by Livia Ellis
Yes. She’s really fine.
Yes. She went to work.
Yes. She has my headband with the tiny dancing cocks.
Yes. Going to work isn’t a problem.
Yes. She’s staying at the hotel until she can sort something out.
Yes. She’s my biotch and I’m her big daddy.
Yes. I’m the most ghetto badass she knows.
No. She’s not just saying that.
When am I coming by to pick up my headband with the tiny cocks?
I’m going out of town this weekend.
Where am I going?
Home. Wold Hall. Does she want to go?
Am I serious?
Of course I’m serious. Better than staying in the hotel over the weekend.
She’s in.
Be at my place at ten. I’ll text her the address.
She’ll be there.
I don’t have my keys for Elon’s place so I have to ring the bell and wait, in the hope he’s not passed out cold or that the housekeeper has arrived.
I hear sounds coming to the door.
Roland opens the door.
Good to see me.
Elon is suffering loudly.
He’s made coffee.
He has my messenger bag.
Won’t I please come in?
I walk into the house.
Roland returns my keys to me.
My messenger bag is propped against the wall.
We go to the kitchen.
He didn’t feel right leaving Elon in the state he was in so he stayed the night.
I’m given coffee and offered a plate of croissants.
Roland was in the process of squeezing fresh grapefruit juice when I interrupted him. I had no idea Elon owned a juicer.
It was very kind of him to take Elon home.
Not at all. Not a problem. Was I able to help my friend?
More or less.
Would that explain my finger and that rather roguish looking black eye I’m sporting?
Yes.
Rescuing a damsel in distress is hard business.
Is Elon okay? He wasn’t too much trouble?
Not at all. All vomit made it into the toilet.
That’s good.
Elon is an interesting sort of bloke. He couldn’t possibly have been serious when he offered to buy him a car to not leave him alone.
He was probably serious. This is a thing Elon does.
Offers to buy people cars?
Yes. He sometimes doesn’t understand that money doesn’t buy true friendship. I love Elon, but in a lot of ways he’s sort of screwed up.
Tragic. Is he my boyfriend?
I choke on my coffee. No. Not at all. No.
That’s what Elon said. He is hard pressed to believe it.
We are just friends.
Come now. I needn’t be coy. He’s never deluded himself into believing I was actually single.
Right. (We have that business arrangement I’d forgotten about.) Truthfully – Elon is my friend. We’ve been friends since we were children. We might have had more from time to time, but we are better as friends.
Interesting. Anyhow – Elon is in the bath. His mother is arriving. He’s threatening to drown himself.
That’s standard.
Just to be safe, he removed all sharp implements from the bathroom.
Probably not necessary. Sigrund isn’t half as bad as Elon makes her out to be. He’d rather out live her just to spite her.
So she is not a Wagnerian fury with a crown of braids determined to give him nightmares?
Not exactly. But close. Elon’s family tends to be a touch eccentric.
Am I being polite?
Sort of. Does he have a good relationship with his parents?
Yes. He gets along beautifully with his parents.
Is he bullshitting me?
No. He really has a wonderful relationship with his parents. His brothers are his best friends. He adores his sisters.
That’s nice. Elon doesn’t really have that so it might be hard for him to understand.
He gets dysfunctional families. Just because he doesn’t have one doesn’t mean he lives in a cave. Elon made him promise repeatedly not to leave. He’s going to stay mostly out of curiosity. No person can possibly embody all of the traits he claims Sigrund has.
Honestly he doesn’t have to stay. I can take it from here.
Am I kicking him out?
No. Not at all. That isn’t what I meant. I only meant that he’s really done more than he needed to do.
Elon was very emotional the previous night. He told Elon he would stay and he’s going to stay. He’s taken the day off of work. For better or worse, he’s going to see this through.
He took the day off work?
Yes. He took the day off work. Elon was very upset. It felt wrong to leave him.
The sound of stomping and grumbling preluded the arrival of Elon.
Wrapped in a deep blue robe that made his eyes shine with a supernatural glow he smelled a lot better than he looked.
What’s up bitches?
Charming. There is juice and croissant.
Grapefruit?
Yes. His majesty’s wish is his command.
Did he strain it?
Yes.
Croissants from the bakery around the corner to the left and not the right?
Yes. One more ridiculous demand and he will leave.
He said he would stay.
So don’t push it.
As I sit at the counter in the kitchen eating more carbs I’m only going to have to run off, I observe this dynamic. This is chemistry. This is the human equivalent of the purely perfect combination of caramel and salt or chili and chocolate. It shouldn’t work, but it so clearly does. I’m watching magic happen.
The doorbell rings.
I offer to get it.
Sigrund – Viking warrior princess with a little dog in one arm and a cigarette in the other snapped her fingers at the giant man who stood at her elbow. I have in my life never seen a such a tall man. That he wears a deep purple suit turns him into a beacon. There is nothing discreet about him. Yes he moves like a whisper.
