Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four

by Livia Ellis

  Aunt Lucy turns on the light. She’s still there. Not a ghost.

  They got me a woman? I smile at the woman who looks embarrassed that she’s been caught alone in the moonlit room while the party was happening elsewhere.

  She tries to bolt in the most polite and ladylike way possible.

  A vision in Egyptian blue – Uncle Harvey being Uncle Harvey stops her from fleeing – how fetching she is. Someone that has the same sense of style and joie de vivre he has. He finds parties boorish too. All of those people trying so desperately hard to look marvelous and gay when really they would all rather be home with a can of lager and a dish of chips.

  The woman smiles. She has a pretty smile. Nice teeth. Expensive orthodontia. Possible rhinoplasty.

  I know her. She’s Cousin Margaret’s friend. The one with the laughably thick Scottish accent. The one whose father had a worldwide chicken burger empire. Classy.

  She’s very sorry. She resumes edging around the room to the door.

  Why is she sorry? What is she doing in here?

  Nothing. Nothing at all. Just wandered in when looking for the ladies room. It’s a lovely room. Nice and peaceful. She’s very sorry.

  Stay – Uncle Harvey practically grabs her arm and pulls her back before she can make it out the door. We have a surprise.

  During this Aunt Lucy has placed her plastic domed Tupperware cake carrier on the table. It’s my granny’s recipe. Just like I like it. With the Smarties crushed up and mixed into the buttercream. Happy Birthday 25 Ollie is written out in bright blue frosting across the top. There are candles already in place. Twenty-five and one to grow on.

  The woman stays rather than fight against the pull of Aunt Lucy’s madeira cake with Smarties.

  The three sing. I blow out my candles. The only thing we’re missing is orange squash. Finally it really feels like my birthday.

  The cake is perfect. Just like I remember it. How many birthdays did I spend with my grandparents or my aunt Lucy and not my parents? Practically all of them I think. In fact, I can’t recall one birthday spent with my parents on my actual birthday. That’s the problem with my birthday falling during the final week in May. It generally meant a choice had to be made between being with me or being in Cannes with all of their fabulous friends for the parties surrounding the film festival. No contest. I have a birthday every year – The Cannes Film Festival comes around well… every year. But surely even a child can understand that the yacht parties are simply unmissable. Those are once in a lifetime. Those memories last forever. Sort of like my anger at all of the missed birthdays.

  After twenty minutes, the party is over. Mum’s found us.

  Why are we all locked away in the China Room during her anniversary party?

  It’s my birthday. There’s cake.

  It’s not my birthday. My birthday isn’t for a week.

  No really. It’s my birthday. I could show her my passport if she’d like.

  It takes her a moment then she realizes I’m right. It’s really my birthday.

  Why didn’t I say anything sooner?

  What could I have possibly said? And why for that matter? Would it have changed anything? Would her magical twenty-fifth anniversary party suddenly incorporate my birthday? She set the date. Not me. That she’s been planning this party for as long as she has and never realized it was on the same day as my birthday is telling.

  Well… Why do I do this? Why do I wait until the very possibly worst moment to try to ruin her party? She was having such a lovely evening and now this.

  I haven’t done anything.

  Uncle Harvey interjects at this point. Martina – stop being such a spoiled bitch. It’s not like they had the cake brought out and the band play Happy Birthday.

  She doesn’t understand why this couldn’t have waited until the next day.

  Because today is my birthday. Not tomorrow. Not in two weeks. I’m sorry if I ruined her party.

  I didn’t ruin her party. Just… Just finish up and get back out before anyone knows I’m missing.

  She leaves. Uncle Harvey, Aunt Lucy, and the woman in the blue dress leave a minute later.

  I turn the light off. There is enough ambient light coming in from the moon and the party lights. I take another slice of my cake and go to the window. That cake is perfect. I couldn’t have asked for more. Except for my parents to have remembered it was my birthday.

