Gigolo

by Ben Foster

  ‘On holiday,’ I replied.

  ‘I don’t like holiday!’

  ‘How do you know? You’ve never been on holiday.’

  ‘Where are my gloves?’

  She struggled to get down and we carved our way through the squall to the Post Office to collect the passport applications. When I got home and started filling out the forms, I discovered that it took three weeks to process the papers. I rescued the laptop from the boy’s room and went online. You can get a passport the same day by lining up, but the offices were closed over Christmas, and I had just promised Bethany to work through the holidays.

  Kelly was still at work. Carly didn’t answer her phone. I called Pete, apologised that I hadn’t seen him for ages, and left the kids with him. I raced back to the travel agent. He scratched his chin and shook his head. I had not read the small print. The only way I could get my money back was if there was a death in the family and I produced a death certificate.

  Back again at Pete’s, we checked again online. Pete pointed his stubby finger at the box with bold letters on the passport office website: ‘Make sure your passport is valid before you book a holiday.’

  He glanced at me and it felt as if a fist had snatched at my insides. With Pete, I always felt like a boy trying to be a man. Spending £2,000 on our first holiday ever was one thing. Losing it through one impulsive moment would be the most stupid thing I had done in my life.

  We read on. The one day service required making an appointment, taking the relevant documents to the office and returning four hours later for collection. The service had been suspended due to ‘exceptionally high traffic’ before the holidays, and would reopen on the 3rd of January – the day we were due to leave.

  ‘Right comedy of errors,’ Pete said.

  ‘I’ve never applied for a passport before.’

  ‘Obviously.’ He drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘Unless . . . ’

  He hesitated and I clung on to this grain of hope.

  ‘Yes. Unless?’

  ‘Unless you’ve been rubbing them up the wrong way, maybe one of those rich mates of yours can sort it out.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Friends of the Queen and all that?’

  Thoughts spun through my head.

  Maggie would have been perfect. Her husband was in the Lords. But she was away. Lady Catherine resided in what they called an ivory tower, which I assumed meant behind a wall of bullet proof glass. She probably wouldn’t have been able to grasp what I was talking about. Angela Hartley could get anything done, but on the five occasions I had given her a massage – and all that went with it – she had not once put her hand in her purse to pay me. Angela wasn’t so much hard right, she was what I called hard-righteous, a church goer. She felt chosen. The one thing that put a smile on her angry face was seeing working blokes like me messing up. Rufus wasn’t the type to put himself out, and I wasn’t sure that he had the contacts for such a mission.

  That left Vivienne.

  She had come into my mind first. Vivienne wasn’t ditzy at all. She was smart, but incapable at dealing with tedious daily concerns like paying parking fines. Something as tiresome as getting a passport was so far from her surreal world of costume and BDSM, I could see myself being dropped like the proverbial hot potato.

  ‘It’s what friendship’s all about,’ Pete said, as if he’d followed my thoughts.

  ‘There is someone I can try.’

  ‘Gird your loins, mate. Either that or lose your money.’

  I went into the kitchen and closed the door behind me. Vivienne’s phone rang and rang. I was about to give up when she answered.

  ‘Call me back in two minutes,’ she whispered. I waited and tried again. ‘Guess where I am?’ she then asked.

  ‘I dunno. In the bath dressed as a goldfish?’

  She laughed. I loved her laugh. ‘Close. I’m sitting on the loo in Groucho’s. You know something, Ben Foster, you never call me.’

  ‘And now I’ve called to ask a favour.’

  ‘The plot thickens.’

  I took a breath and explained my dilemma. There was a long pause. The phone seemed to be holding its breath.

  ‘Are you still there?’ I said.

  ‘I was thinking. Have you got photographs?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’ll call you back in about ten minutes.’

  I took the children home before they destroyed Pete’s house and checked over the application forms again. I was surprised that Vivienne had seemed so obliging and could scarcely believe it when she called back as promised a few minutes later.

