Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2015-05-05 04:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO Interview with Roland Flynn

CHAPTER THREE Down the Rabbit Hole

CHAPTER FOUR Strange New World

CHAPTER FIVE The Place between Dusk and Dawn

CHAPTER SIX Four o’clock in the Morning

CHAPTER SEVEN The Morning After

CHAPTER EIGHT Bon Voyage Olga

CHAPTER NINE The Pure Fabulousness of Sigrund Olafsdottir

CHAPTER TEN Renata

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Footballer

CHAPTER TWELVE The Matchmaker

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Actress

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Gigolo Interrupted

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Second Time I am Kidnapped

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Psychiatrist

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Circus Train

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Call me Darcy

CHAPTER NINETEEN Wrangling Cats

CHAPTER TWENTY The Producers

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Wold Hall the Television Show

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO It’s Always a Party at Wold Hall

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Former Fiancée

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Olga

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Parvati

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Dirty Laundry

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Seven

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN:

ISBN-13:

For My Tribe of Writers

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

Prologue

Welcome faithful readers to the heart of the second act.

I am no longer an innocent. I am battle tested. I have learned the lessons of a warrior. I have taken my knocks. I have been brought to my knees only to rise again.

I am stronger, better, harder, more resilient, and more resourceful than I ever would have believed. I’m no coward. I’m a fighter.

The world I enter is juxtaposed to the world I have come from. The streets are the same. The buildings don’t move. The rain still falls from the sky. But it is a different world populated with people that would have previously passed through my perception as shadows.

I see the homeless now. I notice the woman in the utility closet that cleans the toilets after each flush. I tip better in restaurants.

It is here I find who my allies are and uncover the true nature of the beast I must ultimately confront.

CHAPTER TWO

Interview with Roland Flynn

L.E. We’re recording.

R.F. Would you like me to just tell stories? Or are you going to ask me questions? How is this done precisely? Just, for the record, I’m not certain I wholly agree with this. I’m not as firmly set against it as my son in law, but I find that I’m a bit hesitant to participate.

L.E. Because you were a client of Oliver’s?

R.F. Quite frankly, yes. It’s a poor indicator of who I am.

L.E. Who you are today, or who you were then?

R.F. Both. I’m not a man that would hire a prostitute either then or now.

L.E. But you were a client of Oliver’s.

R.F. I was. That doesn’t mean that I want those seven rendezvous – one of which I didn’t pay for and the other of which ended with me taking home Elon forever – to define my relationship with Oliver. My friendship with Oliver was and is so much more than that. We are family.

L.E. But you did pay him for sex.

R.F. I’ve also told a lie or two. It doesn’t make me a liar.

L.E. Does it bother you that Ana knows you were physically intimate with Oliver?

R.F. That ship has sailed hasn’t it?

L.E. Has it?

R.F. Yes. It bothers me. Ana is a grown woman with children of her own, but she is now and will forever be my little girl. I think that in this respect she is truly Elon’s daughter. There is something very Scandinavian about her attitudes regarding sex. I am the boring dad that tends to be quite Victorian about these things. I am not unaware that when she was sixteen she went on birth control and there was a vast conspiracy to keep this from me. I truly appreciated this. And yes, I am also not unaware what she and James were up to when they were supposedly cleaning out the attic at Wold Hall that summer many years ago. I preferred not to know. I liked my daughter thinking I was insufferable and straight laced when it came to sex. I like to live in a fantasy world in which what happens in our bedroom stays there, but I know perfectly well that Elon has never been able to keep his mouth shut about our sex life. So yes, it bothers me. This is not the sort of thing I would have liked my daughter to learn about me. Now – what do you want to know?

L.E. When did you meet Elon?

R.F. The night Ana was born. Would you prefer the sanitized version I was always comfortable with, or the lurid truth?

L.E. What’s the sanitized version?

R.F. Oliver introduced us at a dinner party and it was love at first sight. We were together from that moment forward. On that day not only was she born, but our family was born. We’ve always celebrated Ana’s birthday and the start of our relationship on the same day. It’s a very special family moment. As a rule there is a lot of cake. Much nicer than the lurid truth.

L.E. What’s the lurid truth?

R.F. I fell in love at first sight. It took Elon a while longer to realize I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

L.E. I am curious about one thing. There is no mention in Oliver’s diaries of what happened that night when the two of you returned to the house.

R.F. Probably because neither of us ever told Oliver what happened that night.

L.E. What happened?

R.F. What do you think happened?

L.E. I have no idea.

R.F. And you never will. Some things are private. What happened between us that night is sacred.

CHAPTER THREE

Down the Rabbit Hole

It is an odd thing to be in the back of a silent car after leaving a noisy environment. Sort of like a moving cocoon. It reminds me of my time at university when I would lock myself in my dorm room, lie on the bed and enjoy just listening to the party happening in the world beyond my sanctuary.

Is this an odd thing?

Perhaps in my heart I am not a party animal.

Perhaps I fear being exposed for what I really am; a homebody that likes the quiet and would be perfectly content living a silent life.

Maybe I would have made a good monk.

Maybe it would have bored me to tears after a week of doing nothing but reading books, drinking beer, and meditating.

I’m pretty certain the celibacy thing would do me in.

The taxi driver lays on the horn for so long I have no choice but to pay attention to what is happening in the world beyond the cocoon.

What is the matter?

Traffic.

Obviously. What is happening?

How should he know?

Marvelous.

Roland is being a tremendous sport about Elon attempting to climb into his suit with him.

I glance at the two of them.

I wonder if my presence isn’t a bit intrusive.

I consider offering them the room I had to get that afternoon for the call with the Latin Pop Star.

Elon is a father.

This is surreal.

I knew it was coming, but I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. In fact, I’m certain I won’t believe it until he has the results of the genetic testing done. Then I’ll believe it.

I am surprised Elon believes it.

Were I him, I would have remained skeptical until I had undeniable proof in hand that the child was mine before I played along with Renata. But then again, I paid for a couple of abortions I took on faith were my responsibility. Chances are I paid for some other man’s faulty judgment.

The traffic is not moving.

Elon is kissing a very polite and somewhat abashed looking Roland’s neck.

Get off of him. Swatting at Elon like a humping dog does me no good.

Assuming Elon even remembers this moment, I know him well enough to know the Rolands of this world are not his cup of tea. This irks me. I like Roland. He’s a nice man. He is a good, decent, kind, and generous man. Because Elon is as aggressive as the Ebola virus when he’s drunk means I might lose a client I enjoy seeing.

Elon wrinkles his nose at me. He sticks his tongue out. Just the tip. Roland doesn’t witness this. That’s the point.

Fucking juvenile.

I am not proud to admit we start kicking each other. Not hard. Mostly just our feet nudging.

Roland separates us.

Elon uses the change in positions to back Roland up against the door of the taxi.

I look away before I have to witness what comes next.

Elon and Roland begin necking – yes – they wholly and unashamedly with mouths pressed together and hands fumbling – make out right next to me as if I weren’t even there.

What do I do with this?

What can I do? It’s not like I can get righteous and demand Elon remove his hands from my john.

The taxi moves forward perhaps four feet.

The rain is coming down like a punishment.

I enjoy being in the silent dry interior of the taxi.

I can ignore Elon and Roland and the smacking moaning noises of their hookup as I stare out the window. If we can get Elon home, then I might be able to salvage the evening and my relationship with Roland.

Unfortunately, the taxi isn’t moving.

Elon is mumbling and murmuring the sort of nonsense that is undoubtedly working on Roland.

We edge forward. I hadn’t realized it until we came to yet another stop but we are parked practically in front of the cabaret where the Esthetician is due to perform.

Despite the rain, there is a crowd out front. There is something almost admirable in the pure determination of a smoker to persevere even in the most torrential of rainstorms. It’s this ability to carry on and reach the goal (even if it is just having a smoke) in the face of biblical rains that make the English great. Neither the Luftwaffe nor the risk of cancer will stop a truly determined Englishman from carrying on.

I watch the crowd.

They’re not huddled together to smoke.

They’re spectators.

Fight.

I watch from the confines of the taxi. The perfect place from which to be a spectator. I am protected from the rain and the crowd.

The crowd moves as the combatants circle each other.

The one. A smallish man that has the look of an undernourished bruiser trades places with a very tall woman wearing a lot of feathers.

The Esthetician.

Fuck.

She raises a handbag and starts swinging it like a mace.

Fuck fuck fuck.

What the fuck is my problem?

Elon pulls himself away from Roland for a moment.

I know her.

The flashing police lights coming our way make a lot of sense.

The taxi driver turns slightly.

Looks like the traffic might be clearing up.

I reach for the door handle.

Where the fuck am I going?

That’s my friend. I have to help her.

I look at Elon. He is also my friend and I need to get him home.

I am torn.

Roland looks past me to where the Esthetician is being held back by her arms although her legs alternate kicking at the man who simply has to be That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin. Has to be.

I know her?

I do. I have to help her. If nothing else I have to try.

It’s all good. Roland gives me a nod. He’ll take care of Elon. I can go take care of my friend.

I’m so sorry.

It’s all good. Clearly I’m a good friend. He respects that.

I reach in my coat pocket and pull out my keys. I single out the two keys for Elon’s front door. I give him the security code.

He repeats the number back to me then confirms the address. He’ll get Elon home, stick a bucket next to the bed and a bottle of water on the nightstand.

I am so sorry.

Don’t be. He hasn’t had such an entertaining evening in longer than he can remember. He’ll call me in the morning.

I want to believe this. There is a message in those words. He’ll call me. Don’t call him.

I dive from the warmth and shelter of the car into the rain. I’m immediately nearly run down by a car.

My heart bumps in my chest. I realize I’ve left my messenger bag in the back of the taxi.

I turn and find the taxi has moved farther than I can chase it and it’s still going. This is the moment the traffic decides to ease up.

I have nothing. Not even an umbrella. . The rain washes over me and runs in rivulets into any opening it can find in my clothing. There is nothing I can do about it now. I must make do with what I’ve brought with me.

The circle of spectators forms a ring around the Esthetician and That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

I’ve already realized that the police lights up the street have nothing to do with this altercation, but rather something else entirely.

No one is coming to break up the fight.

There is no cavalry coming to the rescue.

So that leaves me.

Have I somehow been infused with a sense of nobility I didn’t know I had?

Am I really contemplating doing something other than screaming like a little bitch from the side at the two of them to knock it off and knock it off right now?

When did I become the sort of man that breaks up a fight between lovers?

Probably sometime between the moment my father walked in front of a bus and I started working for the Matchmaker. Around then I decided getting involved in other people’s lives on occasion was worth the accompanying squeeze of personal discomfort.

So with a bloody battle cry reminiscent of something I might have heard in a Viking berserker movie, I jump in the middle.

Sure enough I get their attention.

The Esthetician stared at me mouth agape.

That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin is a small wiry man that up close looks a lot stronger than he does from a distance. I know his kind. I have no doubt that even though he’s half-head shorter than me he could easily kick my ass.

So what do I do? Damn fool that I am I tackle That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin before he’s able to take another swipe at my friend.

Never in my life have I tussled on the ground in the rain with someone that obviously has a lot more experience using his fists than I do. Never. I don’t know that anyone would believe me if I told them.

Surprise has worked in my favor. I’ve caught That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin off guard. I’ve given the Esthetician a chance to use elbows, knees, spikey heels, and guts to pull away from the men that were holding her.

I roll on the ground in the filth, the muck, and the discarded cigarette butts as I pummel That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin. When my fist connects with his soft bits it feels good. Really really really good. I have these muscles that I’ve built artificially over the months in the gym. No amount of real work created the bulk in my arms. I didn’t throw bales of hay or plow fields to get the biceps and shoulders I have. But that doesn’t make the strength less real nor the damage they can inflict.

Pummeling the shit out of That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin feels so incredibly good. So good I don’t want to stop even though I have him on the ground. It’s a fairer fight than I first imagined it could be.

My fist crunches cartilage before pulling back to deliver another blow. Before I can bust him again, the Esthetician grabs me by the scruff of the neck and yanks me to my feet whilst planting her foot into That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin’s crotch.

We run.

We break through the crowd and run.

How the hell do these women learn to run in those shoes of theirs? How?

I don’t know and I don’t care.

I run as if I’ve been freed from a prison.

I’ve never felt so alive before in my life.

I’m elated.

I’m ecstatic.

I’ve never felt quite so alive.

My skin tingles and vibrates.

I’ve never brawled before and it felt good.

I think I have a broken finger.

We run through the rain.

When we’re certain no one is chasing us we stop.

I try to figure out where we are.

What the hell was I thinking?!

It takes a moment for me to realize the Esthetician is screaming at me.

What the hell was I thinking?!

She looked like she was in trouble.

Baby (because she always calls me baby) what the fuck was I thinking? Don’t I know I could have gotten hurt? (she examines me) I’m going to have a shiner.

I think my finger is broken.

She looks at my hand.

Fingers don’t bend like that.

Curious. It hardly hurts.

It will in the morning.

She needs to get me to a hospital.

We both look around.

We are both in unexplored and unfamiliar territory.

We are strangers in a strange land.

Where are we?

Baby, I’ve a feeling we’re not in the City anymore.

CHAPTER FOUR

Strange New World

The world around us is somehow darker, dirtier than the one we ran from. The shadows are deeper and longer. The rain is more oppressive. The winds blow harder.

This is the London of the cut-purses and the grave robbers. We are in Jack the Ripper territory.

Somehow the Esthetician gets us a taxi.

This is nothing short of wondrous.

We slip into the back of a car.

The driver is instructed to take us to the nearest hospital.

We have to pay in advance.

I’ve never heard of such a thing.

We have to pay in advance.

She has no cash or credit cards. Her money is locked up with her stuff back at the club.

My messenger bag is in the back of the taxi taking Elon and Roland home. I sincerely hope Roland is the sort of man that has the presence of mind to check the back of the taxi before leaving.

This is why people have to pay in advance.

We have a problem.

Get out.

Would he be willing to take… (What do I have on me – a fountain pen, the key card for the hotel room I had to get earlier in the day, my phone, and my watch) my word I will get the money to him the next morning?

No. He likes my jacket. Looks like good quality.

It’s Tom Ford. It’s excellent quality. Surely worth a trip to hospital. (I remove the Tom Ford suit jacket which is coated in ten kinds of filth from my tussle on the ground and is blown out at the shoulder seem. I pass it through the barrier to the driver. He examines the stitching and the lining. He doesn’t notice the rip in the shoulder – or if he does he doesn’t care.)

He’ll take the jacket.

Marvelous. I’ll be certain to tell Elon his ruined suit jacket paid for my five pound taxi ride.

What about the tie?

Just so we’re clear – in addition to the jacket he wants the tie?

Yes.

Doesn’t that seem a bit bold?

There’s a rip in the jacket. Don’t think he didn’t notice that.

I remove the already loosened blue and silver Burberry London check tie.

The tie is examined. He’ll take that too. Nice belt.

No. I will not give him a Gucci belt for a ride to the hospital.

What else have I got? Nice watch.

No. (I half expect him to leave me shoeless and in my pants if I don’t put a stop to this.)

Do I want a ride to the hospital or not?

The watch was a gift from my father. I will not part with that. He either needs to take us to the hospital with what he has or I want my shit back and we can just walk. Just because we’re desperate, well-dressed, and I’m injured doesn’t mean I’m some kind of fucking chump. The jacket is trash, but the tie is worth a good seventy pounds.

We seem to come to an understanding.

In exchange for my suit jacket, my tie, and what little remains of my dignity, he drives us perhaps a kilometer.

We’re dumped at the curb of the closest A&E. The finest the NHS has to offer.

I cannot be certain, but I believe the man receiving curbside care could be overdosing on heroine. The twitching and the thrashing are subtle yet potent clues.

We slowly back away and enter the harsh fluorescent interior of the hospital.

Clearly everybody who is somebody is at the A&E. Who would have known the place to be on a Thursday night is the hospital?

The Esthetician slips her arm through mine.

If I leave her alone with these people she will hunt me down and kill me.

Ditto.

After being shuffled from person to person I’m made to wait and then wait some more.

There is a divide down the room. On one side are mothers with sick children.

On the other side the rest of us.

We are relegated to the half with the meth addicts, the mouthy drunks, and the damaged. I think, although I can’t be certain, I am in good company with several other prostitutes.

