by Livia Ellis
Yes.
Yes?
Yes. Just yes.
Just yes. You want me to tell her yes. Nothing else? The sparrow flies at midnight? The clock chimes thirteen? The dog barks at the boy with the red balloon? Is there a reason he can’t deliver this message?
He is delivering the message. Through me.
Telephones are too dangerous?
Yes.
I have no intention of dying or even getting a paper cut to keep this message from falling into nefarious hands. I will happily, willingly, and openly divulge everything he has told me to say and do to save my own skin. I want nothing to do with any of this. I refuse to participate in any venture that puts me smack between the Russian mafia and British Intelligence.
He is fully counting on my lack of discretion and inherent cowardice.
I’d like to make a personal observation.
Must I?
Personally I think if he needs to resort to using me as he go-between it’s a sad day for British Intelligence.
On the contrary. If I really wanted to make myself useful I could. I’m the last person anyone would expect of couriering messages. I’m not even smart enough to avoid getting my picture taken kissing my former fiancée when there are Hello magazine photographers around. I’d be the perfect spy. No one would look at me twice if I showed up somewhere unexpected.
How is the pay?
I make more fucking for a living, but it’s respectable.
I’ll stick to what I do best then.
Let him know if I change my mind. The pension plan is decent.
I just tell her yes?
That’s all.
And? My payment?
When the job is done. Before he forgets.
He hands me a thick envelope.
What’s this?
Consider it a birthday present from the Queen. I’m doing well with Boris. Keep it up.
He drops me on the pavement just down the street from the Matchmaker’s home. He knows my schedule as well as I do.
I open the envelope from him. It contains cash. Bundles of cash. And a note. Her Majesty thanks me for my service to the British people. There has to be fifty-thousand in the envelope.
Working for the government does pay well.
The Matchmaker meets me in her home above her offices.
I pull her close and hug her as a greeting.
She kisses me on the cheek. Happy birthday.
Please no.
She kisses me again on the cheek. Happy birthday none the less. She promises not another word.
I appreciate that. I have a message for you from an old school chum.
She nods against my shoulder.
Yes.
She nods again against my shoulder.
This is normal. This transferring of secret one word messages that she seems to be expecting. What is not normal is my rejecting her advances. I pull away when she wants to move in for more.
She has allergies. She’s not ill.
It’s not that. I promised Olga I would stop cheating on her.
How is that working out for me?
So far so good. She’s calmer. Less prone to going insane when I don’t answer my phone like one of Pavlov’s dogs. My life is easier.
Do I want a word of advice?
Sure.
End it with Olga. We’re not right for each other. Believe it or not, Parvati is a better match for me than Olga. She’s been doing this a long time. She knows a good match when she sees one.
Olga and I aren’t right for each other?
No. Not a judgment on either of us. We’re just not a good match.
What would make us a good match?
She considers this for a long moment. We would have to meet under different circumstances for a start. Olga would have to be able to challenge me intellectually. We would need to have more in common than the job.
We have a lot in common.
What?
She has me there. We both like horses.
A solid foundation for any relationship built on love and no other factors. Let’s go over the schedule.
We go over my schedule.
She has a client for me. A very special client. One that needs to be handled with particular care.
I’m not really taking on anyone new.
Consider this a special favour.
Can’t she ask Avan? If we’re being totally honest Avan is much better at this than I am. I’ve worked with him. I know.
It’s complicated. The client is Saudi. His family is very highly placed.
Right.
He’s a prince. Very discreet. She knows she can trust me.
I expect to be paid handsomely.
I will be. I may need to travel.
Fine. I have time between now and the wedding.
When am I finished?
I’ll work up to the wedding.
It’s a pity my getting married. I’m good at what I do. Except of course for my blatant refusal to work parties. The money she could make just sending me to parties would fund her retirement.
Working parties is a special hell. Being a guest a totally different.
Can she include me on the guest list when I’m married?
Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I need to try to at least be friends with Parvati. Going into my marriage with a mistress already established is probably a poor idea as is. Attending sex parties just seems a bridge too far.
Do I really think Olga is just going to accept this quietly?
So far it seems she’s content to do that. Maybe she’ll just give me what I want for once without plotting behind my back.
I am sweet.
I can only do my best.
Not another word is said about that one word message. It almost seems like it didn’t happen. But I know it did and so does the Matchmaker.
CHAPTER TEN
2:00pm
Talitha and I arrive at the Psychiatrist’s home slightly early. A first on a day spent constantly running to catch up.
The Psychiatrist, who is normally so calm and in control of the situation, is edgy.
The dynamic has changed. This is no longer the comfortably routine hookup we’re accustomed to.
Talitha has kept the makeup light and is dressed simply.
The Psychiatrist gives both of us our envelopes.
Talitha counts her money.
This makes me slightly uncomfortable, but seems to work for the Psychiatrist.
Talitha is direct.
