Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  Granddad holds up a hand. Boys will be boys. A little slap and tickle with one of the lads is all part of growing up. My indiscretions are waved away with a chuckle.

  Is it?

  Of course it is! He was a boy once. He knows the way of the world.

  He’s not going to tell my grandmother is he?

  He’s smarter than that! Give him a little credit at least!

  He’s not going to tell dad, right?

  Never. My father gave up the right to have an opinion about these things when I was eleven. This is all between us men.

  I’m not in trouble?

  Not even a little. But do lock the bedroom door from now on. Consider that rule number one when I want to have a bit of fun with another chap.

  He’s really not angry with me?

  What is there to be angry about? Elon is a handsome young man. I am energetic and curious. This is all very normal. When he was my age he might have gotten up to the same hijinks. Boys will be boys.

  Really?

  I’m given a big wink. We are complicit in this. We are both men of the world. We understand that sometimes boys will be boys especially when it comes to other boys.

  Really. It’s quite okay. I’m not in trouble for being a young man. Now that said, there are some things I need to understand. Things about boys being boys and men being men and what it means to be responsible and to do what is right as opposed to what one wants to do. Just because I’m attracted to men doesn't mean that excuses me from having to do the things that are expected of me.

  I like girls too. It’s all very confusing.

  All the better! This makes things much easier. He likes girls too. Girls are lovely. He loves my grandmother very much. They are the best of friends, they are life partners, and they are a team. But….

  He holds up the photo album turned towards me. I am shown a picture of him and his friend Lionel when they were much younger men. When they were Harrow students just like me and Elon.

  He also loves Lionel very much. This is something we need to talk about. Something that I need to understand. Just because we love someone doesn’t mean we have the right to give up our lives to be with them. He is not unaware that times are changing and it is becoming wholly acceptable to be a homosexual publicly, but this is not for us. We are men with greater obligations than to see to the needs of our libidos. It is within us to ensure our family continues. We must marry. We must have children.

  Does my grandmother know about this? About Lionel?

  She made a choice years ago to not know about it, he has been gentleman enough to shield her, and they have always lived very happily together. When I marry, which I must do make no mistake, then I should marry a girl that understands the way the wind blows and accepts that some things are immutable. The time will come soon enough when I will need to find a nice young lady from an acceptable family to marry. Someone he and my grandmother approve of. Do not make the mistake my father did and confuse lust for love. Do not marry someone like my mother. A marginally literate bimbo that knows how to be a frisky whore in bed. This is not the stuff that makes a marriage.

  I don’t think I want to marry someone like my mother.

  Wise.

  What kind of girl should I marry?

  Marry a girl that is educated but not insufferable, charming but not false, firm but gentle, frugal but not parsimonious, able to direct a staff but not turn into a dictator, an excellent hostess, and above all loyal.

  Beautiful would be nice. I like really pretty girls.

  Beautiful does not matter. Beautiful is at the bottom of the list of what makes a good wife. My grandmother, good a woman as she is, was never described as beautiful. Handsome. Perhaps. But never beautiful. What makes my grandmother worthy of being a wife is that she has in abundance the qualities that matter. My mother has only beauty. Like it or not, that’s starting to fade. Marry a girl of substance. Live my life as I so desire – within reason of course – and produce a son.

  Okay.

  Do I want to meet with the archaeologist when he arrives?

  Yes. Does Elon have to leave?

  No. Of course not. Just keep the door locked and don’t act like a couple of little buggers in public. Can we do that?

  Sure.

  One other thing. When I start the hunt for a wife, if she’s wealthy all better.

  I return to my room.

  Elon is sitting in the window.

  I lock the door. I’ve learned my lesson.

  Elon’s crying.

  I go to him and hug him. It’s fine. He doesn’t have to go. I’ve just had the weirdest conversation with my grandfather that I am pretty sure I will ever have. I think he might be gay. But I can’t be certain. There is definitely something up with his friend Lionel.

  That queenie old fag my grandfather makes us go to dinner with once a month? The one we call Cecil Vyse? The one we make fun of?

  Yes.

  Yeah he can see that. He’s really okay with us?

  Yes. As long as nobody else finds out. We have to keep it secret. We’re not allowed to go out in public and act like a couple of little faggots or something like that. Buggers. We can’t act like buggers in public.

  That’s bullshit. What the fuck?

  Nobody can find out. I have to get married.

  I’m fourteen.

  Not today obviously. Someday. When I’m older. But as long as I’m discreet it’s okay.

  Bullshit. The days of living in the closet are over.

  I need to have a son.

  Why? That’s crap. Let my cousins have kids.

  No. I need to have a son. I like girls too. I can get married. My grandfather’s right. It can work out fine with the right girl.

  Bullshit. I’m just confused.

  I am confused. That’s the only thing I really know.

  He loves me.

  I know that too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Limbo

  We linger in the rooms. For three days. We are not allowed to leave the rooms. We linger.