I want to rise to my feet and call them my brothers and sisters.

Is this who I am? I suppose it is.

There is a group of perhaps a dozen women. Hen party. It has to be. There is a woman with a sash that reads Maid of Honor vomiting on her shoes as the Bride (or the woman I assume is the bride as she’s wearing a pink plastic princess tiara with a veil attached) holds her arm and a busted shoe.

One woman, the mother of the bride according to her sash, is too fat and too old to be wearing the stretchy purple dress that covers her body like a sausage casing. On her head is the most astonishing contraption. A headband with two springy wires topped by pink plastic cocks. I’ve never seen such a thing. Bouncing cocks on a headband. What woman with a shred of decency would go around with such a thing on her head?

I must get one for mum. I must. Mum would die. She’d absolutely die.

These women are proof that booze does not make a person better looking. Quite the contrary really.

If I were to take pictures of them, they’d probably be horrified at the results.

So I take pictures. Lots of pictures. I’m practiced at being sneaky. When my battery is charged I’ll send them to mum. She’ll enjoy this.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my reflection.

I don’t recognize who that is, but it’s not me. I’ve become someone else entirely. Probably someone closer to who I would have been if dad hadn’t married mum and she’d gone with plan B which I can only assume was to raise me on her own.

Who would I have been then?

James?

Maybe. Probably. James isn’t just a name carried down on my father’s side.

But I never would have been James. Not in mum’s family.

Jimmy.

Jimmy Wright. Martina Wright’s boy Jimmy.

That’s me. Jimmy Wright. My alter-ego. The me that gets into fights and rolls around on the filthy rain soaked ground trying to get purchase on a smaller and meaner man’s arse.

Jimmy Wright would get into fights.

I look to the Esthetician in her feathers and stage costume. She’s wearing this rather pretty sequined cocktail dress which is far more understated than I would have pegged her for. She’s making a valiant effort to fix her makeup and her hair. All in all, she does look rather lovely despite the run in the rain and the split lip.

I start to laugh.

What’s so funny?

We are funny. Would she ever have imagined this is where her day would have ended?

Not in a thousand years. What was I thinking getting in the middle of that?

I’ve never been in a fight before.

She never would have guessed.

Is that sarcasm?

Noooooooo!

I felt an overwhelming need to rescue her from That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

I am sweet. Not too bright sometimes. But very sweet. Do I know what she did before she was an esthetician?

No idea.

She was a junior capoeira champion.

Cool.

The only person in any real danger was That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

In my best Jimmy Wright from South London accent I tell her that I’m the man and it’s my job to lay the smack down on any comers that want to mess with my biotch.

I’m the man?

I’m the man.

She’s my biotch?

Yes. She’s my biotch.

She laughs so loudly security moves to watch us.

We laugh. We can’t stop laughing.

That’s right. I’m the man and she’s my number one biotch.

Some of the other prostitutes and pimps in the room give us a look. There’s respect in those fleeting glances. Rolling around in the dirt and the grit of the street has provided with cred.

Oliver the fussy pretty boy is dead and may he rest in peace. I’ve turned a corner and I can feel it. I could probably go work for Boris busting knee caps and not feel as if I were lowering myself. If there was a bottom for me to hit, I’ve either brushed against it or at least felt it rising to meet me.

The superiority and aloofness that was so much a part of my core being a year earlier has been replaced by something far more basic and useful. I’m a street fighter in attitude and deed and I’m not afraid to get dirty.

I’m changing. Maybe not for the better or maybe not for the worse. Change doesn’t have to be either good or bad. Sometimes it’s just change. Adaptation to the environment. It’s fucking Darwinian. A year ago I never would have thrown down and gone ghetto on some punk ass dickhead. As I sit in the waiting room surrounded by the addicts, the downtrodden, the pimps, the whores and the desperate, I realize something about myself. Not only do I have the capacity within myself to be like them, I am them.

If the world was to go apocalyptic and we were required to fight to live, I would rise up from the ashes and kick some ass. I wouldn’t be taken down by my preciousness and inability to get my hands dirty. Uncle Harvey might be right after all – I do have the blood of a working class butcher running through my veins and it is not a bad thing.

The Esthetician and I burn time during the wait practicing a sort of shtick. The subculture that populates the A&E in the darkest hours of the night is worthy of the name subculture. We fit in beautifully. I’m Jimmy and she’s Bubbles.

Something sparks a new fire of laughter with the women of the hen party. The cries that rise from them are like sirens.

The woman with the bouncing cocks on her head fascinates me. I want to get near her. Be within that sphere of influence of that bullish woman.

I leave the Esthetician. I go to the women. They’re rowdy and filled with a faux joie de vivre – an exultation at all things that simply has to be exhausting.

I ask the woman with the bouncing cocks on her head where she got them. I adjust my inflection and word choice to match their bawdy boisterous caterwauling.

I’m Jimmy Wright. Martina Wright’s boy.

I tell the truth. My mum would go mad for something like her headband with the dancing cocks. She’s sick. If I can make her laugh I make her laugh.

I’ve accidently made them sad.

This wasn’t my intention. I don’t use mum’s sickness as a tool.

But whether purposeful or not, I have become the focus of their love and devotion.

I’m petted and my hands are held.

I don’t understand this overwhelming show of affection. Somehow I’ve instantly become their son, lover, brother, and cousin.

They are sadder for me than I am for myself.

I simply don’t understand this.

I’m not certain how to extricate myself from these women.

I don’t want to be rude.

But I’m pretty certain I have no way of escaping them without external help.

It’s around two in the morning when a doctor decides to grace us with an appearance and extricates me from the women.

The Esthetician and I entertain ourselves at the expense of the doctor who could probably care less.

I wear the cock headband.

Our clever repartee is fueled by our almost obsessive need to play these roles and get some sort of reaction out of the doctor.

He’s not playing.

My finger is dislocated.

No shit.

The doctor doesn’t even really look at me. I think, but I can’t be certain, that we are beneath his contempt. In fact, I’m certain we are beneath his contempt.

My finger is set with a hard snap. I’m given enough drugs to keep a junkie happy and sent on my way.

Jimmy and Bubbles – no one would believe me so I decide to keep it to myself forever more. This is my joke with the Esthetician.

I have the key for the hotel room that I used earlier in my pocket.

We agree that she’s not going back to That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin. She’s had enough. She takes the key to the hotel with gratitude. I drop her in the taxi. I’m still not certain how I’m going to pay for the ride as I have nothing left but my watch, shirt, trousers, shoes and socks. And the cock headband of course. But that is more precious to me than gold. I won’t part with that.

But I do give it to the Esthetician to hold. I don’t know where the night is going to take me, but I’m fairly certain I don’t want to be carrying around a headband with bouncing cocks.

She doesn’t offer to have me come up to her room. For this I am eternally grateful. I don’t want to cross that line. We are friends in the purest sense of the word. I’ve gone to battle for her and I know she would do the same for me. We are warriors. Not lovers. I know without question or hesitation, she has my back.

Olga may be Mickey to my Rocky but the Esthetician is my Apollo Creed.

Eye of the tiger.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Place between Dusk and Dawn

I’m too wired to go home. Besides. I have no keys to get into the house and there is no guarantee ringing the doorbell would rouse anyone. Uncle Harvey should be home, but his habit of sleeping with earplugs in lest his own snoring wake him is nothing short of legend in the family.

I text Emer and Elizabeth simultaneously.

I need cash and keys. Long story. Battery nearly dead. Help!

Elizabeth texts back.

They’re both working at the club. They’ll sort me out when I get there.

This is good. As I suspected they probably would be, they’re both working at the Platinum Palace. Boris’ “gentleman’s” club. His island of man swine in the middle of London.

Emer and Elizabeth are unique in their willingness to work the club. Mi Young, Olga, and Talitha don’t work the club. I know that Olga started out in the club. Simone occasionally works the club. Mi Young won’t be caught dead in the club.

I have no idea about Talitha. We’ve never really had a chat.

I tell the taxi driver to take me to the Platinum Palace.

At the door one of Boris’ imported thugs pays for the taxi for me.

He makes certain to get a receipt.

I’m let in without having to wait in the line of men behind the ropes.

I’m one of them.

These are my people.

I keep walking until I find what I’m looking for.

I don’t make a habit of going to the club, but when I do I can be certain I’ll find at least a few familiar faces.

Avan, Sasha, Gregory, David, Brian, and Harold – fucking Harold – are sitting in a curved velvet booth. They look like an Armani advertisement.

I would think Boris would refuse to let Harold into his club on principle, but no. Boris doesn’t have beef with Harold. That’s between the Matchmaker and Harold. In fact, although I can’t be certain, I think Harold is doing jobs for Boris on the side. Jobs the Matchmaker probably wouldn’t touch with a ten foot hot poker.

I am welcome at the table without hesitation. This is my band of brothers. We are in the same boat on this voyage of the damned.

Avan makes room for me.

What the fuck happened to me?

I got into a fight.

With a john?

No. Never mind. I don’t have to flag down a waitress. One appears. We don’t have to pay for the booze, but we do have to tip. I’d rather pay for the booze. It would be cheaper.

Bombay gin neat.

Elizabeth brings a bottle of gin.

Bottle service. The hallmark of an elitist den of iniquities.

She sits on my knee and drapes an arm around my shoulders.

She nibbles my ear.

She coos over my injuries.

She whispers filthy sweet nothings.

She holds the glass for me and pours the booze through my lips.

Gin, glorious gin, hits my system and takes the edge off the strain of the night.

Do we fuck?

Yes.

Usually when I come to the club it’s because she’s working.

I’m not going to say there’s a vast conspiracy to keep Olga in the dark about what I get up to behind her back, but to borrow a phrase that is both accurate and succinct, what happens at the club stays at the club.

This has been going on for weeks.

Not months.

I’m not that much of a cad.

There was a golden hour in my relationship with Olga when I didn’t imagine I would need or want more.

Then something happened.

I like to blame it on her meltdown over Saint Patrick’s Day, but I know it was edging up on us before then.

If I really think about it I started to feel antsy around Valentine’s Day.

I refuse to apologize.

I will not be hamstringed by modern dictates of western morality.

I won’t.

Love has never made me a saint. I’m not certain it will ever make me monogamous.

Maybe it might in time.

But I sincerely doubt it.

How did I arrive at this place?

How did I come to the conclusion that I’m fighting against my nature to try to be monogamous?

I’ve decided to be honest with myself.

I lied to my former fiancée about my inability to be monogamous.

Part of me can’t help but to wonder how she would have reacted to the truth.

Instead of being honest with her and myself, I lied. If I had been honest and told her that this was how I was, then perhaps by removing the thrill of deception I might have lost the taste for screwing around.

There is no greater way to take the joy out of doing something forbidden than to make it acceptable.

I’m done pretending I’m capable of monogamy.

Does this make me an asshole?

Probably yes. At least in the minds of many people that assume sex needs to be put into a box. I don’t get them and I don’t expect them to get me.

I’m not saying there won’t come a day when I’m done exploring the world of human sexuality, but for the moment there are no guarantees.

I have lovers. Plural. Elizabeth is on that list.

Olga chooses to ignore this except for when it suits her. Olga is not exactly opposed to mixing it up in our private life.

Elizabeth rises from my knee and takes my undamaged hand.

What happens in the VIP rooms stays in the VIP rooms.

This is where Elizabeth and Emer make their money at the club.

It’s quick and dirty money, but I know perfectly well the two of them make bank when they work the club. If I were an attractive woman in her early twenties, I’d be working the VIP rooms from open to close. That’s where the smart money is.

We walk through the club which is laid out as a sort of maze. It’s easy to get lost in the club.

We meander through the groups of men snorting and grunting like packs of wild beasts as they look but do not touch women they could never get were it not for the money they hand over.

I know these girls. They aim higher, much higher, then the men that land in the Platinum Palace.

These men are being sold an illusion.

It is in the morning when the light of day wakes them from the stupor that they realize what pigs they were.

It is then when they go to cash machines looking to replenish their wallets that they know what a night at the Platinum Palace has cost.

We reach Elizabeth’s VIP room.

A silent peaceful clearing in this forest filled with beasts.

She flips over the sign.

Occupied.

The door closes. There are no locks.

Somewhere on her person is fifty pounds. If I want it, I have to find it.

Considering she’s wearing a skimpy strappy little thing that barely covers her tits and vagina this ought not to be too hard.

But – I can’t use my hands.

This is what I love about Elizabeth. She’s so slutty dirty naughty behind closed doors and yet so prim and delightful in public. Perhaps a bit princessy and a touch precious, but these are not necessarily negatives in my accounting. I have a history with girls that sniff at their food and pout until their demands are met.

If only she had money I’d marry her in a second. She’d make the perfect countess. I could envision myself considering monogamy if I had a wife like Elizabeth.

Elizabeth comes up to me after starting the music.

Before my foray into the flip-side, lap dances weren’t really my thing. Strip clubs weren’t my thing. They just seemed so skeevy and dirty.

Times are a changing! I like to think of all of this as character building.

If nothing else my journey to the dark side has been character building in the extreme. In fact, I have so much character I could star in my own West End show. Elizabeth shaking and shimmying her arse in my face as I use my teeth to remove her already scandalously skimpy garment could be its own show stopping number.

Her body brushes and slithers against mine.

She’s extraordinarily nimble.

And an excellent dancer.

I’ve spent hours at the Platinum Palace. In know the difference between a good dancer and a great dancer.

Elizabeth is one of the best.

I can only imagine the amount of money her parents spent on ballet lessons.

What she’s doing, grinding in all the right places, works.

When I reach with my hands she makes me sit on them.

She snogs my neck as her breasts exert just the right amount of pressure on my shirt.

Her knee hits the money spot.

Her tongue explores the gin lined cavern of my mouth.

Even her hands pressing on my shoulders is somehow erotic.

I would probably ejaculate in my trousers if she continued, but she pulls back.

She leans back just enough so I can get a good look at her.

Do I want the money, or not?

Yes. Please. If that means I can get her out of that red sparkly strappy thing.

No hands.

With my teeth, tongue, nose and a large amount of determination, I get her out of that thing.

Her body is as smooth and unblemished as a dolls. And just as hairless.

There is a shimmer on her skin that I know comes from one of the lotions all of the girls use.

But somehow in that room under that lighting which reason tells me is tailored to be as flattering as it could possibly be she still looks like an otherworldly being. A nymphe or even a goddess.

My quest for the fifty pound note has brought me up short.

There is only one other place I can go potholing.

In my head the voice of Timothy Dalton quietly questions the respectability of a woman that puts a fifty pound note up her vagina (could be KGB) and then there’s another voice in my head that is louder and sounds curiously like Vinnie Jones tells me to oi matey go on or something along those lines.

There is something narcotic about Elizabeth that turns me into the sort of swine I used to look down upon. She is thoroughly distracting. I fear she could unman me if she ever got it into her head to hold on and never let me go.

I dive in.

No hands. Mustn’t forget – no hands.

I have more than five o’clock shadow so it’s this combination of the rough and the smooth that is so very mutually stimulating.

Whether I am the only man in the world or not doesn’t matter. Elizabeth makes me feel as if I am.

My tongue alone is everything that she has ever needed, wanted, or desired. I get why men would pay for this.

I’m not saying that Olga doesn’t make a man feel like a star, but there is a vulnerability to Elizabeth that is intoxicating. She makes you believe that she’s been waiting for you and you alone to come and join her in this sanctuary surrounded by beasts and wolves. You and you alone are the only one that isn’t a pig.

I forget the no hands rule when it becomes boorish.

I grab two handfuls of that beautiful bottom of her and pull her sex to my mouth.

That nimble flexibility of hers works to both our advantage.

She presses her pubic bone forward, tilting just so.

I use my tongue like a quickly swiping brush across her clit.

I probe deeper.

My tongue touches paper.

I’ve found what I was looking for.

I use my fingers to pull it out.

Fifty pounds. I gingerly set it to the side. I’ll be certain to rinse it off before I pay for the taxi home.

I keep using my fingers until she tells me to stop.

She wants more than my fingers.

I know where she keeps the condoms hidden in her VIP room and I grab for one.

She gets my trousers opened and my cock out.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the cushion of the couch.

She sits on me, sliding down over my cock.