  ‘Just hold the fort,’ she said. ‘Text me your address and I’ll shoot by at about half past two with a photographer.’

  ‘You mean you can get it sorted?’

  ‘It’s not as if we need Parliamentary approval. You’re not planning to invade the Middle East, are you?’

  I explained the entire ‘comedy of errors’ to Kelly when she got home and she sat in the kitchen piecing the story together like it was a riddle. We were going on holiday. Then we weren’t going on holiday because we didn’t have our passports. Now Vivienne and a photographer were on their way.

  ‘She’s the one you like,’ Kelly remarked.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know you do. You’ve mentioned her enough times. Isn’t she the one who made you get all those new clothes?’

  ‘Yeah, she knew I’d need them. She’s not like the rest, just snobs. She likes to give people a helping hand.’

  ‘I’d like to see her hands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I bet they’re not like these.’

  Kelly’s hands were red raw. I took them between my palms.

  ‘Put some lotion on them. I’ll give them a massage later.’

  ‘That’ll make a change.’

  It was true. Like the cobbler who makes shoes for others while his own children go barefoot, I rarely gave Kelly a massage.

  ‘Tonight. That’s a promise. And another thing. Next year, you’re going to give up the laundry. That’s my New Year’s Resolution.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now I’d better get ready for your friend.’ She turned in the doorway as she left the kitchen. ‘The Canary Islands. That is posh.’

  The children were washed and brushed in their best clothes. The kitchen was tidy. Kelly wore a cream blouse, black skirt and a tight grey jacket from Gap. I put on a dark suit and tie. We could have been going to a funeral. Claire was still hooked on her monster act. She had found my gloves and we stood in the living room waiting while she entertained us.

  We heard the Ferrari roar as it entered the street. Vivienne double parked and I was surprised to see Flippo armed with a camera following her up the path. Vivienne wore a tweed suit, brogues and a button-down shirt with a yellow tie – to match the Ferrari? I wasn’t sure. She probably thought of the outfit as ‘dressing down.’ But the cut of the suit combined with the cocaine confidence of her eyes projected the same head-turning vision she always did.

  Kelly was behind me. As I stood back, I felt the tension in the air as they met – the woman I loved and the woman I loved being with. It was irrational, but I felt a jumble of pleasure and terror bringing the two parts of my life together. In that moment, I was wholly me, the loving provider, the bewitched gigolo. Vivienne’s big eyes grew bigger as she smiled.

  ‘Kelly, I’m Vivienne, it’s such a pleasure to meet you,’ she said.

  She took Kelly’s two hands and the good will she beamed out was so powerful I was sure Kelly fell instantly under her spell. We went through to the living room. The lights on the Christmas tree blinked on and off. Cards were strung in loops across the mirror, the way Gran always used to do it, and for some reason I thought about the thirty foot tree hung with silver decorations in the Great Hall at Lady Catherine’s castle.

  I introduced Oliver and George. Vivienne shook their hands formally and went down on her haunches to greet Claire.

  ‘Hello,
my name’s Vivienne. What’s your name?’

  ‘Claire Foster.’

  ‘Are we going to be friends, Claire?’

  Claire’s nature is to say no when asked a question. She certainly thought about it for a few moments before she replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Have you asked Santa to bring you something nice for Christmas?’

  ‘I want a pram and a bicycle. And a computer. We’re going on holiday.’

  ‘That’s so exciting. I wish I could come.’ She smiled at the boys. They were standing behind their sister. ‘I’ve got a present for you. It’s not a computer, but it’s almost as good.’

  She dug into her bag and produced three Montblanc pens in black leather cases. When the children opened them, Vivienne must have noticed the disappointment in their faces, but didn’t show it.

  I introduced Flippo. He asked me to turn off the tree lights and turn on the main lights.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a photographer?’ I said.

  ‘Io sono un uomo di tutti i mestieri,’ he replied, and Vivienne translated.

