Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  But she wasn’t there. She doesn’t love me anymore.

  I drink my tea. Mrs. Gresham wraps up food, pays the caterers, and manages everything beautifully. When the doorbell rings, I get it. She’s busy and I need an excuse to get out of the kitchen. Her efficiency is starting to make me angry.

  There is a man I don’t know at the door. Am I Oliver Adair? He has a clipboard.

  Yes. More papers. Fantastic. I sign and take the large envelope from him.

  I rip it open and pull out the contents as I walk up the steps to my rooms.

  What the fuck am I reading? Am I being sued? I’m being sued. I’m being fucking sued by my fiancée’s father for the cost of the wedding, all sundry expenses, and for inflicting emotional torture. What the fuck is this? He wants twenty-million-fucking-pounds from me? This has got to be a joke. It has to be.

  I walk into my rooms as I reach for my mobile. They were my grandparents’ rooms, but they’re mine now. Dad didn’t want them. He just felt too uncomfortable moving into their space. We agreed that I could take them. He’d stick with his rooms. Mum kicked off, but we ignored her. Something beautiful happened when the two of us started going to lunch. We became friends then allies. Together we were stronger against the will of my mother. We became the inseparable couple and she was the one on the outs. Perhaps I exaggerate, but still. I had the relationship with my father we both always wanted at last.

  Mum is in my rooms. She’s in the boudoir used by my grandmother and great-grandmother before her to dress. The place is a shambles. My former fiancée’s things are tossed around the place, drawers are emptied, jewel boxes turned out onto the floor.

  Where is the ring?

  What the fuck is she doing?

  Where is the ring? The fucking ring? Lady Charlotte’s diamond. She wants it. Where the fuck is it?

  I don’t have it.

  Why the fuck not?

  Because my fiancée has it.

  Former fiancée. Why haven’t I gotten it back yet?

  We haven’t spoken since she broke up with me. Besides, I was sort of hoping she might take me back.

  Get the ring back. It’s rightfully hers. She wants it.

  How is it rightfully hers?

  She’s the dowager countess. It’s the dowager countess’ ring. She wants the ring.

  This is insane. Clearly she is having some kind of breakdown.

  The conversation spirals downward from there. Eventually it ends when Elon pulls me out of the room and Mr. and Mrs. Gresham take hold of my mother. They separate us bodily. I am tossed into the passenger seat of Elon’s Audi. He drives us back to London. He gets his pack of flying monkey lawyers on the papers. Yes. My former fiancée’s father really is suing me. Uncle Albert is brought in.

  I am given many lectures on the importance of responsibility and how I am not to sell off the furniture to pay for my bad choices.

  I ask him what to do. I genuinely need his advice.

  He tells me to get off my ass and get a fucking job.

  Doing what? I’ve never worked a day in my life.

  He suggests I go and find a wealthy wife.

  The sum is negotiated down to an amount which is curiously close to precisely what I have in my trust fund and the trust used to maintain Wold Hall. Figures my fiancée knows well as she has long since assumed management of my money. I empty my trust and make a promise to pay down the rest of the money. This is unacceptable. The money must be paid immediately.

  But I can’t pay the money.

  But I must pay the money.

  But I can’t pay the money.

  But I must pay the money.

  Round and round and round we go.

  The team of lawyers hired by my former fiancée’s father come to me with a compromise. My former fiancée’s father always fancied owning a castle. Sign it over to him and the slate will be cleared.

  Not over my dead body. In fact, if I were dead, that would sort of solve all of my problems. Wold Hall would automatically go to Uncle Albert and my debts would die with me.

  Suicide becomes an option.

  For about a minute.

  Then I move on. I have within me the strength to persevere. I am on my knees, but I am not defeated.

  I rise again with Elon at my side. We become more frequent lovers. I move into his home and into his bed. He arranges to have all of my problems disappear. He believes at long last I am ready to acknowledge that we belong together. This is not what I want. I’m done exchanging my body for comfort and money. I love Elon like I loved my former fiancée. Like a person loves a friend. I still want to get married and have children. I want that life and I mean to have it.