My hands rest on her hips as she moves.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Elizabeth either doesn’t notice or has the professional courtesy to ignore it. She’s also working herself up to an orgasm so she probably doesn’t care.

I maneuver my phone out of my pocket.

Olga.

I toss the phone to the side. She has this thing about sending me a text when she gets home to let me know she’s home. She knows I have a client. She won’t expect me to answer. She doesn’t know that Elon has cock blocked me and taken my client and that I’m at the club.

Elizabeth comes with a rattle a shake and a lot pornographic moaning.

My turn. I need this more than I realized. It’s been a long day and a hard one at that. If all had gone as planned at this moment I would be sound asleep in Roland’s Islington Georgian home in his large feather bed and down comforter covered bed. In the morning there would be waffles.

But no. Here I am. In a VIP room in the Platinum Palace shuddering and groaning my way to a thoroughly satisfying orgasm.

Elizabeth slips off of me.

I wonder if I have the strength left in me to get up from the couch, through the club, and into a taxi.

I’m crashing fast and I can feel it.

Will she take me home?

She’ll take me home. All of the big money clients are gone. She’s had a good night. Give her twenty minutes.

Can I wait in the VIP room?

Sure.

CHAPTER SIX

Four o’clock in the Morning

The door opens.

I’m instantly annoyed.

One of Boris’ men tells Elizabeth to take a hike.

The Boss wants to talk to me.

Boris is here? (I don’t bother to tuck in my shirt. He’s lucky I zip my trousers for him.)

Yes.

So much for going home.

Elizabeth skedaddles. I’m not a paying client after all. In fact she’s the one that gave me money. Not that I didn’t enjoy the process of discovering where it was hidden.

I follow the man deeper and deeper into the heart of the club.

For some reason I check my watch. As if time matters in this place.

It’s four o’clock in the morning.

There is something mythical about this time.

It is not midnight that is the deepest and darkest hour of the night.

It’s four o’clock in the morning.

It is wet to dry, light to dark, good to bad.

It is the antithesis to day.

Four o’clock in the morning is when crimes are planned and a ringing phone can only be a harbinger of bad news.

It is now of all times that I am brought before Boris.

We pass through doors that require key card swipes to enter.

We stop at another door guarded by more thugs.

I’m thoroughly padded down. My phone is taken from me.

Finally I am allowed to enter Boris’ office.

The lighting is subdued, the furniture is black leather, and there is a fish tank along one wall. In the corner is a platform with a pole stuck through the center.

A woman is dancing.

Boris is watching.

He glances at me then gestures to one of the chairs.

We watch the woman together.

Nice hair.

Makeup okay.

Her legs are short when compared to the length of her torso.

She has stubble rash on her bikini line.

She finishes with a swing.

She steps down from the platform. Boris tells her to wait where she is.

Boris turns away from her and to a file on his desk.

What do I think?

Her legs are too short and she’s not properly groomed. I don’t like that I can see her weave. She’s a decent dancer. Not the best I’ve seen. Certainly not the worst. (No – I don’t care that she can hear me)

Boris nods as he reads her CV.

Can she suck dick?

The dancer is slightly taken aback.

Can she suck dick?

She just thought the job was dancing.

Boris closes the folder with her CV and offers it to her.

She can suck dick.

He places the file back on his desk.

He flicks a finger and points to the thug at the door.

Him.

Him?

Him.

Okay. Uh…. Where are they supposed to go?

This is a job interview. Not a date.

She doesn’t bolt. I’ll give her that.

The dancer and the thug move to a chair next to the platform.

Boris interrupts before she gets to work.

Dance for him.

Boris turns to me.

What the fuck happened to me?

I got into a fight.

With a john? Don’t get into fights with the tricks. Call him if there’s a problem. He’ll have one of the boys deal with it if needs be.

Not like that. I was defending a woman’s honor. I got a black eye and a dislocated finger for my trouble.

Defending a woman’s honor is a gentlemanly thing to do. Did I get my reward?

Yes. Her eternal friendship.

Friendship, true friendship, is a gift. Never forget that.

I won’t.

What do I think of Avan?

I like him. We’re as close to friends as is possible, given what we do.

For a Jew he seems okay.

Blatant anti-Semitism aside, yes, Avan is okay.

He doesn’t like Jews.

I have no interest in plunging into those vile depths with him.

Do I know Judd Hirsch?

Not personally, no.

Did I ever see the show Taxi?

I can’t say that I have.

It was about all of these taxi drivers in New York. They would sit around and play cards or bullshit. There was this funny little horrible man. Reminds him of his sister’s husband. Very funny. Like a little gorilla. So one episode Judd Hirsch who plays a Jew taxi driver tells somebody that he’s the only taxi driver in the place. But this is why it’s funny. Because they’re all taxi drivers. This is how they make their money. But Judd Hirsch says he’s the only one that’s really a taxi driver because everyone else is something else. Something other than a taxi driver. Do I understand?

I think so.

Avan is the only one of us that fucks for a living. The rest of us are something else. He’s the only taxi driver at the table of taxi drivers. Do I understand?

Yes.

He turns the monitor on his desk to me. I am shown a real-time image of my fellow gigolos sitting at the table drinking and talking.

Avan is a prostitute.

Sasha is an actor.

Gregory is a student.

David is a model.

Brian is dancer.

I am a dilettante.

Thanks.

How else would I describe myself?

Dilettante works. What about Harold?

Harold is a bottom feeder. He likes Harold. He needs more Harold’s. Harold isn’t afraid to get dirty. Tell Harold to go and dig a hole for a body and he only asks how deep. This is the sort of loyalty that he likes. Harold will make himself useful long after he can’t fuck for money.

Does he know I have a lot of the shit that Harold left behind?

Yes. It doesn’t matter. Harold works for him now. Why won’t Avan work for him?

I would guess because he doesn’t need to. Why work for a pimp when you don’t need to? Avan has more clients than he can service in London alone. The fact that he travels a circuit to get to them all speaks volumes. Avan is at the top of the game. Why take on a partner if he needn’t?

Point made. He would very much like Avan to come work for him.

Again – why would Avan do this? He can’t fuck more than he does.

He can do other things.

Such as?

Never mind. Who is Booth Buxton?

Ah – that. I was wondering when that was going to come full circle.

Who is he?

He’s an MI5 agent that’s trying to get me to turn informant.

Good. I don’t lie to him.

No. I don’t lie to him. I like being alive too much.

What have I said to this Booth Buxton?

I’ve told him no. I won’t do it. This is the reason I’ve finally reached an accord with the Singh family. I figure if I get the hell out of town for a couple of years I won’t be of any use to Booth Buxton.

Smart. In line with what he was thinking. He would probably do the same if he were me.

I’m so very pleased we are on the same page.

The next time Booth Buxton approaches me, which he will, I am to tell him yes.

No.

Yes. I am to tell him yes.

I don’t want to be rude. But I also don’t want to be dead. Or incarcerated.

I won’t be. The worst that will happen to me is that I’ll look like an idiot. Or useless. Or even better a useless idiot. I should like this. I’ve been trying to convince people that I’m a useless idiot for years.

What lofty heights I aspire to.

Don’t go to Buxton. Wait for him to come to me. When he does come to me, resist.

Oh I will!

Resist and then make some fairly unreasonable demands.

I can be truly unreasonable when I set my cap to it.

Buxton will make me an offer I can’t refuse.

Are we using gangster lingo? Because if we are I’m in. Perhaps I can offer to play him a tune on my violin?

Boris just stares at me. This silence between the two of us creates an uncomfortable moment when I’m reminded of the dancer blowing the thug over to the side.

I turn slightly to observe.

She seems to be doing an admirable job.

I turn back to Boris.

Anyhow… Unreasonable demands, offer I can’t refuse.

Yes.

Okay. In exchange for doing this, I want a shitload of money. By a shitload I mean minimum a million pounds in small unmarked bills wrapped in pink ribbon in a Louis Vuitton shoe case. I also want him to send someone to fuck up my former fiancé’s father. Maybe make him eat some of that food he serves in his fast food restaurants. Then I would like the Baron to be utterly humiliated in public.

Anything else?

Yeah – I need a vacation. Something private and vulgarly expensive. I’m thinking yacht.

When he meets my unreasonable demands, I’m in.

Okay.

What okay?

Okay. It’s worth it to him to meet my demands. When Booth Buxton contacts me, give the man what he wants.

Fine. What am I supposed to do?

Do what he wants. Answer his questions to the best of my ability. Don’t hold anything back. In fact, feel free to speculate as much as I like.

This is really unbelievable. Do I need to pass messages to him or something?

No. He’s always watching. His yacht is currently in the Mediterranean. It’s at my disposal for two weeks. Anything else?

Can I have a copy of Elizabeth and me fucking? I have no doubt that was caught on camera.

It was. Any particular reason why? Or do I just like to watch myself fucking?

Does he know how athletes like to watch footage of their games to see how they can improve their performance?

Yes.

Same. One more thing.

What?

Give the dancer a job. Not as a dancer. She’s not good enough. But she could serve drinks.

He had the same thought. I can go.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Morning After

I wake slightly disoriented. Not unusual. I’m often unsure of where I am when I wake. It takes less than a moment to realize I’m sleeping in my bedroom. Olga is curled next to me. My finger is hurting like a mother fucker. The previous night comes back to me.

Roland.

The Esthetician.

That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

Boris.

Fuck.

I left Roland at the mercy of Elon. Not any Elon. A drunken Elon.

I left the Esthetician at the hotel.

It is probably very likely That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin is looking for me with an eye on settling the score.

Boris wants me to get into bed with him and it doesn’t look like I have much of a choice.

I don’t know what to do.

Do I call Roland? Send flowers? Beg his forgiveness?

Do I flee the country?

I don’t know what to do.

I go for coffee.

Coffee is always a good way to start the day.

I get dressed. Not even I am exempt from the house rules.

I look in the mirror. I look like I’ve been in a fight. This is not good. This could cost me business. I may look sexy dangerous with a black eye, but I’m not very pretty. Most of my clients like pretty.

Uncle Harvey is in the kitchen.

He hands me a large document box.

What’s this?

He’s not my secretary. If I want to know he recommends I open it.

I open the box.

My prenuptial agreement. All three hundred or so pages of it.

Is there coffee? Or scotch?

There is coffee. Sit. He will give me coffee.

Why do I look like an unmade bed?

Why do I look like I’ve been in a fight?

What the hell happened to my hand?

I’m dressed. What more does he want?

Aren’t I just a little ray of sunshine? He heard a rumor Renata had the baby.

The rumor is correct. Who did he hear from?

Mum who spoke with Aunt Lucy who received a call from Mrs. Gresham who received a call from Sigrund who received what was described to her as a drunken ramble on her voicemail from Elon. As she understands it, Sigrund had no idea she was about to become a grandmother.

I think Elon had planned on not telling anyone in his family.

It would seem that particular cat is out of the bag.

There are muffins arranged in a perfectly balanced pyramid on the counter.

Am I allowed to touch these? (I’ve learned my lesson well over a plate of lemon squares)

No.

I’m handed a plate of rejects.

I can touch those.

Simone enters the kitchen with her camera.

What the hell happened to me? I look like I’ve been in a fight.

She takes a few pictures of me. This is not something new. She likes my nose and my jaw. She likes my abs. There are other things she likes about me, but we tend to keep this on the down low unless Olga is out of town. I love Olga. That doesn’t make me a saint. Love has never made me a saint.

I’ve come to a few conclusions recently.

I loved my former fiancée. I didn’t recognize it as love at the time. Now I get it. I used to think that love came in one form – the consuming and passionate variety. Now I get it. My grandparents had the sort of quiet and solid love we had. I wish I’d recognized the value of it at the time.

I need to stop turning down that dead end. I need to stop regretting. There is no point.

There is some discussion between Uncle Harvey and Simone as I eat the delicious albeit inferior muffins about how the perfect muffins would best be photographed.

This is their thing. More like Uncle Harvey’s thing. The food, the blog, wholly embracing the role of Wright the Butler. Stanislavsky would be proud. The blog might have been a bit much (wrightthebutler.com), but Uncle Harvey was developing a small following.

I can’t recall in my life ever seeing him so happy.

Is there coffee? I was promised coffee.

Yes.

Simone pipes up. Wright should make an espresso. Just like they discussed.

This is a marvelous idea. Simone truly has her finger on the pulse of their little project.

It takes the two of them so long to figure out the best angles for Simone to photograph Uncle Harvey making an espresso that I could have run out and bought an Americano in less time.

That there is some discussion about whether I should have a demitasse or one of the little glass cups that are just perhaps a touch too modern I’m ready to start sucking on coffee beans.

By the time I get my coffee I don’t care that I’ve become part of the pictorial. Now I understand how they do it with dogs in commercials. They deny them sustenance until they happily gobble and gulp whatever is handed to them.

I down the first espresso.

More! Give me more coffee!

After three espressos Simone and Uncle Harvey are pleased with the photos and I have enough caffeine and sugar coursing through my system to make me mellow.

I can finally face the day.

Even Olga.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bon Voyage Olga

Here’s the truth. Since that bullshit over St. Patrick’s Day, things have been tense. Not always. Just moments here and there. Something definitely changed that week I was away from her. Maybe it changed before and it just came to a head then. Telling her I loved her definitely changed the dynamic. There are moments when I feel like I’m the embodiment of a James Morrison song.

Whatever I give her isn’t enough. She constantly wants more. I want to hug her and she wants a kiss. I want to be with to her and she wants me to make love to her like a man just returned from war. I want to talk and she wants to have an in-depth discussion about our relationship.

It’s fucking exhausting.

We both need her to be gone for these upcoming ten days.

Olga is still asleep in the darkened room when I enter.

I take the document box with my prenuptial agreement and hide it in the closet.

I realize something as I edge past her.

We haven’t made love in weeks.

Sure – we’ve had sex with scheduled regularity, but we haven’t been properly intimate. By that I mean just us. Alone. In a bed. Without someone watching. Or participating.

I love Olga. We’ve had a few rough weeks. I’ve been straying more than I probably should be.

Part of me strongly suspects she knows deep down that I’m engaged to Parvati. Maybe I’ve pulled away from her. I hate myself that I’m tempted to just keep our relationship going after I get married. I can’t say for certain she would agree to that, but I don’t wonder that she would consider the possibility.

I love Olga. I don’t want to give her up.

Here’s the dark secret truth. I’m pretty sure Parvati and I are doomed from the start. That’s not to say I won’t give it my best, which I will, but I just don’t see it lasting.

I have a plan.

Maybe it’s not a great plan, but it’s a plan.

I’m going to work for her father.

I’m really going to work.

Not just collect a paycheck.

I’m going to work very hard and earn a reputation to carry me to a new job when everything inevitably goes tits up with Parvati.

I can work for a living. I can.

I won’t go and work for Olga’s father. I don’t care that I’ve sunk to a new depth and find myself capable of behaving in ways which would have been abhorrent to me a year earlier. There are some lines I will not cross.

I might be happy to get in bed with his daughter, but I won’t get in bed with him.

I need to be able to support myself and my family without taking his money.

I hate thinking about all of this. Maybe I’ll start playing the lottery.

Whatever I do I’m going to do it without hesitation. I’m tired of edging up to everything. Time to walk the walk and talk the talk. Time to solve my own problems and stop waiting for the world to decide I’ve been treated unfairly.

Until then, I’m going to fix what’s gone wrong between us.

Part of that is paying attention to our relationship.

I drop my clothes and get into bed with her.

She’s warm, soft, and loves me. What more could I want? Other than financial stability and freedom from the threat of Russian oligarchs that want to bust my thumbs?

Does she still love me?

There’s a bit of mumbling that sounds something like yes.

I love her.

She rolls over into my arms.

I love the smell of her. Maybe it’s that night cream she wears. It smells like violets. It’s probably something vile like crushed calf eyeballs mixed with bird placenta. But it smells lovely.

Her skin is hot. Or maybe I’m just cold.

Her bones are made of gelatin as she slips and slides under me.

We have this position we like.

It’s called the missionary position.

I know. Crazy.

What can I say? After all of the boomchicawawa there is something about the pure intimacy of making love face to face that brings both of us back to that place we need to be in our private life.

This is I love you sex more than I want to rock your world sex.

Not that the occasional world rocking isn’t important. But at this moment we need intimacy.

I kiss her.

I look into her eyes.