  I cannot stand the smell of Olga’s nail polish anymore. She’s slowly trying to suffocate me with the fumes. I cannot watch her groom herself another moment. No prize show dog is brushed and combed as much as she is. The way she sits with her tweezers poised waiting to pluck an eyebrow hair that might suddenly appear like a dolphin breeching the surface of the sea.

  I will say that I much prefer her studying her own face with the tweezers ready to strike then when she turns that focus on me. I managed twenty-eight years of life without needing to pluck my eyebrows. I think I can manage another twenty-eight. That she keeps on examining my ears and nostrils is starting to make me paranoid.

  When I think her toes cannot possibly bear the weight of another coat of red polish, she sticks her foot up and begins the process once again.

  I pick up her moronic teen Mormon vampire book. It’s like a car wreck. I can’t stop looking at it. I hate myself that I want to read it just to see how bad it can get. When I reach the last page I need a brain enema. When she tells me she has the next three in the series I scream. Oh the humanity! If I ever have a little girl I will make certain she never reads that kind of twaddle.

  I’m bored.

  Read a book.

  I’m bored.

  Read a magazine.

  I’m bored!

  She is not my entertainment committee.

  Never going to let that one go.

  Probably not. Do I want to use her laptop? Check my email? Find something to do other than bother her?

  Please yes for the love of god yes please give me the laptop.

  Get it myself. It’s in the Mulberry case.

  Which is…

  I’m useless. One toenail covered in drying polish points at the stack of luggage against the wall. That one.

  Fine. I’ll figure it out. I roll off the bed. I figure out what a Mulberry case is. Saying yellow leather bag might have helped.

  It’s her probl
em I have no idea how to recognize a Mulberry bag?

  Did she really have to bedazzle her laptop?

  Yes. She really did.

  What’s the password?

  Am I trying to be as irritating as I can be do get her to stop painting her nails and pay attention to me?

  I just need the password.

  Bring her the laptop. She picks up a pen.

  I hold the laptop open to her like a present.

  The password is tapped in.

  Is she going to tell me the password?

  No.

  Any particular reason?

  Yes. She doesn’t want me snooping around on her laptop.

  For fuck sakes…

  Do I want to use her laptop or not?

  Fine.

  Then quit my bitching.

  The bedazzled laptop has red Cyrillic stickers on the keys.

  Fortunately some things are universal. I’m trolling the internet nearly immediately after entering the Wi-Fi password I found on a neatly printed instruction sheets for guests staying in the room.

  I go through her pictures.

  Who took all the boobie pictures of her?

  Wouldn’t I like to know.

  Actually probably not. Kitten pictures? Really?

  Kittens are adorable. Why don’t I like kittens?

  I like kittens just fine. Preferably tied up in a sack and sinking to the bottom of a river.

  What did I say?

  Nothing darling. Just that I’m more of a dog person.

  Should we get a cat?

  Over my cold lifeless body.

  What about a puppy?

  Maybe. Which means maybe. That doesn’t mean go out and get a puppy. She already bought a horse.

  I’m not the boss of her.

  Meh.

  Silence.

  When was the last time I checked my email? I can’t remember. Four or five days at least. Maybe six. Possibly a week. I can’t recall. What I do have are over a thousand unread emails. I filter through the spam and am left with nearly four dozen emails that have any relevance. They’re mostly from mum, Aunt Lucy, Elon, Uncle Harvey, Renata, the Greshams, Cousin Margaret….

  Why does my Cousin Margaret want to know if we would rather stay in a guest house or at her fiancé’s castle?

  Tell her we want to stay in the castle.

  That actually doesn’t answer the question.

  She told me she was going to contact Cousin Margaret about the wedding.

  We are not going to stay at the castle. We need to stay in a place that mum can get around in using her wheelchair if she needs it.

  Fine. I might have mentioned sooner that mum would be joining us. She’ll contact Aunt Maisie. She’ll have a good idea what might be ideal.

  How the fuck does she know my Aunt Maisie?

  She’s been cc’d in on the emails. So have I. If I read my emails I’d know this.

  I click back through the string of emails between Olga and Cousin Margaret. Cousin Margaret. My former fiancée’s best friend. Olga and Cousin Margaret are far too friendly for my comfort.

  How did she get Cousin Margaret’s email?

  On the wedding website.

  The wedding website.

  Yes. It’s a website set up so people going to the wedding can get information.

  I’m aware of what a wedding website is.

  So then why am I asking her what a wedding website is?

  I wasn’t… just never mind.

  I take a moment to Google my wedding website. The first time I’ve done this voluntarily. All wedding planning was the provenance of my former fiancée and the team of experts she hired. Fuck me it’s still up. It’s the same, but with one notable difference. Some clever bunny has come along and jazzed it up. The engagement photo now splits down the middle and my half bursts into virtual flames. Hilarious.

  I open a screen to compose a message to my former fiancée.

  What she’s done to the wedding website is unkind. I’d appreciate it if she would just delete it.

  Send.

  I get an email back from her as I read through a string of emails bouncing back and forth between Elon and Renata that I’ve been cc’d on. I believe I’ve found the true definition for clusterfuck.

