by Livia Ellis
The job is easy. It’s better than the job she had working at that horrible fast food fried chicken place when she first arrived in London. Imagine. To this day the smell of fried chicken makes her ill.
She can read the Portuguese paperbacks and newspapers when it’s slow and she doesn’t feel like studying.
For more than a year she does this. She figures in that time she probably worked nearly two-hundred hours she didn’t get paid for.
Then the end of year comes.
She gets her final paycheck for the year.
For some reason her friend the man that owns the store holds back about forty pounds. Not a fortune, but for her it is. Forty pounds is the difference between eating and not eating. She assumes there’s been some kind of mistake. So she asks him about the money.
He overpaid her for vacation hours.
So he had to claw back the money.
Just like that.
He had to claw back the money.
Claw it back.
Like she’d taken something from him. Like she had cheated him.
So he clawed back the money.
After all of those unpaid hours opening and closing the store, he had to claw back forty pounds from her.
This man that was her friend.
Here is the truth.
He wasn’t really her friend.
Her friends were the people that gave her money for food to make up for the deficit in her paycheck. The Esthetician - she is a friend. The Esthetician introduced her to the Matchmaker, brought her into the business, got her a job, and secured her a place in the house. That is a real friend. Do I understand the difference between a friend and a work colleague?
I suppose I do. Do I understand why we can’t be friends?
Yes. But I’d never do anything as shitty as expect someone to work and not pay them. (The Gresham’s aside…)
She guesses the man she worked for didn’t think it really mattered a half-hour here or there. But it does matter. That’s the sort of thing that makes someone that really doesn’t have a voice very resentful. The job is a job for her. She’s not in it to make friends. She’s in it to make money to pay her tuition and save up to return home and start a business.
Can I ask her a question?
I can always ask.
Why was she such a bitch to me when I moved into the house?
That didn’t have so much to do with me as it did the situation as a whole. I wasn’t there when the Matchmaker had Harold booted out. It was ugly. She was never a fan of Harold, but they worked well together. She lost a lot of business when he was replaced.
I took most of Harold’s business.
A fact she is not unaware of. Just so I know, Olga yanked a lot of business away from her in that little maneuver. It hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice that Olga gets the lion’s share of partner work with me.
I asked both Mi Young and Elizabeth if they wanted to take the job with the Psychiatrist. Both of them turned me down.
Why is that do I suppose? Could it perhaps have something to do with the fact I have blurred the lines of professionalism and no one really knows what’s okay and what’s not when it comes to me, Olga, and the job?
Why did she take the job with the Psychiatrist?
Because her afternoon was free. If I want to know if she’s afraid of Olga, she’s not. If I want to work with her again, I just need to ask. Tell her something – do I not find it strange the other girls tend to call Avan when they need a man? Avan’s working a lot more with Elizabeth, Emer, Mi Young, and Simone than I am.
I had wondered about this.
Olga has pretty well told each of them hands off. None of them want to cross Olga because they’re all just a big bunch of girlfriends. Am I starting to get it?
Yes.
Olga is bad for my career. Just in case I really wasn’t starting to get it.
I got it.
Good. This is a job. The way we make our money. To do the things we want to do. Like buy cups of tea and starting a line of beachwear with a sister. She is not going to be in the job forever. When she’s done with school, she’s done with the job.
Maybe when we’re both out of the job we can be friends.
Maybe. But until then, she’d appreciate it if I respected her boundaries.
I can do that. It was good working with her today. It was refreshingly professional.
This is how it should be. Can she make a personal observation?
What’s one more?
Olga is trouble. She’s sorry if this bothers me, but it’s the truth. Olga has always had issues with boundaries. Whether I believe her or not, Mwaka pretty well had to run to get away from her. Olga has issues with codependency. She’s been around Olga long enough to see what I don’t see. I’m blinded by love, or loneliness, or just plain male stupidity – my relationship with Olga is unhealthy. It will not end well. Especially if I’m still keen to go forward with my hunt for a wealthy bride.
I am.
Okay. One other observation then she needs to get to a lecture.
Sure.
If I’m not afraid of Olga’s father, then I should be.
Good to know.
CHAPTER TWELVE
3:00pm
The Painter lives and works in a loft located in the shadow of the Gherkin. He bought the property with the proceeds of his first sale when the area was less than desirable and the square footage was worth less than what I pay for an Americano. I exaggerate, but not by much. He has an enormous space and no impetus to sell despite the offers he must receive.
He’s painting. He’s grouchy. I’m intruding on his space. He resents my presence and what it means. I know better than to push from the start. So I leave him be.
I walk around.
Paintings taller than me and wider than a church door line the walls. There the sort of things you look at and think a five year old with no inhibitions and a large quantity of paint could achieve. But then if you try to copy what he does, you fail admirably.
