Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Nine
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2014-05-01 04:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO 6:00am

CHAPTER THREE 7:00am

CHAPTER FOUR 8:00am

CHAPTER FIVE 9:00am

CHAPTER SIX 10:00am

CHAPTER SEVEN 11:00am

CHAPTER EIGHT 12:00pm

CHAPTER NINE 1:00pm

CHAPTER TEN 2:00pm

CHAPTER ELEVEN 2:40pm

CHAPTER TWELVE 3:00pm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 4:00pm

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 5:00pm

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 6:00pm

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 7:00pm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 8:00pm

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 9:00pm

CHAPTER NINETEEN 10:00pm

CHAPTER TWENTY 11:00pm

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 4:00am

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 10:00am

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Nine

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2015 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

For My Writing Tribe

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

Of all the people of the younger generation that I have interacted with, Anna Adair is by far the most cooperative. Jamie Adair is purposefully obstinate. I don’t wholly blame him, but it would be nice if he’d give me at least one interview. He is a man that is used to controlling his world, and this is something beyond his control. One interview would make my work complete, but I doubt I will get it. If I do, it will be because Anna convinces him to do it. From my experience, she is the only one that can persuade him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.

The Adair daughters are all universally charming, but there is a mischievousness to them that often leaves me wondering if they are playing with me like cats play with mice. They have their mother’s dark haired blue-eyed beauty, but from their father they inherited both cunning and intelligence. Oliver Adair may not be the man he once was, but I have no doubt when he was in him prime that he was a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps this is the main reason why he ultimately became so useful to the British government. Like his daughters, he is mercurial and difficult to know.

It is often hard to reconcile the Elon Sorensen I have come to know with the one I read about in Oliver’s journals. The Elon Sorensen I know is sober, contemplative, and reflective. He has all of the earmarks of a fussy aged philosophy professor. But this is what age does I suppose. Roland does not seem to have changed a hair in the years since Ana’s birth. By all accounts he is exactly the same as he has always been.

So this leaves me with Renata.

Unfortunately there is no way to speak with her and there are no diaries or letters. The problem with trying to recreate events so long after they happen is that people do have a tendency to die. Especially people that enjoyed living hard.

The only person that truly seemed to know and understand Renata was Oliver, but his memories of her are clouded both by his condition and an inherent desire to protect his first love.

So this leaves me to piece together the story of Renata as best I can from what I am told by those who knew her. Somewhere in the middle of their recollections rests the truth.

I hesitate to ask Ana about her mother. Based on what I have heard and read about Renata, Ana’s opinion of her mother might be the harshest criticism of all. But I do ask. What she tells me surprises me.

Interview with Ana Adair:

Throughout her childhood her mother was this person that was supremely good, kind, loving, and nurturing. The perfect mother. The only reason Renata gave her to Roland and Elon to raise, was one of simple economics. Renata knew she was not financially in a position to properly raise a child. To provide a home. Her mother, as far as she knew until she was a teenager, was a saint.

Who told her otherwise?

Olga.

Any reason why?

Yes. Olga never believed girls should be coddled and lied to. Olga is a firm believer that the world needs to be a hard cold place for girls if they’re going to learn to survive in it. Go ask any of the Adair girls. They’ll tell you the same thing. Olga didn’t give them an inch. Jamie was positively catered to, but the girls had to work for her love.

Seems rough.

Don’t misunderstand. Olga is a good person and an excellent mother. She’s just not one to coddle her girls. They were born beautiful, intelligent, and wealthy. She understood better than most that spoiling them wasn’t going to do them any favours.

Were you spoiled?

Yes. Embarrassingly so. I see that now. I love my fathers very much, but papa has always indulged me and daddy could never really say no, try as he did. I was slowly slipping off the rails. I was spoiled, pampered, and petted by my two adoring daddies. I was on the verge of turning into an absolute little monster. Olga put me on the straight and narrow over a cup of tea. My mother was not a saint. She was a useless piece of shit that couldn’t have given a fuck about me and unless I straightened up, I was on the road to follow in her footsteps. Oliver wants to believe there was good in Renata. I don’t believe there was.

What did Olga say?

Whatever good there was in Renata left her body when she gave birth to me. All that remained was pure selfishness and destruction. She was a bad person who did bad things. I had that badness in me.

Did you believe that?

What choice did I have? Renata never did anything to convince me otherwise and all evidence Olga presented was to the contrary. I learned some hard truths in that chat that my fathers had worked unnecessarily hard to keep from me for far too long.

Did you change?

Not immediately. I needed time to get over all that shock and betrayal. If anything it made things worse. Then Olga made the ultimate threat. No more Jamie. Olga was a bit juvenile about the whole thing, but I understood her point. Now that I’m a mother I see that she was dead right. She wasn’t going to let me drag her precious Jamie down in the gutter with me the way my mother tried to pull her beloved Oliver down with her. The message was clear. Straighten up or no Jamie. She’d move his ass to India and out of my reach if I didn’t straighten up.

You straightened up?

No. I made some comment about how she wasn’t really Jamie’s mother and couldn’t tell us what to do. Got a slap in the face and I didn’t see him for a year. True to her word she sent him to India. He’d just graduated from University and he was put to work for the Singhs. Parvati was delighted to take him in. She adored Jamie. Absolutely adored him.

Did she?

Yes. He was like a puppy she never really had to be responsible for. When she was bored with him she could give him back to his father. As soon as he was no longer in nappies and could hold a conversation that didn’t revolve around primary colors and juice boxes, they were as close as could be.

I didn’t realize that.

Parvati and Oliver have always been close. Jamie was always a thing between them.

What happened when he was in India?

I straightened up. Parvati introduced him to every eligible and acceptable young Indian girl she approved of. He came back with some milk skinned, black haired, leaf eyed, beauty of a girlfriend from a wholly acceptable family. Parvati was happy to open negotiations. Oliver had no issue letting Parvati see where things went as long as Jamie and the girl were willing.

Oliver had no issue with his son having an arranged marriage?

I think he always figured it worked for him and Parvati so why not see what would happen. He trusted Parvati. So did Olga. Jamie’s desire to be pleasing made him willing to do whatever they wanted. To a degree. If he hadn’t been willing, they wouldn’t have pushed. The only person that had a problem with any of this was me. To this day he swears she was just a friend. I know my husband. She was not a friend. Olga positively doted on her. Parvati thought she was ideal. My fathers tried to convince me that maybe both of us were better off having some time apart and shipped me off to graduate school in New York. I got the message. There is no messing with Olga. Not then and not now. What Olga wants, Olga gets.

Nothing ever changes.

Not really, no.

What happened?

How did I get him back?

Yes.

I cried. I cried a lot. Told him he broke my heart. We grew up together. We were closer than Olga calculated. I knew him and all his secrets. We weren’t just lovers at this point we had been best friends all our lives. We did the only thing we knew would be a permanent run around Olga.

You eloped.

Yes. Olga lost her shit. How dare I try to undermine her authority? But it was too late. Jamie and I did what Oliver did years earlier and ran off to live in Mumbai until everything settled down.

How long did that take?

Uhhhh… Let me think. Charlotte was six when we moved back to London. So, ten years. We were back home often. Make no mistake. And we had to have a proper wedding. My father was devastated he would never be the father of the bride.

Roland?

Of course. The wedding was epic.

I’ve seen the pictures and the footage. It was epic. What happened to the girl?

Who knows? I don’t care. I had my Jamie back. Mostly. He was changed. For the better. He’d become a man. He never let anyone tell him what to do again. Especially Olga. For the first time there were firm boundaries between us and Olga. She wasn’t the third person in our relationship ever again. It took a lot and me having to put the phone down on her for the message to get through but there would be no bullying and manipulating. He might have been her son, but he was my husband. Wife trumps mother. Parvati was on our side. Oliver refused to get involved. My dads agreed that it was time for Olga to learn some boundaries. Jamie’s sisters liked that Olga had someone other than them to focus her attention on. She was determined to get him back under her foot. But he showed her. Oliver had to do the same thing years earlier. Sometimes the only way to get Olga to release her control is to give her nothing to grasp. We gave her nothing to grasp. When we had Lionel she tried to swoop in and take over. Here I was recovering from giving birth and she was telling me I was hopeless and useless and really didn’t know how to be a mother since I’d never had a mother and that thankfully she was there to take care of everything and why don’t I just go have a rest because she can manage everything. In fact, why don’t we two go to Paris or Rome for a month and she would take care of Lionel. She tried to marginalize me from my baby. I was distraught. Doubted myself to the core. She’d convinced me I was incompetent and would likely kill my baby without her there to manage us. Jamie kicked her out. Told her we could take care of our baby. She tried to tell us we had no clue and that we needed her. He told her we’d figure it out and put her on a plane back to London.

You figured it out?

We figured it out. Lionel not only survived his childhood but will graduate from university in the spring. All our children survived our parenting. I’m not going to say we always got it right, but we did just fine. They also learned something along the way about Olga and the need for boundaries.

Did Olga learn anything about boundaries?

I like to think she did. For certain she backslides a lot but we’re all very good at putting her in her place. Oliver is the master we all learned from. He was the first one to put her in a corner when she started to overstep.

How?

How to put her in a corner or what did he do?

Both.

Cut her off. No contact. Olga is a control freak. Take away her control and she has nothing. If you want to take away her control you remove yourself from her sphere of influence. To do that you cut her off. Eventually you let her back in incrementally. As long as she knows contact can be taken away she stays in her place.

Has she mellowed with age?

Yes. Time has also taught her that if she wants to see her grandchildren she doesn’t have an opinion.

Do Roland and Elon have opinions?

God yes! But they don’t try to control. Olga’s issue has always been her desire to control. For me, for Oliver, for everyone that knows her, slapping down that need in her is the only way to have her in your life. Otherwise she’ll consume you. Oliver knew this. Which is probably why everything that happened did.

CHAPTER TWO

6:00am

There is something so marvelously ordinary about returning to work after a prolonged absence. It doesn’t matter the job. The return to the routine of it makes the world feel normal again.

On my first day back after healing from my beating courtesy of my lovely fiancée Parvati's boyfriend, my alarm rings at six sharp. I bounce from my bed like the chipper, dancing, singing little morning bird I am. My black haired darling Olga growls slightly as she creeps deeper under the duvet. She leaves just a triangle of shoulder exposed. The perfect size for a kiss.

I run. I do a circuit of weights. I’m back to full strength. I feel alive and it's good.

Olga pulls me into bed. I get a kiss as she curls around me. We’ve figured it out. That isn’t to say we don’t still have our moments, but I believe we’ve sorted through the big stuff.

She rolls me on my back. The full length of her covers me. It’s only now that I know the effort it takes to make her skin so perfectly smooth and consistently creamy that I truly appreciate how perfect it is. The amount of time she spends grooming is a full time job in and of itself. One that I would happily pay her to do if only I could.

There is nibbling, nuzzling, and a few small bites.

I don’t feel like making an effort and I don’t have to. Olga is good to me.

Her hands smooth out the planes of my stomach as they roam to my shoulders. The sore bits which were covered in bruises are now healed. She’s taken good care of me when I was hurt. What more could I want?

I would like to bypass marriage to Parvati, but I want the financial security that arrangement will bring me. No matter how much I love Olga, I will never let myself be under her father’s thumb. I won’t. Nothing is worth being owned by that man. Not even Olga.

Not even Olga who straddles me and squeezes me with her thighs as her mouth covers mine. The sex between us has changed. It’s comfortable and secure. She’s seen my body at its broken down and bruised worse and treats it with gentle care.

Orgasms are different. They begin deep in my body and gradually build like a pillar coming out of the sand. There is no more rush to the finish. There is no need to perform. Olga brings something out in me that no amount of mindless fucking with a string of nameless supermodels ever could.

My climax is positively tantric.

Clarity comes to me at these moments. Clarity and a certain contentedness. I almost convince myself as she slides and grinds on top of me that everything will work itself out.

Life is good all around. Life is especially good with Olga. The never-ending torment of do I love Olga, do I not love Olga, what shall I do with Olga, shall I do without Olga, has resolved itself. I love Olga. She loves me. I am marrying Parvati. I am attempting to impregnate my former fiancée. Somehow I've managed to convince myself this makes sense.

I love that my life has become so beautifully compartmentalized. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Some people might look at my life and think it is seriously fucked up.

I look at my life and see how well it works for me. There is beauty in a cracked window just as the spider’s web covered in dew is art. By the standards with which I judge me and how I live, my life is rolling along just fine.

The only person who needs to approve of how I live is me. The only person I am ultimately accountable to is me.

Where has this amazing and, dare I say, miraculous transformation come from? My sessions with Mistress Jennifer. Mistress Jennifer has taught me to do the one thing I didn’t even realize I needed to do. She’s taught me I can love myself.

Perhaps a bit premature at this point, but I am coming along admirably. I firmly believe that one day I will love myself. How did Mistress Jennifer put me on the path to enlightenment?

It began with my second session with her. In the first session with her, we established that I have no idea who I am and that I define myself by others expectations of who and what I should be. I’m looking forward to where the path we are on will take us.

Olga leaves me in bed. I watch her long legs as she walks around. There is some mild tisking as she picks up my trousers and hangs them over the back of a chair.

Don’t I need to be getting moving? It’s getting late.

I turn my head just enough to see the clock.

I’m late. I’m already late. I shower. I shave. I check my schedule even though I know it by heart.

My day is carefully laid out. Every appointment picked by me. Today is a day for my favourites. Olga is at the top of my list of favourites.

As perfectly as I want my day to go, my first tiny snafu comes unbeknownst to me before I’m out of the shower.

Today is the day the Psychiatrist has decided is the day she wants me to bring along a friend. Any friend but Olga. She was quite specific. I was not to bring my lunatic controlling girlfriend. The best friend that I could imagine for this job is the Matchmaker. I wasn’t entirely certain what she would say when I asked her to accompany me, but she agreed. Why the Matchmaker? She is a woman who has beautifully matured into her body. Although she is lovely, she is less likely to intimidate the Psychiatrist.

Olga hands me my phone. Renata called. She’s out of her mind. That girl has some very serious issues. Renata is both dangerous and cruel. How could I have ever fallen in love with her? If I’m capable of loving someone like Renata it makes her wonder what’s wrong with her that I’d love her too. She sincerely hopes she is the exception to my otherwise well documented poor taste in women.

What did she want?

Other than to go off on an insane rant that made absolutely no sense? She has no idea. She told Renata I’d call her back.

She shouldn’t have done that. I have no intention of calling Renata. I’m done with her crazy.

Whatever. She would have told Renata just about anything to get her off the phone. She recommends I change my number. Possibly consider carrying a concealed Beretta.

I am not going to start carrying a concealed handgun.

If I change my mind she knows a guy.

I’m sure she does.

