Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Nine

by Livia Ellis

  She doesn’t need to get Elon. Elon appears.

  The woman disappears.

  Who is that?

  The new housekeeper. Or the nanny. Maybe it’s the night nurse. How the fuck is he supposed to know? Roland went back to work. It’s all chaos. He left him with that baby and only three people to help him. Do I want my present now or later?

  Later.

  Are we acknowledging my birthday?

  No.

  Are we mentioning that other thing?

  Definitely not.

  Why am I wet?

  I walked into a fountain.

  One of those fountains that shoot up from the pavement?

  Yes.

  Hilarious.

  Ha. Ha. Ha. Has he seen the latest Hello?

  The one with me and my former fiancée smooching in a corner at Margaret’s wedding and all that delightful speculation about us getting back together and my current wedding plans with Parvati being put on hold?

  That would be it.

  He hasn’t seen it.

  He is a true friend. Can I borrow some clothes?

  Yes. But he wants something in exchange.

  What?

  I have to go to Mummy & Me.

  Could he repeat that?

  I have to go to Mummy & Me. He has to go to Mummy & Me. He doesn’t want to go to Mummy & Me. If he has to go then it only seems fair that I should have to go with him. That’s what best friends do.

  They go to Mummy & Me?

  Yes. Roland is making him take Ana to Mummy & Me. The inhumanity of it. Mummy & Me. It’s like a parenting gulag.

  Why?

  They have to have planned activities. He has a playdate tomorrow. Do I know what a playdate is?

  No.

  Neither did he. Then he asked. Probably a mistake. It sounds gruesome. Mummies all sitting around drinking coffee whilst the babies play. She can barely move. She’s like a turtle on her back. How is she supposed to interact with her cohort?

  I have no idea. Why is Roland doing this?

  Ana needs to engage with babies her own age. Roland has all of these ideas. He reads books about childrearing. Did I know people write books about how to raise babies?

  I did not know this.

  It’s an industry built on paranoia and inferiority complexes. We turned out okay. I doubt our parents ever read baby books.

  I’m dripping.

  You want clothes? Mummy & Me. That’s the price.

  Why doesn’t Roland take Ana to Mummy & Me?

  He insisted on returning to work. Can I believe that? He’s at work. What kind of a parent abandons a child to be cared for solely by the other parent for ten hours a day?

  I think most of them do actually. It’s what fuels the white wine industry.

  Don’t defend him. He’s the one that came up with this Mummy & Me lunacy. He can do Baby Swim, but Mummy & Me? Worse part of all, he can’t make the nanny take Ana to Mummy & Me. He has to do it himself. If he hears the word bonding one more time his head might explode.

  I need to be done by noon. Just so we’re absolutely clear, the only reason I’m agreeing to this is because if I didn’t personally participate in him going to Mummy & Me with Ana I never would believe it happened. I will be taking pictures, which will be used to mock him forever more.

  That works. I can take whatever I want out of the closet.

  Things have changed in the bedroom. Roland’s mark is everywhere. There are framed pictures of the two of them. There is a stack of novels that Elon would never read on a nightstand topped by a pair of black framed glasses. Elon does not wear glasses nor does he read George RR Martin. He reads nonfiction. History, philosophy, theology, sociology, and psychology. He would never read A Dance with Dragons.

  I shop in Elon’s closet. The problem I encounter nearly immediately is I don’t know what’s his. I know some items are so not Elon’s style they could only be Roland’s. Then there are new things that could go either way. I have no idea what belongs to whom. They’ve mingled wardrobes. I feel slightly gutted. He’s really not mine anymore.

  I dump my clothes in the bathtub. I’ll never see them again. Then I consider there might be a chance I’ll get them back. I leave a note for Roland on his bible sized fantasy novel. He seems like the sort of person that would return Tom Ford. Just to be certain I have some leverage I take Calvin Klein and an alligator belt.

