Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

  Would she really like me to do that?

  It just might things easier all around.

  I’ll see what I can do. Olga’s not really so bad.

  She likes Olga. It’s just my former fiancée is her best friend.

  It’s been nearly a year since SHE broke it off with ME.

  She knows. It’s just still raw sometimes.

  We set the table. When it’s ready and most of the dishes have been brought in I get to do my favorite job. I bang the dinner gong.

  When everyone is gathered, even Elon and Roland, I address the room.

  I lay it out there for them.

  To put it simply I tell the truth.

  I need their help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Producers

  It is decided after long debate that I will wear my riding kit. I will greet the producers as if the whole thing bores me terribly. I don’t shave.

  The Actress and Uncle Harvey have their shtick down to an art.

  We are in the China Room having breakfast when the Producers arrive.

  The Actress and the Esthetician have been working on her look since long before I was up.

  Everyone takes their places.

  Roland removes Elon to a secure location.

  I don’t know if any of the Producers are women, but I am certain some must be. I can’t take any chances he’ll start accusing them of having vaginas during the tour.

  Uncle Albert and William are in the Library.

  Mum convalesces on the terrace with Aunt Lucy and Sanjay at her side.

  Elizabeth and Margaret are on the tennis courts.

  Harry, the Doctor, and Lionel are hunting with the dogs.

  The Actress, Sigrund, and the Matchmaker are spectators as the Party Planner, the Esthetician, Gita, and Aunt Maisie play croquet.

  The Shaman wanders through the herb garden gathering bits from one plant than another. He has exchanged his solid purple for pure white.

  The truth is I’m in a special kind of heaven. I am a boy again. Wold Hall is as it was when I was growing up. The house is full of life. There are dramas and intrigues around the corners. People are jumping from bed to bed. The sun is shining. The grass is green. The sea in the distance blends a deeper blue into the azure of the sky. I am home.

  Mr. Gresham brings the Producers to the terrace where I stand observing my world which stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction.

  There are four of them that seem to matter. With them are another six functionaries and four with cameras of one sort or another.

  I greet them. I introduce them to my guests.

  Sanjay gives me cred. I know people.

  Contrary to what they may have been lead to believe based on accounts in various and sorted broadsheets and tabloids, I am neither down nor am I out. I am young. I am handsome. I am wealthy. I am healthy. And I could give five flying fucks about my detractors and the shit they sling about me. They wish they could be me.

  The Actress has just the effect we hoped she would. She has this way of turning her head as they approach her that I’m not certain I could properly describe or an average woman could replicate.

  It was elegant. She has this hat on. Large brimmed. The dress was chosen with purpose.

  How does she turn her head to look at them? It’s as if there is a stick attached to the point of her chin and her entire head pivots on that point. Her hat conceals her face and as she turns to look at them it is slowly revealed.

  I’m not doing this moment justice.

  I’m not.

  It was pure cinematography in action. It was as if she knew where the cameras were and gave them what they wanted even if they didn’t know it.

  The Producers are taken aback.

  I introduce her. Not that introductions are necessary. They all know exactly who she is.

  The Actress is a pro.

  I tell the Producers to just do whatever they want to do and not to touch anything.

  The Actress chides me. It would be her pleasure to show them around.

  Uncle Harvey in the role of Wright the Butler appears.

  The Actress is simply delighted. What wonderful timing he has. She introduces him.

  This is Wright.

  He is Wright. At their service.

  I follow along for the ride as Uncle Harvey (a.k.a. Wright the Butler) takes the Producers on a tour of Wold Hall and the Actress regales them with tales of her time playing Queen Such-in-Such and Lady BlahBlahBlah.

  She speaks their language.

  She knows how to flatter them.

  She’s amazing.

  And they know it.

  We exit through the glass house.

  Uncle Harvey points with his cane to this feature and then that feature. Do they know this and do they know that? He’s a veritable encyclopedia of trivia.

  We venture to the stables.

  The Producers would like to see the site of the Roman ruins, where the archaeologists are back dusting the ground with their tiny brushes. I have been sufficiently assured that they are not spying on me. I have been assured by my former fiancée, if they really wanted to watch me they have other means. Such as the Wi-Fi and security cameras that she had the house rigged with.

  It took Gresham some doing, but he located the antennas up in the attics and on the roofs.

  Was it thoroughly childish that I had him rip them all out?

  Yes.

  Can I sleep not fearing somewhere somehow they’re watching me?

  Yes.

  Was Gresham totally in agreement with me?

  Absolutely.

  As we crest a small hillock we come upon a tableau.

  Elon is standing on the lawn screaming at the sky.

  Roland, completely unperturbed, is lying on the grass reading a book.

  The Actress pauses mid-sentence.

  He’s…. (She smiles for a long moment as the gears in her head turn furiously) Norwegian.

  The Producers all nod. It explains so much.

  Without missing a beat the Actress continues regaling the Producers with a tale of when she played Lady Hammer for nearly six years and one of the extras just simply couldn’t manage to deliver a letter on a tray properly.