He’s a shaman darling. Sigrund tells me this as if this explains everything. The dog somehow ends up in my arms.
She brought him for my mother. He’s a shaman.
Because what woman doesn’t need a shaman?
Don’t be such a bore. If anyone would appreciate a shaman Martina would. She heard I wasn’t being a little prick anymore.
Has she now?
Yes. And good on me. About time I grew up a little. Whatever could I have been thinking trying to make my father’s death about me?
I follow her as she walks through the house. I silently thank god for giving me my mother who is the picture of maternal stability compared to Sigrund.
Where is her darling boy?! She sings out as she heads for the kitchen.
Go away! Go away! Go away!
There’s a fifty-fifty chance Elon will be hiding under the kitchen table. If he is under the table it will take more than croissants and grapefruit juice to lure him out.
Well somebody is in a mood! Is daddy having a bad morning?
The Shaman and I follow Sigrund into the kitchen. Elon is sitting at the counter. Roland is placing cups and saucers in a line.
Marcus? Sigrund smiles at Roland.
Roland.
Oh? Where is this Marcus she keeps hearing about?
Not here.
(I may have my issues with my mother, but I’ll take her any day over Sigrund)
She thought Marcus was the new lover. Who is he?
He is Roland. Not Marcus. Does she want tea or coffee?
Neither. She’ll have a very crisp, very cold Riesling with some crudités ever so slightly dusted with a balsamic vinaigrette. And then do walk the dog and see to her luggage. She’ll be staying.
He is not a servant.
Oh? Really? The hair threw her off.
It’s very…. Proletarian. Are he and Elon lovers?
Roland opens the wine fridge and pulls out a green bottle of something white and well chilled.
Elon chuckles, his face buried in his hands.
I wonder if he’s going to serve the wine to her or smash the bottle over her head.
Roland pulls the cork. Yes. They are lovers. Does she have a problem with that?
She casts an appraising eye over Roland.
How old is he?
Forty.
Really? Does he tan a lot?
No.
Does he work outdoors?
No.
Does he work?
Yes. He has a very good job in fact. Actually quite an excellent job in marketing.
Marketing? Sounds dull. Well never mind. She’s brought a Shaman.
I put the dog down. It starts barking at Elon. Elon nearly kicks it out of the room. Roland intervenes and removes the dog before it becomes a living football.
The Shaman stands to the side. Like a pillar. A giant purple pillar.
He looks at me with these eyes that are black on black. His pupils are indistinguishable from the irises.
He sort of freaks me out a little.
Where is her granddaughter?
No. nononononononononono times a million no. Not a granddaughter. A problem that needs to be managed.
Nonsense! Where is her granddaughter? She bought her a pony and she’s having her chart done. Only Renata couldn’t hold out just long enough to guarantee that her Virgo son wouldn’t have an Aries daughter. But never mind about that. What’s done is done. Any chance it’s not too late to change her name? It’s just that she’s already had her numbers done and she could have a more auspicious name. Preferably something with seven letters. Like Matilda. Or – here’s a fun thought – Sigrund! Little Sigrund and Big Sigrund. How fun would that be? Oh she couldn’t be happier. Her gay son has just made her so proud. How fun is it to have a gay son with a baby? It’s just so now. What are his thoughts on getting a family portrait done? She can’t promise anything but maybe, just maybe, she might have some pull with Anne Geddes people.
Elon begins slamming his head into the counter.
So? Where is her granddaughter?
I nearly back into the Shaman. I’d forgotten he was there. It’s like he disappears into the background.
A small scream bubbles out of me.
The Shaman is unmoved. Only his eyes seem capable of motion.
This dude freaks me out.
He watches me.
I don’t want to know what he sees.
So? Are we all going to the hospital? Or is she going by herself to… (she pulls a paper out of her handbag and names the hospital and room Renata is convalescing).
We’re all going. (Roland seems to be the one making the decisions.)
Elon objects.
Roland clears his throat. Can they speak privately for a moment?
The two leave the room.
I’m totally captivated by this unfolding family drama. For once it’s not about me and my family.
The two return to the room.
We’re all going to the hospital.
CHAPTER TEN
Renata
In a private hospital in the center of London where the babies of the wealthy and the famous are born, Renata is making her presence known.
I haven’t spoken to Renata since her little sting operation went bust. I’m wholly taken by surprise when I walk into the room and the Sheik is sitting in a chair looking bored.
It turns out his name is Miguel and he’s Renata’s boyfriend. It really does take all kinds.
He hides behind a magazine.
The new and improved Oliver that refuses to ignore uncomfortable situations in the name of being polite refuses to participate. I sit next to him.
So. How’s the oil business treating him?
He looks sufficiently humbled. He also looks stoned. The bloodshot eyes and the twitching are pretty obvious. I’m going to have to tell Elon about this. Just not at this moment. He might not want Ana, but with a mother like Renata and her junkie boyfriend for decency sake if nothing else he will have to do something.