Smaller paintings, the ones he never sells, are stacked like dominoes under a row a warehouse windows. These are the ones I like to look at. They’re like photographs. Snapshots of life. People unobserved getting on with what needs to be done. Fathers with children. Women being unconsciously beautiful. Lovers are a favourite subject.
After I’ve been there for twenty minutes I nudge.
Is he planning on ignoring me until the hour is up and I leave?
Yes.
It’s going to be one of those days, is it?
Yes. Why don’t I just fuck off and go? He’s not in the mood.
Fine. But I will have to tell the Psychiatrist. We all know how this works.
I am a little bitch, aren’t I?
Yes.
Tell him something. Was that my father the earl that walked in front of a bus exactly a year ago? Adair. Same name. Can’t be a coincidence.
Yes.
He read about it in the paper.
I’d rather not talk about it. Ten minutes. Then I’ll go.
He stares at me. He drops his paintbrush. For a man of his years, he can be a petulant child.
Do I want tea?
No. I want him to sit with me on the couch. We’re going to talk to each other like civilized human beings.
This is utter bullshit. Do I know this is utter bullshit?
It’s not utter bullshit. He’s the one in the midst of an existential depression. He’s the one that shut himself off from humanity. He’s the one that asked for help. I’m just part of the process. If he doesn’t want to continue with the process, he needs to talk to the Psychiatrist. I work for her, not for him.
I am a little bitch.
Yes. I am a little bitch. Please sit.
He sits on the couch next to me. I take his hands in mine. They’re covered with smears of paint and calluses. I look him in the eyes. I see him. I acknowledge him.
This is how we sit for ten minutes. Hands clasped and eyes held.
He used to go to Paris a lot when he was younger.
I like Paris. My fiancée is in Paris.
He had a lover there. He broke his heart.
They do tend to do that.
Am I being flip?
No. I’m sorry. Let’s start again. He had a lover in Paris.
They used to go to the park. They would make up stories about the people they saw.
I think I’d enjoy that.
There was a woman they saw often enough. His lover would say that her name was Delores and that if she’d been more joyfully named she would have lived a happier life. He wrote a book about her.
I know this book. I had to read it when I was doing my A levels.
He loved him. And then he broke his heart. Why do people do that?
I don’t know.
Have I ever loved anyone?
Yes. But I didn’t realize it until it was too late. Then she was gone.
Same for him. When he realized what he had it was gone.
Life is hard like that.
This is when he begins to cry. The emotion he cannot release onto his canvas no longer needs to be suppressed or held in check. The turning inwards that brought him to the Psychiatrist has gradually begun to unfold. Human contact and the push to interact with others are all part of a greater plan that I’m just a small part of.
I hold his hands until the wave of emotion passes and he releases me. He touches my face. His touches my ears. He touches my arm. He hugs me. This is progress.
Would I like to see what he is working on?
Yes. I’m always interested in what he’s working on.
He rises from the couch and takes me to a canvas. Small and personal. A woman on the bus gazing into a compact mirror fixing her lipstick.
What do I think?
I like it. She’s pretty. Who is she?
No idea. He saw her on the bus. He finds the bus an excellent place to sit and watch people.
Did he consider talking to her?
Who would talk to a crazy old man on the bus? Nobody talks to anybody anymore. We live in our own cocoons and die before we become butterflies. We only see the shadows on the walls and never realize we miss reality. Our eyes are open but yet we do not see.
He’s probably right.
He is right. If he has done nothing else with his life he has watched it go by.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
4:00pm
I stand on a street corner waiting for a car to stop and pick me up. Not just any random car, I haven’t slipped that far into the underbelly of prostitution, but one containing Olga. There has been neither a text nor a call from Olga. I’m too afraid to call her myself. I have visions of her putting my nuts in a vice and squeezing until they pop. I have no excuse for the kiss. I really don’t. I’ve been in this place before, but I’m different now than I was before. I actually care that I was caught. I’m growing a conscience and it’s a pesky thing.
We have an hour with Mr. White. Fashion designer to royalty and the stars and, in my nearly year working as a male prostitute, my freakiest client. Bar none. No one is freakier. Not even a little. No one comes close. Not even the Banker who likes pretending he’s a dog and barking for £20 notes.
This is why he is one of my favourites.
I love his total freedom to be absolutely off the wall weird. Because he is weird. Nothing is off limits. Beyond off limits, it’s expected. Mr. White, or as we in the business call him because of his personal tastes the Baboon, recently changed his favourite role play. It’s this modified Queen of Hearts pantomime. Even I am not blind to the beauty of the costumes. The Baboon put a lot of effort into designing and fitting everyone’s attire.
Olga is the Queen and I am the Prince. We won these roles in a relay race that had much to with favoritism and little to do with skill. Will I continue to come to the Baboon’s home for these kinky little farces when I no longer need the money? Am I that twisted? I think I might be. I’ll admit it – I have fun playing dress up and being socially unacceptable.