  She didn’t do it. Truly. She didn’t even realize it was still up. She’s sorry. It is unkind and unnecessary. It’ll be taken down as soon as she gets ahold of Camille.

  Do I respond? No? Yes? No? Yes? What else could I possibly write? I let it go. I should have probably phrased the first email a bit differently. Pushed the door open to a dialog. But I didn’t and it’s too late. What could we possibly have to say to each other?

  I finish reading through the emails between Renata and Elon. Each of them are bcc’ing me into the conversation. The number of emails I receive grows at an exponential rate. More continue to pop up as I reach the bottom. This is an email battle in real time. They have reached a stalemate but continue to lob projectiles at the other. Any victory will be a Pyrrhic one.

  No one is coming out of this alive. Least of all me.

  I can’t even run halfway around the world to get away from it.

  I was born in the wrong century. I would have been very comfortable living in a world without email. Back in the days when people put pen to paper and a letter took weeks to traverse the globe. I would have been comfortably oblivious to all of this bullshit. I would have been on tour. Reading books on the deck of a ship as she steamed around the globe. Dressing for dinner. Playing shuffle board. Reading three week old newspapers.

  Not being drawn in to a shitstorm that will just have to blow itself out in time.

  Which it will.

  In time.

  That baby is coming one way or another. That Rubicon has been crossed. The die has been cast. Renata is not going to have an abortion. I know from personal experience that she needs to be presented with the options in such a way that the decision is hers. This was not done. So she has chosen the path that will make her the biggest pain in as many asses as possible.

  I know what to do. But I’m not going to do it by email and I’m certainly not going to do it from Japan. This will have to wait. If I could order a cease fire and force the two into their neutral corners until I could get to the negotiating table, some semblance of order might be restored.

  So I send an email.

  I will be home in a few days. Just leave it until then.

  They turn their sites on me.

  Mind my own fucking business.

  In two weeks she won’t be able to have a fucking abortion. I do not want a fucking kid and if I did it wouldn’t be with that fucking crazy slag.

  If you don’t want my help then BOTH of you need to stop bcc’ing me on your fucking email conversations.

  I turn to the emails from mum, Uncle Harvey, and Aunt Lucy.

  More shit piled upon shit. Somehow it’s all my problem. Everything is my problem and I must solve every problem. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Even in Kyoto they can lay their bullshit at my feet.

  The door to the room slides open. The Servant enters. I am to come with him. I’ve been summoned.

  Thank god. I’ve been rescued.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Acceptable

  Two days after my twenty-fifth birthday I’m summoned to my grandparents’ sitting room. They’re having tea. I’m invited to join them.

  My grandmother starts the conversation. My new friend is charming. A bit unsure of herself, but charming. Malleable. Willing. Eager. Charming. These are all things she can work with.

  I suppose charming is a good word.

  My grandfather continues the conversation. Do I remember when he promised me that they would tell me when I presented them with an appropriate potential bride?

  I seem to recall something about this.

  This girl, her father is the one that owns that fast food restaurant chain?

  Yes. She works for him. Actually she more or less runs the busine
ss side of the operation from what she’s told me. She’s quite intelligent. She has an MBA from Harvard. She went to Saint Andrews.

  Very nice! Very nice indeed! My grandmother truly couldn’t be more delighted.

  They heartily approve. My grandfather nods sharply.

  I’ve known her two days.

  She’s keen. My grandmother is absolutely certain. It won’t take much to win her.

  Turn on the Adair charm. It shouldn’t take much to make the girl fall in love with me.

  She’s hardly a girl. She’s thirty-three.

  My grandmother sighs. Whatever I do, do not highlight that fact. Unless of course she’s keenly aware of her age and is in a rush to settle down. Even better actually. We might have this wrapped up by the next summer.

  I should propose to her at Christmas. It’s romantic and it gives everyone enough time to plan a summer wedding. My grandfather looks to my grandmother for confirmation.

  Yes. This is the goal to shoot for. No woman would be able to say no to Lady Charlotte’s diamond ring. She’ll have it ready for me when the time comes.

  I’ve known her two days. I cannot emphasize this enough. Two days. I actually sort of have a girlfriend. I probably should send her an email or something. Let her know we’re done.

  They have every confidence in me. I am dismissed.

  I return to my room. She who will become my fiancé the following Christmas as predicted, is finishing packing her bags. She’s leaving. I wasn’t glad to be rid of her so much as I was ready to have my space back. I’ve enjoyed her company. She was great when I needed someone. But it’s time to go.

  Or not.

  I do as instructed and turn on the Adair charm. Not the full blast which no woman or man can withstand, but enough.

  I kiss her neck and then her cheek. Does she really have to go?

  Yes. She really has to go. What’s it like to not have a job? It must be nice.

  Stay with me. Don’t go.

  I am a delightful distraction and more than a little bit tempting, but she really does have to get to Aberdeen.

  What’s in Aberdeen that I can’t give her right where we are?

  A celebrity golf tournament her father is planning. Charity keeps him busy and out of her hair. But I don’t ever need to repeat that.

  I like golf. Can I go with her?