Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

  I’m ordered to get a dress. Any dress. Something pretty.

  I’m not her ladies maid.

  I need to help her. I would help Olga.

  Actually Olga would kick me out. She doesn’t like to have me around when she gets ready for a client. We try to keep our private life and our professional life separate.

  Why am I being an ass?

  I’ll just get out of her way.

  I go into the shower as she rushes about doing her hair.

  The noise from the helicopter is deafening.

  Elizabeth shoves pins in her hair as I quickly dress.

  Is everything ready? The cottage?

  No. It’s not ready. I already told her how I felt about this.

  And?

  I’m not happy about this. Not even a little. He was supposed to be here on Saturday. Before the television people were on the property. How does he even know we’re still here?

  She told him. He called her.

  He should have called me.

  Why? It’s between them.

  So they worked this out without bothering to let me know?

  What do I need to know?

  That a major celebrity is going to be on my property when I’m meeting with the Producers. I need to control this situation. I don’t need him coming along and screwing it up.

  How could he do that?

  I don’t know. But this is all going far too well for me for it not to get screwed up.

  Whatever. I’m overreacting.

  I don’t think so. I told her very clearly that I was happy, not sad, that he wasn’t coming. She should have respected that.

  Why am I being such a little bitch? This is about her and the Footballer. Not me.

  It’s my house.

  Whatever.

  We leave the room together.

  The camera crew has already arrived. They are filming the helicopter which has landed on the lawn.

  The Matchmaker is there. She grabs Elizabeth by the hand before she can go charging across the lawn.

  Elizabeth struggles. She’s just too dumb to get it. Fortunately the Matchmaker has smarts enough for herself, Elizabeth and a few other people.

  I go across the lawn with Mr. Gresham and Uncle Albert to greet the new arrival as he exits the helicopter. I can feel the cameras on my back.

  We stand out of harm’s way until the pilot signals we can approach. This isn’t the first time a helicopter has landed at Wold Hall. My former fiancée often had us travel by helicopter from London to Wold Hall when she needed a mental health break.

  The Footballer exits. The noise from the still churning engines makes me shout to be heard.

  There is a television crew here filming.

  Not cool. Why the fuck do I have a television crew filming on the property when I know he’s coming? Not cool.

  Because I didn’t know he was coming. Elizabeth didn’t tell me. If she had I would have called him and told him not to come. He should have called me and not Elizabeth. My entire family is here. He’s a married man. I can’t have him carrying on like he isn’t married in front of my mother and my Aunt Maisie.

  So not cool. Get them the fuck out of here now.

  I’m not going to do that.

  He gives me that look. The one I get from clients from time to time. That look that says I’m fucking rich, you’re fucking poor, do what I fucking tell you to do look. Not cool. Get rid of them. Get rid of all of them.

  He wants me to get rid of my family, the film crew, or both?

  Get rid of all of them. Now.

  No. I’m not going to do that. The crew is here for personal business. They’ll be gone in a few hours. My family is here because this is my home – not a brothel. He’s welcome to stay if he likes. But they need to be able to film wherever they need to on the property. I’m not going to call a stop to it because he wants to hook up with Elizabeth two days after we’d arranged for him to visit and he cancelled.

  He doesn’t get it. I can see the blank look in his eyes. He’s not used to being told he did something wrong.

  Does he understand that I am not going to tell my family and the crew to leave? (I don’t have to scream anymore. The helicopter is shutting down and we are approaching the house.)

  Cool. He’ll tell them to leave. People do what he tells them to do.

  No. This is my property. If he kicks off I will make it uncomfortable for him. Do we understand each other?

  He thought I had some kind of a cottage that they could use. That would be cool.

  I need him to understand that my family is here. I will not let him, a married man, engage in an affair in front of my guests. If he wants to wait and do it old school style and wait until everyone is in bed before he goes tiptoeing through the halls, then that’s fine by me. We have a sort of tradition of that in the country. For the love of god, my mother is in this house. He has a mother. Would he like it if I showed up at his place to have a booty call?

  Cool. Okay. He’ll wait.

  I think I’ve somehow managed to get through to him.

  When we reach Elizabeth the Matchmaker has told her something that seems to have registered. There is no enthusiastic jumping into his arms.

  Margaret’s fiancé is about to go apoplectic. The Footballer. The Footballer. If I have to fear anyone jumping into his arms, it’s William.

  We travel inside as a group to the China Room.

  I need fate to toss me a bone here.

  Fate tosses me a bone.

  The Footballer introduces himself.

  We’re mates. We work out together. I told him that it was quiet here. Sometimes it’s good to get out of London.

  He gets it.

  The Producers arrive.

  I think one of them ejaculates in his trousers when he learns that I’m “mates” with the footballer.

  The Footballer’s wife has a reputation for being easily convinced to participate in anything that has a sheen of class and is on television.

  I’m fairly certain that William is going to have a stroke when the Footballer asks if anyone wants to go to the lawn with him and kick the ball around.

  Roland volunteers Elon in the name of him needing to do something other than scream for the third day straight.