  The door opens and my father enters.

  He turns on the light.

  I tell him to turn it off.

  He turns off the light.

  What would I tell him if I could go back in time? Three years to the day you’re going to step in front of a bus on your way to meet me for dinner. I’m going to think you forgot which is odd because you never forget and you were never late after we started to make peace. Then I’ll get a call telling me you’re dead. What would I tell him? Stay home on my twenty-eighth birthday. We’ll do it another day.

  He’s sorry. He forgot too. Mum’s pretty upset.

  Because I’ve ruined her party? Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy have done nothing wrong. We very quietly slipped away and had some cake. This is not a crime.

  She’s upset because she didn’t realize it was my birthday.

  This has nothing to do with me. I have done nothing. What does he want?

  I really should have said something. I’m not the only person out in that room that probably realizes it’s my birthday and there has been no mention of it.

  So I’m making them look bad? (this makes me laugh loudly) Here’s a revelation for them. There isn’t a person out in that room that knows our family well that isn’t aware of the fact they are terrible parents.

  Is that really what I think?

  How about he have a good long think about it while the two of them are enjoying their three months in the rented villa in Tuscany for what is being called the ultimate second honeymoon. I’m going to give him something to ponder before the conversation ends. This is the first time since I was born that we’ve been together on my birthday.

  That can’t be right.

  Prove me wrong.

  He can’t.

  I know.

  I really do hate them don’t I? It’s not just teenage angst anymore, is it?

  Yes. I really do hate them. Couple of fucking spoiled children. The only reason I’m there is because it was easier to come then to not come. I’d much rather be in Bali with my girlfriend (lie).

  He’s sorry. Why don’t I come with them to Tuscany?

  Why would I want to do that?

  Family trip.

  Is he joking? I’m twenty-four – correction, twenty-five years old. Since when am I included on their holidays?

  He’s trying. I need to meet him part of the way.

  Actually I don’t.

  It’s not too late.

  It’s been too late for a long time. This is not what I wanted. Not even a little. I’m sorry Aunt Lucy brought a cake for me. I wish she hadn’t. I’m sorry mum’s unhappy. Again, not what I wanted. My life is infinitely easier when I’m being ignored rather than a source of distress. Proof I’ve grown up. I no longer enjoy causing trouble to get their attention. What does he want me to do to make the situation better?

  Just come out. Enjoy the rest of the evening. Think about joining them in Tuscany…

  Has he mentioned my joining them in Tuscany to mum?

  No. But we should do something as a family. She’ll see that he’s right.

  I’m sure she will. Have a conversation with her. If she comes to me and tells me nothing would make her happier than me joining them in Tuscany, then I’ll actually consider it. I’m going to have some more cake. I’ll be out in a few minutes. I need a minute for myself.

  It’s almost time for the toast.

  Yes. (I pat my jacket pocket where the speech he wrote for me is tucked away) I am all ready. Unless he’d rather someone else entreat the guests to raise a glass to the happiest couple in all of England.
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br />   He did put that in the speech didn’t he?

  Yes.

  Would I rather someone else gives the toast?

  I really could care less. If it fits in with their deluded fantasy to have me toast to their love and joy, then I’ll do it.

  He’s sorry.

  Okay. I forgive him? Is that what he wants to hear?

  Promise him we’ll have dinner when he gets back from Tuscany.

  Sure. We can have dinner when he gets back from Tuscany. He’s got my number. He can call me.

  He hugs me. I want to feel some emotional breakthrough, but I only feel uncomfortable. I wonder if he’s having some kind of mid-life crises. Is this what happens when one turns fifty? Do we take stock of our lives and realize how profound our failures are? That there is a point of no return with some relationships. Sort of like that moment when we know we won’t be an Olympic athlete or win an Oscar?

  I don’t know what is going on with him, but I’m certain that he will not pursue that dinner date. I’d actually go to Tuscany with them if mum agreed to it just to see what happened. My guess based on past experience – we’d last a day before a falling out.