What would the Psychiatrist like?
She’s not wholly certain. This is a first for her. She has thought about it. But she doesn’t have any firm fantasy.
Fine. No expectations. No disappointments. How about we go into the bedroom unless she prefers the living room?
Bedroom.
Talitha smiles and gestures for the Psychiatrist to lead the way.
I’ll give her credit, Talitha is a pro. She sends the Psychiatrist into the bathroom to change into a dressing gown. She gets down to her skin. Only the panties remain.
I ask her if she shouldn’t wait to just jump into the deep end with the nudity.
She invites me to go wait in the other room if I plan on offering unwanted advice. She knows what she’s doing. This is not her first time.
I humbly back the fuck off. I remove my jacket and go to unbutton my shirt.
I’m told to keep my clothes on. I’m not to take my clothes off. Too much at once will ruin everything. Just be supportive and generous with the touching. The Psychiatrist trusts me. Keep that at the forefront of my mind. In fact, pretend I’m Avan. Do what Avan would do. That’s is how I should think at this moment. Channel the spirit of Avan.
Fine. Channel the spirit of Avan. I will think like Avan. I will be Avan. I am Avan. I am a hot, mysterious, Israeli with a pair of come hither eyes and a desire to make love to all people I meet with the sound of my deep and sensually accented voice. I slouch like a male model. I pout. I purr.
W
hy am I making that face?
Nothing. Never mind. Thinking like Avan.
The Psychiatrist emerges from the bathroom in a dressing gown.
Talitha jumps right in.
She takes the Psychiatrist’s hands and places them on her bare body before she has a moment to feel uncomfortable. This is remarkably effective. She guides the hands over every curve and hollow, stopping at the edge of the panties. Talitha removes her hands from the Psychiatrist’s.
Touch her. Talitha is both firm and gentle with the commands.
With little prompting, the Psychiatrist explores Talitha’s body with both hands.
The panties come off.
I feel like a twat just standing there so I do as Talitha told me to do and I try to envision what Avan would do. I don’t know why I’m struggling with this. Then an idea begins to coalesce in my thoughts. The Psychiatrist isn’t just a client. She’s like a girlfriend. One that fits in the same category as my former fiancée. It’s weird to do this sort of thing with that kind of girlfriend.
I’m the one that’s uncomfortable with this. Not her. I need to get over this feeling of discomfort quickly. I stand behind the Psychiatrist and place my hands on her shoulders. I kiss her neck. I whisper in her ear. I’m here with her. Whatever she wants she can have.
She nods.
Talitha lifts her arms, she turns around, she opens her legs, she bends, she moves. Nothing is off limits to the exploring hands of the Psychiatrist.
They change positions. Talitha has the Psychiatrist stand in her dressing gown with her arms off to the sides. Her hands slip inside of the dressing gown.
I kiss her neck. I touch her hair. Basically I stay out of the way while still remaining present.
The edgy nervousness of the Psychiatrist dissipates.
Talitha slips the dressing gown off of her shoulders and down to the bend in the elbows. It’s not off totally, but it’s making its way to the ground.
The Psychiatrist is moved to the edge of the bed where she sits. I’m in the weeds, so I sit next to her. I’m attentive and caring. It’s not a stretch. This is a first for me too. I didn’t realize it before, but I’m a novice at being with a novice. How disarming and slightly uncomfortable. Maybe I should have thought this through before trying to talk her into it.
Talitha moves and wriggles.
I watch. I stroke hair. I kiss. From the perspective of an outsider who is unaware of the dynamic, what the two do as they bump and grind against each other might seem ordinary to the point of dull. But it’s not. At least not from my perspective.
Everything happens quickly. So quickly I’m not certain what’s happening.
The Psychiatrist’s eyes are open and her mouth pulls in large gasps of breath.
Talitha looks pleased with herself as she rises from the bed. She’s going to give us some privacy.
So?
Different. One question has been answered.
Which is?
She’s not a lesbian. It was good, but not anything to turn her back on men for. Talitha seems very nice. Very professional. It helped.
No regrets?
No. She’s pleased she gave it a try.
But it’s not going to be a regular thing.
No. She still likes men better.
Fortunately for her, I am all man.
We have sex. Boring couple sex. Part of me knows this is dangerous. It is. We’re in a relationship. A very bizarre relationship. Boundaries have been crossed that Talitha and Avan would never cross.
This is a problem, but not one I want to address at that moment. I enjoy the comfort of being with her. Especially at that moment.
When I’m done I leave her in bed. I want to talk. For some reason I feel more comfortable doing the talking dressed. She is a good person to talk to. She always seems to know when I want to talk.
How am I doing?
I’m hanging on by a thread.
I should have listened to her. I should have put off working for another day.
Why? So I can spend the whole day thinking about my father?
Is that such a bad thing?