  Football seems to work for Elon. That he takes a Sharpie and draws a face on one side of the ball and writes Renata on the other is only a touch worrying.

  We get down to business in the Map Room.

  They’ve contacted the Actress’s agent.

  She is aware of this. She is also aware of their offer. It is a bit of a surprise. Not that she’s opposed to television. On the contrary. As they well know she was on television for years. It’s just the nature of unscripted television that has her concerned. She would have to insist on a level of control to – for lack of a better way to put it – keep it classy. She does have her reputation to think of.

  They make her every promise and assurance that she will be the star of the show.

  Then they should proceed.

  I sit at the table and wait my turn. They get to me after Gresham and Uncle Harvey. They would like me to be a judge.

  No.

  They offer me a lot of money.

  No.

  They offer me so much money I nearly waver.

  No.

  They offer me so much money my heart quivers in my chest and my resolve falters.

  Obviously they don’t understand. This is not a negotiating tool. I am James Albert Oliver Alexander Stanley Adair, 18th Earl of Harkslon, 14th Earl of Connalara. I don’t do television. Not for any money.

  Uncle Albert gives me a nearly imperceptible nod.

  They would in some way or another like to give a nod to the lineage of the inhabitants of Wold Hall. Perhaps one appearance?

  I’ll consider it. But the answer is probably no.

  They were hoping to use me in the opening credits. Perhaps doing a voice over.

  I have no idea what that is. Follow me. I may
have a solution for them.

  I rise from the table. I’m working on instinct at this moment. I walk out of the Map Room through the library and down to the long gallery. Along the two walls are sixteen portraits.

  As we pass each one I give a brief history of each of the preceding Earls of Harkslon. There is no portrait of mum and dad and there is no portrait of me. Granddad and Grandmother are staring at me from their place on the wall.

  If they want me in the show, they can have me hanging on the wall. I recommend they commission a portrait painter to get on the ball.

  I’d agree to that?

  Yes. They also need to get one of my parents done. Wouldn’t be right otherwise.

  But isn’t my father...

  Yes. He’s dead. There are about ten thousand pictures of him around the place. I’m sure a competent portraitist could manage.

  They would be very generous if I would agree to one appearance.

  I will not agree to be in their television show. At least not at this moment. If, in time, I am confident it does not in any way diminish my standing, then I will consider it. Quite frankly after that nasty business I had to wade through previously if I wanted to be on reality television I’m certain they would have found a spot for me on Big Brother.

  They can assure me that their project will be the highest standard in unscripted television.

  High standard in unscripted television? Bit of an oxymoron that. Now – anything else?

  By the time they leave a deal is hammered out.

  Mrs. Gresham, Aunt Maisie, the Esthetician, Margaret, the Doctor, and Lionel have been in the kitchen most of the day preparing a celebratory feast.

  I find Uncle Harvey on the terrace staring off at the sea.

  This big man that has always been such a rock in my life has glycerin slick trails of tears down his cheeks.

  I thought he would be happy. He’s going to be Wright. On Television.

  He grabs me and hugs me. I fear for my ribs. When he releases me I can breathe.

  I’ve given him everything he ever wanted.

  Well, nothing has really been done yet. This all could fall apart.

  It won’t. He’s been praying for this for years.

  He prays? When did he get religion?

  A desperate man leaves no stone unturned. He was a very desperate man.

  I thought he enjoyed being Wright.

  He is Wright. But now he can be Wright professionally.

  Extreme Wright?

  Precisely.

  Just think of what this will do for his cooking blog.

  He’s imagining his own line of cookery. Perhaps aprons.

  Something with a stripe I think. Like a signature.

  We laugh.

  This is going to bank him more money than he dreamed of having.

  I imagine it might.

  He can’t believe I turned them down. If I’m negotiating for more money, then I’m a genius. They’ll probably give me whatever I want.

  I was serious. It’s not a negotiating tool. I wasn’t trying to be a prick either. There is going to come a moment when I will want to live this life. Not the other one. I don’t want to let that world creep in on this one. Someday I want to be able to close the door on that world and never open it again.

  He understands. Is this why I was so upset with Elizabeth?

  Yes. If I showed up at her father’s vicarage with a trick I don’t imagine she’d be terribly happy. I never should have agreed to let the Footballer come here. I’m annoyed that she not only didn’t respect my need to keep boundaries intact, but that she didn’t even ask me before telling him he could come here. Olga never would have done that.

  Elizabeth is not Olga. Elizabeth is far more of a mercenary than I seem to realize she is. Elizabeth is also not as dumb or innocent as she has led me to believe. But she is an excellent violinist.

  I didn’t know she could play the violin.

  Really? I’ve been dancing a jig to her tune for weeks. Don’t think Olga hasn’t noticed. Just because Olga lacks the emotional maturity to properly express herself doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what Elizabeth is up to.

  Am I really that blind?

  No. Not really. We are just strangers in this strange land and sometimes we mistake friend and foe.

  Elizabeth is not my enemy.