  Elon is in the kitchen with Ana. He’s on the phone. She’s sitting in a carrier. She smiles at me. I’m certain she smiles at me. Her little fist pumps the air. I’m certain that’s a wave. She’s a beautiful baby. Renata and Elon’s mingled DNA created something perfect. How incredibly unexpected. Perfection in a tiny yellow velour onesie with a bunny over the heart. The matching beanie is just too adorable. Now I get why people talk about eating babies. Especially those little hands. They really are just scrumptious.

  Elon thumps me on the shoulder.

  Do not put Ana’s fist in my mouth. That is disgusting.

  Elon hands me the phone. He takes his baby’s fists out of reach of my mouth.

  Renata.

  I nearly throw the phone across the room when I realize it’s her.

  What?

  Why haven’t I called her back?

  Because I’m done with her. I told her this.

  I’ve told her a million times that I’m done with her. I never really mean it.

  I mean it this time.

  I need to get over whatever it is that has my big girl panties in a bunch and help her. She needs help. She’s crying out for help. Why won’t anyone help her?

  Because every time someone tries to help her she bites them, like a snake. It’s really that simple. I can’t have this conversation with her again. I can’t. I have my own shit I need to deal with.

  She wants her baby back.

  Not in a million years. I don’t think there is a court in the world that would think she is a fitter parent than Roland. She’ll never get Anna back, which truly is the best thing that could have happened to Anna.

  I’m mean.

  I’m honest. I need her to leave me the fuck alone. If being mean to her is going to get her to get the message then I will be mean. She’s a toxic, punishing bitch that has caused me nothing but pain and heartache. If she wanted to know if there was a limit to how cruel she could be to me before I finally told her I don’t love her and I want her out of my life, she reached it long ago.

  She’ll kill herself.

  I’m done. I’m done having this conversation. I’m done with the emotional blackmail and the threats. She needs help. She really needs help. Maybe Elon is willing to help her, but I’m done. It is my birthday and it is the anniversary of my father’s death. I am not dealing with her shit on top of everything else I have to deal with.

  I hand the phone back to Elon.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  My mother. Of course she would call me at the very moment I’m ready to go supernova with rage.

  I take the call. I know it’s a mistake before I hit the answer prompt. But I do it anyway because I’m that kind of masochist.

  How is her darling boy?

  I am not her darling boy. I’m angry. She’s not doing that show.

  It’s all been decided. She’s doing it. It’s her decision. She’s made it. Consider it final.

  Can she answer one question for me?

  Maybe.

  Is this the sort of shit she used to pull with my grandparents that would piss them off with her? Because I’m kind of getting it now.

  Yes. And it was as much fun then as it is now. I really need to pull the giant stick I inherited from my grandparents out of my ass and try to enjoy life a bit more. She’s getting her nails done. She’ll talk to me later. Much later. Like when I’ve learned to relax a little bit.

  She hangs up on me.

  Elon offers me his phone.

  No. I will not talk to Renata ever again.

  It’s Roland.

 
I’m suspicious, but still willing to believe him. I take the phone. It is Roland.

  Happy birthday!

  No. Please, just no.

  Understood.

  Truly appreciated. Why is Elon talking to Renata?

  Renata is dealing with some very serious postpartum depression issues. If he hears the term baby blues one more time he might just lose his shit. He insists they try to help her. Like it or not she’s Ana’s mother. He’s trying to convince her hospitalization is the answer, but she won’t listen. She just wants money and Ana.

  Don’t give her either.

  He won’t. Am I really going to Mummy & Me with Elon and Ana or are we going to arse around and not go to Mummy & Me? Elon needs to bond with Ana. Not sit on the couch watching that loathsome Jeremy Kyle. Not go to the arcade in the cinema.

  (I do not mention that going to the arcade in the cinema sounds like the best fun ever after the morning I’ve had. Running away and joining the circus sounds like even more fun.)

  I’m really going to accompany him and Ana to Mummy & Me. It’s one of those must see it to believe it experiences.