I press our foreheads together as I slip and slide in and out of her.

Her legs wrap around me and hook together at the feet behind my back.

I stop moving and just rest inside of her.

I’m going to miss her.

She’s going to miss me more.

It’s not a contest.

If it were she’d win.

I love her.

She loves me more.

She wins.

I kiss her.

We move together.

Olga’s orgasm is a sigh. Long and deep traveling from her toes and out with an exhale.

I dump a worryingly large amount of semen inside of her.

If I wasn’t absolutely assured that she was well protected against pregnancy, I’d be worried we just had ideal baby making sex.

Very worried.

But that could have more to do with Elon and the arrival of baby Ana than anything else.

I roll off of her bring her with me in the duvet. I’m giving her without her having to ask that post-coital cuddling she loves.

Her hand presses against my stomach then reaches for my bandaged hand.

Am I okay?

Fine.

What the hell happened to me?

Her fingers touch my face.

I fell rollerblading.

Rollerblading. Since when do I rollerblade? What really happened?

Okay – I got into a brawl. It was the most awesome thing that has ever happened to me. Fists were flying. I actually used my guns for something other than lifting weights.

Could I please tell her what actually happened?

I ran into a glass door. Just smack boom door. I dislocated my finger.

Could I please be more careful? I’m so clumsy sometimes. I need to call my clients and tell them I look busted up. They’re not going to be happy if I show up looking like I’ve been in a fight.

I’ll call.

Good. I get a kiss on the jaw.

How was my night?

Don’t ask. Hers?

Meh – later.

I love her. I do. I haven’t told her that for a few days.

She loves me too.

We lay silent for a long time.

I can hear the sounds of the others in the house.

We are far away from them even though they are just on the other side of the wall.

I could do this all day long.

I figure something out as I stare at the ceiling covered in a blanket of Olga’s hair.

Sex matters. I forgot that at some point. Or maybe I never properly realized it. Sex for me has always been this thing – I hate to write urge, but that’s really what it is – more than an emotional pull.

Sex is just sex. But it doesn’t always have to be.

Did I ever have this moment with the Swedish Princess? Or were we always so pumped up on the adrenaline of doing something forbidden to stop and truly take a moment to revel in the pure pleasure of the others body?

Did I ever have this moment with my former fiancée? Or did I always feel like I was performing a function?

Valentine’s Day. We had a moment that day and it sticks with me.

Olga pulls away from me and heads into the bathroom.

She returns wearing my robe a moment later.

Am I sure I’m going to be fine without her?

I’ll manage.

She’s never left me on my own for this long.

Somehow I’ll carry on.

She’ll call every day.

Renata had her baby.

This stops her.

When?

I don’t have any details. I ran into Elon when I was out with Roland.

Who is Roland?

The Mild Mannered Marketing Executive.

The one with all the V-neck sweaters and the little wire glasses? Sort of foxy?

That would be him.

I did warn him that I was looking all busted up before I met him, right? Because that’s the sort of thing clients really don’t like.

I have been doing this for nearly six months.

Nearly seven months.

Has it been that long?

Yes.

Time does fly.

Someone named Booth called for me after I left. Said we went to school together. Wants to know if we would like to have cocktails with him sometime soon.

Does he now?

Yes. Very nice. Charming even. Since when am I giving people her number?

I didn’t realize I had.

It’s not a problem. I can give people her number. It makes it easier for her to organize our social life if people call her. She told him she was going to Ibiza for ten days, but that we could all get together after she returned.

Booth Buxton is an ass hole. He tried to rape me when I was a little kid and Elon beat the piss out of him. I have no interest in going out for cocktails with him. Or anything else for that matter.

Well what is she supposed to do if he calls again?

Tell him to fuck off.

Nice. What am I going to do while she’s gone?

Count the hours until she returns.

Really?

No. Not really. I’m going to Wold Hall to meet with Israel Rubin about using the property for his TV show.

Wait. What?

I’m going…

She heard me the first time. Why is she only hearing now about this?

Didn’t I mention it?

No. I did not mention anything about a television show being filmed at Wold Hall. Why didn’t I tell her about this?

I thought I had. It doesn’t really matter. They’re just going to rent the property for some idiotic unscripted television show.

Reality TV?

Yes. I had no idea the industry term was unscripted television. Did she know this?

Yes. She needs to cancel the trip. She needs to go with me.

Why?

Because! It’s TELEVISION!!!

And?

IT’S TELEVISION!!!!

Okay – just so we are totally clear – this is some reality show about servants living in a country manor house in the Edwardian – or was it Victorian – era. It will have nothing to do with us.

But…

No.

But…

No.

BUT!!!!

No. no. no. It has nothing to do with us.

But maybe they could find something for us to do.

No.

But maybe…

No. I’m not going to be on reality TV. If I wanted to be on reality TV I could have probably already gotten an agent and gone down that road. God knows I have enough fucking infamy to do something that loathsome.

But…

No. For certain she’s not going with me to meet the director. Just so we are very clear I am not doing reality TV. Go to Ibiza.

But what about something small?

Fine. I’ll ask about something small. Like a chamber maid.

What?

A chamber maid. The girl that would have to go around and clean out the chamber pots.

Aren’t those the things people would take a shit in?

Yes. Still want to do reality TV?

No.

Good.

CHAPTER NINE

The Pure Fabulousness of Sigrund Olafsdottir

I put Olga and her twenty pieces of luggage into the back of a taxi and kiss her goodbye.

I will miss her.

If she gives me a chance to miss her.

The taxi isn’t even out of sight before I get the first text from her.

Miss you! Do you miss me?

I need a minute to miss her before I can actually miss her.

I’m no fun. She’ll call.

As crazy as she makes me, I love her.

I will miss waking up with her snuggled up next to me.

But I have shit to do that I can only get done when she’s not on my ass.

And yes – I very purposefully did not tell her about the television thing until I knew it was too late for her to do anything about leaving town.

With the Greshams help, great pains have been taken to prepare Wold Hall for the visit of the television people. This cannot get screwed up by Olga and her dreams of fame and glory through the medium of pop culture.

Everything about this weekend is premeditated.

All has been well planned.

I get that with Parvati’s money I will want for nothing. Except of course for my own money. I can’t trust her. I also cannot be enslaved to her generosity. Or lack thereof.

The cloths are being removed from the furniture. The bedrooms are being opened. The house is being aired. The Greshams are getting the place into fighting shape.

I need this television thing to be sorted before Olga has a chance to try to get involved. I love Olga. Part of that is knowing her.

Yes – I am Ricky Ricardo to her Lucille Ball. I know all too well that my darling Olga is going to try to hatch some cockamamie scheme to get in on the action.

I do love her.

Yes I do.

I call the Esthetician at the hotel as I drive to Elon’s.

I love my car.

I love my car.

I love my car.

The best gift I have ever received.

Olga is my darling for giving me her car for Christmas.

I could fill a journal with poetry dedicated to my car.

My beautiful car.

Oh how I love thee.

My car my car my beautiful car.

The Esthetician is fine.

I am fine. Different. Less afraid. Less timid. Ready to fight. Is she fine? Really Fine?

Yes. She’s really fine.

Yes. She went to work.

Yes. She has my headband with the tiny dancing cocks.

Yes. Going to work isn’t a problem.

Yes. She’s staying at the hotel until she can sort something out.

Yes. She’s my biotch and I’m her big daddy.

Yes. I’m the most ghetto badass she knows.

No. She’s not just saying that.

When am I coming by to pick up my headband with the tiny cocks?

I’m going out of town this weekend.

Where am I going?

Home. Wold Hall. Does she want to go?

Am I serious?

Of course I’m serious. Better than staying in the hotel over the weekend.

She’s in.

Be at my place at ten. I’ll text her the address.

She’ll be there.

I don’t have my keys for Elon’s place so I have to ring the bell and wait, in the hope he’s not passed out cold or that the housekeeper has arrived.

I hear sounds coming to the door.

Roland opens the door.

Good to see me.

Elon is suffering loudly.

He’s made coffee.

He has my messenger bag.

Won’t I please come in?

I walk into the house.

Roland returns my keys to me.

My messenger bag is propped against the wall.

We go to the kitchen.

He didn’t feel right leaving Elon in the state he was in so he stayed the night.

I’m given coffee and offered a plate of croissants.

Roland was in the process of squeezing fresh grapefruit juice when I interrupted him. I had no idea Elon owned a juicer.

It was very kind of him to take Elon home.

Not at all. Not a problem. Was I able to help my friend?

More or less.

Would that explain my finger and that rather roguish looking black eye I’m sporting?

Yes.

Rescuing a damsel in distress is hard business.

Is Elon okay? He wasn’t too much trouble?

Not at all. All vomit made it into the toilet.

That’s good.

Elon is an interesting sort of bloke. He couldn’t possibly have been serious when he offered to buy him a car to not leave him alone.

He was probably serious. This is a thing Elon does.

Offers to buy people cars?

Yes. He sometimes doesn’t understand that money doesn’t buy true friendship. I love Elon, but in a lot of ways he’s sort of screwed up.

Tragic. Is he my boyfriend?

I choke on my coffee. No. Not at all. No.

That’s what Elon said. He is hard pressed to believe it.

We are just friends.

Come now. I needn’t be coy. He’s never deluded himself into believing I was actually single.

Right. (We have that business arrangement I’d forgotten about.) Truthfully – Elon is my friend. We’ve been friends since we were children. We might have had more from time to time, but we are better as friends.

Interesting. Anyhow – Elon is in the bath. His mother is arriving. He’s threatening to drown himself.

That’s standard.

Just to be safe, he removed all sharp implements from the bathroom.

Probably not necessary. Sigrund isn’t half as bad as Elon makes her out to be. He’d rather out live her just to spite her.

So she is not a Wagnerian fury with a crown of braids determined to give him nightmares?

Not exactly. But close. Elon’s family tends to be a touch eccentric.

Am I being polite?

Sort of. Does he have a good relationship with his parents?

Yes. He gets along beautifully with his parents.

Is he bullshitting me?

No. He really has a wonderful relationship with his parents. His brothers are his best friends. He adores his sisters.

That’s nice. Elon doesn’t really have that so it might be hard for him to understand.

He gets dysfunctional families. Just because he doesn’t have one doesn’t mean he lives in a cave. Elon made him promise repeatedly not to leave. He’s going to stay mostly out of curiosity. No person can possibly embody all of the traits he claims Sigrund has.

Honestly he doesn’t have to stay. I can take it from here.

Am I kicking him out?

No. Not at all. That isn’t what I meant. I only meant that he’s really done more than he needed to do.

Elon was very emotional the previous night. He told Elon he would stay and he’s going to stay. He’s taken the day off of work. For better or worse, he’s going to see this through.

He took the day off work?

Yes. He took the day off work. Elon was very upset. It felt wrong to leave him.

The sound of stomping and grumbling preluded the arrival of Elon.

Wrapped in a deep blue robe that made his eyes shine with a supernatural glow he smelled a lot better than he looked.

What’s up bitches?

Charming. There is juice and croissant.

Grapefruit?

Yes. His majesty’s wish is his command.

Did he strain it?

Yes.

Croissants from the bakery around the corner to the left and not the right?

Yes. One more ridiculous demand and he will leave.

He said he would stay.

So don’t push it.

As I sit at the counter in the kitchen eating more carbs I’m only going to have to run off, I observe this dynamic. This is chemistry. This is the human equivalent of the purely perfect combination of caramel and salt or chili and chocolate. It shouldn’t work, but it so clearly does. I’m watching magic happen.

The doorbell rings.

I offer to get it.

Sigrund – Viking warrior princess with a little dog in one arm and a cigarette in the other snapped her fingers at the giant man who stood at her elbow. I have in my life never seen a such a tall man. That he wears a deep purple suit turns him into a beacon. There is nothing discreet about him. Yes he moves like a whisper.

He’s a shaman darling. Sigrund tells me this as if this explains everything. The dog somehow ends up in my arms.

She brought him for my mother. He’s a shaman.

Because what woman doesn’t need a shaman?

Don’t be such a bore. If anyone would appreciate a shaman Martina would. She heard I wasn’t being a little prick anymore.

Has she now?

Yes. And good on me. About time I grew up a little. Whatever could I have been thinking trying to make my father’s death about me?

I follow her as she walks through the house. I silently thank god for giving me my mother who is the picture of maternal stability compared to Sigrund.

Where is her darling boy?! She sings out as she heads for the kitchen.

Go away! Go away! Go away!

There’s a fifty-fifty chance Elon will be hiding under the kitchen table. If he is under the table it will take more than croissants and grapefruit juice to lure him out.

Well somebody is in a mood! Is daddy having a bad morning?

The Shaman and I follow Sigrund into the kitchen. Elon is sitting at the counter. Roland is placing cups and saucers in a line.

Marcus? Sigrund smiles at Roland.

Roland.

Oh? Where is this Marcus she keeps hearing about?

Not here.

(I may have my issues with my mother, but I’ll take her any day over Sigrund)

She thought Marcus was the new lover. Who is he?

He is Roland. Not Marcus. Does she want tea or coffee?

Neither. She’ll have a very crisp, very cold Riesling with some crudités ever so slightly dusted with a balsamic vinaigrette. And then do walk the dog and see to her luggage. She’ll be staying.

He is not a servant.

Oh? Really? The hair threw her off. It’s very…. Proletarian. Are he and Elon lovers?

Roland opens the wine fridge and pulls out a green bottle of something white and well chilled.

Elon chuckles, his face buried in his hands.

I wonder if he’s going to serve the wine to her or smash the bottle over her head.

Roland pulls the cork. Yes. They are lovers. Does she have a problem with that?

She casts an appraising eye over Roland.

How old is he?

Forty.

Really? Does he tan a lot?

No.

Does he work outdoors?

No.

Does he work?

Yes. He has a very good job in fact. Actually quite an excellent job in marketing.

Marketing? Sounds dull. Well never mind. She’s brought a Shaman.

I put the dog down. It starts barking at Elon. Elon nearly kicks it out of the room. Roland intervenes and removes the dog before it becomes a living football.

The Shaman stands to the side. Like a pillar. A giant purple pillar.

He looks at me with these eyes that are black on black. His pupils are indistinguishable from the irises.

He sort of freaks me out a little.

Where is her granddaughter?

No. nononononononononono times a million no. Not a granddaughter. A problem that needs to be managed.

Nonsense! Where is her granddaughter? She bought her a pony and she’s having her chart done. Only Renata couldn’t hold out just long enough to guarantee that her Virgo son wouldn’t have an Aries daughter. But never mind about that. What’s done is done. Any chance it’s not too late to change her name? It’s just that she’s already had her numbers done and she could have a more auspicious name. Preferably something with seven letters. Like Matilda. Or – here’s a fun thought – Sigrund! Little Sigrund and Big Sigrund. How fun would that be? Oh she couldn’t be happier. Her gay son has just made her so proud. How fun is it to have a gay son with a baby? It’s just so now. What are his thoughts on getting a family portrait done? She can’t promise anything but maybe, just maybe, she might have some pull with Anne Geddes people.

Elon begins slamming his head into the counter.

So? Where is her granddaughter?

I nearly back into the Shaman. I’d forgotten he was there. It’s like he disappears into the background.

A small scream bubbles out of me.

The Shaman is unmoved. Only his eyes seem capable of motion.

This dude freaks me out.

He watches me.

I don’t want to know what he sees.

So? Are we all going to the hospital? Or is she going by herself to… (she pulls a paper out of her handbag and names the hospital and room Renata is convalescing).

We’re all going. (Roland seems to be the one making the decisions.)

Elon objects.

Roland clears his throat. Can they speak privately for a moment?

The two leave the room.

I’m totally captivated by this unfolding family drama. For once it’s not about me and my family.

The two return to the room.

We’re all going to the hospital.

CHAPTER TEN

Renata

In a private hospital in the center of London where the babies of the wealthy and the famous are born, Renata is making her presence known.

I haven’t spoken to Renata since her little sting operation went bust. I’m wholly taken by surprise when I walk into the room and the Sheik is sitting in a chair looking bored.

It turns out his name is Miguel and he’s Renata’s boyfriend. It really does take all kinds.

He hides behind a magazine.

The new and improved Oliver that refuses to ignore uncomfortable situations in the name of being polite refuses to participate. I sit next to him.

So. How’s the oil business treating him?