Whatever. Renata is a lunatic. I need to watch my back. She can do the Psychiatrist with me.

Did the Matchmaker call?

No. I have a text.

Is she checking my texts again?

No. (She’s lying but I respect that trust is a battle hard won and I have done little to earn hers)

I check my messages.

Matchmaker - The birch trees have bloomed. She must cancel with the Psychiatrist.

Me - Are we speaking in code.

Matchmaker - Allergies. Her allergies. She’s useless. Find someone else or reschedule. Very very sorry. Will be spending the next few days sealed in a hyperbaric chamber.

Me – I’ll sort something out. Do I still come around for our meeting?

Matchmaker – Do. Have a good morning.

Olga lurks around me. She could do the job with me.

She did check my messages.

She only glanced at the screen and saw the notification. Do I want her to do the job with me or not?

No. The Psychiatrist specifically said she didn’t want her.

That makes no sense. I should bring her along. If the Psychiatrist gets to meet her then she’ll change her mind.

No. After the telephone incident it is distinctly for the best she go nowhere near the Psychiatrist.

It was all just a misunderstanding.

No. It was her going ballistic because I wasn’t where she thought I should be. We’ve discussed this. Extensively. We came to an understanding. I will not cheat. She will not get controlling and crazy.

There is pouting. That bottom lip of hers juts out. I can’t help but to kiss it. She gets a smack on the bottom. I kiss her again. I need to get moving. I’ll see her later. Is she picking me up?

She’ll be where she’s supposed to be. I just need to make certain I’m there.

I will be. My day is perfectly planned. Everything will go perfectly. It is my birthday. It is the anniversary of my father’s death. Nothing bad will happen. Nothing unexpected will happen. I’m unstoppable.

CHAPTER THREE

7:00am

I stop and speak with each of the girls I cross paths with in the house. I need someone to meet the Psychiatrist with me. I can’t cancel on her. She’s spooked enough about going gay for an hour as it is without my changing plans. I need someone reliable and not intimidating.

There is something weird going on. Something very weird. I ask Mi Young if she would take the job with the Psychiatrist. She is my first choice after the Matchmaker. I ask Simone if she would take the job with the Psychiatrist. After trying Emer I am simply perplexed. I return to Simone.

Why won’t any of the girls work with me?

Have I asked Olga?

No. I don’t want to take this job with Olga. Olga knows I don’t want to take this job with her. I already have two jobs with her today as it is. That’s enough working together. We have discussed this.

I should ask Olga. Olga is the one I should really ask. Olga and I work well together.

Yes. I know Olga and I work well together. But for this job I’d really like to work with someone else. Would she take the job with me?

No.

Any particular reason why? Have I developed an odor issue?

No. But she’s going to have to pass.

Is this because of Olga?

I should probably talk to Olga.

If she’s doing something to fuck with my work I’m going to be pissed.

I should probably talk to Olga.

Oh, I will talk to Olga.

Emer goes her way and I go mine. I head into the kitchen. Uncle Harvey watches yet another cookery show on the wall mounted flat screen as he practices making royal icing rosettes on a square of cardboard.

Why won’t any of the girls work with me?

Probably because of that giant territory marking piss Olga took on me.

Olga and I discussed this after the wedding. We came to an agreement.

I’m adorable when I’m trusting. So like my father. He was boyishly naive at times too. I need to talk to Olga. She has made it clear that I am hands off.

That’s really it isn’t it?

Yes.

Talitha clicks her way into the kitchen. Sunglasses on, giant bag over a shoulder. I've never worked with Talitha.

Would she take a job with me? I’m kind of desperate.

She pulls her agenda out of her bag.

When?

In the afternoon from four to five.

What’s the job?

A very nice American psychiatrist that wants to see what it’s like to get busy with a woman.

First of all, please don’t refer to what we do as getting busy. A woman wanting to explore her sexuality deserves a bit more respect than that. Second, she’ll take the job. She just needs to be done by five.

She’ll take the job?

Yes. She’ll take the job. Why am I so surprised?

I don’t know. We’ve just never really worked together before. She’s always turned me down before.

She’s slowly changing her mind about me since I took on the Esthetician’s boyfriend. Working together shouldn’t be a problem. She slips her agenda into her large bag, makes tea in a travel mug, and then leaves without another word.

I’m going to work with Talitha.

Uncle Harvey has taken to wearing a waistcoat, crisp white shirt, necktie, and stripped trousers under his apron. His beard is tightly trimmed and his hair is neatly combed. I’m sure he’s off the drink.

He grunts as he removes a pan from the oven. He is distressed. Someone left a pair of shoes under the China blue settee. He thought they had learned their lesson the last time he donated their clothing to Oxfam. Clearly not.

A tray is placed in front of me. The lid on the plate is removed with a flourish. Frittata, fresh fruit, juice, black coffee, a vase of tiny violets, and a card.

Happy Birthday Ollie.

I open my card. The ten pound note nearly does the thing I’m avoiding. I almost start crying. Every year I get a ten pound note from Uncle Harvey. Rich or poor he never changes.

Thank you.

You’re very welcome. Are we discussing the other thing today is the anniversary of?

We are not. I’m trying very hard to keep everything together. Talking about it isn’t going to help.

Very good. What is on the agenda?

I’m working with Talitha.

Interesting.

I’ve never worked with Talitha. We’ve worked the same parties, but we’ve never worked together alone.

Can he ask me a question? I must be totally honest.

Sure. Of course.

Are his meringues as beautiful as Nigella’s? I’m shown a recipe printed off the internet.

I compare the two.

They’re works of art. Can I eat one?

Cretan. No. They’re for his cookery class.

I didn’t know he was taking a cooking class. I thought he already knew how to cook.

He does know how to cook. He’s raising the bar. Hence, the cookery class.

Is this all about the TV show?

Yes. He’s preparing for the role of a lifetime. He will become Wright.

When does filming begin?

Don’t they keep me apprised?

Probably. I just don’t bother to read the emails.

Filming begins in the morning. Him, the Actress, my mother…

My mother?

Yes. She’s going to be on the selection panel. They’re going to interview the candidates for suitability. The Actress will be sophisticated and demanding, he will be exacting and particular, mum will be kind yet aloof. They were thinking about bringing in a WAG or a celebutant, but he convinced mum to give it a go. The producers couldn’t have been more delighted.

My mother?

Yes. She’s the Dowager Countess. It works. Rounds out the panel nicely.

My mother is going to be on reality TV?

Yes. They’ve offered her a bag of money for a guest spot. She couldn’t turn it down.

Yes. She could have turned it down.

It’s not really my decision, now is it?

I need to speak to my mother.

No. I don’t need to speak to my mother about this. I need to respect her decision and just let it go.

They’ve kept this from me. They have. Today, of all days, they pick to tell me about it. Clever. If my mother thinks I’m not going to say anything to her because of what today is, she is desperately wrong.

Don’t be such a stick. Try a macaroon. They’re for his cookery class.

I’ll give him credit. The macaroons do distract me from my mother appearing on reality TV.

When does he have time to take a cookery class?

It’s mostly online. They meet once a week with their preparations for a tasting session. He’s becoming a master chef. Next he’s going to get cracking on putting tiny flowers on sugar cubes.

That’s a thing?

Yes. That’s a thing.

I’m just messing with him. I remember my grandmother and the little sugar cubes with the roses.

He needs a proper tea set. He’ll be borrowing one from Wold Hall.

Any particular reason? Not that I mind.

Presentation is everything. He must do well on his final examination. He’s neck and neck with that loathsome Mrs. Pitcher from Tewkesbury. Her and her plum tartlets.

Death to Mrs. Pitcher from Tewkesbury.

Precisely. Hence the need to borrow the silver.

I need to get moving. I have a client.

I step out of the house and directly into a massive pile of dog shit. This will not ruin my day. It will not. I will do as the Parisians do. I shall consider it good luck.

CHAPTER FOUR

8:00am

I enjoy the early morning clients. It sets up the day just so. I’m up early. I’m out early. I get a jump on the day.

The Actress waits for me in her boudoir. It’s a boudoir. There is no other word for it. I love that it’s like the set of a black and white movie. I appreciate her wardrobe choice. Pretty much any other woman in the world would look like she’s trying too hard in the silk negligee with matching peignoir. But no. Not the actress. She’s perfect and she knows it.

I am suave. I am debonair. I seduce her with my eyes, then my mouth, then my hands.

Why is the Actress one of my favourites? She expects me to be all man. All man. Every moment we are together I get to be the man. There is no moment when she seizes control of the seduction. I get to be in charge start to finish. It’s refreshing really.

It’s not that I don’t respect women and I don’t believe fully in equality, there are just moments when my inner Casanova wants to have a turn at being the boss. The Actress lets me be the boss.

I am, in this purely feminine space, allowed to embrace my masculinity.

Her body is soft in all the right places and still firm where it needs to be. There is nothing energetic or particularly acrobatic about the sex. It’s just sex. Good sex. I’m attentive and aware of who I am with and what she wants. My mind is not wandering off to what the rest of the day will hold for me. I am in the place I occupy with her and that is really all that is needed.

This is one of the things I have learned about sex since I became a professional. The trick to blowing a person’s mind is highly individual. Sometimes the only thing that needs to be done is to acknowledge that person exists and to allow them to fall into a moment.

For the Actress the thing that gets her the most intoxicated by the experience is to be with her and only her without a separate agenda. That and to absolutely adore her. Which is not hard.

I try not to break any land speed records with her, but I know well enough that when she’s done I better not belabor reaching a climax. Which I don’t. I actually don’t climax. I pretend to. I make a good show of it. But I don’t. I’m a professional. I also know that I will have to ejaculate several times during the course of the day so I don’t overplay my hand too early. Sex with Olga earlier in the day from a purely professional point of view was a mistake. The last thing I need is to exhaust myself before I hit my stride. Yes – men can and do fake orgasms. With a condom and a bit of discretion it’s not difficult.

How, you may wonder, do I do this? Read about tantric sex. Seriously. It’s changed my life.

The Actress politely yet firmly knocks me off of her when I’m finished. I lay back in the cloud of satin pillows that line her bed as she goes to her closet. When she emerges in a Chanel suit I’m suitably impressed by her beauty and glamour.

She sits at her dressing table and primps in the mirror.

Something is different about the Actress. She seems truly vibrant. Not just pretending to be vibrant. I think she’s cut back on the booze.

Or maybe I’ve just rodgered her so well she’s glowing from the explosive orgasm I gifted her.

You look good.

She smiles at me in the mirror.

I like to watch her groom herself.

She’s like a beautiful cat. I’d never call her a cougar, but that’s what she is. With me as her boyfriend, she’d be the Queen of the Cougars.

One of the lives I imagine myself living is as the much younger lover to the Actress. Publicly. Openly. Purposefully. I’d be the envy of every man over fifty in most of the world.

Why am I smiling?

I’m happy. My life seems to be going along swimmingly.

Good. She likes me happy. Am I coming to Wold Hall for the start of filming?

No. Never. Not in a million years.

Why not?

How can I maintain the mystique of being an insufferable snob if I don’t act like one?

I am an insufferable snob. No one is that good an actor.

Am I really an insufferable snob?

Sometimes. Unfortunately she finds it charming. Otherwise she’d try to break me of it.

Would she like to be my girlfriend? We’d be the most amazing couple.

We would be. Women would envy her and men would marvel at her fully matured sensuality. She could write books about how to be a truly desirable at any age.

I’d buy a copy.

She’d give me one. I should go to Wold Hall for filming. Show my face. It would be good for the production. Good for everyone involved. Give it legitimacy.

Does she know anything about my mother? I heard a rumor that can’t possibly be true.

She knows many things about my mother. Did I know she and my mother were becoming fast friends?

No. I did not know that.

They are. Very good friends.

I find that disturbing.

Why? I’m not the first son of one of her friends she’s taken to bed.

Here I was feeling all unique and special.

I am unique and special. Thankfully she’s done dating the sons of her friends. Otherwise I’d really be in trouble. What do I want to know about my mother?

Does she know anything about my mother appearing on the show?

Yes. It was her idea for Israel Rubin to approach my mother about being on the choosing panel.

I don’t want my mother to be on the show.

My mother is a grown woman. She can make her own choices. One of those choices was to take the substantial amount of money to appear on the show.

How substantial?

Substantial. My mother is camera ready beautiful, and a dowager countess. They’re all the rage right now. Don’t be a little shit about this. It’s a hard world for a beautiful woman.

Bullshit.

It is. It’s hard to be beautiful. No one has any pity no matter how shitty life gets because being beautiful should be compensation enough for any hardship.

Seriously?

Yes. It really is hard to be beautiful. Especially when age starts to creep up and you find your bread and butter are a bit stale.

I don’t want her to do it. If it’s about the money, I’m solvent again.

Why am I still taking clients if I’m solvent?

Because I made a commitment to the Matchmaker and quite frankly I like to work. It’s satisfying.

Is it not the same for my mother? Would she not find work satisfying?

The last time my mother worked was at Boots nearly thirty years ago. She made a life choice years ago to be wholly dependent on the good will of others. I was born into insouciance and not given a choice until I had no other choice.

She’s going to make an observation and I’m going to pay attention. When a woman reaches a certain age, she needs to know she can depend on herself simply because there are no guarantees anyone else will. My mother is a widow with a medical condition. The knowledge that she has a small nest egg to keep her solvent would probably be a tremendous comfort. Do I understand?

I need to have a conversation with my mother about this. I’m working too hard to keep my world together and to live it with a modicum of dignity for her to start participating in reality TV.

Dignity indeed. Did I even hear a word of what she said? This is not about me it is about my mother. Television is what is made of it. Even unscripted television. Dignity indeed. Do I know I just insulted her?

That’s not what I mean. She’s an actress. TV is what she does. My mother is a dowager countess. And my mother.

I am a little shit.

My grandmother would go catatonic.

Yes. She thinks this may be one of my mother’s motivations. Stop being a little shit. Be a good boy and zip her.

I get up from the bed and zip her.

Where is she going?

She and the Doctor are having brunch then she leaves for Wold Hall.

Is my mother going with her?

No. She’s going early to do media interviews all afternoon. My mother and Harvey aren’t due until the morning. She thinks arrangements have been made to move my mother with minimal fuss and distress. Perhaps I should talk to my mother. Not a terrible idea. As long as I don’t say something moronic and upset her, of course.

How long will she be at Wold Hall?

A week? Maybe less. Maybe more. Possibly more. London is getting warm. She prefers the country air. Do I object?

Not at all.

Good. A star needs a place to retreat from her adoring fans.

She’s the star?

Of course! She’s the star!

She’s going to be brilliant in the show.

Of course she is. It’s going to be marvelous and open all sorts of doors that were shut. Now I’m going to be very good and not make a fuss.

Why would I make a fuss?

She hands me a box wrapped in burgundy paper with a large silk bow wrapped around it. I’m wished a very happy birthday.