  I’m left alone in the China Room. Not a minute later, the door opens again. If it’s mum coming to ask me to go to Tuscany I might actually cry. But it’s not. It’s the Scottish woman in the Jane Austin dress.

  She’s really sorry. She forgot her bag. She didn’t want to come in while I was talking with my father. She’s very sorry. She hopes I still have a very happy birthday.

  I watch her as she edges around the room. Twice she thumps a leg in the moonlit room. She apologizes to me each time. She’s so very sorry. She just can’t seem to find her bag.

  It’s on the window ledge in front of me. I hold it up.

  She takes the bag from me. Gives it a tug, but I don’t let it go. She’s very sorry.

  I hold the bag and refuse to let it go. Why is she sorry?

  She won’t look at me. I don’t know if I intimidate her or she’s embarrassed for me. I’d be embarrassed for me if I had to witness the scene with my mother and I wasn’t part of the family.

  I like her dress.

  Really? It seemed like a good idea when she picked it out. She figured castle. Party. Maybe she’s read too many Jane Austen novels.

  I like her dress. It’s pretty.

  She’s not my type. Not even a little. She knows this. I’m me. I’m Ollie Adair. But there is something wholesome and comforting about this girl in her anachronistic dress. She is what most of the women I know are not. She’s kind. She says sorry. She eats cake.

  I’m the worst thing that could happen to her. I’m not kind. I’m spoiled and selfish. I’m emotionally immature and angry.

  So what do I do? I kiss this rather average woman in the moonlight. It’s like magic. I will her to fall in love with me, but I’m the one that falls. We neck in the moonlight until right before midnight when I’m required to give my toast. She smudges her lipstick off my cheek, fixes my tie. Thanks me for the kiss. It was sweet. I’m sweet.

  No one ever tells me I’m sweet.

  How many people get to see this side of me?

  Not to brag, but I don’t exactly have a problem attracting female attention.

  Of this she has no doubt. The vulnerable side. That’s sweet. When my guard is down. When I’m not working really hard to prove to the world I just don’t care about a thing.

  Am I that transparent?

  Only for a very brief moment and she was the only witness. My secret is safe with her.

  I kiss her again. I take her hand. We return to the terrace together. She disappears into the crowd.

  I give my toast.

  My father makes a speech. It’s not the original speech I had to listen to him rehearse and provide a critique for. Although he still expounds on the pure loveliness of my mother in such a way I half expect a trio of angry Greek goddesses to arrive on the spot and demand reparations for being so insulted by comparison to a mere mortal woman, there is a footnote. Mention is made of it being my twenty-fifth birthday.

  I appreciate the gesture. Truthfully would have been better just letting it be. It’s only a small percentage of the people at the party that know it’s my birthday before he makes the announcement. Only a small percentage of the people think he and my mother and a couple of ass-holes for planning their anniversary party on my birthday. After he makes the announcement everyone at the party thinks there is something a bit wrong with what they’ve done. There’s no room on the dessert table next to the enormous wedding cake they have for themselves. This is their party and their party alone.

  I’m grateful for the gloved hand on my arm that seems to know during dad’s speech that I would rather not be standing alone even though this is what I want the world to think.

  The awkward eternity of dad’s speech ends with a lot of very polite clapping.

  To everyone’s relief, the music starts again.

  We dance. We talk. I ask her if she wants to go to my bedroom and see my wooden sailboats.

  She laughs at me. Sailboats? Really?

  I kiss her on the cheek. I whisper in her ear. Does she want to come upstairs with me or not?

  I take her to bed that night.

  She’s shy which I found odd and sweet. She insists we keep the lights off.

  More than once she mentions the fact she’s eight years older than me and she feels a bit like she’s robbing the cradle. But I am absolutely adorable. And if she’s going to have a one night stand, it might as well be with someone she’d never sleep with otherwise.