Did he really think I would believe he was a fucking sheik?
He looks around as if he’s wishing a vortex might open and swallow him whole. He’s edgy and nervous. More than he should be despite the fact he’s coming face to face with me.
So what’s the deal? Why is he dating Renata? Is he banking on a big payout? Does he actually care for her? I get it – I dated her for nearly four years. There is something about all that crazy that is kind of intoxicating.
He finally looks at me. He knows all about me. About how I treated her. About how Elon treated her. We owe her for all the pain we’ve caused her.
Ah that’s it. Okay. When he figures it out, give me a call. I have an excellent psychiatrist I can recommend. Just so we’re clear, if my finger weren’t already busted up from taking on a different ass wipe, I’d take him outside and kick his ass just because I probably can. Just because I play posh professionally, doesn’t mean I can’t toe the line. If he ever tries to fuck with me again, I’ll find him. I’m going to give him a pass this time just because in truth I feel really fucking sorry for him.
He gets up and leaves after mumbling something to Renata.
Poor idiot.
Roland sits next to me in Miguel’s abandoned chair.
Does he want to tell me what happened after we parted ways?
Have I ever been ruinously drunk and emotionally distraught?
Yes.
That times about a hundred.
Say no more.
He wasn’t going to.
Two people, each carrying a slim sleek Halliburton silver case, enter the room.
Renata starts squawking.
Elon is firm.
Renata insists the hospital has already done all of the testing that needs to be done.
Elon could give five flying fucking fucks. It’s done his way or no way. Besides – this is out of his hands and in the hands of the family lawyers.
Sigrund – who is holding baby Ana like an undetonated bomb – confirms in only the way Sigrund could – No Ticky No Washy.
Renata refuses.
I silently wonder if she hasn’t somehow gotten to someone in the lab to make absolutely certain the test results come back the way she wants.
Sigrund is her usual relentless self. Renata doesn’t really think they’re going to just hand over the kind of money and support she is asking for on blind trust? It would be just like her to game the results. Be serious. This isn’t their first rodeo.
Renata agrees after a few lame protests.
Two separate sets of swabs are taken.
I am asked to show identification, which I do, and the interior of my cheek is swabbed. I say a small prayer to whomever the fuck might be looking out for me that there isn’t some ironical twist of fate zooming towards me.
Roland observes the process. At long last he leans over and speaks quietly to me. These people are far more interesting than his family could ever hope to be. Are they normally like this?
Yes.
The pair of people with their attaché cases get signatures from both Elon and Renata on long strips of security tape. The tape is wrapped around the cases sealing them for security before they depart. I wonder how much that is going to cost.
I have to go. I don’t say that I have a client. Before walking out the door, I stop and look at the kid.
I don’t need to see the results which will be produced at undoubtedly extraordinary expense from not one but two independent labs to know the truth. I can see it in the mouth and the eyes. Ana is Elon’s. Poor kid.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Footballer
I don’t know what to make of the Footballer. I’ve never been able to pin him down. Most of my other clients I get. I know why they want my services. This one I don’t get. He is enigmatic.
Or – here’s a thought – maybe he’s just as shallow and two dimensional as all of those magazine covers he’s on and, in truth, what he wants from me is a really good blow every couple of weeks.
I just can’t figure him out and that very well could be because there is nothing to figure out.
Like so many of my male clients, he has a wife.
The Baron
The Actor
The Sheik (the real one – not Renata’s boyfriend)
There are more, but those are the three I see most regularly. I know what they want from me. It’s different for each of them, but in the end I know what they want. The Footballer constantly leaves me befuddled.
What I give him is a blow. That’s generally it. I think he wants more, but he hasn’t given me any indication of what that might be.
As I enter the building, my phone rings in my pocket.
The Matchmaker.
Did I fall rollerblading, walk into a glass wall, or get into a fistfight?
Fistfight.
She doesn’t believe me.
Walked into a glass wall.
Charming. Remind her to sign me up for ballet lessons. How battered am I looking?
I was described as roguish earlier in the day.
Not good.
Give me a golden hoop earring and a parakeet and I’d make a very dangerous pirate.
Not good at all.
My finger is also wrapped up.
Who do I have on deck?
Are we using pirate lingo?
No. That would be baseball lingo anyhow. What clients do I have over the next few days?
I’m on my way to meet the Footballer.
What else?
The Actress and I will be getting hammered in the evening. Which ought to be interesting. Considering the known benefits of combining pain medication and booze, I ought to be in rare form.
She needs a fucking intervention not a cock.
Leave her alone. I like her. She’s lonely. It sucks to be lonely.
Am I lonely?
Aren’t we all?
Point made. What else?
Avan and I have the Doctor on Wednesday.
Did I talk to Avan about coming to work for her?
I mentioned it. He’s not interested.
Damn. Work on him. Sell the job to him.
I will talk to him. Really. I will. I like Avan. After the Doctor, I’m hooking up with Parvati.
Why?