I kiss her on the cheek. How did she know? I didn’t want anyone to know.

She knows everything about me.

Seriously. How did she know?

The Doctor told her. That’s from both of them and Lionel.

I open the box. Inside is an envelope. Inside the card is an invitation. The three are taking me to Spain for a weekend sherry tasting course. How very them. I love it.

Well?

I adore it. I hug her. I kiss her cheek. It’s perfect.

Good. I’m impossible to shop for. She’ll make all of the arrangements. I just need to give her the days when I’m free. Sometime before the wedding.

I’ll let her know by the end of the week.

I walk her to the waiting car. She offers me a ride, which I accept. Anything to get me moving from place to place faster during my tightly scheduled day is welcome.

In the car I send my mother a text. We need to have a conversation about her appearing in The Noble Service.

Almost immediately I receive a text back. We do not need to have a conversation about her appearing in The Noble Service. It was her decision to make. What’s done is done and there is nothing I can do about it. This is not the day to be having that or any sort of conversation like that with her. I, better than anyone else, should understand this.

The Actress pecks me on the cheek before dropping me curbside within walking distance of my next appointment.

I send my mother a final text before walking into the building. She is not going to use my father’s death as a bargaining chip. It’s not going to happen. I won’t have her dragging our family name down with her.

She sends me a text. It will happen. I need to just accept the fact our family name is forever tarnished by my shenanigans.

I text her. It is not forever tarnished. It can be repaired. We just need to keep our names out of the papers. It’s been weeks since we’ve been in the papers. Let’s put up one of those accident signs, like they have in factories, in Wold Hall – 21 days tabloid free. Every goal we throw a party.

She sends me a text. Have I seen the latest issue of Hello?

I text her. I do not read Hello. I refuse to support those people and their need to turn my life into fodder for their readers.

She sends me a text. 0 days tabloid free.

I text her. What now?

She sends me a text. She wouldn’t dare ruin the surprise. People in glass houses blah blah blah. She’s doing the show and I can’t stop her. Do pick up a copy of Hello. I should have gotten into modeling. I really am very photogenic. I get that from her. Dad’s nose never translated well to print. I should thank her that I got her nose and not dad’s. Before she forgets – Happy Birthday! Just to keep things in perspective, after fourteen hours of labour I should be the one thanking her.

I consider turning off my phone. I don’t respond. I will deal with her later.

I get a text back before I get on the elevator. Not from my mother. Renata needs me desperately. She’s desperate. She needs me. Elon and that jackass Roland stole her baby. She’s broke and she’s homeless. I need to help her.

I delete the text without responding. I’m officially off that crazy train forever.

CHAPTER FIVE

9:00am

The Banker has me booked for an hour, but I know from experience I’ll be in and out in thirty minutes tops.

The secretary, an Aryan blonde with a Frau Farbissina vibe, walks me into his office. She knows what I’m doing there. The office is so impersonal only a couch floating on air in an empty space could be less bare.

The Banker rises to great me. He’s smiling. His eyes are twinkling.

He has a surprise for me.

I try not to cringe. A surprise could be just about anything. The last surprise was a box of cream filled doughnuts I had to smear all over his body. On the upside, I haven’t been able to look at a pastry ever since. Cutting out the sugar has done wonders for my abs.

He slips into the toilet.

I look at the view. London City. The sky is perfectly clear and crystal blue. What a lovely day.

The door opens and closes.

I hear growling. Like a dog. I’m a dog person. I like dogs. That the Banker would be a dog owner does not surprise me. There is something eerie and human like in that sound.

Slowly, inch by inch, I turn.

It’s not a dog. It’s the Banker. The Banker on all fours with a dog collar around his neck and an attachable tail hooked to a belt cinched around his waist makes for an adorable human puppy. I like the headband with the floppy ears on his head. Details matter in these things.

Shockingly, this is not the weirdest scenario I’ve encountered.

He pauses for a moment. He forgot to tell me. There is a stack of £20 notes on his desk. I need to use those.

I take the stack of notes.

He sits back and begs, his little hands curled like paws in front of him.

I drop a £20 note.

He barks and picks it up with his mouth, and then crawls around in a circle, before depositing the bill on a low table.

I get it. I’m a quick study. I drop a trail of bills. He barks like a terrier and wags his bum like a tail.

He wiggles his tail at me.

He lifts his leg like he’s going to pee. I grab a salmon Financial Times roll it up and give him a whack. No peeing on the carpet.

Nein Hund! Nicht auf den Teppich pinkeln!!

He whimpers a bit. I pat him on the head. He’s a very good dog. I drop a £20 note. He’s a very good dog for not peeing on the carpet.

He lifts the leg again. I give him another smack. Böse Hund!

He growls and snaps at me. I give him another smack. Böse Hund!

He rolls on his back and whimpers.

I do what I would do with any of my dogs. I take off my shoe and rub his tummy with my toes.

He playfully swipes at my trouser leg with his paw.

He’s a very good puppy! Guter Hund!

I hold a note just high enough for him to have to jump from his knees to reach it with his mouth. Patting him on the head for being such a good boy gives him an impressive erection.

When he gets so excited he starts to rub against my leg, I lean down and smack his balls with the rolled up Financial Times.

Böse Hund!

He nearly screams with delight. He rubs harder.

I smack again and then again. I know the Banker. I know what he likes. Getting his balls smacked with a newspaper is his Nirvana.

He falls on his back, all fours raised up in the air.

I reach down and tug him off. His cum fires out of him, arching across the room and landing with a splat against the window. Guter Hund!

That was very good. He is very pleased. I make him so happy. He likes when I talk dirty to him in German. Will I let him at least look at me a little naked?

Yes. But no touching.

He frowns a little.

Fine. He can touch my stomach. But that’s it.

I undo my trousers and lift up my shirt.

His fingers are like cold metal touching my skin.

He’ll give me one-thousand to touch my cock.

Two. (I’m not being an asshole. This is how we do this.)

Two and he gets to put my cock in his mouth.

Three and I’ll ejaculate down his throat. But only because I’m happy to be back at work and I like him as a dog.

He drops to his knees in front of me. The dribble of ejaculate running down the window disrupts my view of the city, but doesn’t totally spoil it.

I have planned to ejaculate four times during the day. There is room for a fifth if it becomes necessary. This is one of the planned ejaculations. I knew walking in the door what he’d want. The dog bit was a surprise, but the rest fairly predictable.

There is a happy place I go to when I need to ejaculate. Here’s the truth. The Banker is hit or miss when it comes to oral. Sometimes he does it, sometimes he doesn’t. This time I need my happy place.

My happy place is Olga. Specifically Olga in Brazil when we were there for a holiday.

There was this moment. Inconsequential. Intimate. We stopped at a café along the Copacabana for early evening cocktails. She let me look up her skirt. Very saucy. Just a brief flash, but it was enough. Odd that would become my happy place. A brief flash of her lady bits made such an impressionable memory. Perhaps because it was such a normal, albeit very naughty, thing for a girlfriend to do that it stuck with me. What is more normal than being on holiday with my pretty girlfriend and her giving me a peek after forcing me to bikini shop with her for enough hours to make any man hate swimwear? Nothing is more normal. For all of the kinky, randy, freaky things we get up to professionally, it is the intimate little peek that sticks with me.

I look at the sky and fall into that memory. It’s not the most impressive orgasm I have, but it happens. I fulfill my end of our unspoken agreement. It’s his turn to fulfill his.

He tells me to keep the stack of £20 notes as a tip as he hands me the envelope of cash that is my pay. I don’t need to count it. The Banker is one of my favorites because he treats me like a professional. He’s an odd duck. There is no denying that. He also respects my professionalism. What I do, in his mind, is a career worthy of being properly rewarded. Of all of my clients I get the most referrals from him.

I wonder if this is a German thing.

I walk out the door thirty minutes after I walk in. I have time for coffee. My day, which will go smoothly thanks to my precision planning despite the early morning hiccups, is scheduled in such a way as to allow me breaks between clients.

I buy a copy of Hello. Margaret in her wedding gown is on the cover. I knew this was coming. This is not a big deal. I do not consider this the family making it into the tabloids. I’m not happy about it, but this is something I cannot veto. Maybe a hundred or two hundred years ago they might have had to listen to me, but now I don’t have any authority. Margaret negotiated the Hello magazine spread and got the dosh to boot. Whatever. This is not me. I am still 21 days tabloid free.

I get in line for coffee. There may or may not be a muffin in my future. If they have the stem ginger muffins I’m all in. If they only have the raspberry I will lodge a formal protest.

My mother is unreachable. I need to discuss her career choices with her before she does something I don’t approve of. Here’s the shitty truth of it – it’s my name she fucking with and I won’t have it. She married it. I was born with it. I have more right to it than she does and I will not let her drag it through the mud so soon after I’ve just started to clean it off. 21 days tabloid free.

I send a text. We need to have a conversation about her agreeing to participate in that show. 21 days tabloid free. Let’s go for fifty.

She texts me back. She is participating in the show. 0 days tabloid free.

I text her. Not the issue. Margaret’s wedding pictures in Hello does not impact me.

She texts me. Have I actually looked at the pictures in the magazine and not just the cover? She’s getting her hair done. She’ll call me when she’s finished.

I text her. I do not want her to do it.

She texts me. I’m not the boss of her. :p Stop bothering her. She’ll call me when she’s finished.

This is ridiculous. I understand why she annoyed my grandmother as much as she did. It’s hard enough to keep a level of dignity as it is without her acting out. Just at the moment we are starting to get along, starting to relate to each other as adults, finally beginning to have a semblance of a relationship, she pulls this shit. She knows as well as I do the only reason she hasn’t said anything to me is that I would object.

The line moves glacially slow. There’s a new girl working the register. I flip through Hello. I’m fucked. I’m so fucked. I’m the most fucked person in this fucking world. When Olga gets her hands on me I’m a dead man. I’m 0 days tabloid free. This cannot go on. It needs to stop here and it needs to stop now. No reality TV. No more. Just no more.

I text my Former Fiancée. Has she seen Hello?

She texts me. No. She can’t be arsed. She knows we’re in it. Her assistant left a copy on her desk with the page marked. She’ll get to it eventually. After we get together probably. She might be too angry with me to copulate if she reads it in advance.

I text her. Probably wise. Coffee line is taking forever. I might be five minutes late.

She texts me. Not a problem. She needs to reschedule for later anyhow. How is four?

I text her. I am very busy. I penciled her in for two hours. Two whole hours of my day. I do not have time to reschedule. My day is packed. We are supposed to meet at ten. If she can’t meet me at ten then consider that one ride on the Ollie train she’s missed.

She texts me. I am an asshole. I can’t make twenty minutes later in the day for her?

I text her. First of all, I find that offensive on many levels. Since when did I only take twenty minutes? Second, I am busy. Just because she doesn’t respect my professionalism, I’ll have her know there is a German banker that pays me well to whack him with a newspaper.

She texts me. This is not about my sexual prowess and ability to satisfy. This is about impregnating her and nothing else. She just met with her doctor. The evening is better for the timing. Do I really whack a German banker with a newspaper?

I text her. Financial Times whilst he barked like a dog. Is this a timing thing? Are we timing things now? Is this where we are with this?

She texts me. Yes. She can’t take any chances. She’s cancelling her subscription to the Financial Times.

I text her. I’m done at seven. Does that work?

She texts me. Perfect.

I roll my eyes and stash my phone.

She did not get pregnant after the wedding. We are on round two. I owe her three more after this one. Maybe it’s four. I don’t know. There is an ongoing debate. The only thing that is for certain is that I’m off the hook the second she’s pregnant. I’m increasingly more and more uncomfortable with this arrangement. At the time I made it, it seemed like the right thing to do. Now that I’ve had time to think and reflect, I’m not at all comfortable with the thought of having a child out there in the world that I will not raise. It’s too much like what my parents did to me. They produced me because they had an obligation to do so, then they turned over all responsibility to a third party. Family means more to me than this. My name and my lineage mean far more to me than this.

Finally I reach the counter. I order my usual Americano. I give them my name. Mick Jagger. I move along with the rest of the caffeine addicted sheep.

I pull a fiver out of my wallet. I hand it to the trainee behind the counter. I hold the bill and her eyes as she stares at me.

I know her. How do I know her? I stare at her and she stares at me. Her badge reads I’m Allison and I’m just learning. But I know her by a different name. She’s my Saudi Princess.

You are not a Saudi Princess.

She looks like a cornered cat.

You are not a Saudi Princess.

I reach over the counter and grab her by her black polo shirt.

Who are you?

WHO ARE YOU? YOU RUINED MY LIFE WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

She screams and pulls back.

No one wants to get involved. Thank god for the wholly self-involved and apathetic public. They’re all too stunned and worried about their own personal safety to come to her rescue.

She pulls her shirt free of my grasp.

She runs.

I run after her. I throw my Hello magazine at her.

She’s short and frightened.

I catch her quickly on the street. I hold her by the arm. I don’t care how much my fingers digging into her bony bicep hurt.

Who are you?

I shake her a bit.

TELL ME!

She kicks me in shin and then the nuts. She shocks me enough to break loose of my grip.

This time when she runs she has the advantage. It’s hard to run when my testicles are throbbing. It’s also hard to pay attention to where I’m running.

I don’t see the fountain until I’m in it. Whoever thought it would be clever to design fountains that shoot water up from seemingly innocuous pavement is a special kind of sadistic.

Water, water everywhere and not an inch of me dry.

Most annoying of all - whoever she is, Allison or the Saudi Princess, stops on the outer edge of the wet pavement just long enough to turn and laugh at me.

She disappears into a crowd. I’m too much of a spectacle to continue running. I know what I need to know to find her. I know where she works. If she’s desperate enough to work in a coffee shop she’ll return eventually either for her final paycheck or her next shift.

CHAPTER SIX

10:00am

A woman I don’t know answers Elon’s door. She nearly closes it again without bothering to ask me who I am. I don’t blame her. I would close the door on the wet man too.

Don’t. Get Elon. Seriously. Go get Elon.

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 daycare 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.

I don’t fully understand what has happened, but I am certain it has just about everything to do with the overarching theme of parental abandonment and a need for atonement we are all so very familiar with.

CHAPTER EIGHT

12:00pm

The Footballer is scary dumb which is why when he tells me he has a secret flat his wife knows nothing about I’m somewhat taken aback. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of person with the mental dexterity to imagine then execute anything as devious as obtaining a secret flat and then keeping it from his wife.

I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I follow the directions he emailed me whilst ignoring all instructions to dodge down dark alley and take detours through residential neighborhoods.

There is no doorman, which I find worrying. There is a smell of someone cooking curry and the sound of a crying baby. One of two things could be happening. I could either be in the wrong place or he did manage to find a secret flat no one would ever associate with him.