  What am I left with? What job offer do I receive? What am I qualified to do? Fuck. That’s all I’ve ever really been good at. This is the thing my former fiancée liked best about me. I can fuck. Ten-thousand pounds to spend a few days at the disposal of a Japanese gentleman. Who is not actually a man. But something else entirely. A beautiful hybrid that longs to keep me in her world of secrets.

  She rubs my skin with perfumed oils, she sings me songs, plays her shamisen, she feeds me wine, she makes me forget. I’ve become the Lotus Eater. Time passes without being marked. One day blends into the next. I would happily stay on this island The Samurai has created for herself. In seclusion. My troubles all far behind me.

  I don’t need a castle. I don’t need a sick mother. I don’t need a wife. I don’t need Olga.

  Everything I will ever need is contained within the walls of the compound the Samurai’s family has built around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Hotel California

  I run my hand through my damp hair. Olga’s right. I need to go.

  No. No I can’t go. I can’t leave her. I mustn’t leave her. She’ll give me whatever I want. But please don’t go.

  I have to go.

  She clings to me and holds me tight as I try to dress.

  Please don’t go. I must stay. She will be so lonely without me.

  I’ll return. I promise.

  When. When will I return?

  When I’ve dealt with my mother and let Elon know I’m still alive.

  She can’t let me go.

  I put my shirt over my head and accidently give her an elbow in the gut. It’s sharp and I’ve hurt her a little. But she’s off of me and I can rise from the cushions.

  She tackles me. She’s stronger than she looks. I’m pummeled and punched. I’m kicked in the ribs. She tries to bite my arm.

  I have to push her off of me. I don’t really have a choice. She lands hard on her back.

  Is she okay?

  I’ve hurt her. I must stay now.

  I didn’t hurt her that badly. Biting me was uncalled for. I promise I’ll be back. I will.

  I walk out of the pagoda as she lies on the cushions. I find my way back to the room Olga and I initially shared.

  Olga is standing with the Servant. She has two large envelopes tucked in the curve of her arm.

  We were here for sixteen days. We will be paid for sixteen days. If he doesn’t want to pay us, then she will take the matter up with the Matchmaker. There is also the matter of the per-diem and the airfare.

  They bicker. She is firm. More cash is produced. She is content. We have been paid in full.

  Our bags are removed by a pair of servants.

  I slip the leather jacket on she hands me before picking up my messenger bag. I’m handed my envelope of cash. This was a job. Again I have forgotten this one very basic thing. First with the Latin Pop Star and now with the Samurai. I’m not cut out for this. I’m really not. This has to be the end of it. Maybe I can do something else, but I can’t do this.

  We are escorted to the taxi which has been allowed to enter the gates. Our bags are loaded on.

  I slip into the back seat with Olga. The taxi moves only to be stopped at the gate to wait for it to open.

  The Samurai runs after the car. She’s screaming and waving. />
  I tell the taxi driver to move. I need to get off the island. We pass through the gates. I know the Samurai will not follow. She cannot leave her island. She is a prisoner, but I am not.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A Final Chance

  Olga, my Odysseus, takes my hand as we move. She says nothing and I appreciate that. There is nothing to be said. It is when we are on the plane and have reached altitude that she turns to me.

  When she was thirteen her mother died. She loved her mother. But she was thirteen. They had been fighting for a long time about everything I could imagine. Everything. The sky being blue could cause a fight. One morning she fought with her mother. The school she went to had rules about makeup and that sort of thing.

  Rules she broke regularly? (I give her hand a squeeze. I know how my Olga loves her slap. I may be the only man that has ever seen her fully without it. Even then she insisted on having lip-gloss close at hand. I’m fairly certain I’ve never witnessed her brush her teeth. Some things are just too private to be shared.)

  Yes. All the time. Lipstick is not a crime.

  Only when I can’t get it off my neck.

  Be quiet. This is important. I always make jokes and get snarky when things are important.

  Sorry my darling. Do go on.