  Surely not. Elizabeth is a lovely girl. But she is a diversion. She has waylaid me. I have strayed when I should have stayed on the straight and narrow. I am doing the same thing with Elizabeth that I did with the Swedish Princess.

  I don’t get what he means?

  I’m using Elizabeth as an excuse to ignore my commitment to Olga.

  My commitment to Olga is going to come to a crashing halt the moment I get married.

  Think about it. Take some time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Former Fiancée

  Elizabeth wants more from me than I’m going to give her.

  I’m not going to break up with Olga for her.

  I’m pretty certain that’s what she wants.

  I’m getting married.

  Uncle Harvey’s words stuck with me.

  I did as he suggested and I thought about it.

  I had an epiphany.

  My five nights at Wold Hall gave me ample time to read through my prenuptial agreement.

  This wedding is going to happen, short of a meteor strike.

  It also gave me time to come to terms with what is happening with Olga.

  I’m purposefully acting in a way that will cause me to pull away from her.

  I love Olga. I want to sabotage it. I want to diminish what I feel for her. I want it to be less real.

  I love Olga and it is breaking my heart that I have to give her up.

  I’m being an asshole to save myself the grief of having to face up to the fact it is going to hurt like a bitch when I have to say goodbye to her.

  I want her to get so angry with me that she believes she’s better off without me.

  History is repeating itself and I know it.

  I did this same thing with my former fiancée. I’m doing it with Olga.

  I don’t know that I loved the Swedish Princess, so much as I was afraid of falling in love.

  There is this thing I need to do.

  I know I cannot rest until it’s done.

  I need to explain.

  I meet my former fiancée at her apartment which used to be my apartment. The doorman has been instructed to let me in.

  What was so urgent I couldn’t wait to see her?

  I kiss her.

  I’m not certain if she is too shocked to clock me across the jaw or if she’s not as upset as she looks.

  I kiss her again.

  What has gotten into me?

  It’s hard to explain. Something happened to me. I’m not afraid anymore.

  When was I ever afraid?

  I’ve been terrified all of my life. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m starting to understand things. I made so many choices because I was afraid. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m strong and I can take care of myself.

  Have I been drinking?

  No. I just wanted her to know something.

  What?

  I’m sorry. I was afraid. I made choices because I was afraid.

  Afraid of what?

  Afraid of realizing that I loved her. It was okay for us to be together when the world thought I was with her for her money.

  I’m starting to piss her off.

  Just hear me out. Fine. She’ll hear me out. There’s nothing on worth watching. This might be marginally entertaining. Am I having some kind of breakdown? Because she might enjoy that.

  Maybe. It’s possible I’m having some kind of breakdown. For certain I’ve had an epiphany.

  This ought to be good.

  We go into the apartment. She doesn’t turn the television off, but she does mute the sound. She sits on the couch we argued over. She was right. The fabric choice does work better with the
other pieces in the room.

  I sit opposite her on the couch.

  She picks up a cup of tea with the bag tag hanging over the side of the cup.

  I never loved her.

  Yes. She knows I never loved her.

  No. I never loved the Swedish Princess. Her – I point just to make certain we’re on the same page – I loved her. I was just afraid.

  She stares at me. It’s that look.

  I don’t know how to explain this. I was afraid. I was terrified to give up and trust that she wasn’t going to hurt me. So I did everything I could to make certain she didn’t love me. I kept pushing at her. Testing her. Giving her excuses to tell me that I wasn’t good enough.

  I gave her plenty of those.

  I know. Because if I just allowed myself to be loved and love in return, I was terrified it was going to consume me.

  Like my parents.

  Yes. Like my parents. I didn’t want us to be like my parents.

  Because that’s what I thought being in love had to be like.

  Yes.

  I really am fucked up.

  I know. I’m really getting that.

  My parents were fucking obsessed with each other. Crazy, unhealthy, fucking obsessed with each other. I get that right? They damaged me with their love.

  I know. I get that now. I was afraid of being like that. So I tried to sabotage the only love I ever had. And I’m sorry.

  I loved her.

  Yes.

  I had a hell of a way of showing it.

  I was afraid.

  And that fucking cunt was the answer?

  Yes. I knew she’d never leave her husband. I pretended I didn’t know that, but I did. I used her to put a wall between us. She was my excuse not to give myself wholly to our relationship.

  Did it ever occur to me that if I’d just been honest with her we could have worked through this? We could have gone to counseling. Together. Together we could have gotten to the root of my fear. She knew I was fucking action packed with commitment issues. She would have stood by me. She wasn’t oblivious to the fact I was damaged by my relationship with my parents.

  I get that now. I needed to learn that.

  What is she going to do with me?

  I don’t know. I don’t know what I need to do with myself. But I’m figuring it out.

  Is this some sort of ploy to get her to deal with her father for me?

  No. I’ve more or less come to terms with the fact I’ve gotten what I deserved. I just wanted her to know that I loved her. I realize that now. It wasn’t a pack of lies. I wasn’t using her. I did love her.