I miss him. I never thought I’d miss him. But I miss him terribly. Does she want to know the thing that is hardest to cope with?
Yes.
It was the anticipation of the day coming that was much worse than the day itself has actually been.
That’s usually how it goes. Can I do her a favour?
If I can.
She’s going to give me the name of a colleague. I need to make an appointment. Do I promise her I’ll make an appointment?
No. I’ve spent enough money on mental health for one lifetime. Nothing changed.
Sure it did. I broke up with Renata once and for all and I started to address my issues with my grandparents. Time to get back on the couch.
Can’t she be my doctor?
No. We have boundary issues as it is. Her phone rings. She picks it up. She speaks for a moment.
It’s a client. She needs to take it.
I’ll let myself out.
I get a smile.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
2:40pm
Talitha waits in the sitting room.
We walk outside together.
I stop her on the sidewalk.
Does she want to get coffee?
No. She checks her watch, then her phone, then her pocketbook.
Can I ask her a question?
If this has anything to do with that picture of me in Hello she doesn’t want to know about it.
She saw it?
No. But she heard Olga giving birth to a litter of kittens after Elizabeth showed it to her.
So she has seen it.
That would be a good bet.
Can I ask her something else?
As long as I can do it while she’s walking to the tube, then I can ask away.
Why is she so unfriendly?
She looks at me. Briefly. Annoyed. She checks her watch again. Clearly we need to have a conversation. She has twenty minutes.
I follow her into a coffee shop.
I offer to get our drinks.
She declines. She takes a chamomile tea, which she pays for herself before finding a seat. I join her when I have my Americano in hand.
Correct her if she’s wrong, but this is the first job I’ve had.
The Psychiatrist is hardly my first job.
No. My first job period. The first time in my life that I’ve actually worked for a living. Someone has given me money in exchange for my time and ability to perform a function.
Yes. This is my first job.
It’s not her first job. She’s had lots of jobs. She’s been working since she was about twelve years old. She’ll probably keep working until she’s dead. This is who she is.
Okay. This is good. Getting to know each other. I like this.
Before I get too excited, don’t get used to the idea of being friends. She doesn’t make friends with her coworkers. Work is work. Friendship is friendship. There is a very distinct line between the two in her world.
We live together, we work together, and I don’t understand why we can’t at least be friendly.
Because she has no interest in being friendly. We do not live together. We share space in the same house. She will say that I did well in hiring Wright. She was about a minute away from moving out of the house. Anything to save her from having to pay unnecessarily for rent is welcome.
I don’t get it. I’m sorry, but I don’t get it.
Clearly I don’t get it. If I got it, then I wouldn’t have let Olga move into my bedroom. Just remember when the time comes, she did try to warn me.
My personal life is my own.
Really? Is that what I think? From where she’s observing my life there is nothing personal about it. Do I know anything about her?
No.
Good. That’s the point. She, on the other hand, knows more about me than I should be comfortable with. Especially considering my desire
to keep what I’m doing professionally on the down low. What really surprises her is that I actually live in the house when I could be staying with my friend Elon. If I really wanted to keep my working life as private and contained as possible, that’s what I should be doing.
She’s entitled to her opinion. (I don’t say it, but she has a point – I’ve considered moving in with Elon as the time to announce my engagement to Parvati grows nearer. I know I need distance from Olga when the moment comes. It’s going to get ugly despite the fact I’ve been warning her from the beginning this was what was to be.)
Yes. She is. If it’s any consolation, if we weren’t working together and the circumstances were different, she could see us being friends. But we work together.
I don’t get it. Okay I’ve never had a job, but I know that people that work together can and do become friends. My former fiancée and my cousin Margaret are best friends. They met doing something with wells or something in Africa. Maybe it was solar panels in Mongolia.
Talitha laughs. It’s unexpected and quite charming. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard her laugh before. She’s going to tell me a story. When she first moved to London she didn’t speak English. Not really at least. A little, but not much. She certainly didn’t know anyone. But she got a job working in a Brazilian grocery store. Little place. Busy. She was happy for the work. Every Saturday and Sunday and a few days during the week when she wasn’t in school.
What did she study?
At first English. Now she’s a business student.
She’s a student?
Yes. Do I want to hear her story or no?
Tell me the story.
She’s working at this little Brazilian grocery store. Her hours are the store hours. But to get the store open, to do things like count the float, sweep, stock the shelves, get the newspapers ready, she needs to come in about a half-hour early. But she doesn’t get paid for that half-hour. The owner is her friend. She wants to help him. He’s a nice man. So she doesn’t ask about the half-hour. Or the other half-hour after the store closes it takes to mop the floor, sweep, restock the shelves, count the money, prepare the deposit, and do all of the other things she needs to do. She doesn’t get paid for that half-hour either.
She never says a word.
She needs the job.
The man that owns the store is her friend. He’s kind to her. He’s given her a job when she needed one. She’s grateful to him.