  She went to school after having a fight with her mother. Vera. With her makeup bag hidden in her backpack. When she got to school she went into the girls’ bathroom and did her makeup. The principal catches her. Calls her mother. She has to sit in the office and wait for her mother to come. When her mother gets there Vera’s furious. Just furious. Vera’s not screaming but that’s coming. But it doesn’t. Vera gets a pain. In her head.

  Olga touches her head.

  Vera starts stumbling around. She can’t talk. Then she just falls on the ground. Boom. Like a bag of rocks. The ambulance comes. Vera’s taken away. She never wakes up again. It’s all her fault because she had to wear eyeliner. Doctor tells them Vera had an aneurysm.

  It was not her fault her mother had an aneurysm.

  She knows this. Do I know that it’s not my fault my father is dead because he was coming to meet me for lunch?

  It’s like she has the bullet in the chamber ready to shoot.

  Most of the time I know this. Sometimes I don’t.

  It will get better. She promises. After Vera dies, she becomes a saint. Everything Vera did was perfect. Vera was better than human. She was the best mother ever. Her hair was always perfect, her clothing was always stylish, and her makeup was flawless. Vera was perfection personified. In her mind. The truth was her mother was not perfect. Vera would have been the first one to laugh at her for raising her up on so high a pedestal. Vera had her faults. Vera could lose her temper. Vera could be a little bit selfish. Vera had cellulite. Vera gave birth to five daughters and had the tits to prove it. Vera was human.

  But she made her a saint.

  Yes. She made her a saint. She even had a shrine. Pictures, candles, and flowers. Then her father did the most unbelievable thing she could imagine.

  He remarried?

  Yes. The woman wasn’t so bad. Maybe she should have been a bit nicer to her. The second wife was certainly better than the third.

  The devil you know.

  Exactly. Vera was a saint and no woman was good enough for her father. He was punished for not wanting to be alone. What she is trying to explain, is that her mother was no saint. No one was ever as kind or evil as we think they are in our own memories. Memories are skewed in our favor. Is it possible I’m not remembering my mother as she truly was, but as I believed her to be?

  Probably. Yes. I have this tendency to be rather juvenile when it comes to recollecting the memories of my past. My mother is not half the devil I like to think she was. Perhaps I have exaggerated things a touch.

  Vera was not a saint. Martina is not a devil. Maybe she wasn’t a great mother, but truly was she that horrible?

  No.

  My mother is dying. Make some new memories before it’s too late. Don’t let her die without giving her a chance to leave this world knowing she’s at least tried to make amends. Weren’t things getting better before my dad died?

  They were.

  Close my eyes. She wants me to think. There must be one moment. One memory that I have of my mother that is good. Can I think of one?

  I do as I’m told. I close my eyes. Immediately I find a memory. A good memory.

  I’m sixteen. Uncle Harvey is in a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He’s the watchman. It’s the middle of summer. Elon has been recalled to Norway to attend his father’s most recent wedding. I would have gone with him, but the truth is, I like my summers with my parents. I’d never admit it, but I do.

  Mum drags me to London with her. Dad refuses to go. He just won’t. She has nothing in her arsenal that will get him to sit through A Midsummer Night's Dream. He won’t even be talked into going to London. If he’s in London she’ll think of a way to get him to go. And he won’t go. He sat through Agamemnon. He’s done his time.

  So we go together. We take the train. It’ll be an overnight trip so we both have a piece of luggage. We’re staying with Aunt Lucy because it’s easier than not staying with her. Aunt Lucy understands why dad prefers a hotel. But I and mum are us and there’s no reason we should be paying out money to stay in a hotel when there are two perfectly good beds that are all but unused. If we stayed in a hotel it would be personally offensive to Aunt Lucy.

  So we make the journey to Croydon. We are given tea and sandwiches when we arrive at Aunt Lucy’s neurotically tidy home behind the newsstand which now occupies the place where my grandfather’s butchers shop once was. Uncle Harvey used to live with her. But the drink just got to be too much at times. Besides, she likes her quiet and their parents left the place to her.