  ‘He’s a Jack of all trades,’ she said, and turned to Kelly. ‘I love this room. It has a real family feeling.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Kelly said

  It struck me how similar they were, same height, same colouring, same blue eyes and fair hair. But Vivienne had poise, grace. She held herself as if she were the linchpin around which the world spun. I also sensed Kelly’s uncertainty, or insecurity. It’s the feeling ordinary people get when they meet the famous and titled, their ‘masters’ and ‘betters.’ You imagine they are judging you, when in fact they have no interest in you whatsoever.

  There was a silence Kelly filled in the only way she knew how.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, please, that would be divine,’ Vivienne replied.

  ‘Sure,’ said Flippo.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Just tea,’ said Vivienne.

  ‘Lots of milk, two sugars,’ said Flippo.

  The children were unusually well behaved. Claire seemed fascinated by Vivienne and followed her every move and gesture. The boys watched Flippo as he erected his tripod. He began with the children and shot us in turn sitting on a chair against the white wall. Kelly admired Flippo’s camera, an Olympus. She loved taking photographs and everyone who looked through the albums said she had a good eye.

  Vivienne glanced through the application forms. Claire showed her the hideous Father Christmas she had painted at playschool, an orange blob with black eyes and a green gash for a mouth.

  ‘That’s so interesting,’ she said. ‘Did you paint it yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s luscious. I love it. It’s brilliant.’

  ‘It’s for you,’ Claire told her.

  ‘Then I shall have it framed and cherish it always.’

  They drank their tea. We trooped up the path. Claire waved until the Ferrari had disappeared from view and we went back in to change out of our best clothes.

  Vivienne and Flippo left just after three on Thursday the 21st of December. Twenty-four hours later, on Friday the 22nd, a motor-cycle messenger arrived at the house with five shiny red passports.

  Kelly relayed the news to me by text and I called Vivienne the moment I had a break.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough. You saved my life,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have to do the same for me one day.’ She paused. ‘I adore your children. And Kelly’s really rather special. An attractive woman becomes beautiful when she’s happy and in love.’

  ‘Then you must be in love,’ I said, and she laughed.

  ‘Then everything is quite perfect.’

  Vivienne was off that day to stay with friends who had a house in the Dominican Republic, which I had to Google to find out where that was.

  I worked the weekend, even Christmas morning. Before going home, I dropped in at The Lodge. I had bought some new table tennis bats, a net and a box of balls, a Monopoly and various other board games. The home at Christmas received more donations than they could handle, but most things were too young for the boys and were quickly broken.

  From the day I started work at Southley, my life had seemed unreal. I often felt as if I were an imposter, an actor playing a role. Driving through Egham and parking at The Lodge was like returning home after a long time away. Chris, the bully, had been moved to a secure unit. Other than that, The Lodge was the same, dreary and grey with the pervasive smell of urine and the spirit of hope totally absent.

  They were still understaffed and underfunded. There was no time for individual care, no hope that the boys might improve and develop strategies to cope with their disorders. The day room was strung in home-made paper chains. A forlorn tree stood in the corner. Alex managed the TV remote. Little Billy didn’t recognise me. The same two boys stared hopelessly out of the barred window.

  Marley was a jovial Santa Claus in a red costume. Vinnie Castro seemed older, unless he was always old and I had never noticed before. They appreciated the new table tennis bats and board games. We slapped backs. I ate a mince pie, took two sips from a can of lager and arrived home to carve the turkey.

  A lot of lonely people checked into the spa during Christmas and New Year. They gave themselves massages as presents. With no one to give presents to, they were generous with tips. I worked ten straight days. I changed £1,000 into euros and hid £6,000 in an empty ice cream box in the freezer. It would have been more, but I was spending a fortune on Greek yoghurt.