I expect to meet him alone, but Elizabeth is there when I arrive. Elizabeth already stripped down to her skin splayed out on the couch is definitely a surprise. I was not expecting to see Elizabeth. Why is Elizabeth here? Elizabeth should not be here. Not after what happened with his wife. His wife has a bullet engraved with Elizabeth’s name.

Relax. She’ll never know Elizabeth is around. It’s her colonic day.

More than I ever needed to know.

He hands me my envelope, which I slip into my messenger bag.

I hate to be obvious, but am I intruding? Do they want me to leave?

Elizabeth smiles at me. Yes. Leave.

The Footballer smiles at me. No. Stay.

I’ll stay simply because the Footballer is the one paying me whether I go or not. It’s his money and his time. He wants me to stay, I stay.

I undress as he turns his attention to Elizabeth.

The Footballer is in prime form. Truly prime form. It would be a good world if he actually did enjoy sex with men. I don’t think he hates it. If I did I wouldn’t continue to book appointments. But I’m just not his cup of tea. Elizabeth is his cup of tea.

He falls on her naked form with a growl. She squeals with delight. Part of me believes she truly does have feelings for him.

I’m there to temporarily enhance the experience. I’ll be gone in less than an hour. I imagine they’re only just beginning.

I get on the couch with them. The interior of the flat is incongruous to the exterior of the place. It’s posh and well appointed. Someone spent time and a lot of the Footballer’s money to create a naughty little fuck pad. It has everything he could want. One of those sex chairs. What I can only assume is some sort of sexual position enhancement chaise. No one could actually sit in it with any degree of comfort, but just looking at it makes me imagine at least a dozen imaginative ways to fuck someone (male or female) until they are fully satiated.

Doing my part in this wholly satisfying ménage à trois, I use a hand to stimulate both of them at the same time as they bump and grind their way to an ecstasy I’m only peripherally a part of. Not even my tantric breathing and thinking of cricket can stop me from physically reacting to the site of these two naked beautiful people fucking in front of me.

More of my clothing comes off.

We three move around until Elizabeth is between us. She no longer objects to my presence. Our sexual gymnastics equals a tangle of arms and legs jutting out from all angles. The upside of Elizabeth being present is that my participation is secondary. My hands and my mouth are put to more use than my cock.

Elizabeth’s body is firm and rounded. I miss the freedom of having it at my disposal whenever convenient for the two of us. The problem, other than Olga, is that I know she’s been with the Rat Bastard. I can’t help but to imagine his slobbering, pulsating, beet red face laboring over her as I try to get into fucking her. It just doesn’t happen for me anymore.

So, lucky for me, the Footballer is all the stimulation I need.

I touch him. The muscles beneath his skin are hard and well worked. His thighs especially delight me. But what is most appealing about him, are the muscles of his stomach. They curve around his torso in such a way as to point to his cock like an arrow.

Elizabeth knows the Footballer in her own way, but I know him better in my way. I put a condom on him and draw his dick into my mouth. She gives me an evil look that he can’t see. I smile around the curve of his shaft. Nothing is going to annoy her as much as someone else pleasuring the Footballer. Anyone doing something for him that she could do is a sign that he might not need her as much as she would like him to believe.

I give it my all. The man who had never given a blowjob before he started working as a prostitute has become an expert.

Tongue swirling, throat muscles sucking, lips pressing.

Someone knocks on the door.

My rhythm is thrown off.

Elizabeth pushes me out of the way. With a kick of her leg that nearly knocks me in the jaw, she straddles him. I’m out. Bitch.

There is another knock on the door.

At first I assume it’s just another noise coming out of the noisy neighbors who seem to have little concept of how to share a small space with other people. But then it keeps happening.

Do I look?

Ignore it. The Footballer doesn’t want to be disturbed. It’s probably just kids.

I ignore it.

The knocking turns to pounding.

The pounding on the door is an unwanted disturbance.

The Footballer tells me to go and see who it is. Get rid of them.

I stare at him for a moment then get up. The sweat on my back is cold when it is touched by the breeze coming in from the open window. Small hairs stand up on my arms and legs. Whoever is banging on the door better be bleeding from a gunshot wound or in labour. Otherwise I may pound them for interfering.

There’s a spyhole in the door.

It’s his wife.

I think I shriek like a little girl when I see her. I’ve never been so terrified of anything so small before in my life. The door vibrates when she pounds afresh.

The Footballer and Elizabeth are not moving. Correction – they are moving. Their mouths are moving together and their bodies are slithering against each other.

Stop that!

Elizabeth gives me that devil look of hers.

The wife is banging on the door! What does he want me to do?

His wife is at the door?

Yes!

She’s the one pounding?

Yes! Yes! A thousand times YES!

Shit. If his wife catches him with Elizabeth she’ll divorce him.

Elizabeth looks very pleased at this development.

I am not so pleased. This sort of situation is bad for business. What do we do? Does he have a suggestion? Is there a back entrance?

Go out the window.

Is he serious? Does he seriously think we can go out the window? We’re on the fourth floor.

That might not work.

No. It might not work.

We could hide in the closet.

Is he serious?

It’s that or the window.

I’ll take the closet.

He starts throwing clothing at us.

I help by gathering up what he misses.

Elizabeth looks defiant. She wants to get caught. She wants this. There is that look in her eyes. The one that tells me I consistently underestimate her.

She bitches and moans. Maybe we all need to be a bit more honest.

I grab her by the hand and pull her into the closet.

This is my life. Hiding in a tiny closet from an angry woman.

The Footballer locks us in. When the key clicks I realize he’s just stupid enough to leave us trapped in there. I have no doubt Elizabeth would gnaw my liver out of my body to survive if she needed to.

The Footballer opens the door to the flat.

The wife is livid.

I put my hand over Elizabeth’s mouth.

I could die in a tiny closet with Elizabeth licking my palm trying to get me to move my hand off her mouth.

My phone lights up. My mother is trying to call me. Fortunately I have it on silent. And I have my phone. Even if that chuckle head does forget us, I can make a call and get us out.

We sort through our clothing. We’re all elbows and asses trying to get dressed.

If it weren’t for the shouting there would be no mistaking the sound of the two of us bumping around.

This is ridiculous. I’ve been a party to my fair share of domestic quarrels in my time, but these two bring the vitriol to a whole new level. I’m not entirely sure what a cunt knocker is, but I’m sure I don’t want to be called one.

There is nothing to do but wait. Unfortunately my time is both precious and limited. I’m on a schedule.

When the argument loops back on itself for the third time I send the Footballer a text. Completely innocuous, but still pointed. I hear his phone bleep. The fighting continues. These people need therapy.

I check my phone. My mother calls me twice and sends one text. I am to stop ignoring her. We need to discuss her choices that she makes about her life. Since when am I the only one that can take responsibility for myself? Just so we’re clear, if my grandparents or even my father knew that I had agreed to impregnate that vicious slag ex of mine, they’d all flip over in their graves. If family and honor and all of that mean so much to me, then why am I giving away my sperm?

I really really need to continue the fight with my mother. I text her back. I’m stuck at the moment. Will call her as soon as I can. This is not over. Not even a little.

She texts me. No. It is not over. She will be doing the show. My father picked her and made her a countess. I am not going to start pounding her with the same kind of ridiculous elitist bullshit my grandparents hammered her with for years.

I text her. Her name just so happens to be my name and I am the head of our family. I forbid her from doing something so asinine as participating in reality television.

She texts me. Grow up you spoiled child. My ability to forbid or deny her anything exists only in my tiny little mind. I’m just like my grandmother. Not a compliment.

The door bursts open. The Footballer’s wife, the whole anorexic fifty kilos of her, stares at me with those bug eyes of hers. Her breath smells like ketosis and her eyes are watery. She is not pretty up close. She looks like she needs a muffin or a piece of cake. Perhaps a pat of butter would do. It’s clear why the Footballer likes Elizabeth. She’s healthy and buxom. Not a skinny little runt.

She starts to scream at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth is defiant. Elizabeth tells her that her breath smells and maybe she should use a mint.

This is not helping. Neither is standing in the tiny closet.

I step between the Footballer’s Wife and Elizabeth.

The Footballer’s Wife actually tries to physically move me. She really thinks she can move me. She just sort of taps hard on my arm. Repeatedly.

I look at the Footballer. Does he want to do something about his wife?

There’s a lot of meh wha huh coming out of him, but no real words. The Footballer is ineffectual.

We’re leaving. I tell both the Footballer’s wife and Elizabeth.

No we’re not. We’re staying right where we are. She’s going to deal with Elizabeth once and for all. Elizabeth cannot have her husband.

What is she going to do? Is she going to lock us in the closet until we turn cannibal? What can she possibly do to force us to stay?

She’s silent.

Like I said. There is nothing she can do to force us to stay. This is not our fight.

I take Elizabeth by the hand.

She turns back before we leave the room.

Call her about Antigua! Bye!

I pull her out of the room. I get her into the elevator.

Antigua?

She nods as she fixes her lipstick. They’re going to Antigua for a week in July.

She has no shame.

What is shame? Did his current wife have any shame when she nabbed him off the previous wife? Nope. Not a bit. Shame is for pussies that don’t want a rich husband. She wants a rich husband. She isn’t going to let a wife stand in her way. Have I seen Hello?

Unfortunately I have.

I really do photograph well. My former fiancée is a bit of a cow though.

She’s actually very nice and very pretty in her own way.

That’s not what she means. She’s a fucking cow because she is trying to get the Rat Bastard to stop seeing her. No father and daughter should be so close. What did Olga have to say about the pictures?

I haven’t heard from her yet.

Interesting. She’s probably plotting my murder.

My thought exactly.

Why was I kissing my former fiancée? It makes no sense. Olga is much prettier.

Force of habit. How are things going with her and the Rat Bastard?

Her eyes light up. Fantastic! He’s taking her to Barbados. Private jet. Very swanky. I am a star for helping her along. Every time I do something that pisses him off he spends money on her. If she keeps playing him just right, she might just walk into exactly what she’s looking for.

Which is?

Marriage darling! What else?! And don’t go pretending we’re any different. Just because I’ve nabbed my own pot of gold doesn’t mean I get to judge her.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

CHAPTER NINE

1:00pm

Elizabeth and I part ways when I am certain she is in a taxi heading in the opposite direction of the fight between the Footballer and his scary wife.

I have time enough to deal with my mother. I call her. I get her voice mail. This lunacy needs to end. She needs to promise me she will not go on that show. Call me back.

Four messages from Renata and a few more voice mails.

I call Harry.

Is it possible to get a restraining order against someone?

Yes. Why and who? Does this have anything to do with Hello? Because he’s already had to deal with Margaret over that picture of me and my former fiancée. That sucker is out there in the world and there is no pulling it back in.

Renata is a lunatic stalker.

Do I really think a restraining order is going to stop her? It might just piss her off. Have I considered the obvious?

Which is perhaps not so obvious?

Have her committed.

I think Roland is trying to organize something along those lines. I’m worried about my immediate future and her access to knives.

Do I think she’s dangerous?

He’s met Renata. What does he think?

Leave it with him. He’ll have a think about it and come back to me with a solution.

My phone rings just as I’m finished with Harry.

Parvati.

My blushing bride. What mountain can I climb to please you today?

Fuck off. Am I getting back together with my ex and cancelling the wedding?

No. We have a deal my sparking Indian diamond. Man of my word and all that. Anything else?

That’s right she’s my fucking sparkling Indian diamond.

Where is she?

Paris. I bought her the most magnificent engagement ring. I am thoughtful.

What happened to the ring I gave her?

She wanted a bigger diamond. She’ll give that one back to me. Do I want anything?

Surprise me. What is she doing in Paris?

Honeymoon shopping.

Has a decision been made?

India. Tea plantation in the middle of fucking nowhere her father owns. Bring a lot of books. The internet connection can be dodgy. Quiet and we won’t have to make any public appearances. By the time we leave no one will care about us anymore.

Smart.

She’s not an idiot. If we do this right, we’re both going to get what we want. If we’re smart about it we might actually get through it without coming to hate each other.

I couldn’t agree more. Is there anything else she would like to tell me?

Such as?

It’s my birthday.

What? Is she supposed to throw me a fucking party?

Nope. In fact I’d prefer we never mention my birthday again.

Whatever.

The white van pulls up alongside me as I walk down the street.

I’ll talk to her when she’s back from Paris.

Do her a favor and try to stay out of the tabloids.

I will.

I consider running when I see Booth Buxton’s smiling face, his finger gesturing for me to come hither.

I get in the back of the van. It’s that or run the risk of ruining another suit when they toss me in the back against my will.

What can I do for a loathsome troll?

More like what he can do for me.

He can do nothing for me other than leave me alone.

Sure about that? He shows me pictures of me chasing Allison a.k.a. the Saudi Princess through the fountain.

Right. He knows who she is.

Name, date of birth, current address. FYI – she is not a Saudi Princess.

I find it unnerving he has me followed.

He doesn’t have to have me followed. This is London. There are more cameras than people on the streets.

What does he want?

My lifelong friendship.

Sure. We’re best friends. Name please.

And for me to deliver a message.

Would this have anything to do with Boris?

Could do. I have an appointment with a client this afternoon. A very special client.

No. I actually don’t. I only have appointments with my usual clients. Although I think they’re special I don’t think he would find any of them particularly interesting.

Think again.

I’m stumped. He’s going to have to give me more than vague inferences.

A woman of my acquaintance. Older. Attractive. Accomplished.

That describes all of my female clients. Why doesn’t he just tell me? Make things easier. Save us all a lot of time.

The Matchmaker.

Her? Okay. Interesting. What message could I possibly give her?

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.

Why 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.

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.

I don’t talk. He needs to talk first.

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.

His minions have captured him and brought him before us for judgment. What punishment fits his many crimes?

The Baboon writhes and screams.

Olga flicks a wrist. One hundred lashes with the Featheranator.

Everyone gasps. Not the Featheranator!

Yes! The Featheranator!

I willingly concede Avan is a better Grand Vizier simply because no one can wear that cape and the accompanying loincloth quite like Avan can. He has those sultry Mizrahi eyes and quite honestly abs that make me growl with envy. This is what being a kosher vegan gets you. Perfect abs. It also makes him an impossible pain in the ass to eat with, but still – those perfect abs are almost worth it.

There is cape swirling and cackling.

The Baboon falls to his knees. Not the Featheranator! Anything but the Featheranator!

Bring out the Featheranator!

The group starts chanting Featheranator, Featheranator, Featheranator.

Four of the girls in the stringy outfits wearing the giant strap on dildos wheel out a meter wide feather wheel with a crank handle and a bench. It’s really an ingenious piece of pornography.

The girls put the Baboon onto the paddle bench. They tie him up and gag him.

