort of coincidence they only noticed until it was too late to do anything about it the party had been planned the day of my twenty-fifth birthday. My birthday was always one of those things we as a family kept quiet. Because my mother was three months pregnant with me when they got married. So – as logic would dictate – instead of focusing on not focusing on their anniversary (which was by default far more important than my birthday) my birthday was always quiet.

  I seriously n
eed to start working on getting over this.

  The doors were open, there was very little breeze, there were fairy lights, music, candles, food, booze, flowers, presents, friends, family, and a general sense of joy. Everyone envied my parents. Such a beautiful couple still so very in love after twenty-five years.

  I hum Happy Fucking Birthday to Me as I wander around snatching canapés off of trays and drinking champagne out of a bottle. My girlfriend at the time was an Icelandic model that spent her time either binging or purging. Or snorting lines of coke. Fantastic. I was delighted she was in Bali for work. A sure sign our relationship was over.

  Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy were guests. Aunt Lucy looked uncomfortable in mum’s dress. Aunt Lucy was every bit as lovely as mum. Just not as beautiful. Perhaps if she hadn’t spent her girlish years sharing a bedroom with mum who outshone the sun itself, she might have felt more confident. Uncle Harvey looked regal in the purple satin rezhvolke jacket accented perfectly with velvet trim he’d proudly purchased at Oxfam for a pound. I will say that the orange fez with white tassel was a fetching touch.

  They brought something for me. Something special. Mrs. Gresham left it in the China Room.

  We three go together.

  In the moonlit China Room is a woman.

  She’s standing at the window looking out in the direction of the terrace. Early thirties. Pretty enough, but no model. Neither tall nor short. A bit chubby in a Renee Zellweger Bridget Jones Diary way, but again my point of reference for what a woman should look like is an Icelandic anorexic with a drug problem. In the real world where real women live, she was truly average. But I didn’t live in that world. My world was made up of models and other assorted beautiful people.

  She’s wearing an empire cut gown studded with pearls and elbow length gloves that make her lovelier than she will ever realize.

  The gloves, the rounded figure, the dress popular circa 1810 and the hair make me think she’s a ghost. I’ve grown up in Wold Hall. Ghosts are common as leaky roofs in a rainstorm.