  Fair enough. Don’t make fun of him. He’s very insecure about having to do daddy things. He’s convinced he’s going to do it all wrong and doesn’t want to try.

  I promise I’ll be on my best behavior. We won’t do anything like leave Ana in the back of a taxi or forget her on the Tube.

  Perhaps we should bring the nanny with us.

  Relax. We are two grown men. We can manage one baby.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  11:00am

  Mummy & Me is a ring of hell not even Dante could have envisioned. Primary colours, ball pits, a three-story cushioned maze with netting and slides. Children scream with abandon whilst disenfranchised parents sit at small dirty white tables in creaky plastic chairs sipping tea. This place is better than a vasectomy. That is my final word.

  Elon and I stand slack jawed at the entrance. He makes me push the enormous pram that holds Anna. He refuses to touch it. He thinks it’s absurd. Everything is absurd. Nothing so much as Mummy & Me though. He has some very hippy dippy ideas about parenting that Roland will need to address. There was something about babies with knives and cosleeping that made sense to only him.

  I look at him. He is absolutely certain this is Mummy & Me?

  Perhaps we should go somewhere, makes some calls, verify, play some ping pong or snooker, maybe catch a matinee.

  Not the worst idea. Certainly better than Mummy & Me. Honestly Roland is getting very boorish with the whole he needs to have a job because he wants to be a contributing member of society and not a useless drain. If Roland wants Anna to go to Mummy & Me he should take her. No one had a gun to his head. No one made him go back to work. He has lots of money. He has more money than some small countries. What need does Roland have to work?

  Personal satisfaction and self-respect?

  Other than that.

  A woman approaches us. Her hair is in pigtails. She has a butterfly painted on her cheek. Every step is a bounce. The badge pinned to her red shirt reads Brittany.

  Are we Ana’s daddies?! Is that Ana?! What a little princess! She’s Brittany! She’s the fun leader for the eleven-fifteen to noon Mummy & Me play circle! Which one of us is Roland?! Which one of us is Elon?!

  Roland has abandoned us for work. He believes working in marketing for a charity that feeds poor children is more important than taking his own daughter to Mummy & Me.

  Brittany stares at Elon. Her smile almost falters.

  I’m Oliver. He’s just kidding. I pick up Ana from the ridiculous pram since Elon doesn’t seem inclined to release her from its plush interior.

  No. Not kidding. Abandoned to Mummy & Me. If Roland loved him he wouldn’t make him do this. Roland clearly does not love him.

  Brittany continues to stare at Elon. I’m certain she just wants us to not be a part of her life.

  I smile at Brittany.

  She looks at me. I’m safe. I don’t say crazy things that make her uncomfortable.

  I smile at Brittany. He’s Norwegian.

  Ohhhhh! This explains everything in Brittany’s world. He’s foreign. Foreign people are weird. They’re not like English people. They speak Foreign and have Foreign ways about them. Now everything makes sense to Brittany.

  Brittany wants us to follow her to the friendship circle.

  Elon growls at me.

  I glower back.

  Ana laughs. I swear she laughs. She thinks we’re hilarious. Which of course we are.

  We are taken to a room where there are perhaps a dozen or so women with their infants milling about and chatting far too amiably with each other. There is nothing genuine about these women. Least genuine of all is there immediate desire to attach themselves to the token gay daddies with the cute little blonde baby.

  I get it. They’re bored and we’re a novelty. Gay daddies are a la mode.

  The one thing I can say about the mummies is that they’re all pretty hot. Most of them were blessed with phenomenal racks. Probably something to do with the breast feeding, but I choose not to know this. Had I known the place to go trolling for attractive women that needed to be entertained and distracted was Mummy & Me I might have given up going to bars years ago.

  We take our seats. I’m handed Anna. Elon will observe, but he refuses to directly participate. It is all absurd. Children in Borneo are given knives to play with.

  Children in Borneo are not given knives to play with.

  They are.

  Are not.

  Are too.

  He’s on drugs. Children in Borneo are not given knives to play with.