One of the girls turns the crank and makes the feather wheel spin. Each feather smacks the Baboon on the bottom. I can’t believe I’m getting paid to sit in my gold jodhpurs and witness this. At least Olga had the presence of mind to sneak her phone in up the dolman sleeve of her gown.

I look over at what she’s looking at.

Why is she looking at stripper fairy wedding dresses?

She shushes me and stashes her phone.

Just so we are clear, if we ever get married, she is not going to wear a stripper fairy wedding dress.

She shushes me again.

I’m serious. No fairy stripper dress. No bustier. No corset. No boob.

Bad luck to see the dress.

Worse luck if she shows up wearing a stripper fairy wedding dress if we get married.

When, not if.

Not that we are even talking about getting married.

But aren’t we?

No.

Just because she hasn’t ripped my cock off with her clawed hands doesn’t mean I’m off the hook for that Hello bullshit. A new day has dawned. One in which she will get her way because we both know I want to make her happy. Don’t I want to make her happy?

Yes. But…

No buts. She smiles at me and touches my cheek. I am just so adorable when I think she won’t get her way.

Her finger touches my lips before I can respond. She looks to the Baboon being whipped by the Featheranator. The action in the center of the floor is coming to a climax. No pun intended.

I watch Avan as he circles the Baboon. Something new is happening. Not unusual for the scenario to take on a twist or two. It keeps things fresh.

Avan moves in close to the Baboon. He starts whipping his dick against the man’s face. One cheek than the other. This is definitely new. Two of the women in the stringy costumes with the giant strap on dildos start poking him.

The Baboon writhes and screams. Avan and the women become aggressive.

I’m pretty open minded. I really am. But even I have my limits. I hesitate to judge, but what Avan and the women are doing to the Baboon seems a step too far. That noted, who am I to censure what another person finds pleasurable? But then again, who am I not to believe there are lines that should not be crossed? It’s a slippery slope when we start trying to determine what is appropriate and not appropriate. There are no absolutes. I suppose in the end we all need to reserve the right to determine for ourselves where are thresholds rest.

I don’t enjoy watching Avan slap the Baboon despite how much the Baboon seems to want him to do it. I can’t imagine being smacked with giant dildos is fun or pleasurable. Maybe I’m a lover and not a fighter. Maybe I just don’t like what I see. Either way, I think I’m done with this. Peeing on the Baboon was one thing. Raising the bar and stretching the boundaries to beatings is something else. I wonder what drives this need of his. Is it just wanting attention? Could it be so simple?

The Baboon ejaculates onto the tile.

Everyone applauds.

The girls in the stringy costumes with the giant dildos untie him. He departs through a side door.

We are finished.

I dress and wait in the sitting room. When we are all assembled the Butler passes out our envelopes. Two hours pay for thirty minutes of sitting on my arse and pretty much doing nothing. There are moments when I wonder if people would actually believe this part of my work exists. That a large portion of my paid time does not involve me getting naked seems inconceivable. But yet, here I am with my pay in hand. I’ve made more in thirty minutes than most people make in a month. Nice work if you can get it.

I check my watch. There is more than an hour before my next appointment. I’m starving. I look at Olga. Lunch? We can talk about the magazine thing.

No. No lunch. No talk. At least not yet. We’ll talk later like she said. When she’s calmed down a bit.

The really scary thing is, is that she seems pretty calm to me.

Yes. I should be very fucking scared. She’s done fucking around. I’m going to give her what she wants and we both know it. She kisses me on the cheek. Be a star and meet her at the hotel for our next appointment. She needs to talk to the Baboon in private.

About?

She needs a dress. She kisses me on the cheek. Be a good boy and toddle off.

I don’t want to be a good boy that toddles off. I want to know what she’s up to.

Why am I so suspicious? She needs a dress. Trust is a two way street. Since when do I care about her wardrobe?

I don’t care about her wardrobe. I care that she thinks she’s going to do something to disrupt plans which are already in motion and will not be stopped.

She’ll meet me at the hotel.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

5:00pm

Not eating with Olga means I can eat what I want. I’ve become obsessed with this Singapore noodle stand that sits at practically the epicenter of my work places. They make this chicken that spiced with curry, coconut, chili, and finished with cashews that I can’t get enough of. I am a creature of habit. Much to my detriment. It makes me easy to track down.

A car pulls alongside me as I walk with my carton of Singapore chicken over jasmine rice. Not just any car. A long black limousine that takes up half a block and requires the driver to have a special permit to operate stops.

Only by writing the words This Obnoxious Limousine Contains a Russian Gangster on the side of the car would make it more obvious who was looking for me.

I get in the back without waiting for an invitation or to be tossed inside by a goon.

Boris.

Oliver.

Harold hands me pictures. Harold is different. He’s not so pretty anymore. There’s an edge to him that works. I hand him my container of Singapore chicken. Do not eat that.

I look at the pictures. Me getting into the back of the white government van. I study the picture for a moment. Something is bothering me. I hand Boris the picture. I take my chicken back from Harold.

Did he like my hair better when it was slightly shorter? I might go back to that. At first I thought it was just a bit too boy band, but now I think it makes me look indefinable.

Boris looks at the picture then nods. He liked it better short. What did they want from me?

They wanted me to deliver a message.

To whom?

The Matchmaker.

What was the message?

Yes.

That’s it?

Yes. Just yes. A whole bucket of yes.

Do they know we talk?

I would assume that would be another yes. They know everything about me. I think the safest thing to assume is that I’m some sort of patsy that is being used to play two ends against one very clever middle. If I were him I would not fuck with that middle. That middle has long arms and a longer memory that hasn’t forgotten the Cold War. Either that or they’re a bunch of morons. Another very credible possibility.

Are they blackmailing me?

No. I’m beyond blackmail. I have no skeletons left in my closet. I have no shame left to lose. I have no one that I can hurt more than I’ve already hurt.

Must be liberating.

It is. I’ve become the woman that leaves her home in her bathrobe to go to the corner market to buy bread at eleven in the morning. I don’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me in my bathrobe. Everyone has seen me in my bathrobe. They’ve all had a good stare. The world has continued turning and I get to buy bread in my bathrobe.

He thinks I’m lying. What about Olga? What about my mother?

What about them?

Wouldn’t it break my mother’s heart to know I’m not really in public relations or whatever lie it is I told her?

She knows the truth.

I told my mother how I make my money?

Yes. I told her. He is making a grave miscalculation if he thinks I’m above hurting my mother for sport. We don’t have the best relationship. Things are going okay at the moment, but we’re fighting against a twenty-eight year tide of near constant disappointment on her part. Sticking it to her on occasion just feels like a victory.

Snakes make better sons.

That’s just being mean. Getting to the point, I’m not playing this game anymore. I have nothing to gain and a lot to lose. I’m not going to end up with a bullet in my head because someone thinks I can be trusted. I can’t be trusted. I’ll tell anyone anything they want to know as long as I think it’ll save my own skin. I have no loyalty to anyone but myself. There is no one I won’t betray for my own security. Are he and anyone else that might be listening understanding me without any question? I, Oliver Adair, am not to be trusted. I’m a self-serving stooge that is only loyal to myself. Clear?

My skills are wasted working on my back.

I agree with him. If I’ve learned nothing else from my time working on my back, as he so eloquently put it, it is that I am better than I knew I was. I am capable. A lesson that can never be learned too late. All of my life I was told I needed someone else to make decisions for me because I couldn’t manage on my own. Not only can I make decisions, I can make the hard ones without a whole lot of dithering. Is he interested in my most recent decision?

Sure.

I’m done. I’m out. I’m finished with him and his sister and the whole dark underworld of Russian organized crime.

He laughs at me then laughs some more.

Care to share?

I’m done with shit if I’m not done with Olga. Do I want to know something that he would never tell anyone else? Just between us. Man to man.

Sure.

Vladimir makes him look like a putz. Like a petty enforcer. He might control London, but Vladimir controls Russia. Vladimir is not going to let me treat his daughter like a second helping. Olga’s made her point. She’s made her father look a fool and he’s paid the price. Too many people laugh at him to his face. Vladimir is not going to let her be second to some other woman.

Olga is a big girl. She makes her own choices.

Yes. She does. She’s also Vladimir’s daughter. Don’t forget that.

I won’t.

Who is taking over for me when I get married to that Indian girl?

I don’t know. Hopefully Avan. Most of my clients know Avan. They all trust Avan. They like him. He’s the logical choice.

He’s not going to turn all of my clients over to Avan. That would cut too much into his bottom line.

Ah yes – because Avan doesn’t have to pay for his pimp service since he’s independent.

Exactly. He’s been trying to get Avan to work exclusively for him for years. Avan only works for himself.

Make him an offer he can’t refuse. Offer him a bigger piece of the action and he might be willing to reconsider. I solved his mystery for him, by the way.

Which mystery.

The Avan mystery. He’s a writer.

Avan is a writer?

Yes. He’s a writer. That’s why the job suits him.

What kind of writer is he?

No idea. Fiction I think based on recently acquired information. I could probably ask him, but that would mean I might get suckered into having to read one of his manuscripts. It would be just my luck Avan writes some kind of stream of consciousness lyrical bullshit that’s harder to wade through than a snake infested swamp.

Avan’s a writer. That does make sense. How did I find out?

He told me. Amazing what one can find out when one asks the right question.

Talk to Avan. Approach him. See if a deal can be brokered.

What do I get for this?

Twenty large.

I was actually joking. I thought we were doing the whole gangster talk thing.

Do I not want the twenty large?

I’ll take it. I’ll talk to Avan.

No deal. No money.

I really wish there was part of me that wanted to be an underworld gangster just for the lingo alone.

If I change my mind, I know where to find him.

I’m going to pass, but I do appreciate the offer. Any chance he can drop me closer to where I need to be instead of driving me farther and farther away from my original destination?

No.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

6:00pm

Why do I bother to plan anything? Why? I need my day to rally and I need it to happen immediately. Boris drops me miles from where I need to be and it takes nothing short of a miracle to get me back on track. I have one client left before I meet with my Former Fiancée and can officially call quitting time. One more chance to get my day right before I end it.

My last client of the day is my first. I’ve been booked for forty-eight hours. The Latin Pop Star is in London for the premier of a movie in which he has slightly better than a supporting role.

For the second time in the day I work with Olga.

I remember her detached professionalism during that first job.

What happened to that Olga?

She’s still there. I see that coolly masked and controlled person as we walk together.

Is she burned out?

What?

Is she burned out? If it weren’t for me would she be getting out of the job anyway?

Yes. She’s had enough. I didn’t know this?

I suppose I did.

It’s time for her to move on and into her new life with me. She’s done with the bullshit.

It’s still going to be a while before we get married.

No. That’s part of the bullshit she’s done with. That picture of me with my former fiancée was an epiphany. We’re getting married. She’s done listening to my bullshit. If I don’t want to work for her father I don’t have to work for her father. He will just give us money to live on.

No.

She’s not listening to it. If I don’t like it then too damn bad. That picture hurt her. She’s done playing along waiting for me to come to the right conclusion.

Security stops us. They know us now. We’re given a quick pass.

Olga hasn’t changed. Not a bit. She’s still as cold and professional as she’s always been. She’s just let me see beyond the exterior and into her world.

We’re allowed into the suite of rooms.

There he is. The Latin Pop Star.

I am so pleased to see him. So very pleased to see him. It’s comforting to be around him. He’s petulant and capricious at times, but he’s kind, generous, and loving in equal measure.

But to get to him, I have to see the Manager.

The Manager has not changed. He’s still short. He still adores Olga.

They leave together.

I find my way into the bedroom. Makeup and Wardrobe are there with him. He’s naked except for a towel.

Everyone is delighted to see me. I haven’t seen him in weeks. Practically a month. I’ve missed him.

Makeup and Wardrobe disappear. I lock the door behind them.

I look better. Not as damaged. The bruises were sexy. But me looking healthy and fit is sexier.

I feel better. I plan on living my life in such a way as to never invite another trouncing.

Will I spend the night with him?

I will. I have to leave for a couple of hours, but I can be back by ten.

He won’t be back before midnight. Maybe even later.

I’ll wait up for him.

Good.

He kisses me. Rough. Deep. Tongue, teeth, and lips work against me. He’s not the same man I met just a few months back. He takes the lead and doesn’t wait for me to guide him.

I pull the towel off of him with a snap.

I step back for a good look as I strip with professional efficiency.

He gives me a turn. He’s definitely not the same man. But then again, neither am I.

We fall on the bed.

He’s rough as he pushes me on to my back. My stomach flutters with anticipation. It’s been too long since I’ve been on the receiving end of a bit of rough. This feeling running through me as his hands squeeze and pummel me makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to be monogamous. I don’t know if I can give this up to be with just one woman.

Here is the truth, plain and simple. No woman has the capacity to do to me what the Latin Pop Star is doing with his hands to my cock. No woman has hands that large or that strong. If a woman does have hands that large or that strong, then I’m not certain I’d be particularly attracted to her. Again, no judgment, but going on my historical preferences, only a man could squeeze, rattle, and shake my dick quite the way the Latin Pop Star is doing it.

A thought occurs to me as I lay back against the nest of pillows, my cock in the hot wet mouth of one of the world’s most desirable men. I don’t want to give this up. I never did. I didn’t want to marry my former fiancée. If I had wanted to marry her, I would have made it happen. In my heart of hearts I knew I’d be giving up the freedom to have my cock serviced by a beautiful man if I married her. It would still happen, but there would be a nudge of accompanying guilt along with the action.

I feel no guilt. Not even a little. I’m weeks away from getting married to Parvati and I feel absolutely free. Parvati could give a shit what I get up to. Her feelings matter to me about as much as my feelings matter to her. I have freedom like I’ve never had before. When I am married my range to rove will be that much greater.

His mouth swallows me nearly to the shaft as his hand squeezes and rolls my balls. His tongue is rough and his mouth is smooth. There is just enough of a bite to make me jump. Then he hums. He hums with my dick in his mouth. It’s like an oral vibrator. He’s learned technique. I don’t know where or from whom, but he’s learned technique. Am I jealous? Possibly. Maybe he’s just been paying attention to me.

With this feeling of utter bliss at my impending release from the constraints of decency I ejaculate. Fingers wound through all that beautiful hair and the heat of bare skin against my thighs I let the waves of physical release just overflow from my body.

There must still be bones in my body, but they’ve become temporarily gelatinous as the Latin Pop Star rolls me from my back to my stomach. He can do whatever he wants to me. I’m fairly certain I lack the will to protest. Fortunately I trust him.

His hands grab my ass cheeks. He squeezes, rolls, and kneads like a well-trained masseuse. I consider asking him to work my shoulders, but respect the fact he’s in charge and doesn’t need my input. His breath exhales against my skin. His teeth nip gently. I watch from this place outside of my body that I occupy as he grabs a condom and lube. He pushes and nudges my thighs until they easily bend open.