Olga picks me up in a taxi at the designated point at the designated time. Finally something is going smoothly and to plan. She’s beautiful in prim red shift dress and pearls. I love the oversized sunglasses. Most women look like bugs wearing them. Olga works that shit.
She holds her cheek up for me to kiss. She fixes my tie. I get a loving, nay adoring, smile.
How is my day?
Fine.
Am I having a happy birthday?
Splendid.
She really can’t understand why she couldn’t have even a little party for me.
Because it’s not just my birthday.
Wouldn’t my father have wanted me to be happy on my birthday?
A party won’t make me happy. Do we have to discuss this?
No we do not. She saw I forgot the check for Ascot.
Sorry.
Not a bother. She does adore me, but she also knows at this point she should deal with these things herself. She mailed it off so it’s done.
Thanks.
She received a call from my mother.
And?
I am distressing her. I need to be careful with her health. Today is quite difficult for her. She is doing well, but she could take a turn. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.
If she’s healthy enough to appear in reality television then she can deal with some shit from me. She shouldn’t have waited for the anniversary of my father’s death to let me find out from my uncle that she’s planning on being in that show.
Really Oliver – language.
Sorry.
How was working with Talitha?
Who told her?
She knows everything. She thinks I should have told the Psychiatrist to have an open mind. She thinks it would have been just fine.
Everything was just fine as it was. Does she know that I worked with Elizabeth earlier?
She stares at me. She thought I had the Football Player.
I did. Elizabeth was there when I got there.
Elizabeth told her that she wouldn’t work with me.
Elizabeth lied as she is wont to do when it suits her needs.
Does the Match Maker know about this?
I have no idea. That is not the issue. I thought she was done interfering with my work.
She thought I had come to the realization she’s not going to share me unless she absolutely must. Besides, what difference does it make? We’re both out of the business in a few months anyhow. I might as well just give her what she wants and stop making things awkward for everyone else. Speaking of things that are awkward, we need to have a conversation about my appearance in Hello.
I was wondering when that was going to come up.
We will be having a conversation about that.
When?
Later. When we are alone and have privacy. Until then, consider myself in the dog house. As it is, because it is my birthday and such a sad anniversary, we will delay that particular conversation until later.
I’ll be on my very best behavior.
She has no doubt.
We enter the Baboon’s home together.
The butler greets us. He hands us a write up and tells us to stick to the basics and to keep improve to a minimum. Follow Avan’s lead and try to keep up with any changes. We know our way to the changing room. There are four costumers. I’m handed a garment bag. Same costume as the last time. I’m a little disappointed. My epaulets suggestion was not implemented.
Olga puts on her Dragonia Queen of the Darkness sparkling gown. I change into my Dashing Prince of the Lovelies shimmering suit. I like the golden jodhpurs. They’re jaunty. Still, epaulets would really make the cropped jacket shine.
We know our way to the holding area outside the throne room. There are courtiers in an array of costumes flittering about here and there. Many last minute adjustments to strings holding up barely there triangles and patches of cloth are
given a final tug. There are four girls in stringy costumes wearing enormous strap on dildos. Big dildos. Really really big. Comically so. They keep banging their dildos into walls and other people. Who thinks up this shit?
The Butler appears with his clipboard.
We’ve all done this before. Nothing has changed. We all know our roles. Stick to the script except for Avan who has his new instructions. We each get paid for two hours. He’s being very fussy. He wants to try something new. Just play along nicely.
The doors to the throne room open.
The Baboon has switched things up. We now play lords and ladies.
Everyone takes their places. Olga and I are sat on a pair of thrones.
I like the new set-up. It’s cleaner than having to pee on the Baboon, and I get to sit through most of it.
Four girls I don’t know each in a stringy costume wearing a giant strap on dildo walk a loincloth wearing Baboon into the throne room with velvet ropes holding him by both wrists and each ankle.
There is a lot of struggling. He moans a great deal. He’s like the Elephant Man or Quasimodo. The girls grapple against him without putting up any kind of real fight.
Avan in his purple Grand Vizier costume complete with serpent staff, steps forward. I envy him and his serpent staff. The Grand Vizier costume comes with a cape. A big swirling cape. I want the cape and the serpent staff. If I have to go to a kinky fancy dress party, then I want to be the one with the awesome cape.
Olga nudges me in the ribs. I’m up.
Grand Vizier! Who is this criminal you bring before me and my beautiful Queen Draconia?
Dragonia! Olga hisses at me between her teeth.
MY beautiful Queen Dragonia!
Avan (damn him!) swirls that beautiful cape as he swings his serpent staff. If I had the cape and the serpent staff I’d probably bring my best too. He points at the Baboon. It is him. It is the King of Clash.
I gasp. Not the King of Clash!
Olga gasps.
Everyone gasps.
Avan swirls that cape again. (Overact much?) Yes! It is him – King of Clash. The man who dared put polka dots with plaid and had the audacity to try to bring back ruffles.
A hush falls over the room. Not ruffles. Anything but ruffles.