  It would be better than this ridiculousness. What happened to taking babies on nature walks? African women plant fields with their babies strapped to their backs.

  He is not an African woman planting a field. He’s a wealthy ambitionless Norwegian man living in London. So be quiet.

  He will not be quiet.

  Brittney and the mummies stare at us. We’re not exactly shushed, but we are shamed into silence.

  Brittney leads us in a song that involves a lot of hand clapping and confused looking babies. These are babies. Babies. Not toddlers. I’m not certain they can see anything other than brightly coloured shadows. I’m not an expert, but I can’t imagine clapping a baby’s hands and singing does them much good.

  I think Mummy & Me is more for the mummies that need to get the hell out of their houses after being stuck at home with an infant day in and day out. Now that I know what it is to work and make a living, I’m not certain I could dial back my life to doing something close to nothing all the time. But again, this is me speaking from the perspective of someone that has never been responsible for a child. It could be the most stimulating and engaging endeavor known to humanity. I don’t think so based on what I’ve heard, but I’m not going to make a judgment.

  Anna’s hands are clapped for her by me since Elon refuses to participate. There is mumbling about planting fields and living in the fjords. I sing the song that is repetitive enough for me to have it down after two rounds. Again, not an expert, but truthfully how much can a baby be getting out of having their hands clapped for them?

  After the song we go around and introduce ourselves. I’m Oliver. I’m a friend of Elon and Roland. I am not the father of Anna, just a family friend.

  The mothers introduce themselves. The overwhelming impression I am left with is that they are bored. Their husbands do this. Their husbands do that. Before they had the baby they were something else. Now that they’re mothers they go to Mummy & Me.

  We play games. The babies mostly just lay on the mats and stare at their hands and feet. It’s truly not as horrible as I thought it would be. If nothing else, I get a fair amount of flirty action from the hot mommies. They offer to take me for coffee and cake. They tell me the best places to go strolling. They want to know if I’d like to join them for sushi. There is a lot of spiteful judgment of women who use d
aycare and have lives beyond their babies. They seem to want validation that they did the right thing by being stay at home mothers. The irony is, most of them have both nannies and housekeepers.

  For reasons which I will never properly understand, Elon has a meltdown. How exactly it happens, I can’t fully recall. What I remember is that it began with Elon finding one particular mummy I was enjoy some flirty talk with annoying. She told me about her experience with the baby blues which I clarified meant postnatal depression and how she found the cure in a combination of aromatherapy and green tea.

  Elon finds her annoying.

  She can’t understand what she’s done wrong.

  Elon lets her know where she can shove her aromatherapy and her tea. He knows postnatal depression. There is nothing babyish or blue about it. Then there is something about her needing to act like a mother and not act like a ridiculous school girl. Or something like that.

  I knew we were in trouble when he started going off on Renata and using her as an example of the road to perdition these mummies were on if they didn’t learn to reign in their impulsive natures. There was more about the knife wielding babies of Borneo. He spoke at length about his desire to move to the fjords and shoot paintballs at tourists off cruise ships from a tower.

  We are ejected from Mummy & Me by Brittany.

  Elon takes Anna from me and carries her as I push the pram behind him. He walks and I follow. When we pass an African woman with quite possibly eight children all under the age of four trying to manage her kids and a broke down pram, he stops. In his estimation she knows what she’s doing better than all the Mummy & Me mothers combined.

  I could argue that she seems to have difficulty grasping the concept of birth control, but I say nothing.

  He barters with her for the long length of cloth wrapped around her smallest child and her body.

  They come to an agreement. He gives the woman the pram. The ridiculous Rolls Royce of a pram that probably cost more than an inexpensive Japanese car is exchanged for the cloth and a demonstration on how to properly carry a baby. When both Elon and the woman are certain he knows what to do, we walk away from her.

  I’m smart enough to say nothing. If he wants to carry his baby strapped to his chest rather than push her around in a pram, then so be it.