He looks sufficiently humbled. He also looks stoned. The bloodshot eyes and the twitching are pretty obvious. I’m going to have to tell Elon about this. Just not at this moment. He might not want Ana, but with a mother like Renata and her junkie boyfriend for decency sake if nothing else he will have to do something.

Did he really think I would believe he was a fucking sheik?

He looks around as if he’s wishing a vortex might open and swallow him whole. He’s edgy and nervous. More than he should be despite the fact he’s coming face to face with me.

So what’s the deal? Why is he dating Renata? Is he banking on a big payout? Does he actually care for her? I get it – I dated her for nearly four years. There is something about all that crazy that is kind of intoxicating.

He finally looks at me. He knows all about me. About how I treated her. About how Elon treated her. We owe her for all the pain we’ve caused her.

Ah that’s it. Okay. When he figures it out, give me a call. I have an excellent psychiatrist I can recommend. Just so we’re clear, if my finger weren’t already busted up from taking on a different ass wipe, I’d take him outside and kick his ass just because I probably can. Just because I play posh professionally, doesn’t mean I can’t toe the line. If he ever tries to fuck with me again, I’ll find him. I’m going to give him a pass this time just because in truth I feel really fucking sorry for him.

He gets up and leaves after mumbling something to Renata.

Poor idiot.

Roland sits next to me in Miguel’s abandoned chair.

Does he want to tell me what happened after we parted ways?

Have I ever been ruinously drunk and emotionally distraught?

Yes.

That times about a hundred.

Say no more.

He wasn’t going to.

Two people, each carrying a slim sleek Halliburton silver case, enter the room.

Renata starts squawking.

Elon is firm.

Renata insists the hospital has already done all of the testing that needs to be done.

Elon could give five flying fucking fucks. It’s done his way or no way. Besides – this is out of his hands and in the hands of the family lawyers.

Sigrund – who is holding baby Ana like an undetonated bomb – confirms in only the way Sigrund could – No Ticky No Washy.

Renata refuses.

I silently wonder if she hasn’t somehow gotten to someone in the lab to make absolutely certain the test results come back the way she wants.

Sigrund is her usual relentless self. Renata doesn’t really think they’re going to just hand over the kind of money and support she is asking for on blind trust? It would be just like her to game the results. Be serious. This isn’t their first rodeo.

Renata agrees after a few lame protests.

Two separate sets of swabs are taken.

I am asked to show identification, which I do, and the interior of my cheek is swabbed. I say a small prayer to whomever the fuck might be looking out for me that there isn’t some ironical twist of fate zooming towards me.

Roland observes the process. At long last he leans over and speaks quietly to me. These people are far more interesting than his family could ever hope to be. Are they normally like this?

Yes.

The pair of people with their attaché cases get signatures from both Elon and Renata on long strips of security tape. The tape is wrapped around the cases sealing them for security before they depart. I wonder how much that is going to cost.

I have to go. I don’t say that I have a client. Before walking out the door, I stop and look at the kid.

I don’t need to see the results which will be produced at undoubtedly extraordinary expense from not one but two independent labs to know the truth. I can see it in the mouth and the eyes. Ana is Elon’s. Poor kid.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Footballer

I don’t know what to make of the Footballer. I’ve never been able to pin him down. Most of my other clients I get. I know why they want my services. This one I don’t get. He is enigmatic.

Or – here’s a thought – maybe he’s just as shallow and two dimensional as all of those magazine covers he’s on and, in truth, what he wants from me is a really good blow every couple of weeks.

I just can’t figure him out and that very well could be because there is nothing to figure out.

Like so many of my male clients, he has a wife.

The Baron

The Actor

The Sheik (the real one – not Renata’s boyfriend)

There are more, but those are the three I see most regularly. I know what they want from me. It’s different for each of them, but in the end I know what they want. The Footballer constantly leaves me befuddled.

What I give him is a blow. That’s generally it. I think he wants more, but he hasn’t given me any indication of what that might be.

As I enter the building, my phone rings in my pocket.

The Matchmaker.

Did I fall rollerblading, walk into a glass wall, or get into a fistfight?

Fistfight.

She doesn’t believe me.

Walked into a glass wall.

Charming. Remind her to sign me up for ballet lessons. How battered am I looking?

I was described as roguish earlier in the day.

Not good.

Give me a golden hoop earring and a parakeet and I’d make a very dangerous pirate.

Not good at all.

My finger is also wrapped up.

Who do I have on deck?

Are we using pirate lingo?

No. That would be baseball lingo anyhow. What clients do I have over the next few days?

I’m on my way to meet the Footballer.

What else?

The Actress and I will be getting hammered in the evening. Which ought to be interesting. Considering the known benefits of combining pain medication and booze, I ought to be in rare form.

She needs a fucking intervention not a cock.

Leave her alone. I like her. She’s lonely. It sucks to be lonely.

Am I lonely?

Aren’t we all?

Point made. What else?

Avan and I have the Doctor on Wednesday.

Did I talk to Avan about coming to work for her?

I mentioned it. He’s not interested.

Damn. Work on him. Sell the job to him.

I will talk to him. Really. I will. I like Avan. After the Doctor, I’m hooking up with Parvati.

Why?

We’re going to try dating.

Sounds… (she goes silent)

Exactly. There are no words. I don’t know. Maybe we might have a real spark. Weirder things have happened.

Weirder things have happened. What do I have coming up over the following weekend?

I’ve left the weekend clear so I can go to Wold Hall. I need to get shit together for my cousin’s wedding. I have the television people coming to check the place out.

The Footballer starts walking in step with me.

He’s on his phone.

This is all cool.

We’re buds.

We reach the elevator as it opens for us.

My attention returns to the Matchmaker. Was there something specific?

There was.

What? Maybe I can still do it.

Actually she needs to see me.

I’m always up for that. I can be over in two hours.

Not that.

Pity.

We could fit in some of that.

Two hours.

Honestly – don’t I get enough?

Not of her.

Two hours.

I turn off my phone just as the Footballer puts his phone in a pocket and the elevator doors open.

Who was I talking to?

My mother.

Bollocks. (One of his two favorite words. Cool and bollocks.)

No. Really. My mother. (I’m lying – Only an idiot would believe I’m not lying.)

Cool. (What more does one need when one is rich, famous, and good-looking?) What happened to me?

I got into a fight.

That’s not cool.

(I have moments in which I question whether or not the Footballer is literate. This is not me being a shit or a fucking snob. I really wonder. I know he left school young to play football. Before he was eighteen he was a multi-millionaire living in Italy and playing football professionally. I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t a bit like the Latin Pop Star in many ways. But then he has these almost bizarre insights into man that leave me scratching my head).

He thought I was a gentleman. He thought gentlemen didn’t do things like get into fights.

I walked into a glass door. I just don’t want anyone to know how clumsy I am.

This makes the Footballer laugh. I walked into a glass door?

I walked into a glass door.

Cool. That had to be funny. Why tell people I was fighting?

It’s far too embarrassing to admit I walked into a glass door. I’ve taken to telling people I got into a fight. It makes me feel dangerous.

Fighting isn’t cool. An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind. Buddha said that.

I think it might have been Gandhi.

No. He’s pretty sure it was Buddha. Fighting isn’t cool. He grew up around people that used their fists to find answers. It’s not good to be like that. Hurting people.

We arrive at our destination.

It’s actually a flat. I think, but I can’t be certain, that it is technically the nanny’s flat. Whatever its purpose, it’s put to use often enough. There is a full set of weights and cardio machines in one of the bedrooms. I don’t know if it’s a fantasy or if it’s just a thing with him that he likes to work out for a while then I blow him. I think we might be roleplaying , but I can never figure anything out with him.

I don’t think anyone is currently living there. The Footballer’s wife and their brood of children are in Los Angeles. She has a clothing line (maybe it’s sunglasses or handbags – who knows and who cares) that she’s trying desperately to promote.

I once heard someone say that eventually they (by that I assume marginal celebrities) all go to Los Angeles. I get that. The Footballer’s wife is gone with the platoon of nannies, maids, personal assistants, stylists, hairdressers, and on and on and on, that she requires to function.

I don’t get what the deal is with the Footballer. I don’t think he’s gay. I don’t think he’s particularly straight either. Perhaps he’s like me. Rather indifferent either way.

I know that he used to be Elizabeth’s client.

Then the wife started to kick off.

Now he’s my client.

I’m much more acceptable.

She’d rather have her husband with a man she knows he’ll never leave her for, than just the sort of pretty English Rose she was when she snagged him away from his first wife.

We go to the weight room.

What does he want to do? (With him I always ask – always. If he wants to work out first, I might have to protest. I think working out with him is great. I’ve learned things. My abs have never looked so good. Between the Footballer and Olga I’m ready for my Men’s Health photo-shoot. But I am just not into it at that moment. I’d rather just get to the blow job and get going on my way.)

He wants to rub oil all over our bodies and wrestle.

Seriously?

No. He’s just messing. But if he wasn’t messing what would I think about rubbing oil all over our bodies and wrestling?

Can he just be careful with my finger?

Sure.

Okay – let’s do it.

He has the oil ready.

I strip down to my skin as he does.

He takes the first of several bottles of oil and squirts a Z across my torso.

Is he Zorro?

Who?

Never mind.

He squirts more oil down my body, over my legs.

I turn around when he twirls a finger at me.

More oil on my back, ass, thighs and calves.

The oil begins to puddle on the mat around my feet.

His body presses against mine from behind.

His hands run like lightening over my skin.

His fingers leave streaks through the oil.

He grabs my cock as his slips between by thighs.

I’m so incredibly turned on I fear I might not be able to perform properly.

His knee nudges my legs apart.

It’s too soon for me to remind him gently yet firmly that he needs to use a condom.

He kicks my shin out from under me and he has me pinned.

Sucker.

Is that how it’s going to be?

Yes.

I’m no wrestler, but I’m scrappy.

I try to get a hold of him, but I can’t.

We both know who the professional athlete is and it’s not me.

More oil is squeezed on me and the matt.

We slither and slip over and around each other.

I’m covered in a slick of oil. I feel sexy dirty.

He lets me pin him.

I know he lets me pin him, because there is no way I could have pinned him if he hadn’t let me.

I pour more oil on him.

I massage it into his ass cheeks, squeezing, pushing, pulling, and separating.

He’s never let me penetrate him before, but I think this is what he wants.

I also think he doesn’t want to ask for it.

So I tell him that I’m going to fuck him and that I’m going to fuck him good.

This is the moment for him to protest.

He doesn’t. He opens his legs granting me access. I think he’s mumbles something about it being cool.

I’m going to make it good.

I stay away from his hole.

At least to start.

I start with the familiar.

I go for the dick.

Stroking, pulling, fondling.

I use the thumb of my free hand on his anus.

He twitches and jumps.

Cool?

Cool.

My fingernails lightly scratch his scrotum as my thumb presses, taps, then presses.

I know he’s ready when his back is curved like a cats in a long stretch and he pushes his ass up into the air.

I find my place behind him. I get the lube and the condoms already at the ready.

He’s tight as a virgin. This is what I’m pretty sure he is. An ass virgin. Is there such a thing? I suppose there is.

As promised, I give him my best. One hand on his cock. The other fluttering over his body.

He’s trembling, neck long, body stretched. A pure and animalistic sound comes out of him when he ejaculates in my hand.

I should probably let him go but I don’t.

I’m going to give him the full experience.

I hold him by the hips and fuck him. If he wants to know what man on man sex really is like then he’s going to know. No more slap and tickle. No more mostly innocent blow jobs. No more dodging around the real truth of it.

I give him porn.

When I’m finished with him I pull out and leave him flat on his back on the matt.

I step over him and go looking for a towel.

When I return I toss a second towel on him.

So? How is he?

That was fun.

I agree. That was fun.

Different. He’s never done that before.

I sort of figured. Was it okay?

It was okay. He’s glad he gave it a go. Can I do him a favor?

Sure. If I can.

Any way I could sort it so he had a little time with Elizabeth? Without his wife finding out? Or the paparazzi?

I can do that.

Not that he doesn’t like me, he just likes Elizabeth too. (He’s straight. I’m sure he’s straight. He’s open minded and a bit curious, but he’s straight. I’m not his cup of tea. I’m what his wife has approved of to deal with that itch he needs to have scratched when she’s off in Los Angeles.)

Everyone likes Elizabeth.

She reminds him of this girl he knew when he was in middle school.

I think Elizabeth reminds every man of a girl he knew back in middle school. What are his thoughts on the countryside?

Not a fan.

I have a cottage on my property. Quiet. Private. Cozy. Charming.

Cool.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Matchmaker

I lay on my back arms spread wide across the bed as the Matchmaker leans over me and the Party-Planner rams a dildo up her ass.

We’ve done a dance of positions that started with me sitting off to the side and watching as the Matchmaker used a slim vibrator on the Party Planner.

I’ll admit when I arrived I wasn’t as into it as I could have been.

But then watching the Matchmaker wield that vibrator like a magic wand in the Party Planner’s flame red crotch flipped a switch inside of me.

Things were different this time.

Normally the Party Planner doesn’t let me touch her much. This time I not only got to touch her, there was penetration.

The Matchmaker and I change places. She becomes the spectator and I get to hold the vibrator.

But I don’t get the vibrator. The matchmaker takes the vibrator and gives me a condom.

I’m nervous. I’m really honestly genuinely nervous. I want to do well. I want to fuck the Party Planner so well that she’ll just have this moment when she says oh yes – men are awesome!

Every man has to dream this.

Right?

Or am I just crazy?

What is it about men and lesbians? I get that no man is ever going to fuck a woman straight.

I get that.

Just as (despite what Renata may believe) no woman is ever going to fuck a man straight.

What it is with me and the Party Planner? Maybe I just want to do such a good job that she gives me an approving nod. A – well you have a penis but you’re still good in the sack – nod of approval.

I digress. And not only do I digress, I’m edging into crazy ramble territory.

With the Party Planner bent over at the waist, her forearms resting on the bed, I am given a thumbs up.

The Matchmaker uses the vibrator on herself. I can’t take my eyes off of this little display.

She’s sitting in the chair I warmed for her, legs open wide, the vibrator just resting on her button of a clit.

Sexy sexy my god that woman is sexy.

I stop paying attention and I nearly cum.

Must keep focus.

We change positions.

I think they must draw diagrams to work it all out or maybe there’s a website I’ve missed. Crazy Sex Positions for Two Women and a Man.

It’s hard to say, but I think the two of them discuss in detail before I come over what it is they’re going to do with me.

Short of hanging off of the chandelier, we try it all.

We end up with me on my back and the Matchmaker on top of me.

When she’d done with me I’m not exactly done.

This is the afternoon’s highlight.

The Party Planner – yes she who doesn’t seem to like me very much – replaces the Matchmaker and rides me until I’m spent.

And really spent. Like I need a nap and maybe a nice bath spent.

I’ll admit I’m happy I don’t have any more clients booked that afternoon. I need a rest. Between the Matchmaker and the Footballer I am pretty well exhausted. I need to be ready for the Actress that evening.

Those women wear me out.

They are like a couple of sticks of dynamite.

The Party Planner slips into a robe and leaves the bedroom.

I lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling.

Do I have to get up?

No.

The Matchmaker goes to her vanity table and sits at the mirror.

What really happened?

I got into a fight. That’s really what happened.

With who?

The Esthetician’s boyfriend.

That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin?

Yes.

Did I beat the shit out of him?

Yes.

Good. Watch my back. He’s a mean little son of a bitch and she’s a friend.

We all care about her.

That we do.

She knows I had a chat with Boris.

Oh?

Her brother needs to stay out of her business. What did we discuss?

If I tell her that I’m more afraid of him than I am of her would she respect that?

Yes. She runs a legitimate business. More or less. She needs him to stay out of it.

We didn’t discuss her business. We did talk about Avan.

She doesn’t want to know. She’d rather live in a world in which she believes I’ve never lied to her.

I have no response to this. I don’t know definitively if I’ve ever lied to her, so I can’t really comment.

Have I had any more problems with the Baron?

I always have problems with the Baron.

This is what she wanted to talk to me about. In person. Best not to discuss the Baron over the phone.

Because he has the phones tapped?

Do I remember that business with the newspapers tapping the phones?

Yes. Point taken.