The provocative brush of his exhale against my rim wakes my satiated body. The touch of his tongue stops my breath. He has changed. Not my shy Latin lover anymore. No. He’s entered a whole new world.

His tongue is withdrawn faster than I wanted, but not before it’s replaced by a thumb. A probing and teasing thumb that massages just enough warmed lube into my anus to relax the muscle. I should be paying him. I really should be.

He stops and I nearly scream. Then I hear him putting a condom on and I don’t protest. One nudge at a time, he enters me. No guilt. No shame. I fully embrace that I like dick as much as I like pussy. This is me. I am Oliver and I am unencumbered by proclivities. Everyone is in my pool to pull from.

With consideration for the fact I am a human being with nerve endings and the capacity to feel pain, he fucks me with just enough thrust to make it good and not so much to make me hurt. Every thrust is a move deeper until he can go no more. I lay still and let him have his way with me. His hand wraps around my cock as he finds a place deep inside of me where he only needs to move just a hair to find the right rhythm. I can feel his cock pulsate as he ejaculates.

I’ve learned to appreciate being on top, but in my heart I’m a bottom. I like the feel of a sweaty, satiated man stretched out over my back with his mouth on my neck. It’s a good feeling.

He pulls away too quickly.

Why? Stay. Please.

He needs to go. He kisses me on the shoulder. He’s all mine for the next forty-eight hours in about four hours. Unless I want to go with him. Do I want to go with him?

Where is he going? I have an appointment I need to keep, but I can meet up with him in about an hour. Maybe a little more.

Press junket. Six interviews in sixty minutes if he’s lucky. Then dinner. I can meet him for dinner.

Maybe. I need to do this thing first. I can’t get out of it.

A hand falls in a smart slap on my ass. He doesn’t want to hear about my other business.

I’m meeting with my former fiancée. And that hurt.

Why am I meeting with my former fiancée? He thought I despised her.

I roll over to watch him dress. Suit and tie.

She wants my sperm. It’s not so much despise as it is … actually despise works, but it’s much more complicated than that.

Love hate?

Yes. But much more complicated.

It’s that complicated and I’m giving her my sperm presumably to create a child?

Yes.

I am his very dear friend and he loves me as he loves his family. This is a stupid thing I am doing.

I owe her.

I don’t owe her that much. I don’t owe her my first born. I only owe someone I love and want to make a life with my first born. Family matters. This matters. What would my family think of this?

I’ve been trying not to think of that.

Tell him what my family would think.

They would be appalled. My grandparents would murder me. He can’t even imagine how angry they would be. The continuation of our family meant everything to them. If they impressed nothing else on me, that they did.

So why am I having a child with a woman that is not my wife?

Can I ask him a personal question?

Yes. As long as I don’t try to avoid the question he already asked me.

Is he really Catholic? Like really really Catholic? Like believes in god and goes to church?

Yes. He’s really Catholic. He believes in God and goes to church whenever he’s home.

What’s that like?

Church or God?

Both.

Comforting and restraining. It gives him a moral compass that also stymies him. It also gives him a foundation of family in his life that is the rock he builds his world on. This is why he would never give up something so precious to him as his first born. Why am I having a child with a woman that is not my wife?

Because I owe her that much.

No. I don’t owe anyone that much. I’m making a mistake. If she wants a child that badly she can go to a sperm bank. Giving a child to a woman anonymously is something he can understand. In this I am automatically a part of that child’s world. If I see that child, I will know it is my child. She’s wants my sperm because she wants to keep hold of me. This is a mistake. Unless, of course, I want to be with her. Do I want to be with her?

The truth?

Of course.

Sometimes I really don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if she is really the one I’m meant to be with. If I really wanted to be rid of her then she would be gone. But we keep ending up orbiting each other no matter what the circumstances. Intellectually I can give her my sperm, but everything that matters to me fights against it. Family, lineage, name … all of these things matter to me. I’ve been fighting with my mother all day long about how we need to preserve our family name and here I go giving away my golden sperm.

I fight with my mother?

Sometimes.

What kind of son am I that fights with his mother?

A bad son?

Yes. A bad son fights with his mother. I should apologize to my mother.

Even if she’s wrong?

Yes. Even if she’s wrong. A son should never fight with his mother.

Is he a giant mama’s boy?

Yes. He loves his mother. He’s a good son. He’d never fight with his mother.

He’s making me feel bad.

Good. Boys who fight with their mothers should feel bad. I need to apologize to my mother.

I have a complicated relationship with my mother.

Who doesn’t have a complicated relationship with their mother? His mother still thinks he’s a virgin that just hasn’t met the right girl.

I laugh loudly. Maybe he needs to have a moment of truth with his mother.

Perhaps he does. Life is short. Be a man and apologize even if it’s not my fault. I can say sorry even if I don’t feel sorry. Sorry is a knock on the door to a conversation that needs to happen.

I’ll call my mother after I give my former fiancée my sperm.

I’m making a mistake. Tell her she can have his sperm. Millions of women want his sperm. If she just wants sperm and not a connection to the father of her child, she’ll say yes.

I’ll do that.

And call my mother. He kisses me, grabs his jacket, and then leaves.

I call my mother.

She has no interest in talking to me. She doesn’t tell me this. Sanjay tells me this. He’s involved now.

I need him not to interfere with my relationship with my mother.

As he said. She has no interest in speaking to me. They have spoken at length about this. I have upset her a great deal. Perhaps I should call again in a few days. For the moment, it is for the best I leave her in peace.

I need to talk to my mother.

As he has already told me. She has no interest in speaking to me. I have upset her. Clearly I am upset. We need some time to reflect before we come together.

Does he know he’s making things worse? Does that even occur to him?

Anything that spares my mother anxiety and stress is a win. If preventing me from distressing my mother helps keep her rested and calm, then he will do it. He cares for my mother very much. This anger is not helping anyone.

He’s making me angry.

He is very sorry this is my reaction to his trying to help. Is there anything else?

Yes. He can give my mother a message for me. She will participate in that show over my cold dead lifeless body. I called her to make peace and he threw a wall between us. If that’s how she wants it to be, then that’s how she’s going to get it. She used to use my father as a go-between and now she’s using him. I’m done.

Please. Be calm. It was not his intention to cause strife. He wants us all to take a few days to just find our centers and calm down.

He can fuck off. He’s not part of our family. I called to make amends with my mother. He shouldn’t have interfered. As far as I’m concerned if she steps foot on my property I’ll have her skinny fucking ass thrown in jail for trespass. Next time he wants to step between me and my mother he can remember how helpful he’s been.

He understand he has angered me. That was not his intention. He wants us to take two steps back and calm down. This anger is a poison. That is the message he was hoping to deliver.

He’s such a good messenger? Tell her what I’ve told him. If she wants to hear what I had to say to her, tell her she can call me. Otherwise I’m done trying to make peace. I tried. He got in the way. I’m done pretending everything is okay between us. I’ve got twenty-nine years as of today of fucking anger at her selfishness and neglect to work through. Telling me to back up and calm down isn’t going to help matters one bit. He doesn’t know her like I know her. She’s a manipulative fucking cunt that only cares for herself.

Just one moment. This was not what he wanted. He’ll put my mother on the phone.

I end the call. I have no interest in talking to her. Call me a bad son. Call me a terrible person. I don’t care.

I ignore the phone when it rings a minute later.

I ignore the three texts from Renata that came through since I silenced my phone. I’m done with drama for the day. One hour with my Former Fiancée before I can let myself fall into forty-eight hours of calm and peace with the Latin Pop Star.

I keep ignoring it as I get dressed.

I ignore the text from my mother. Then I read it simply because I can’t resist.

I’ve won. She’ll do what I want for no other reason than it’s not worth the grief it will cause to go to war with me. I’m stronger than her and she cares more than I do. The tables have finally turned. She wants us to have the relationship we’ve never had before and finally do. She knows it’s her fault. Everything is her fault. She knew when I was growing up that she was selfish and demanding and wanted my father all to herself because she was childish and jealous. She’ll give me what I want I just need to be her son again.

I’m done. At least for the moment. For certain Sanjay won’t try to apply his family dynamic to mine ever again.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

7:00pm

The lilacs were an impulse purchase. The flower seller had beautiful skin. Like someone that properly hydrates and avoids processed foods. She's probably a vegan. She probably eats her unsold flowers at the end of the day.

I’m late and I’m filled with rage after the conversation that wasn’t with my mother so I buy a dozen lilacs from the flower seller. They smell like summer and remind me of Capri. I know she loves lilacs and I so desperately don't want this to be another trick. I need to set this one hour of my day aside for something other than getting the job done. The flowers make it a date.

We agree to meet on the yacht.

If I could have gotten from the hotel to the marina in ten minutes like I’d planned, I would have been on time. But no. Because the day I’m having equals some jackass throwing themselves in front of a train and grinding all underground commuter transport to a halt for just long enough for them to have to clean up the smear of human remains, I have to walk and I’m late.

She’s there when I get there.

I hand her the flowers.

I really can be very sweet. I get a kiss on the cheek. Happy birthday.

She’s sweet to remember.

How could she forget? How am I doing?

Better for seeing her.

Cut the bullshit. Tell her the truth.

I’m hanging by a thread. It’s my birthday, which is also our anniversary if she hasn’t forgotten.

She hasn’t.

My father has been gone exactly a year.

She knows.

I just wanted today to be easy, but I’m getting shit for things that aren’t my fault.

Is this about that picture in Hello? Did Russian Barbie give me a lot of shit about it?

Yes.

She’d apologize, but she’s not sorry. It’s actually interesting to be the person in the picture for once and not the one deeply hurt by it. If she’s being totally honest it feels good.

How very schadenfreude of her.

Whatever. I introduced her father to Elizabeth. I can suffer the consequences.

Suffering the consequences. I need to tell her something. Something very important that affects us both very directly.

What?

I saw the Saudi Princess. She was not a Saudi Princess. She was a barista. Not even a barista. She was a cashier. She had a badge and everything.

I make no sense.

The Saudi Princess is named Alison. I chased her into a fountain. I got wet then I had to go to Mummy & Me.

It’s like talking with someone with turrets sometimes. Make sense. Now.

Did she hire the Saudi Princess to try to tempt me to cheat?

That’s absurd. She did everything she could to convince me not to cheat. Why would she pay money to throw temptation in my path? I must be mistaken. Maybe they just look alike.

It was her. I know it was her. I’m sure it was her. I was trying so hard to be good and I was being good but whoever Allison the Barista is she was always there. If she had never walked into our lives we’d still be together.

I would have cheated eventually.

No. I don’t think I would have. I really don’t think I would have. I was getting there. I’m there now. I just needed a little more time.

Not possible. I’m far too damaged to act like a healthy person.

Mean! Very very mean! Unnecessarily mean! Why does she want my sperm? Why? Why me? If I’m so damaged, why does she want to pass that on to a child? She doesn’t seem to like me even in the slightest, but yet she wants to create a child with my DNA. Is this some ploy to get me back? Because that’s what Elon and the Latin Pop Star think.

The laughter starts out low and ends with her having to sit down as the tears roll down her face.

I hand her water to get her to stop choking on her laughter.

She’s sorry. Really she is. She shouldn’t laugh. But yet, what choice have I given her? Elon and the Latin Pop Star are advising me? What has the world come to?

I’m serious. Does she want to get back together? I’m not kidding. I’m not joking. I don’t think this is funny. I want to know if the reason she wants my sperm is because it might be a way for us to get back together.

Do I want to know if she thinks that if I get her pregnant we’ll have this amazing moment of clarity and decide the best thing we can do is become a family?

Maybe.

She sighs. Maybe. She doesn’t really know. She thinks about it. It’s hard.

This is really hard.

Yes. This is really hard. Life and relationships are really hard. Finally I’m starting to get it. I spent so much time running from the reality of what it meant to be in a relationship that I destroyed what good we had between us. She needs an answer. Do I want to get back together?

If I’m being totally honest sometimes I really do. It was just so easy. I miss that. I’ve changed. I’m a better person than I was. I’ve learned from my mistakes. Would she take me back?

Am I asking her to take me back, or am I testing the waters?

Testing the waters.

No. Absolutely not. No more testing the waters. Either in or out. What is it?

Would she take me back? No more testing the waters. If she says yes she’ll take me back then I’m all hers.

No more cheating?

None. Never.

Do I actually love her?

Yes. Not in a crazy, loud, over the top, let’s go on a murder spree to prove our love way, but in a quiet let’s be together forever kind of way. Does she love me?

She stares at me. She’s going to have a think about it. She’ll get back to me.

When? Because my clock is ticking.

So is hers. There is a selection of pornography featuring petite women with giant cans in the bedroom. She wasn’t certain if my taste had evolved – or possibly devolved as the case might be – so there are also some more obscure foot fetish and bondage selections just in case. She thinks, but she can’t be sure, that there might be a Thai lady boy magazine. Be sure to wash my hand and my bits before. Get all the semen into the cup. Seal it tightly with the cap.

Huh?

What huh?

I thought we were baby making.

We are. Just not in the lets have a few glasses of wine and forget to use a condom sort of baby making. This is the ejaculate into a cup and mix it with the eggs in a dish sort of baby making.

Is she very serious?

Yes.

This is not what I agreed to.

This is exactly what I agreed to. Providing of sperm. There was no discussion about the delivery method. This is how she wants it.

Wouldn’t it be better to do it the regular way?

We’ve done it that way. It doesn’t seem to work that well. We’re going to do it this way. This way there are results. Chop chop. She has people on standby waiting for my sperm.

She really does just want my sperm. She isn’t trying to trap me?

Did I hit my head?

No. What if I told her I could get her the sperm of the Latin Pop Star? Would she want it?

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Chop chop times a ticking.

I can’t work under pressure.

We both know that’s a lie.

Could she at least come and talk dirty to me, or something? Maybe let me look at her boobs?

No. She has a call with Beijing she’s already late for. She has every confidence in me.

I go into the bedroom.

The magazines are nicely fanned out on the bed. The specimen cup with its blue lid stares like an eye. Sure enough, there is a magazine for foot fetishists. Who knew?

I look at the bed. I poke around in the cupboards. I find my braided leather belt I thought Elon took. I’ll need to apologize for that. I find my pajamas. I find my comb. This used to be my space. Now it’s just filled with ghosts.

The door opens.

Am I done?

No. Why does she still have all my stuff?

No reason.

Admit it. She misses me. She’s tempted to take me back.

She will admit to nothing. It’s not like she sniffs my t-shirts and wears my pajamas. She never uses the yacht. She didn’t think to clear it out. She can arrange to have it all packed up and sent to me.

Did she change the locks and the codes?

No.

Leave it. I’ll come on my own and pack it up.

She’ll let security know to not call the police if they see lights. But I am not to use the yacht for entertaining and we both know what she means.