  I nearly put my teeth through my bottom lip to stop the laugher.

  We continue to the stables cutting a wide arc around Elon in the midst of his mental breakdown.

  By the time we make it back to the house I know we will all get a slice of what we want.

  The Producers, the Actress, and I sit on the terrace.

  Uncle Harvey continues inside.

  We discuss the show. They give me the pitch as if I’m the one that needs convincing.

  Uncle Harvey arrives with tea.

  Do I have questions?

  Not really. I just don’t want a mockery made of my home nor do I want it destroyed.

  The Actress has a question. If I don’t mind.

  I don’t. Ask away.

  How many participants will there be?

  They’ll start with forty on the first day. They will be broken into teams of eight. Five teams total. The winning team splits the pot.

  How are they planning on judging?

  Panel of four.

  How are they choosing the people on the panel?

  They name a few minor celebrities.

  Uncle Harvey clears his throat. He doesn’t wish to be impertinent, but do any of these people have any idea what it would take to make a place like Wold Hall function in the present day, let alone one hundred years ago? Perhaps instead of D list pop stars, Sloane rangers, celebutants they should seek substance.

  The Actress agrees wholeheartedly. The problem with so many of these television programs, not that she would ever wish to cast a pallor over their work, is that the judges are no judges but rather fringe celebrities trying to grasp a little star dust. These people don’t care about the quality of the show or their performance; they care about making enough noise to get noti
ced. It’s shabby. Simply shabby.

  Yes madam. Well said. Uncle Harvey dishes out biscuits with a pair of tongs. The idea is a brilliant one, but could so easily turn farcical.

  The Actress nods. There is an opportunity here to do more than entertain. Her recommendation, which of course they can take or leave as they like - she is simply an observer, would be to take this concept and raise the bar. Make it educational and entertaining. Bring in real experts. People like… well like Wright. Or Gresham. Or both. Get real people that know what it is to serve in a great house. And get people that have been guests in a great house. Pick the contestants based on their perceived ability, or conversely their inability, to manage. This is where the humor can come in. And by all means make them actually serve. Have parties. Have guests. They can populate the show with the… What did Wright call them? The Sloane Rangers?

  Yes madam. The Sloane Rangers.

  How marvelously witty he is. Here is a fun thought. Just because she’s game and she loves the idea, she’d be happy to participate in a little soiree.

  Would she? The Producers are practically humping her leg and salivating. She might not have worked in years, but she has cred. Her name attached to their project would give it class. It would transcend the mundane.

  Absolutely. In fact – the more she hears about this – she finds the whole concept one she could embrace. If done properly of course.

  I can hear the Producers collectively swallow this whole. Not that the Actress and Uncle Harvey don’t have a point.

  One of the Producers casts an appraising eye over Uncle Harvey. What is his job?

  Uncle Harvey has no job. He has a calling. He is my gentleman’s gentleman.

  Would he and the Actress be interested in looking at some of the CV’s of the potential candidates? They would all be interested in their opinion.

  The Actress would be delighted. Simply delighted. She has quite an eye for talent. What they need is the right mix of people on the teams. She is certain she could help them find that certain je ne sais quoi that would make for interesting viewing. Wright?

  If I can spare him, he would be delighted to assist.

  I can spare him. If they don’t need me I’m going riding. They’re all welcome to stay as long as they like. I take a few steps down the terrace as Margaret and Elizabeth come around a corner in their tennis skirts.

  Elizabeth should be forbidden from wearing tennis skirts and pigtails. There is something criminally adorable about her.

  I change direction with Elizabeth’s hand in mine.

  As we pass close to the Producers I do not miss the comments.

  They can think whatever they like.

  If they think I’m taking Elizabeth inside to spend the rest of the morning in bed with her, then they would be right.

  To a man they wish they could be me. I have sold them lock, stock, and barrel on the idea of Wold Hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wold Hall the Television Show

  The producers leave. They will be returning in the morning with their cameras. Preliminary deals have been agreed to under the watchful eye of Uncle Albert and Cousin Harry.

  We breathe a collective sigh of relief as their cars and vans disappear through the trees.

  Champagne? Mr. Gresham has his finger on the pulse of the mood.

  Everyone loves this idea. Mrs. Gresham, the Esthetician, Elizabeth, and Aunt Maisie go searching for glasses.

  Gresham and I head to the wine cellar.

  Do we have any champagne left? I would have thought it would be done by now.

  He’s pretty sure there’s a case left over from the last party.

  What was the last party?

  My parents twenty-fifth.

  Right. That one.

  Bygones Oliver. Bygones.

  I know. In fact, it’s a little surprising to me sometimes how much I don’t let these things bother me anymore.

  I have changed.

  We find champagne in the cool dimly lit interior of the wine cellar. Many of the racks are empty, but there is still enough inventory to make me feel respectable.

  What does he think about this show?

  They’ve asked him to be a consultant.

  Which means?

  His retirement fund will get an enormous boost. One thing. Just in case. Don’t be part of this. Don’t sell out.