Boris wants her to tell the Baron that she’s rehired Harold. She is to replace me with Harold just with the Baron.

Do it. Please. (Boris is the man!!!)

Is this something she wants to know about?

I asked Boris to do me a favor.

She doesn’t want to know anything else. Next time I need a favor, come to her. This time she’ll agree to this. Never again.

I don’t want to cause her any trouble.

This isn’t any trouble. The Baron prefers Harold.

Really? (this is a bit of a surprise – I was convinced everyone adored me compared to Harold)

Yes, really. Harold and I are very different men. Harold is more to the taste of someone like the Baron.

What about her? Does she like me or Harold better?

She smiles elusively. Such a coquette!!

Well?

She likes me better of course.

Of course she does.

Since she’s doing me a favor, I could do her a favor.

Anything.

I’m going to Wold Hall?

Yes.

Could she and the Party Planner join me?

They can. Any particular reason why? Or just some fresh country air?

Her daughter is getting married. She’s looking at venues.

Congratulations. My home is her home. I’m leaving in the morning at 10:00.

I can go with her. She’ll pick me up. We can drive together.

I can’t. I’m bringing Elizabeth and the Esthetician. Unless she drives a minivan we won’t all fit.

Why am I bringing Elizabeth and the Esthetician?

The Esthetician is my new BFF and The Footballer wants to see Elizabeth on the down low. I’ve arranged a secret rendezvous.

Big sigh. I didn’t.

I did.

I shouldn’t have.

Why not?

His wife might find out.

She’s a big girl.

She’s a tiny, anorexic, vicious little bitch, with the instincts of a cobra and the bite of a crocodile. The Footballer almost left her for Elizabeth. It very nearly got ugly.

Oh.

Fortunately the Footballer and Elizabeth combined have the brain power of a rather slow eight year old boy that’s easily distracted. She and the Footballer’s wife came to an agreement.

What is the plan?

He’s going to meet us at Wold Hall. I have a cottage on the property. Very private.

This might not go tits up. But we all must know this is a one off thing.

I think he was planning on coming by helicopter. He’ll be in and out – no pun intended – in about a four hour window.

We’re all going together.

Be at my place at ten. We are wheels to the pavement by 10:30 at the latest.

She’ll be there.

Can I take a nap?

I can take a nap.

She rises from her vanity and comes to me. She sits on the bed facing me.

Her fingers brush my cheek. Sleep. She’ll wake me in a few hours.

She leans over and kisses me.

I fall asleep in her cloud of a bed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Actress

The Actress’ houseboy lets me in.

He gives me the envelope of cash for a night of my services.

Her son was by earlier.

Fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.

He couldn’t have put it any better.

Booze? Pills? What?

He thinks just booze. When her son was over he went through her room looking for pills.

How bad is she?

She’s just started, but she’s in for a night of it.

Get the car.

What?

Get the car. We’re going out.

Huh?

Get the car. We’re going out. Quickly. Please. We need to do something. We need to… I don’t know. Do something. Maybe if we get her out we can… I don’t know. We just can’t let her get hammered in her room.

He’ll get the car.

I go up the steps. I pull my phone out of my pocket. I call the Doctor.

Am I disturbing him?

Not at all. Not at all. He was just settling in for the night with a brandy and a bit of Dickens.

What are his thoughts on going out on the town? Showing a delightful lady the time of her life.

He could be tempted.

I slip into the guest toilet and give him the full story.

He’s on the case. He has a few favors he can call in. He’ll call me and tell me where to meet him.

I owe him.

Nonsense. One hour.

I slip out of the toilet and go to the room.

She’s not bad. She’s been drinking, but she’s still on her feet. I can only assume she’s been waiting for me.

Her hair and makeup are done and she’s in a leopard print negligee. I don’t understand how this beautiful woman can be so painfully lonely and so desperately needy.

We’re going out. (I go right to the heart and I don’t give her a moment to object.)

We’re what?

We’re going out. (I go to the walk in closet that is lined with dresses, shoes, and handbags)

What am I talking about?

My friend the Doctor doesn’t believe me that I know her. He is her biggest fan. Her absolute biggest fan. She has no bigger or more devoted fan. He bet me five thousand pounds that I couldn’t convince her to have one cocktail with him. We are going out and we are going to have a marvelous time having a good laugh at a bit of a pompous arse. Is she game or no?

She’s in! Oh how fun! How did I know she simply was scratching at the door to get out.

I pull out a shimmering gold dress that looks expensive.

Yes?

I’m shooed out of the dressing room. I’m ordered to go downstairs and wait.

I do as I’m told. The call comes from the doctor as I wait.

We are to go to the Club. Everything has been arranged for.

The Club?

Yes. Everything is arranged for. I am not to arrive before half past the hour. This is very important. Not before half past the hour.

Got it. Half past the hour. I don’t know if I can stall her.

She’s a woman. Question her shoe choice if needs be. That ought to buy me at least twenty minutes.

Isn’t that a bit patronizing towards women? Assuming that questioning her shoe choice will send her scurrying up the steps?

Tosh. Don’t be such a politically correct fuddy duddy.

Did he just call me a fuddy duddy?

Not until half past the hour. He must dash.

Time is not a worry. In fact, I reach a point at which I begin to worry we won’t make it for half-past the hour.

I am suitably and wholly impressed when she makes her appearance.

This woman that floats (yes – she floats) down the stairs is the woman that my father undoubtedly would have been deeply in love with when he was a fourteen year old boy. This is the Queen of England, the Empress of Russia, and the Bond Girl.

She’s wearing red. She’s done something with her hair. She’s wearing diamonds. Lots of diamonds. She looks stunning. Yes – stunning. My heart does a jump. I think I fall in love just a little.

I offer her my arm.

The car is out front.

I take her to the club. We are fashionably late.

I don’t know how The Doctor did it, but as I help the Actress from the car one of those parasitic paparazzi complete with camera attachment snaps us. He asks us if we’ll give him a good shot.

This is the Actress’ call.

She’s all in.

The parasite takes a dozen pictures. He has the nerve to thank us.

The Actress is gracious and polite. She even signs an autograph for him. It’s hard not to notice the other people that are stopping on the street taking pictures with phones and cameras.

Before we disappear into the club, she turns, waves, and blows a kiss.

The doorman bows slightly doffing his cap.

We enter into this wood lined, leather upholstered, and velvet draped world of men.

Ladies aren’t forbidden from entering through the doors into the main club, but it is only rarely and by special invitation.

The Doctor wasn’t lying when he said he had a few favors he could call in.

I don’t know how he did it.

I really don’t.

I imagine more than half the men present were already in place for their usual Friday night of dinner, cocktails, cards, and amusements, but the room was full.

As she enters, the men rise (for they are gentlemen regardless), and they begin to applaud.

The Actress is touched. So deeply touched. I’m a very naughty boy for doing such a lovely thing and not giving her any warning.

The Doctor, who is on the board of the club, comes to greet her.

He takes her off my arm.

He does so hope that she doesn’t mind terribly that they wanted to surprise her with a tribute as her birthday so rapidly approaches.

How does the evening go?

Perfectly.

My grandfather’s friend Lionel is present.

Rumor has it the Doctor plans on putting me up for membership in their little club.

Oh joy. Just what a long for – more getting stoned out of my mind on absinthe and whatever the hell else they had in that smoke during that bacchanalia in Ireland over Saint Patrick’s Day.

How am I friends with the Actress?

We’re lovers.

He thought the Doctor and I…

I give him my best I’m a bad bad bad boy and I like it that way grin.

This pleases him well. I get a cuff on the shoulder and a hearty hohoho out of the man.

He has no doubt I really am my grandfather’s grandson. Why back in the day my grandfather was a right terror. A right terror!

(Is it wrong I actually want to know this? I find this intriguing. I’m fascinated. To know my grandfather as I did is to believe he never did anything more outrageous than keep a gay lover on the side.)

Oh yes! Old Jamie…

Jamie?

Jamie – everyone called my grandfather Jamie.

They did not.

They did.

Lionel gestures for the Doctor who joins us.

He knew my grandfather?

Not well, but yes. They ran in the same circles.

What did people call him?

Jamie. For certain.

That is totally unbelievable. My grandfather was never fun or interesting enough to be called anything other than sir.

The Doctor reminds me of a simple truth younger people tend to forget – we weren’t born old. I should keep in mind my grandfather wasn’t exactly a spring chick when he married my grandmother.

True enough.

Lionel snaps his fingers and I can practically see the light bulb over his head. If I’m around tomorrow, I’m welcome to come by his house. He has some things of my grandfather’s I might enjoy having.

I’m going to Wold Hall in the morning. (This is when I wonder if it’s the booze or the moment that has me.) But he’s welcome to come. Both of them are. The more the merrier. It’s all a bit spontaneous, but it should be fun. I have television people coming to the place to give it a look. They wouldn’t believe how much those morons are willing to pay to use the place. Granddad had the right idea with that. I figure if I have to open the place up for them, might as well turn it into a party.

I am definitely my grandfather’s grandson.

The Doctor would be delighted, as would Lionel.

Do either of them own a car?

Yes and yes.

A large car that can accommodate many passengers and their luggage?

Yes and yes.

Good. Because our numbers are increasing. If one of them could pick up the other and be at my place for around ten that would be ideal.

All is agreed upon. God help me, I might actually join their little club in the end. I like their company that much.

The denouement is when the Actress is pressed and prodded into performing as one of the men plays piano. She sings a set of songs and does a double encore.

After a thousand cheek kisses, practically the same number of photographs, and many promises to return, we depart.

In the silence of the back of the car she tells me that I’m very naughty. The Doctor is a delight. She simply cannot wait to see him again.

Good. Wonderful. I was hoping they would become friends.

The Doctor mentioned he was traveling to the country with me in the morning. To my estate.

He is. Would she like to join us? I should warn her that there will be television people there. She might not want to bother with that sort of attention.

Television people? What kind of television people?

Producers. They want to use Wold Hall to film a television show.

Television – curious. Do I know what the premise is?

I tell her what I know.

She’d be delighted to go. She’ll arrange to have the Doctor fetch her in the morning.

Is she sure?

Absolutely. If anyone knows television people and how they operate, she does. Consider it a thank you for this lovely evening.

I’m thrilled to have her.

When we arrive at her house, I assume I’m coming in.

She blows me off. She needs her beauty sleep and to pack. I owe her one.

Just don’t forget to keep my bedroom door unlocked when we’re at my estate. She’ll collect then.

It will be my pleasure.

And doesn’t she know it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gigolo Interrupted

I’m up at seven. I am determined to get out of the house on time. Somehow the party for our country house weekend has swelled. It appears I am a boy who can’t say no especially when it comes to a party at Wold Hall. I wonder if I’m making a mistake having this many people in the house when the television people arrive. But it just feels right. Wold Hall isn’t a museum. They don’t want a museum. They want what it was. A home. A really big home filled with lots of wonderful people.

If nothing else, if I fail, it will be in a blaze of glory. Wold Hall will retire from show business as a party girl and not as a mausoleum.

My phone rings as I run on the treadmill. It can’t be much after seven. This makes me nervous. No one calls me this early in the morning. My thoughts immediately go to mum.

Then they go to Olga. I haven’t returned any of her calls in the past twenty-four hours. And there have been dozens of calls. Possibly more.

The more she calls the less I want to speak to her.

The tighter she holds me the more I want to be released.

I wonder if I’m not responding to the inevitable and subconsciously pushing her away.

I wonder if she senses this.

It’s a vicious cycle.

It’s the Psychiatrist. Small blessings.

I answer on speaker phone as I check my pulse.

What am I doing? Please tell her I’m not actually having sex with someone.

I’m running. Christ. I have boundaries. There are moments when I turn the phone off.

Good to know. She’s home. She’s jetlagged. It’s four in the afternoon for her. Could I possibly squeeze her in that morning? Maybe a good roll in the hay is what she needs to help put her back on schedule.

I should say no, but I’m going to say yes.

Why should I say no?

I’m supposed to be leaving for the weekend in 3 hours. But I’d like to see her. But it would take me an hour to shower dress and get to her place. Is she a fan of the quickie?

She is. Where do I live?

Notting Hill.

Don’t bother with the shower. She likes sweaty men. It can’t take more than twenty minutes to run from my place to hers. With how she’s feeling she’ll be done with me in ten minutes.

I laugh. Ok, I’ll head out the door and finish my run on my way to her place?

Sounds good.

I get off the treadmill.

I put my keys in one pocket and my phone in the other after plugging in my headphones.

Elizabeth is asleep in my bed.

How do I reconcile this with my conscience?

Quite easily.

Although there is a part of me that wrestles with the fact I don’t feel any sort of twinge of conscience.

What’s wrong with me that this is totally okay? Is it wrong that it’s not wrong? Should I just accept the fact that I am now liberated from a moral compass?

I look down at her.

Beautiful Elizabeth.

Were I a wealthy man I would marry her for the simplicity of it alone. She is English. She is lovely. She is not overburdened with intelligence. She knows how to behave in my sort of society. She could slip seamlessly into my life. Her father is even a fucking vicar.

Her lips are rose petals. Her cheeks are apples. Her hair is spun gold.

I brush a lock of it away.

She stirs just slightly.

I’m going out.

Where am I going?

I have a client.

Hmmm.

She needs to be ready to go when I get back. I don’t want to have to arse around for an hour waiting for her to figure out what she’s going to wear.

I like her pretty.

I like her pretty when she’s pretty for me. Not for some dimwitted jock. Will she be ready?

Maybe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Second Time I am Kidnapped

The second kidnapping happens much as the first. A rather inconspicuous van pulls up alongside me as I run to the Psychiatrist’s. I don’t notice it as it blends in perfectly with the other inconspicuous vans lining the street.

Booth Buxton stands before me.

New Oliver. Oliver that gets into fights and doesn’t take shit from anyone, is ready to take him on. Boris told me this moment would come. I’m prepared.

Unfortunately he’s brought some friends with him.

Because this is what Booth Buxton does. Intimidation with numbers. Unfortunately Elon will not be showing up to even up the sides.

I’m invited to get into the van. We’re all English. We’re very polite about plucking a man off the streets in broad daylight.

No.

Get in the van.

Make me. (I must have been hit in the head during the fight with That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin)

Get in the van. (They have guns – not that I believe they’ll use them on me, but I get it – I need to get in the van)

I need to be somewhere. Someone is expecting me. In fact, if I don’t show she’s the type to start making inquiries.

Yes. I have an appointment (the air quotes were really unnecessary) with The Psychiatrist. She likes sweaty men. Consider this getting a ride on the government. Get in the van.

I believe I’ve put up a believable fight. I get in the van. There are three of them including Booth Buxton.

It’s one of those surveillance jobbers like you see on television. But smells a lot worse. Like someone’s been eating a lot of chicken burgers with the accompanying flatulence and couldn’t be bothered to buy room spray.

Well? What do they want?

I’m going to be invited to go to St. Petersburg for Easter.

Easter was weeks ago. Is this the sort of intelligence my tax money is paying for? Damn disappointing. Where’s 007 when you need him, eh?

Russian Orthodox Easter.

Oh. Right.

Olga is going to invite me to St. Petersburg. I’m going to accept.

Or else…?

The three spooks look at each other.

Or else you’re going to huff and puff and blow my house down? Sorry. But I’m not exactly shaking in my stylish yet affordable Docs.

They have it within their power to solve my financial problems.

I’m marrying Parvati in September. My financial problems are pretty well solved. Before they go there, flashing nudie pictures of me with male celebrities won’t sway me either. Parvati and I are going in to this with eyes wide open.

My mother is on the list for a heart transplant. Booth doesn’t build up to the big money offer. He puts it right on the table.

Yes. My mother is on the list for a heart transplant.

They may have it within their power to move her up the list. Or – alternatively depending on my willingness to cooperate – down the list.

I look at the other two spooks. Do they know that when I was twelve their mate Booth here tried to rape me?

Get over it. That was sixteen years ago. We were children. So what is it going to be?

What is it precisely they would like me to do? I can’t imagine going to St. Petersburg with Olga is the sum total of it.

I’m going to accept an offer of employment from Boris.

No. I won’t. I will not go and work for that man in any other capacity than the one I currently perform.

They are making assumptions about my relationship with my mother that are erroneous. Just because I’m getting along with her doesn’t mean I’m willing to trade my life for hers.