I won’t. I told her. I’m different.

What does Russian Barbie think of my giving up my sperm?

She doesn’t know. I never said I’d perfected monogamy. I’m just trying to do better.

So she’s like a cheat free zone. Doesn’t really count because it’s her.

Yes.

I am something else. It never ceases to amaze her how I can twist anything to suit my need to justify.

Can I move along the semen production?

Can I at least touch her boobs? Look at them?

Unbelievable. Take my trousers off.

I love it when she talks dirty to me. I drop my trousers.

She gives me a nudge and I fall back on the bed covered in skin magazines. We neck and I get a tug. She very nicely holds the specimen cup for me.

I reach for the remote as she spins the lid on the cup.

Am I planning on staying? Is living with six women starting to lose its glamour?

It’s like the sorority house from hell. I’m due back with the Latin Pop Star in a few hours. I have no interest in going home before I go back to his hotel.

What’s that like? Is he all ego and masculinity? Perhaps not terribly bright?

He’s very nice.

Hold on. Her phone vibrates. She picks up the specimen jar. She leaves for a minute then returns. She hands me my phone. I have missed calls. My mother and Renata.

I’m fighting with my mother and Renata has been terrorizing me all day. I’ve had a shitty day. I wanted it to be a great day and it’s been a shitty day. Who did she give my sperm to?

It’s in safe hands. Why am I fighting with my mother?

She wants to be on that asinine realty show they’re filming at Wold Hall.

And?

It’s classless. I’m trying to protect the family name.

That ship has sailed. I should just let her do it. Or better, why don’t I do it? They’d probably pay more for me than for my mother.

No.

Whatever. I never really did have a head for making the wise business decision. Why is Renata terrorizing me? Renata is terrorizing her too.

How?

Renata called looking for money a few weeks back.

What did she do?

Offered her a job. She feels sorry for her.

And?

She wanted cash but didn’t want to work for it. Can’t help people that won’t help themselves.

I check my phone. Why do I have a call from the police? And two from a hospital?

Do I want curry? Do I have time for a curry? Because she could kill a curry. The hormone shots are maddening. All she wants to do is eat curry and really salty chips. Maybe we actually need to talk about getting back together. Maybe it’s not the worst idea in the world. Talking can’t hurt anything.

Yes. Curry and really salty chips then talk. I have time. I don’t need to be back to the hotel before midnight.

She’ll order while I find out why the police are after me.

I call the hospital first. I’m on the phone a minute before I hang up.

Do I want vindaloo?

I need a ride to the hospital. Does she have her car?

Yes. Is it my mother?

No. Renata.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

8:00pm

The hospital is as monolithic and unoriginal as every other hospital I’ve been in throughout my life. A nurse in a pale pink tunic in the intensive care unit tells me to wait. I’m shown a chair and offered tea or coffee. Hot beverages in this situation make me leery. It’s never good when they offer hot beverages.

I decline and wait.

Me waiting in hospitals. It’s this thing that occupies too much of my time. I should have been a doctor. At least I’d get paid to let the fluorescent lights burn my eyes.

The doctor I speak with is old and tired. He’s done this before. I imagine somewhere in him there is a person that wants to care, but he could really give a shit.

Before he reaches into his core to try to find a grain of comfort for me, I stop him.

Just tell me what Renata’s condition is. This isn’t the first time she’s tried to kill herself. I’ve been down this path with her before. Personally I would appreciate it if I were taken off her medical records as her next of kin.

He looks at me like I am the world’s biggest asshole. He might be tired, overworked, underpaid, a victim of socialized medicine, and ready for four fingers of scotch, but at least he’s willing to make an effort. Instead of answering he gestures for me to follow him.

I follow.

He takes me to a private room that is dim except for the lights from the machinery.

The lump of plastic casings and bandages on the bed is an unidentifiable mummy.

My friend Renata. She’s brain-dead. I don’t need to worry about getting another call. There are papers that need to be signed. She needs to be taken off life-support.

I move closer simply because I don’t believe him. There is a space between the cone around her neck and the helmet over her head that reveals her face.

It’s Renata. I’d know her anywhere and in any condition.

The doctor clears his throat. If I’ve had sufficient time to say goodbye there are those papers.

Piss off. Piss off and go the fuck away.

He leaves. If he wanted me to feel like an asshole it worked. I feel like an asshole. More than that. I feel broken. The first girl I ever loved is dead but for a bunch of machinery keeping her bits warm.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve faced death so many times and in so many ways, but this is a first for me. Grandmother’s slow and steady decline. Grandfather’s sudden demise. Dad’s instant death. This is something else. I don’t know if she’s still in there. We’re in this gray space together in this room. It’s the Schrödinger’s cat of death.

A woman joins me in the room. She has that look on her face. I know that look. Pitiful and kind, but she still has a job to do. There is a cross pin on her lapel. I think she might be a nun. Interesting.

She asks if I would like to be alone, or do I want company?

Is she a nun?

Yes. Does that bother me?

I don’t believe in god.

God believes in me.

The nun and I sit together.

I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to pull Elon into this and he is the only person I can imagine calling. His time will come soon enough to manage the everlasting repercussions of Renata’s demise. He’s going to have a lifetime of explaining to Anna. This moment is one I can shoulder alone.

I talk to the nun. She’s the most extraordinary listener I have ever met.

How did we get here? This is the question I ask as I sit in the chair next to her bed with my elbows on my knees and my hands folded under my chin. Would we be here if I hadn’t ignored the dozen texts from her? Is this my fault? Could I have been a better friend? Am I culpable? What could I have done differently? How did we get here?

The nun is kind. She has no answers for me other than I cannot blame myself for another person exercising their free will. The only thing I can do is seek the answers in the glint of the sun on the water and the rustle of the wind through the leaves.

My friend Elon would like her.

She has no answers for me. But she has a request. There is no good time for her to ask, but she must ask. Renata was a healthy young woman. Troubled in mind, that is no doubt, but healthy in body.

I know what she wants. I don’t want to hear her say it. I just ask for the clipboard.

She hands me the clipboard and a pen.

I need to sign in about twenty places. I give her the clipboard back.

She is going to give me a moment alone to say goodbye. She has the dignity and presence of place not to run from the room with the signed release. She’s very good at her job.

I’m left alone with Renata, my question still unanswered. How did we get here?

Perhaps the answer to a question walks into the room. It is the nurse in the pink tunic.

She is so very sorry to bother me.

The police have just arrived. They need to speak with me. She offers me tissues.

I didn’t realize I was crying.

I take the tissues and she puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s kind and comforting. She’ll wait with Renata while I speak with the police.

This seems so utterly ridiculous, but I don’t dissuade her. As I walk out the door she checks monitors and her watch. Time is ticking. My grief is an obstacle between Renata and a lot of people wanting to get their jobs done.

There are two of them. They both seem young. Maybe I just feel old.

Am I Oliver Adair?

Yes.

They start talking at me. They’re very sorry. They need to ask me a few questions. Has Renata been depressed? Has there been any indication that she was suicidal? They are aware she has an infant. Have I spoken with anyone about her having the baby blues?

I nearly explode. I really nearly explode. Baby blues? Is that what they call it when a women has a condition as serious as post natal depression? What a trite, condescending, stupid, and demeaning moniker. Baby blues indeed. They each need to be slapped repeatedly until those words never pass their lips again. The indignity of putting a cutesy tag on something so serious is personally offensive to me. They can piss off.

Instead of arresting me, they find inner patience. I admire the fact that they take my wrath with calm. It must be the world’s shittiest job what they do. This must be the worst part of it. Confronting the survivors of the dead.

They’re very sorry.

I’m sorry. I genuinely am. I do respect law and order and all of those things. I don’t even know what happened to Renata. If it helps, I’m just a friend of Renata. I’m not her husband or her boyfriend if that’s what they’re thinking.

They look at each other. I can see them play a mental game of ro-jam-bo. Neither of them want to tell me what brought Renata to her death bed.

Renata nearly fell in front of a Central Line train. She was pulled back before she fell in front of a train, but not before the impact resulting in the head trauma.

They look at each other again.

Just tell me the truly horrific thing they are not telling me.

The young man that tried to pull her back lost his footing and his life.

No.

They’re very sorry. This is what happened. There will be an inquest. They will need my cooperation. They know that Renata attempted to contact me no less than eighteen times in the previous twenty-four hours.

No. I have nothing to do with this.

I’m handed an envelope that has been opened. Inside is a letter in Renata’s looping handwriting. It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault. If I’d only loved her the way she needed to be loved we could have been happy. Like her handwriting, the recriminations loop around and around over both sides of three pages of A4 paper. If I were the police I’d want to ask me questions too. This is her ultimate punishment. This is her getting the very last word.

The kindness in their eyes has been replaced by inquisitiveness. There are questions that need to be answered. A boy is dead. There is CCTV footage. It’s not pretty. She was nothing if not determined.

I don’t know what to say. I’m very sorry. What a hollow shitty thing for me to say. It’s all I have for them.

They will be in contact with me.

Just one question. Do they have one of these six page epistles for Elon Sorensen?

They look at each other.

I need to know.

Their next stop is to speak with him.

I need to call him first. I’ll save them the trip and ask him to come to the hospital.

This is much appreciated. They’d prefer the news come from a friend.

They should wait to decide how much they appreciate my intervention until after they meet Elon.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

9:00pm

Renata is a vampire. Even in death, she takes life.

Elon stands over her bed studying her. After ten minutes of silent observation, this is all he says. I told him everything after he arrived and before the police got to him. He gave them the name of the number for the person who is paid a great deal of money to manage these things for him, took the letter with his name across the envelope, then dismissed them.

That’s all he can say?

He nods. What more do I want to hear? Her final act was to take a life. It’s the ultimate expression of her selfishness. Before dying, she needed to destroy one more person.

I should have let the police just show up and tell him.

Probably not a good idea. He and Roland are quarreling.

Why?

The short summary: Roland refuses to live with a man that has no purpose in his life other processing oxygen into carbon dioxide. He needs to find a purpose. Saving the whales was actually a suggestion. He needs to do something other than spend money and slowly plod his way to death.

Does this have anything to do with the Mummy & Me incident?

That little bitch Brittany called Roland at work and tattled. Told Roland we were not welcome back at Mummy & Me without adult supervision. Apparently Roland finds the fact he is twelve years his senior to be a struggle enough as it is without him acting like a child.

Roland is not in his forties.

He is. He’s forty-one.

Is not.

Is. Roland looks really fucking good for forty-one.

Elon nods. Roland should think he’s really fucking lucky to have an incredibly hot, extremely wealthy, and much younger boyfriend, but apparently he doesn’t.

He doesn’t?

No. Apparently there is more to life than looks, money, and youth.

Shocking. The inhumanity of it.

Do I know what pisses him off the most?

I can’t even begin to imagine.

Roland insists on working. He told Roland he didn’t have to work. He refused to be supported. How is his money not good enough for Roland?

There is an immense sense of personal satisfaction that comes from being self-reliant. That’s me speaking from experience.

He’s going to ask me a question and he wants an honest answer.

Ask.

Is it really an unconscionable waste of his abilities and intelligence to spend his days watching reality TV and flying to Milano once a year just to buy belts?

Yes. On both these points I must agree with Roland.

Roland didn’t mention either. It’s been on his mind independent from Roland being a self-righteous do-gooder prick. What do I think of him doing something like going back to school?

Sounds like something other than endless hours of Judge Judy. What would Roland think?

The guideline seems to be anything is better than nothing. Roland doesn’t care what he does as long as he does something.

Hence the whole save the whales thing?

Yes. Which is absurd. How does Roland think his family made the money to buy the first boats that become more money to buy the ships?

Whaling?

Yes. Whaling. He’s Norwegian for fucks sake. Where else does Roland think their shipping empire sprang from? Fucking trolls?

Probably not trolls. Probably not whaling either. Most people find whaling to be distasteful.

Whale meat is delicious.

No it’s not.

Yes it is.

He’s just saying that to be contrary. I know he doesn’t like whale meat.

Our bickering masks the bigger issue. The one that is laying on the bed in front of us.

The nurse in the pink tunic walks in. She still has that kind smile. Her trips into the room become more frequent. There is more checking of monitors and glancing at the watch. She leaves again.

Elon speaks first. We need to let them do what they need to do. We need to do what we need to do. That’s not going to happen until I say goodbye.

How do I say goodbye? This is the fourth person I’ve said goodbye to in a year. I still can’t figure out how it’s done.

Am I struggling with this?

Yes. I am struggling with this.

I was always weak where Renata was concerned. He never thought he’d say it, but maybe it’s a good thing he impregnated her and not me. If it had been me I probably would have done the noble yet idiotic thing and actually married her.

I didn’t marry her the other times I got her pregnant.

This one was different.

How are we having this conversation now?

Do I want to talk about the fact Renata is dead and being kept alive by artificial means while a whole bunch of people are waiting for us to clear out?

Did he ever care for her?

Yes.

He’s just saying that to make me feel better.

How often does he say anything to make me feel better?

Never.

So why would he start at that moment?

Point made.

Do I want a dose of the hard cold truth?

Not really, no.

Renata never did anything for anyone during her life except for him and that was wholly by accident.

Anna?

Yes. He has yet to fully appreciate his daughter, but he imagines in time he’ll come around to it.

He probably will. What is he going to tell Anna?

He has no idea. Fortunately he has time. The truth is, Renata was mean, selfish, damaged, and quite possibly a sociopath. As cruel as it sounds, for some people life is just too hard. Renata was one of them. Life never brought her anything but pain and disappointment. Her death can have meaning. We just need to walk away.

I nod.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. There is no final minute with her alone. He walks me out of the room. I don’t know what he says to the nurse in the pink tunic, but I do see her approach the group of people in scrubs loitering on the other side of the hallway before we disappear around a corner.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

10:00pm

What do we do? We go to dinner. That seems to be the way to deal with death.

Everyone goes to dinner.

There is a death.

Then there is food.

Specifically there is curry.

Before we go to dinner we meet my former fiancée at her place.

Elon has calls to make. People to tell. People like Renata’s mother. Assuming he can track her down.

We go into our bedroom. We sit on the bed. At first she refuses to sit. Finally I convince her.

I tell my former fiancée with her hands in mine what happened.

She was the closest thing Renata ever had to a female friend.

This hits her in a different way than I expected.

She’s in shock. She’s stunned. Ultimately, she’s not terribly surprised. Renata was damaged beyond anyone’s repair.

Am I damaged beyond anyone’s repair?

No. Not even a little.

This is when I break. It’s all so much. Everything is so confused. I don’t know what I’m doing. When I think I have everything figured out the game changes. I just wanted one good day.

She strokes my hair and holds me tight. This is the problem with my former fiancée. Good or bad, she’s seen the best and the worst of me. I have no secrets from her. She’s lived with me sick with the flu and brimming with joy. There are no masks to hide behind with her. She dries my tears with the corner of a pillow case.