  Ahmed, a mate on the estate who ran a cash-only taxi business, drove us to Gatwick on a frosty road through dense mid-week traffic. The airport was heaving. People were already in the holiday spirit. Lines snaked across the concourse from the check-in desks. Trolleys swerved around each other like silver insects with shells of luggage. Claire refused to take her shoes off for security because the floors were dirty and ran through the metal detector before I could stop her. I had always thought flying was glamorous. It wasn’t. It was like travelling on the Northern Line at rush hour.

  We herded through immigration on Gran Canaria. A bus, packed to the gills, the same colour as the pale blue sky, dropped us at our hotel in Maspalomas. We were sweaty, grubby, exhausted. The children were grumpy. Ollie had left his book on the aeroplane. After checking in behind a party of Germans, we rose four floors in the lift to our family room with four beds and a cot that sent Claire into a rage when she realised that it was for her. Ollie and George had decided to race along the corridor, upsetting the Germans, and Kelly dropped down on the bed as if she had been shot.

  The briny tang of the sea seeped through the shutters. It awoke good memories. I had felt in charge of my own destiny standing at the prow of a fishing boat. I felt the same way in our family room with Claire having a tantrum and the television rabbiting on in a foreign language. I stepped onto the balcony and gazed out across miles and miles of sand dunes that stretched to the water’s edge and out in both directions as far as I could see. We had left home at six. It was now four in the afternoon. The sea was choppy beneath a turquoise sky. Windsurfers bounced over the waves. I was used to seeing palm trees under glass at Southley. In Maspalomas, they emerged out of the dunes and danced in the breeze.

  It wasn’t as warm as I had hoped, about 20 degrees every day, but the pool was heated and the sky was always clear. The boys had swimming lessons. At the end of two weeks, George, my tough little four year old, could swim a width under water holding his breath.

  Kelly did not have a costume. It was not that she had forgotten to pack one. She had never owned one. In the shop she chose various frilly colourful things. I told her to get the plain one piece black costume.

  ‘I suppose that’s what your friend would like.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with that. You are a beautiful woman. You don’t need anything fancy. You look best in solid colours.’

  We compromised. She bought the bl
ack costume and also a red bikini with gold trim.

  We had dinner beneath the starlight. Claire decided she did like holidays after all. I swam. I jogged on the machines. I had a massage, no extras, and felt ready for 2007 by the time the plane took us back to Gatwick.

  21

  BASIC INSTINCT

  The new guy had started. Christian was from Oslo, straight out of a Viking movie with golden hair in a ponytail, an easy smile, perfect English and a sing-song voice that sounded as if he was gargling water when he spoke. He was twenty-five with a scar on his carved cheekbones and deep-set eyes as blue as the fjords of Norway. He was a gym buff like Denny. They had become chums. Anastasia, always aloof, seemed unusually comfortable with Christian. Bethany Bolter was like a girl in love.

  The parrots in the conservatory sat in pairs ruffling their green feathers and staring out at the alien landscape with black beady eyes. Southley with bare trees and frost on the lawns was still pretty, but forbidding. The celebs with their drug problems and florid need for ego stroking and absolution, filled the schedule at weekends, but the overseas visitors were scarce and there was plenty of free time to catch up on manicures and haircuts.

  In her black winter suits with bangles like braid about her wrists, Bethany was like the captain of an ocean liner and made tours around the decks to make sure all was shipshape and Bristol fashion. One morning when Christian and I were in the pool, she asked who was the better swimmer. We were about the same, we thought, and Bethany suggested a race to find out. Anastasia and Tiffany, from massage reception, joined her at the side of the pool. Then two couples in Southley robes wandered over, turning the race into an occasion.

  ‘Five to one on the pony tail,’ one of the men shouted to peals of laughter. He was a big guy with great hair, the head of an American fracking company.

  Christian had rippling biceps and triceps. I had been swimming every day in Maspalomas. I was older, but taller, more aerodynamic. I would have set the odds at evens. We shook hands. Christian’s perpetual smile had gone and I noted a glint of determination in his eyes. It went through my mind that I should let him win. He was new, he was younger. I had nothing to prove.