Actually, they think I’m game for this one. I’ve lost my grandparents and my father. Chances are I don’t want to lose my mother too, when I have the opportunity to do something about it. They might be willing to believe I would throw her to the wolves, but…

Here I am handed the envelope filled with pictures – I need to start living my life with the assumption I am under constant surveillance – pictures of me and mum. Me and mum at the British Museum. Me and mum at the V&A. Me and mum at the Madame Tussauds. Me and mum at the London Dungeon (I think she’s going through this phase where she wants to do all of the things with me she should have done when I was a boy). Me and mum at the aquarium. Me and mum at the planetarium. Me and mum having breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Me and mum and Sanjay at the Royal Albert Hall. Me and mum shopping for a birthday gift for Aunt Lucy. I spend a lot of time with mum. They’ve got me.

What guarantees do I have that they will do as they promise?

None.

Then no deal. I’m not going to put my arse on the line for a maybe. I want more of a guarantee. In fact I want much more than a guarantee.

What do I want?

I want compensation.

Money?

Yes. Lots of money. I’m guessing they have access to great big pots of money given the proper motivation. I’d like to be put on the payroll.

It always comes down to money.

Of course it does. What do they think? I’m going to put my arse on the line for Queen and country?

It would be the patriotic thing to do.

Bollocks. And I want some people fucked with.

This gets a laugh out of one of the spooks.

Who?

I’ll give them a list.

Would the father of my former fiancée be on the list?

Close to the top.

Anything else?

I want a way out.

My marriage is my way out. I’ve already built that into the plan.

Fine.

Anything else?

I’m going to think about it. I’ll get back to them with a list.

Do I have his email?

Seriously? Email?

What? Would I rather leave a piece of paper hidden under a rock in Hyde Park?

Well… email? Really?

Email is secure. Trust them.

Are they reading my email?

Do I need to ask that?

I suppose I don’t.

Just FYI – consider this a gimmie – the Swedish Princess – I remember her right?

I sort of recall something about her.

The kid’s not mine.

Are they absolutely certain?

Absolutely. In fact – here’s where they misread me just a hair just so I know we’re all on the same team whether I believe it or not – they figured based on the amount of emails I’ve sent her and how determined I’ve been about getting an answer – they thought that was the real bargaining chip.

A rubber band of tension snaps free in my body. One thing at least is not my problem.

They wouldn’t happen to know who tipped off the press?

Which time?

All of them.

They’ll look into it.

Because they don’t know?

They know. They just need as many carrots as they can to dangle in front of me.

The van stops.

I’m let out rather than dumped on the side of the road. We’re all gentlemen like that.

Mental note: Pick up some John Le Carre to read. OH – or better – Ian Fleming.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Psychiatrist

The doorman lets me in. In the elevator I double check the ringer on my phone is turned off.

During my run the calls began again in earnest. Olga must be awake.

The Psychiatrist lets me in. I may not have showered, but she has.

I was held up. I’m sorry.

Not a problem.

We go straight to the bedroom.

I strip down to my sweat covered skin.

She purrs, sniffs, and licks me.

I’m into this after the run. But then again, I’m always into it with the Psychiatrist.

The condoms are near the curved lounge she purchased in the name of expanding her sexual universe.

How does she want me?

Usual way.

The universe has only expanded so much. But we’re still experimenting.

I get into the curve of the chair. She straddles me. She slips down on me. This is going to be quick for her. I can feel it. This means we can do something a bit different the second time around.

My phone rings.

Ignore it.

We ignore the phone. I’m certain I turned it off.

She’s close. She’s desperately close. She grinds a figure eight with her hips.

A few seconds later it rings again.

We ignore the phone.

I know what she likes. I take the pad of my thump and press it to her clit.

She holds back just a touch to let it last longer.

The fourth time it rings in a two minute period I finally have to answer it. I don’t know how my phone is ringing, but it is and someone is trying desperately to get me. It could be an emergency.

Get the phone. She climbs off of me. Her orgasm which was so close to igniting inside of her has been extinguished.

I get up and pull my phone out of my fleece. Olga. Not mum. Not Uncle Harvey. Not Aunt Lucy. This is not an emergency. What the fuck? I check the ringer. It’s off.

I step to the door of the room and answer. What the fuck? I try to keep my voice low, but it’s a stage whisper.

Where am I? Why am I ignoring her calls? AGAIN! She fucking hates it when I ignore her calls.

I’m with a friend.

What friend? She already called Elon. She knows I’m not with Elon. Am I with Elizabeth? She knows I went to the club. People tell her things.

I’m going to call her back.

No. Where am I? There is nothing in my agenda. I haven’t returned any of her calls. What is she supposed to think?

How is it possible she is able to make my phone ring even though I have the ringer turned off? How is this possible?

She’s on my favorites list. If she calls me more than once in a three minute period the phone will ring even if I have the ringer off. It’s for emergencies.

What is the emergency?

Where am I? Why am I not answering my phone? That’s the emergency.

I’m with a friend. I will call when I’m done.

The Psychiatrist puts her robe on and goes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

I should have left the bedroom. I realize this too late. I walk down the hallway to the living room. I whisper as loudly as I can into the phone. What the fuck? I’m with a client that I probably just lost. Why the fuck can’t she just leave a fucking message or send me a text? Why does she have to do this? It’s fucking crazy and it makes me angry.

I’m not with a client. I’m lying to her. I’m with Parvati. Just admit I’m with Parvati. The minute she goes out of town I’m with Parvati. I don’t have a client in my agenda. I don’t even have my agenda with me.

How does she know I don’t have my agenda with me?

She called Wright and asked him to check my agenda to see if I had something in my agenda.

This is unreal. It was last minute. She told me she wasn’t going to pull this bullshit again.

She thought I was done lying to her.

I’m not lying. I’m with a client who called me this morning.

Bullshit.

I’m hanging up. I need to see if I can salvage this.

Silence. Am I really with a client?

Yes.

I’m not lying?

No. I’m not lying. The call came when I was on the treadmill.

She’s sorry.

Too late. Do not do this again.

She’s really sorry. She just didn’t know where I was. Then she started thinking about Parvati. She knows I’m lying to her about Parvati. Maybe not this time but she knows I’ve…

I hang up the phone. I make certain it’s on silent.

Her name comes up on the screen. She’s fucking trying to call me again! Unreal. I turn off the phone completely hoping that works. I leave it in the living room under a cushion on the couch.

I return to the bedroom.

The Psychiatrist is in one of those velour jogging suits all women seem to own a half dozen of.

She’s sitting on her bed. Her laptop is open before her. Her glasses are dangling off the end of her nose. She has her wallet at her hand.

I feel conspicuously naked.

She picks up her wallet, pulls out the cash and pays me by leaving the money on the bed. I don’t take it. I won’t take it.

We’re not actually done.

She’s done. She’d really like me to leave.

I’m sorry about the call. I didn’t realize my phone would ring like that if someone kept calling me.

Now I know. She has a lot of emails to read. She’s been gone far too long and has a lot of catching up to do.

Can we at least discuss this?

No. We cannot discuss this. She was paying me for my time exclusively. Not for me to have to take calls from some girlfriend she can’t even believe she didn’t even consider I might have. She’s really dim sometimes.

I don’t have a girlfriend.

Boyfriend? She’s not that naïve. The thought has occurred to her that I might be gay.

No. A woman. It’s complicated.

It always is.

Truth. She’s my favorite client. She really is. I don’t want to lose her like this. I enjoy seeing her. I was really enjoying this morning. I’m pissed off about the phone call. More than pissed off.

Do I care for this woman?

Yes. But that’s not the point.

Does she know what I do for a living?

In fact she does.

Is she a client?

No. Actually she’s a coworker.

Interesting.

She’s a coworker, which makes this practically neurotic jealously just so fucking annoying. She was out all night with a client. Was I on the phone kicking off? No.

This is very interesting. So this woman is a coworker.

Olga.

Olga is a coworker.

Interesting. Do I remember when we talked about mixing it up a bit?

I do.

Sort it out. No one too pretty.

Most of the women I know that do the work I do are very pretty.

That is to be expected. Unattractive women probably would not make much money.

Probably not. Let me figure it out. I work with a couple of women that are very kind and gentle. I am friendly with an Asian woman that is very very sweet.

That could work.

Otherwise I know a couple other women that are well suited.

She’s just going to trust me. Just one thing. Not Olga. Olga and I clearly have something between us. Now that she knows this she’d rather not be put in a situation where she feels like the third wheel.

We’re very professional.

Not from what she’s observed.

I’ll make it up to her.

She knows I will.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Circus Train

I’m out the door of the Psychiatrist’s apartment just at half past nine. What should have been a quick maybe half-hour turned into and hour and a half because of my desire to prove in the best way I knew how that I really and truly did want to be with the Psychiatrist.

All for free.

I refused to take the Psychiatrist’s money.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about Olga, but I have to do something.

When we are together, she’s ok.

When she can put a finger on me regularly, she’s fine.

When we are apart and she can’t monitor my movements up close, she unravels.

With my former fiancée, we would go days without speaking, emailing, or texting.

Maybe this was just as bad in the opposite extreme.

I don’t know what to do about this, but I need to find a solution.

The situation cannot persist as it is. Her need to hold me close is pushing me away.

I get a taxi.

I get home.

I need cash.

The taxi driver follows me.

He waits in the entrance as I go looking for money.

I go to the kitchen.

The Esthetician is standing in the kitchen with a cup of tea flicking through Vogue.

The Matchmaker and The Party Planner are sitting at the table thumbing through bridal magazine.

So?

They’re ready. They were early. They can’t say anything for anyone else.

Do they have money? I need to pay a taxi.

I’m handed twenty pounds.

I go back to the door.

Elizabeth runs down the stairs and past the taxi driver in her panties with curlers in her hair.

She doesn’t know what to wear! What is she going to wear!

Uncle Harvey chases her with dresses hanging over both arms.

The taxi driver cranes his neck to get a glimpse of Elizabeth in her panties.

I wave the money at the driver.

My missus?

I wave the money at the driver. He can go.

He takes the money.

Elizabeth doesn’t seem to be returning for a second show.

He leaves.

The Doctor arrives with the Actress and Lionel.

For the gentlemen - tweeds for the country. Ascots around their throats. Driving gloves cover their hands. Aren’t they looking dapper?

For the lady – chiffon, pearls, and a hat with a brim wide enough to create an eclipse. She’s looking fresh as a daisy. Perhaps some croquet on the lawn?

(I was unaware the weekend had a Wooster and Jeeves theme)

The ladies are in the kitchen. I need twenty minutes.

No rush. No rush at all. A country weekend is the perfect moment to put the hustle and bustle behind us.

Exactly. Which is why I want to get out of town.

Uncle Harvey appears. He greets the Actress first, then the Doctor, and finally Lionel. With a nod and a small bow introduces himself as Wright – my gentleman’s gentleman. There is tea and coffee in the sunroom.

Splendid. Tea sounds simply splendid.

I run upstairs, jump into the shower, wash, dry, and dress in under fifteen minutes.

I go down to the kitchen, dumping the suitcase I already packed at the entrance.

Elizabeth comes running through the room with Uncle Harvey chasing her.

I look to the Matchmaker.

This is still going on?

It’s her day off. If I want to try to get Elizabeth ready close to on time, I can be her guest.

The other three women refuse to make eye contact with me.

Lionel is engrossed in a book he has propped on his knee.

I look to the Doctor.

Young ladies are not his forte.

He’s a fucking gynecologist.

Language Oliver. Language.

I follow Uncle Harvey who follows Elizabeth who is digging through the laundry looking for some random article of clothing.

I don’t care what she wears. She needs to get her ass into gear. We need to get on the road.

I don’t understand! Nobody understands! She hasn’t seen the Footballer in months! In months! She still can’t believe he misses her!

STOP NOW! GET DRESSED! WE ARE GOING WITH OR WITHOUT HER IN TEN MINUTES!

But her hair isn’t even done. She won’t be ready for at least an hour. Minimum. Probably two hours. Besides, she still needs to pack.

Ten minutes later we are in the Doctor’s car.

Uncle Harvey sorts my single bag (make note – single bag – this is how men pack!), Elizabeth’s jumble of suitcases and bags, and then takes a seat in the back next to Elizabeth.

I am to drive.

Lionel is in the back.

Elizabeth is grumbling in the backseat between the two men as she fusses with the rollers in her hair.

A can of hairspray is lifted.

IF SHE SPRAYS THAT SHIT IN THE CAR I WILL LEAVE HER ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD IN HER PANTIES!

The dirty look I receive from Elizabeth in the rearview mirror would curdle milk.

AND FOR FUCK SAKES PUT A SKIRT ON OR SOMETHING!

The Doctor turns to Elizabeth who has turned the backseat of his pristinely beautiful early seventies model Rolls Royce Shadow into a dressing room.

Wearing panties in the car is a touch unseemly.

She didn’t have time to get dressed. Oliver practically pushed her out of the house. I pushed her out of the house. Really? Pushed her out of the house… grrrrrrrr.

I was mean to her. (Little tattler!)

Was she being fussy? (Yeah Doctor!)

Maybe. (Oh boo hoo!)

Then perhaps she deserved it. (Yeah Doctor!) No one enjoys the company of a young woman that cannot see past the length of her own nose and has little consideration of the desires of others.

But… (Oh boo hoo!)

He saw her little display. Simply outrageous. If she were his daughter he’d bend her over his knee and give her a paddling for being such a madam. (Yeah Doctor!)

But she just needed more time to get ready. Why can’t anyone understand how important this is to her? (Oh boo hoo!)

Then she should have gotten out of bed earlier. The world does not conform to madam’s schedule. Madam must conform to the world’s schedule. (Yeah Doctor!)

Elizabeth starts to blubber. (Now I feel bad – Elizabeth crying makes me feel like a heel. Like I’ve kicked a puppy or crushed a rose)

The Doctor is unmoved by her tears. In the future she should be more mindful of others. He expects the rest of the weekend to be incident free. He taps the dashboard and instructs me to drive.

I’m a little afraid of the Doctor. If nothing else the man knows how to give a bollocking.

Magically Elizabeth’s tears have disappeared; oh I’ve seen this game before.

I look at her in the rearview mirror. We make eye contact. The pink tip of her tongue parts her lips. If anyone is going to turn madam over their knee it’s going to be me.

I drive to Elon’s house.

The Matchmaker, the Actress, the Party Planner, and the Esthetician follow in a comfortably large Mercedes.

If those at Elon’s house are not ready I swear I will start swinging. Everyone was told to be ready for eleven.

Roland answers the door.

He looks dapper in chinos and one of his thousands of V-neck sweaters.

He’s coming?

That’s not a problem is it? (Do we have a conversation about this? Do we not have a conversation? Do we simply move on with our lives pretending we didn’t have that very curious relationship? I’m fairly certain our business relationship has come to an end.)

Not at all.

There is screaming. Lots of screaming. It’s all in Norwegian. That little dog of Sigrund’s is capable of jumping a meter into the air whilst barking.

Instead of listening to me and staying outside in the cars, everyone starts streaming in the house past us.

The Actress walks past in her hat and sunglasses with the Doctor.

Roland stares open mouthed as he tracks her like a sunflower following the sun.

Is that…?

Yes.

Elizabeth has at least slipped on a skirt. Her hair is a crown of curlers.

The dog goes apoplectic. The vertical jump on that thing is impressive.

Chaos reigns at Elon’s house.

The screaming in Norwegian trumps all other noise.

What’s that all about?

Sigrund and the Shaman are going to Wold Hall.

They are? (Okay – I’m all for the more the merrier especially when I want it to be a gay weekend – but Sigrund and the Shaman worry me on the grounds of pure unpredictability)

They are. Sigrund called my mother… Martina?

Martina.

Martina wants to meet the Shaman. Is my mother’s boyfriend really Sanjay Premji?

I’m going to be totally honest here – the idea of my mother having a boyfriend still sort of freaks me out a little.

They’re good friends?

I like that better.

I never told him this.

There are a lot of things I never told him. If we’re being perfectly honest, that time wasn’t about me.

Are we going to discuss this?

Does he want to discuss this?

Not particularly. But we probably should.

Must we?

If anyone should find this awkward it should be him.

No one knows what I do for a living. Except Elon. And the Doctor, the Matchmaker, Elizabeth, the Esthetician, the Party Planner, and the Actress. And Uncle Harvey.