All I wanted was one good day.

One good day? Because it’s my birthday?

Yes. One good day. I just wanted everything to go my way for the first time since my father died. Just for my birthday. Nothing goes my way anymore. Everything used to always go my way. Now there’s always something. Now Renata’s dead. Maybe I could have saved her if I’d just taken one of her calls. But I didn’t want to take her call because it was my birthday.

No. I can’t think like that. I really can’t do that to myself. Nothing could have saved Renata. She would have just tried to drag me down with her.

Does she think Renata did it on my birthday on purpose? Is she that horrible? Am I horrible for thinking she’s horrible?

She doesn’t know. It’s possible Renata didn’t realize it was my birthday. It’s not like she ever gave other people much thought. We’ll never know. The only thing that is for certain is that Renata was desperately ill. I could not have helped her. She needed trained professionals who know how to manage her problems. Even then it might not have been enough.

Elon walks into the bedroom. He’s been crying. I’m not the only one.

He found Renata’s mother. He told her.

He told her over the phone?

Yes. She was drunk. He’s not certain she believed him. He’ll go to her place in the morning and ring her out. See if he can sober her up enough to get through to her.

Maybe I should go with him.

He’ll bring Roland with him. Roland can do that sort of thing better than both of us combined.

I actually agree. Somewhere along the way Elon and I lost both our moral compasses and ability to feel empathy. Roland is better than both of us combined.

My former fiancée gets a call. She needs to go. She needs to take care of that thing we did earlier. All the prep work is done and it’s time for that.

Does she want me to go with her?

No. She’ll be fine. I’m to go home. I’m to get some sleep.

I’m supposed to hook up with the Latin Pop Star.

I’m to cancel that. I need some time to process what happened.

Does she ever tire of telling me what to do?

Not really. I’m to text her if I need anything. I’m to get something to eat. She’s certain I haven’t eaten. I can stay on the yacht if I want.

I want to stay on the yacht. I need some time to myself.

Then I’m welcome to stay on the yacht. The codes haven’t changed and the keys are the same.

I could have always stayed on the yacht?

Yes. It was always an option. Making me homeless was never her intent.

I’m going to stay on the yacht.

She kisses me on the forehead. One good day. She wants me to have one good day. She’ll see what she can do.

Elon and I go to dinner. Not because my former fiancée told me I had to go to dinner, but because I’m actually starving.

We make plans over dinner.

Elon will handle this one. He’ll make all of the arrangements.

That doesn’t feel right. I should do it.

Stop being so fucking noble all of the time. He can manage it.

What about Anna?

What about her?

Does this raise any legal questions?

No. Probably not. Roland is her legal guardian. Renata being dead probably just makes everything simpler for him.

He’s going to need to back up. How is Roland her legal guardian?

Remember that paper he signed at the wedding?

Yes.

Roland not only kept that, he had it turned into a bonafide legally binding agreement. Technically he has no say in Anna’s rearing. It’s really all on Roland.

But…

Seriously – probably for the best. Roland is markedly more prepared for this whole fatherhood thing than he is. Best to have it in writing that he’s the one that really gets to make the big decisions when it comes down to it.

But…

No buts. Roland is the boss of Anna. He’s just along for the ride.

But…

Shut the fuck up already. It works for them. That’s what matters. Maybe someday if he ever gets used to the idea of being a father and all of the fucking responsibility that comes with it, they’ll change the arrangement. For now it works. So if she grows up emotionally damaged and decides to fucking off herself by jumping in front of a train, it’s not on him.

That’s a bit hard.

Yes. Do I know what will be harder? Explaining to Anna where her mother is when that particular question comes up. So shut the fuck up and let him and Roland do what they think is best for their daughter.

He picks up his phone from the table when it lights up and shows it to me.

Olga.

Odd. I look at my phone as he answers his. I have missed calls, but none from Olga. Her days of psycho girlfriend stalking me through Elon were supposedly over.

He speaks with her. The conversation is brief. He places the phone on the table without handing it over to me.

Why is Olga calling him?

His lips press together. He studies the remnants of his tiramisu.

I nearly smack him in the side of the head just to make him talk.

It’s my mother.

No. It’s not my mother. I can deal with anything but my mother at that moment. I’m fighting with my mother and I haven’t told her yet I am sorry for being a selfish prick because that controlling prick Sanjay decided stonewalling me was a good idea. So it’s not my mother.

Just shut up. She received the call.

What call?

They have a heart for her. She’s been taken to hospital. Sanjay is with her. They’ve been trying to reach you. Roland told Olga I was with you. She figured it was best to tell me and that I could tell you personally.

No. This is just…

Weird?

Yes. He doesn’t think it’s possible…?

Don’t even think it. Just put that thought in a box and lock it up forever.

It could be possible.

Don’t go there. We need to get to the hospital and deal with the reality of the situation and not a whole lot of pointless speculation. These things are anonymous for a reason. So just box it up and don’t go there.

I can’t put it in a box. The thought is there. Renata is dead. With no less than twenty of my signatures her salvageable organs were donated. My mother has a heart. That’s just the sort of fucked up coincidence that defines my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY

11:00pm

Uncle Harvey meets us at the hospital. Gita and Harry are there with Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie. Roland arrives just behind us with Olga and Aunt Lucy.

Sanjay is the one that speaks to me.

I need to see mum.

Sanjay stands between me and the rest of the hospital.

She is already being prepped for surgery. No one can see her.

But he can see her. I want to beat him into a pulp for so many reasons not the least of which is that calm and comforting look on his face.

Yes. He can see her. He has been invited by the surgeon to observe.

I’m not certain who the fuck he thinks he is, but he is not part of our family and I’m a little tired of him trying to edge his way in.

He knows I’m upset.

Could he please not use that voice on me?

Which voice is that?

That everything is wonderful and the world is fucking filled with sunshine and positive fucking energy voice!

His hand comes up. I want him to smack me for being such a jumped up little shit. He squeezes my bicep. No matter what there is kindness in his eyes. Gita inherited that quality from him.

I need to talk to my mother.

There is no way. He can give her a message.

Tell her I’m sorry.

He will tell her.

He walks away.

I’m tempted to follow him and give him a thump. My phone rings. The Latin Pop Star. This call I take. Talking with the Latin Pop Star will prevent me from following Sanjay and beating him for being a controlling snob.

My mother is in the hospital. I can’t meet him.

What can he do? How can he help? His mother is the center of his universe. I must be very worried.

I am worried. I feel like an ass about that idiotic fight.

Did I talk to her?

No.

She knows it’s nothing. She has forgiven me.

How can he know that? We have a problem forgiving each other. It’s not something we do easily.

She’s my mother. She has forgiven me. He will pray for her. What can he do for me? Anything. He will do anything for me. I am his friend.

I don’t know. Nothing for the moment. I’ll let him know if there’s anything I need.

Anything at all. Just let him know. He knows how important my mother is to me.

She is important to me. We haven’t always gotten along.

She’s my mother. These little fights don’t really matter.

They do matter.

No. Really they don’t.

The only thing I can do is sit.

So I sit and I wait. I want the day to be over. I never want to have another birthday ever again. My birthdays are the milestones that mark the misery in my life.

I watch the time. Every minute takes an eternity to tick by.

Finally it comes. Midnight. My birthday is over. I have one year to the day to wait for whatever hell the next birthday will bring.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

4:00am

Here I am once again at that hour. That four in the morning hour. Dead time. The hour that no person without an ulterior motive is awake.

Roland has long since taken Aunt Lucy and Uncle Harvey home. Aunt Maisie and Uncle Albert left with them.

I sit for the second time in a night in a hospital waiting. The surgery will take between three and five hours. Olga brought me clean clothes and a flask of tea. She came prepared to wait. Casual trousers, cashmere sweater, silk scarf, sensible shoes, trench coat, pony tail, minimal makeup. I like her dressed plainly. She looks lovely when she’s not overdone. She’s even lovelier when she opens a plastic container filled with Uncle Harvey’s macaroons and places them under my nose. When she puts a cup of tea in my hand I’m ready to run off with her and leave the rest behind. I don’t understand why I dither as much as I do. In these moments of clarity I know the only person I truly want to be with is Olga. But why do I fight this?

There is nothing to do but wait.

Gita sits across from us asleep with her head on Elon’s shoulder. She isn’t like the rest of us. Four in the morning is an hour she is never awake for. For me, Olga, and Elon, it’s the moment we come alive.

The four of us wait.

Elon uses his phone to trawl the internet. I think he’s making arrangements for Renata’s funeral. Bless him and his ability to compartmentalize.

I check my phone. I check my watch. The wait is endless.

Sanjay is in the operating theatre. He’s an observer. His name gives him authority and opens doors. I don’t understand how he can do this. But that said, I don’t know how anyone can be a doctor. It’s just so gross. Funny that coming from the male prostitute.

Elon hands his phone to Olga. She glances at it, nods, then passes it back.

I look long enough to know they’re making decisions regarding flower arrangements.

The two of them are really amazing. There are no gray areas. Every task fits into its own space in their minds. This is what made Olga better at the job than I ever would be. That ability to separate one world from the other.

I do not have their ability to compartmentalize. I’m my world the colours bleed into each other. I am confused and there is no other way to break it down. I love Olga. I love her in the wild reckless and dangerous way that becomes the basis of a tragic story. I love my former fiancée. I love her in a quiet let’s stay at home and just be married way that would make us the most boring people in the world.

The only answer seems to be Parvati. Parvati is the safe choice. I don’t love her. I barely like her. But we get each other. We have the same goal. We want independence. I’m not going to get that with either Olga or my former fiancée. I will forever be beholden to them if I choose either of them over Parvati.

I don’t know Sanjay when he approaches us. He’s dressed from head to foot in blue with the cap over his head and the mask on his face. I know him when the mask comes down.

Elon nudges Gita enough to wake her.

I’m the one Sanjay is coming to speak to. We move off to the side. This is a private conversation.

There is no preamble. He’s been doing this longer than I’ve been alive. He knows what I want to know and doesn’t make me work for it.

Mum is well. The surgery was textbook. Not a bump or a hiccup. The heart came from a strong young woman. Truly everything is as good as we could hope it to be. Now it’s up to my mother.

They really didn’t fuck anything up?

No. He watched very closely. The surgeon did well. Everything is going to be fine.

He’d tell me the truth otherwise, right?

Yes. He would tell me the truth.

I got into a fight with my mother. I’m worried I might have stressed her out. I feel bad.

He knows about the fight. She was not under any stress.

I should have just let her do that stupid show if she wanted to do it.

She was still going to do it. My choices are my freedom. Her choices are her freedom. She went into surgery filled with light.

I don’t understand why she wanted to do it.

What did she say?

She told me something about wanting her own money. Something about being tired of never having anything of her own. It just seemed ridiculous.

Does it? Truly? Do I not understand what it is like to want to be the master of my own fate?

Yes.

This is why. She wanted for once to be the mistress of her own fate. Making the money from doing the show would have given her freedom she hasn’t had since marrying.

I think I’m starting to understand. He’s certain she’s going to be fine?

As certain as he can be. Go home. Get sleep.

I can’t see her?

No. Maybe in eighteen hours. Not before. Go home.

In the taxi I send three texts. One is information. The second is a request. The third contains details. I’ll know the answer in the morning.

At home I fall into bed fully clothed. Olga undresses me. She gets into bed and pulls me to her.

Why am I being so brave? I don’t need to be brave with her. She loves me. I have her permission to be vulnerable. She won’t think less of me. She knows what it’s like to have a parent die. She knows how I’m feeling. Why don’t I talk to her?

I don’t have an answer. Why don’t I talk to her? I love her, but I’m afraid to confide in her. I don’t let her see the deepest hidden parts of myself.

Why? Why do I think I hold back?

I pull a long breath of air into my lungs. Because I don’t want to give anyone all of myself ever again. When I do that they leave me or they die.

She won’t leave me and she won’t die.

She doesn’t know that.

She does. A gypsy woman told her that she’d live to be a hundred and three. She’s not going to die for a very long time. So I can be vulnerable with her and not be afraid she’s going to leave me.

I don’t want to talk. I’m tired and my nerves are raw. This is not the moment for a talk. I also need to think. I started the day thinking I had it all figured out. As it comes to its end at long last, I know I am far from seeing the path ahead. I’m like a man driving on a road in the dark. All I can see is the briefest area in the circle of the beams. Whatever lays beyond is concealed from me.

I don’t know what or who that future holds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

10:00am

I think I’ve slept three hours when the car comes for me.

My texts were received and the answer is yes.

There is a large envelope waiting for me in the car.

Inside is a smaller envelope which contains a birthday card. The message on the inside is simple. Happy birthday one day late. There is a handmade coupon for one good day. It’s sweet. I never appreciated my birthday coupons before. Now I do.

I pull the papers out of the envelope. There is a yellow sticky note with a message – guaranteed to give me one good day. She’s given me my money back plus interest. Everything I had to give her to settle the lawsuit is mine once again. It’s all there. Every penny plus interest accrued over the past year. She never closed one of our joint accounts. It might have been there all along. It might not have been. Either way it doesn’t matter. It’s there now. My appreciation for the money I inherited has never been so great. It’s no longer just numbers on the page. Someone worked hard for this money and it wasn’t me.

I call her. She’s on her way to the airport. She’s leaving for Brazil.

Please can she not go? I want to talk.

She must go. Did I like my present?

Yes. Please can she not go? She was always going. For once can she just stay when I need her? I need her. I want us to talk.

She’s sorry. Plans can’t be changed. She’ll be back in a few days. We can talk then. She promises.

She’s never going to change, is she? I’ve changed but she hasn’t.

Did she need to change?

Never mind. She’s done a wonderful thing. I truly appreciate it.

We’ll talk when she’s back.

The car takes me from the house to a helicopter. The helicopter takes me from London to Wold Hall. The helicopter will wait until I am ready to return to London. I need to be back for a 6pm appointment with the Latin Pop Star. I have obligations beyond needing to honor my mother’s commitments. These are the people we are now. We’re responsible.

A new day has dawned for the Adairs.

My entrance is purely that. An entrance. I’m certain cameras are taking every moment of my arrival. There are groups of people herded into corralled off areas. I find Israel Ruben. Why do directors always dress like they’re evacuees from a grunge rave?

They need to pay him more if he can’t afford t-shirts without holes.

He pays extra for the holes. He didn’t think I was coming near the place during the filming.

My mother had her heart surgery during the night.

His face drops. My mother was marketing gold for him.

I’m taking her place.

I think he ejaculates in his ratty tan shorts.

This is not a permanent arrangement. My mother will be well sooner than he knows it and she’ll take my place. This is temporary.

Whatever I want I can have.

Yes. That’s exactly what I expect.