  In the morning when I wake she’s gone.

  I double check with Margaret who I find in the China Room along with ten other guests having breakfast that her Scottish friend is the chicken burger princess.

  Chicken burger princess? I did not sleep with her friend, did I?

  I might have.

  I’m incorrigible.

  My new friend walks into the China Room. She looks at me. The soft brown hair I enjoyed releasing from the pins hangs around her shoulders and the calf-brown eyes give me a look I’ve never seen on a woman’s face the morning after a night of my superior loving. That what the hell was I thinking? look.

  Margaret rolls her eyes and sighs.

  She sits. The only open seat in the room is by me.

  I kiss her cheek. I take her hand under the table. I have no idea what I’m doing. This woman is not my type at all. Besides the fact she’s eight years older than me, she’s so normal. She’s wearing a sweater set and pearls and a kick pleat skirt. Do women dress like this anymore? Or is this another assumption like the one that put her in the Regency era empire cut gown for the party? Has she been reading too much Evelyn Waugh? She is not my type on any level. But she was so sweet and kind when I needed it that I find her oddly irresistible at that moment.

  Apple blushes appear on her cheeks. She’s adorable in her own way.

  After breakfast how would she like to go and see my sailboat?

  She laughs loudly. Then she leans over and whispers in my ear. Are we talking about a real sailboat, one of my model sailboats, or is that a euphemism for my penis?

  That would be a euphemism for my penis. I don’t own a real sailboat and she’s already seen my model sailboats.

  We slip away after breakfast and spend the morning in my bed. After lunch we show our faces. Horses scare her, so we go walking along the cliffs that afternoon.

  That evening as the guests are assembling for cocktail hour mum asks me if I’m going to Tuscany with her and dad. I laugh at her. She’s not serious, is she? Did dad put her up to this? I know perfectly well neither of them wants me around.

  We spend a second night together then a third. When the weekend is over, I drive her home to Inverness. The ten hour drive takes four days as we meander from place to place. As much as an arrogant self-absorbed little prick can, I fall in love with her in those days.

  Her father despises me instantl
y. A fact that will never change. He thinks the only thing that interests me about his only child is his money. They almost fall out over me. She doesn’t need his money. She does very well running the North American division of his vast chicken burger empire. If he wants to fire her, he can. She could get another job probably working for a competitor. Eventually he accepts that I’m not going anywhere so he’d better learn to stomach me if not like me.

  She takes two weeks off for a long overdue holiday. We go to the British Virgin Islands where her father has an estate. I know I have fallen in to the best thing that will ever happen to me when she gives me a sailboat as a belated birthday present.

  My grandparents are thrilled. They couldn’t be more delighted. We can’t get married soon enough. In fact, why do we have to wait? There is no reason we can’t get married sooner rather than later. She is charming, kind and warm. Just what I need to balance me out. She’ll make an excellent countess. We are absolutely perfectly suited. Not since my great-grandfather married an American heiress have we had a new injection of cash into the family coffers. It’s long overdue.

  My parents aren’t allowed to have an opinion.

  I enjoy life when she’s at work. She travels extensively. Being the crown princess of a chicken burger empire is hard work. I’m technically in a relationship but I’m wholly on my own in London to do whatever the hell I want to do when she’s gone. And I do whatever the hell I want to do. With a variety of people. Openly. Without apology.

  She has an apartment in London which I move into without a moment’s hesitation.

  My father starts badgering me into joining him for dinners, lunches, and teas. I go because it’s easier than coming up with fresh excuses to avoid him.

  Our first Christmas together we get engaged. Everyone knew it was coming so it’s just a formality, but a nice one. She wears my great-grandmother’s (the American heiress) diamond engagement ring.

  The wedding is planned for the following summer.

  She goes to Beijing to oversee the expansion of the chicken burger empire. I have absolutely no interest in joining her, but I visit often enough to keep her happy.