  I’m about to marry for money. I think that ship sailed long ago.

  No. I’m not understanding what he means. Not me Oliver. Me Lord Harkslon. Let them rent Wold Hall. Let them film their show. But don’t let them have Lord Harkslon. Be above this.

  I think I understand.

  Did they offer me money to participate?

  No. But it’s coming. I can feel it. I imagine they want to put it to me in a way that I won’t find disagreeable.

  I put on a pretty good show. I remind him of my grandfather. How he used to rule over this place when he was a young man. But unlike my grandfather I have kindness. I get that from my mother.

  I won’t do it.

  Don’t. I’ve worked too hard to rehabilitate my image. Don’t piss it away by selling out to the media.

  He’s right.

  Good. He looks to the case of champagne. How many bottles?

  Let’s just bring the case.

  Do we stop at the humidor for cigars?

  It’s like he’s reading my mind.

  We all get drunk. Except for mum who is permanently off booze and Sanjay who doesn’t drink because that’s Sanjay and the Actress who thinks it’s probably for the best to refrain for the time being.

  We move to the games room. We drink, we play records on the phonograph, we dance, we are joyful.

  Uncle Albert and Mr. Gresham make right fools of themselves over the Actress. Aunt Maisie and Mrs. Gresham just ignore them as they take the Matchmaker and Sigrund to the cleaners at the cards table. Lionel plays the piano and the Doctor with the Esthetician sing. They are bawdy and it’s marvelous cabaret. The Party Planner, Elizabeth, and Margaret sit around gossiping and talking weddings. The Shaman throws darts with unnerving accuracy.

  I pretend not to notice Harry – god bless my cousin Harry – putting the moves on Gita. He’s a sly dog that one!

  It’s when he catches me in a corner that I know shit is getting real.

  He doesn’t want to be indiscreet.

  Out with it. I’m true drunk. No – I’m too drunk – that’s it – to care about propriety.

  Would I have any condoms he could borrow?

  Borrow? No. Have to use and dispose of properly, yes. Why?

  Well – again not wanting to be…

  I put my hand over his mouth. If he says he doesn’t want to be indelicate again I’m going to punch him.

  Well – he might be reading the situation wrong, but he thinks he very well might pull.

  With who? (I know who. I just love to make Harry squirm.)

  Well – Gita.

  Harry. I think that’s wonderful. Does he want to know something?

  Sure.

  I wish we were friends.

  I’m drunk.

  No. It’s true. I wish we were friends.

  He’s certain I’m drunk.

  I wish we were friends and I’m sorry we aren’t. We live what – maybe a mile from each other? Our paths probably cross daily. Why aren’t we friends?

  Because I was always mean to him.

  I’m sorry. I am. Truly. Can we be friends? As a token of my friendship I offer him condoms and the hand of the lovely Gita.

  I think maybe he should walk me up to bed.

  Good. Because that’s where the condoms are.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It’s Always a Party at Wold Hall

  I wake up feeling rough, but oddly aroused.

  Then I get it. Elizabeth has her mouth on my dick. It’s a wonder I’m able to sustain an erection feeling as hung over as I do. But I manage.

  Do I compare the oral techniques of the two
women in my life?

  Why not.

  Olga is better. Hands down, Olga is better. Olga is a machine.

  But Elizabeth has style. And this capacity to somehow unhinge her jaw like an anaconda that is nothing short of astounding.

  Being totally honest, both women get the job done.

  So who am I to pick nits?

  I really do appreciate the extra attention from Elizabeth. I don’t wholly understand it, but I do appreciate it.

  She missed me after I disappeared with Harry.

  Harry needed condoms.

  She knows. Everyone knows.

  So Gita and Harry?

  Yes. They’re not the only ones. There were hookups all over the place.

  Really? Who?

  She’s not going to tell me.

  Why not?

  Why ruin the fun of discovering who is awkward around whom this morning at breakfast.

  She gets up from the bed.

  I follow her into the bathroom.

  She loves my shower. Without even a skipped heartbeat she’s made herself totally at home.

  I love my shower. It’s new. Recently installed.

  She picks up a bottle shampoo. Not my shampoo. Olga’s shampoo.

  She discards it with a flick of her wrist.

  When she is not around I will very quickly and very discretely snag it back out of the bin and hide it. What is it with woman and wanting to mark their territory with their crap? Olga will notice the missing shampoo. Then there will be questions.

  She turns on the shower.

  I hear this weird sort of thumping noise in the background.

  Damn. Damn damn damn. Just what I need. To have to get a repair man to come out and look at the shower. I have no doubt anyone qualified to fix it will charge a fortune.

  I turn off the shower.

  The thump thump thump is louder.

  What the fuck is that?

  It’s not the shower.

  It gets louder. And even louder.

  Elizabeth goes to the window.

  It’s a helicopter making an approach to Wold Hall.

  The Footballer.

  She shrieks.

  She turns the shower back on. She washes in record time. I had no idea a woman could get in and out of a shower in literally two minutes.

  She dries just as quickly then picks up Olga’s moisturizer.