  There is cake. Madeira sponge with buttercream frosting. She’s crushed up the Smarties and mixed them in with the frosting like I like.

  We eat and then we dress. Mum does Aunt Lucy’s hair and makes her wear one of her dresses. Aunt Lucy and mum look really lovely. Mum’s beautiful. Sometimes I get why dad’s so dumb for her.

  Mum refuses to bend on taking a taxi. We will take a taxi. We are not going in our smart clothes on the tube. Especially to the neighborhood we’re going to. She will pay for it.

  We get to the theater with enough time to go to the pub across the way for a drink. She gets me a cider. Why not? I’m sixteen. She gets a white wine and Aunt Lucy a sherry.

  What does anyone know about this play? I look at mum and Aunt Lucy.

  It’s supposed to be avant-garde.

  Mum and I both look at each other. There was nudity the last time Uncle Harvey was in a production of something described as avant-garde. I spent three hours watching mum’s fingertips as a nude Uncle Harvey treads the boards as an outraged Hamlet. I’ve never been so grateful for mum before in my life.

  Is there nudity?

  Aunt Lucy certainly hopes not! Imagine. She doesn’t want to be unkind, but Harvey isn’t exactly the poster boy for Weight Watchers.

  But she has confirmed there is no nudity. Right?

  Well no. But honestly she didn’t think to ask. Harvey just said it was avant-garde.

  This is not good.

  How possible is it he does two plays in the nip? Honestly, not even Harvey would do that.

  Or would he?

  We three finish our drinks in silence. Then, we three, we happy three, we band of immediate family, make the journey from the pub to the theater that is only accessible after climbing three flights of stairs.

  There’s actually a bit of a crowd. This could be good.

  We take our seats, which are middle center. Harvey will miss us if we leave at intermission. There is no escape.

  I’m sat between mum and Aunt Lucy. The lights go down and the curtains go up. There is Uncle Harvey. Naked as the day he was born with a garland of flowers on his head and angel baby wings on his back. His b
ody denuded of hair. He’s a smooth fat Baby Huey. His dick is just there. There is no missing it. Thank god he doesn’t have an erection. But that too will pass. Nude Oberon practically does him in.

  Aunt Lucy shrieks.

  Mum and I look at each other.

  Is she going to put her hand over my eyes? My virgin eyes?

  Virgin her ass. She knows about me and the chalet girl in Switzerland.

  Dad told her?

  He didn’t have to tell her. She may not be the best mother, but she’s not blind. If she has to watch this, so do I. Besides, dad will never believe just her. I’m her witness.

  So we watch Uncle Harvey prance around as a buck nekked cherubic Puck for three hours.

  We call dad during the intermission. He almost wishes he was with us. But just almost. Not really. We are not to have too much fun without him.

  No chance of that.

  When the curtain drops, we scram. We go to the pub where our evening started. I’m sent to the bar to get drinks. We three sit at a table and stare at each other. Then we laugh. We can’t stop. Mum laughs so hard her eyes tear up and the mascara runs down her face. I’ve never seen her so joyful.

  Harvey joins us. Thank god he’s dressed. But I’m pretty sure I’ll never get the sight of his nekked prancing arse out of my head. That image is burned in there forever. There is a bit of theatrical make-up around his collar. This is no accident.

  What did we all think?

  It was avant-garde. Mum and I both repeat this several times.

  Yes! This was what he was going for! Avant-garde! But overall, what did we think of his performance?

  Who fancy’s a curry? Mum is absolutely dying for a curry. Her life will be less than complete without a curry at that very moment.

  Since when does she eat curry? As far as I know my parents despise curry.

  She loves curry. Dad is the one that can’t stand it. She can never eat a curry when he’s around. So do we go for a curry?

  Aunt Lucy smacks the table. Yes. We go for a curry. All in for a curry.

  We go to an Indian place not far from the place in Croydon. They’ve been going there since they were children. I’ll admit it’s really good curry. We four laugh a lot. Uncle Harvey drinks too much and eats too much all the while protesting he’s dieting.