Wright the Butler?

Yes.

I’ve turned my uncle into my butler?

It’s complicated.

Is any part of my life uncomplicated?

Wold Hall. It’s my Fortress of Solitude. Life is uncomplicated there.

So pretty much everyone we are traveling to Wold Hall with knows what I do for a living.

Yes, except my mother, Aunt Lucy, Gita, Sanjay and of course, Sigrund and the Shaman. And Lionel of course.

Who is Lionel?

My dead grandfather’s gay lover.

Roland stares at me. I get that look. It’s a your life is a made for television look.

From the inside it doesn’t seem as bad as it must from the outside.

Do they know about him?

No. No. I’m very discreet. The Matchmaker never met him. She doesn’t even have his name. I use code names for my clients.

What do I call him?

The Mild Mannered Marketing Executive.

He laughs. Do I have a boyfriend that he needs to know about?

Actually, I sort of have a girlfriend.

The blond in the curlers?

No. Black haired Russian girl that’s currently in Ibiza.

I’m not gay.

I’m actually more into men than women.

So I’m bi?

Not a big fan of labels.

Was I into him at all?

Yes. Elon was right. He was the one client that I had that I would have been with if circumstances were different.

He likes Elon. But then again maybe he’s just a sucker for DIY projects.

Elon is a good person. He just doesn’t act like it sometimes and he does that on purpose to push people away. One thing he should probably know. No one calls me James. They all call me Oliver.

He figured that one out already.

We check watches simultaneously.

Roland thinks it’s probably best to accept the inevitable rather than to fight against it. The sooner Elon accepts that his mother will be joining us, the quicker we can get out the door.

Agreed. Where is the Shaman?

Here.

(God as my fucking witness that man makes no sound when he moves!!! He’s right behind me. He purposefully uses that voodoo man voice. I know he does. I scream like I’m in a B horror film)

I turn and look at the Shaman.

That man freaks me out.

The doorbell rings.

Roland goes for it as I edge away from the Shaman (who is still wearing purple!).

Mum, Aunt Lucy, Gita, and Sanjay have arrived.

That’s all of us. Any chance he can get Elon to resolve this sometime in the next three minutes so we are all still on schedule?

Roland nods. He’s gotten very good in the past twenty-four hours at dealing with the Elon/Sigrund dynamic.

May God have mercy on his soul.

Amen.

Somehow – between me, Roland, and the Doctor – we get everyone loaded up into the four separate cars that we caravan to Wold Hall.

Somehow I lose Lionel, Uncle Harvey and the Doctor and I end up with Elizabeth, Sigrund, and the Shaman. Two hours of having to listen to Elizabeth, Sigrund and the Shaman discuss spirituality and the coming age make me want to swallow a bullet.

When we stop for a break to let Sigrund’s little dog take a widdle wee wee (I’m going to strangle that woman) I insist on a passenger switch.

The Doctors will not be separated. Scintillating conversation. Simply scintillating. Who would have thought intestinal flora could be so scintillating. (Not me. That’s for sure.)

Aunt Lucy will go with me. If she has to hear the word anus one more time she’s going flip.

I get Aunt Lucy in exchange for the Shaman.

Elizabeth wants to drive Elon’s car.

Elon makes a declaration. He will not let anyone other than me drive his Audi. He will especially not let some fucking woman with a uterus and a determination to destroy the life of some poor defenseless man that never really hurt anyone in his life drive his car.

The Party Planner wants to know if Elon has gone crazy. Does anyone else want to know if he’s gone crazy? She’s pretty sure she knows crazy when she sees it and that’s crazy.

There is a show of hands. Almost everyone wants to know if Elon has gone crazy.

Elon makes an amendment. He’ll let Roland drive his Audi. Roland has a penis. Not a vagina. Not a soul sucking vagina.

I’d like to know if Elon’s gone crazy. But I keep this to myself. I’ll ask later.

Then Elon makes another declaration. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone other than me and Roland. Ever again. So no one gets to go in his car. And no one is allowed to ask him about the little bastard. The little bastard is not his problem. He cannot believe that bitch has done this to him. He starts shouting at the sky again. I’m not certain if he’s speaking in tongues or Norwegian. It’s hard to tell.

As I understand it, this is his new thing.

Roland tells him to stop shouting and to get back in the car. No one is going with them.

Fine by me. I’m not sure I want to be in a confined space with Elon for any length of time.

I keep Sigrund but only on the condition there is no more discussion of karma, reincarnation, the immortality of the soul, or eternal damnation. And she’s not allowed to pretend to be the dog talking to me.

(Sigrund hides her face behind the dog and points a paw at me) A guilty conscience needs no accuser. Woof! Woof!

Someone take Sigrund. And her little dog too.

The Matchmaker will take Sigrund and the dog in the Mercedes.

We come to an accord.

The Shaman goes in the van with the Doctors and mum.

I get the Esthetician who is allergic to dogs and who promises to help Elizabeth with her hair and makeup and Aunt Lucy who will not pretend to be a dog. I also get Lionel. He sits in the front with me. We talk about my grandfather for the remainder of the trip.

Somehow we make it to Wold Hall.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Call me Darcy

When I make the approach to Wold Hall with another person I see it as they must see it. It’s the sort of place that should have a crazy uncle wandering the halls or some sort of lunatic aunt hosting doll tea parties in a cobweb laced attic. Wold Hall is home for me, but for others it is a gloomy forbidding sort of place.

The Esthetician and Elizabeth peer over the backseat.

That’s my home?

That’s my home.

It’s enormous.

It’s incredible.

It’s really a castle. It’s Pemberly! (Elizabeth claps and cheers) It’s Pemberly! It’s Pemberly!

Does that make me Darcy?

Yes. I have that sort of aristocratic languor.

Thank you – I think.

The Esthetician laughs. Olga isn’t much of an Elizabeth Bennett.

I suppose she’s really not. (I don’t add that my former fiancée was a ball busting Elizabeth Bennett down to her marrow).

Olga is not an Elizabeth Bennett. She’s more like Lady Russell. Constantly trying to manipulate and maneuver people. Bit of a ball buster.

I laugh. She’s got Olga dead to rights.

I like this side to the Esthetician. The literary smack down side. Every book she’s recommended has been a winner. I’m looking forward to getting to know another side of her.

Elizabeth gushes about parties and picnics and stormy nights and the romance of it all. She knew I had a castle she just never imagined it was a real castle.

It’s a real castle.

Will I show her around?

Of course I will.

Lionel chuckles. This enthusiasm amuses him. The parties he’s attended at Wold Hall. The tales he could tell. It’s a wonderful place Wold Hall. It’s good to be back again.

(I didn’t know he’d actually ever been to Wold Hall. But then I imagine there are a lot of things I don’t know. Wold Hall is a place of many secrets.)

We park in a line in front of Wold Hall.

The Greshams come out to greet us.

Mr. Gresham gets to me first. Uncle Albert, Aunt Maisie, Harry, Margaret and William arrived that morning.

No one told me they were coming. Why does no one ask me if they can stay in my house?

That is a conversation I need to have with Uncle Albert. I brought Lionel with me?

Yes. I brought Lionel with me. Lionel is my friend. Lionel has been my friend since I was a little boy. Lionel mattered to my grandfather. I forget that sometimes.

If nothing else, this will probably guarantee Uncle Albert will call in advance to make certain I’m not having guests for the weekend when he decides to come calling.

Do Uncle Albert and Lionel have a problem?

Mr. Gresham just stares at me for a long moment. He starts to laugh a little. This ought to be an interesting weekend. One thing. Is that woman… the one in the hat… that’s not.

Yes. That is the Actress. It’s really her.

He’s going to go and introduce himself.

Mrs. Gresham gets me next. Olga has called no less than a dozen times. This is how Mrs. Gresham greets me. She’s annoyed. Do I know how much of a pain it is to have to go running for the phone every few minutes when she’s trying to get the house sorted?

I’m sorry.

Do I have my phone turned off?

No. She’s called me about a dozen times and sent about two dozen texts.

Why am I ignoring her?

Because she’s driving me out of my fucking mind.

Language Oliver. Really.

She also used some emergency function on my phone to turn off the silent.

This is getting a touch out of hand. Perhaps I need to have a conversation with her rather than ignoring her.

Elon walks up to me. Hands me his phone. Olga. She’s driving him out of his fucking mind.

I take the phone.

What?

Why am I ignoring her calls?

After that bullshit this morning I have every right to ignore her calls.

She’s crying. She’s distraught. She already told me she was sorry about that.

She needs to let me be angry and move on. Constantly poking at me isn’t giving me the space I need to process my anger.

Why am I still angry? She said she was sorry.

She very nearly lost me a favorite client because of her obsessive need to know where I am and what I am doing at all times. I need space.

Why do I need so much space? Why am I always going on about space? If we have a problem we need to talk about it until we resolve it.

No. No please for the love of god do not make me talk a problem to death. Please.

Maybe if I would talk to her then she wouldn’t freak out as much as she does when we don’t talk.

I cannot deal with her or with this at this moment. I’ve just arrived at Wold Hall. I have guests I need to get sorted. (I do not add that this is the first time I’ve had a party at Wold Hall since my father died and made me the master of the house. That would be unwise.)

If I loved her I would make her my number one priority all of the time.

Okay – she promised me she would stop making these broad generalizations. No one person can be another person’s number one priority all of the time.

(Of course I catch a glimpse of my mother at this point and am reminded very poignantly of her relationship with my father. That is the relationship Olga wants. I will not give it to her. I won’t give it to any woman.)

I’m going to be very clear with her. We will not have that kind of relationship. Not now not ever. She needs to accept the fact I will be marrying Parvati. Even if we do keep something on the side after that, I neither can nor will engage myself in a relationship at total and complete exclusion of others.

That is what being in love is.

No, it is not. Maybe for some people. But not for me. I will call her.

Will I really call her?

Yes. I will really call her. I need to get the cars unpacked, make certain rooms are assigned, help with the luggage, make introductions, and ensure everything is sorted for the TV people. In short, I’m very busy. I don’t have time to deal with her emotional immaturity.

Why are so many people with me?

Because I invited them.

How can I have a party without her?

I’m jumping off the merry-go-round. I’ll call her later. I hang up the phone.

Mum is near me. She looks vibrant. Happy. Introductions are happening without my help. People, it turns out, can manage on their own.

Olga?

Yes.

She’s very young. I should probably keep that in mind. I’m used to my former fiancée. I’m not used to being in a relationship where I am expected to be the adult and the other person gets to be the juvenile.

Why can’t I be in a relationship where we both get to be the adult?

I’m with the wrong woman if that’s what I want. Olga is lovely and kind. She also has some growing up to do.

She gives me a peck on the cheek.

We can talk later. What she would like right now is for the two of us to go for a little walk.

Why?

She hasn’t been back since dad’s funeral.

I didn’t think. I didn’t realize.

That’s all right. She probably shouldn’t have avoided it for as long as she has. So? Little walk? She has some things in their bedroom she would like to sort through. Mrs. Gresham has offered to do it, but she’d rather we do it together.

I turn everything over to the Greshams who are already managing without my input. Mr. Gresham is buzzing around the Actress like a busy bee.

Mum and I walk through the front doors.

We take it slowly up the stairs.

I’m not sure how I feel about her and Sanjay sharing that particular room.

Do I think she and Sanjay have that sort of physical relationship? Honestly. Her heart is hanging on by a thread. That sort of thing would probably be the death of her. Mrs. Gresham is putting Sanjay in the Blue Room.

I didn’t realize that. I thought they were – intimate.

They are intimate. They have a strong emotional connection. She feels very deeply for him. Love and sex aren’t always the same thing. Maybe, one day, if she gets her transplant, they will go to that place. But for the moment what they have is an emotional love.

This makes me feel a lot better about the whole mum/Sanjay thing.

Mum and Dad’s room is in the east part of the house.

The last time I was in their bedroom was the day my grandfather exposed me to what I know consider to be completely normal sexual relations between a loving couple. I get it now. I’d go to the barn to fuck if it meant I could have some privacy.

We stand outside the door for a moment. Mum needs to gather her composure. This is very hard. Very very hard. She loved my father so very much. I cannot imagine.

I know. He loved her too.

She can’t believe he’s been gone nearly a year.

I can’t believe it either.

We should do something special. For my birthday. Not because that was the day he died. Because that is what he would have wanted.

We can do something special. Something with cake.

We arrive at the door to their bedroom.

Mum has the key.

We pause. She puts her hand on the doorknob. Maybe she isn’t as ready as she thought she was for this.

I put my arm around her shoulder.

It’s fine. Maybe I’m not so ready for this either.

She starts to cry. I can’t bear mum’s tears. All of his things are in there. Everything. She had Mrs. Gresham put everything in there. She just can’t do it. Not yet.

Does she want me to do it for her?

No. We will do it together. I’ve had enough to deal with on my own. We won’t do it today, but we will do it soon.

That’s fine. We can slay that dragon another day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Wrangling Cats

I bring mum to my room. I present her with a gift.

A headband with two dancing cocks. I hold it out to her with both hands.

Her laughter after her tears is like music.

How did I know it was exactly what she’d been looking for?

Lucky guess.

Where did I get this?

In the emergency room.

Am I going to tell her what happened to me?

Does she want the truth or the watered down version?

Both. She’ll decide which one she likes the best.

I fell off my bike.

Boring.

I walked into a glass door.

Charmingly clumsy. But still boring.

I was out with Roland and Elon, we were in the back of a taxi and I saw the Esthetician fighting with her boyfriend. I jumped out of the car and beat the piss out of the guy.

Is that really what happened?

Yes.

Could I please do her a favor?

Yes.

Please don’t get into any more fights. She’s not a well woman. The last thing she needs is to hear I’ve been busted up by some thug.

I won’t get into any more fights. One was my life quota.

She puts the headband on. How does she look?

Ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly imagine the woman who gave that thing to me.

Loud? Bullish? Overly familiar?

Does she know her?

She knows her type. She grew up around those women.

She takes off her headband and examines it. It’s marvelous. A treasure. Speaking of treasures, do we talk about the huge fight we had over Lady Charlotte’s diamond?

We’re we really fighting over Lady Charlotte’s diamond?

No.

I kiss her on the cheek and hug her. That was a bad day for both of us.

Did I get the ring back yet? Not that she really wants it.

Not yet. But I will.

Do her a favor.

Anything. Find Sanjay. She needs to take her pills and he’s probably wondering where she is.

I can do that. If she’s wondering I’m really okay with her and Sanjay.

At the moment they really are just very good friends.

Even if they weren’t I’d be okay with that.

She smiles at me. She goes to lay down on the bed. I go find Sanjay.

Uncle Albert corners me nearly immediately after I leave mum in my rooms to sit and read whilst everyone else gets sorted.

Why did I bring that man to his home?

This isn’t his home. It’s my home.

That man has no place in Wold Hall.

It’s my home. I don’t want to be a dick, I really don’t, but this is my home. I’m working like a bitch to hold on to it. This is my home. Maybe if he stumped up some of the cash for the tax bill or even for the electricity after he comes and stays here for a long weekend I’d be willing to hear him out, but he doesn’t even ask me if he can stay. He just assumes.

Since when does he need my permission to come to his childhood home?

It would be the polite thing to do. What would grandmother say?

I’m right. It’s my home. At the very least he should have the courtesy to let me know he plans on visiting. He realizes that I’ve been working hard. He probably could have helped. I’ve proven to him that I am willing to try to solve my own problems.

Really? I’m not a total and profound disappointment?

He never thought I was a profound disappointment. He didn’t like that my father left me with my grandparents like he did. James should have left me with him and Maisie. That would have been the smart choice. Not with the grandparents. Honestly - he and James grew up with their parents and then he leaves me with them. It just made no sense.

He would have taken me in? (This is a thought that has never occurred to me. I had an alternative to my grandparents. What would I have been like if I’d grown up with Harry as a brother, Margaret as a sister, and with Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie as acting parents? I really just can’t imagine it.)

Of course he would have. What do I think? This is the problem with our family. We make too many assumptions and don’t take enough time to talk. This is my grandfather’s legacy. The lies and the secrets. Truthfully, he’s not thrilled about Lionel being at Wold Hall, but it’s my house. He’s going to respect that.

I appreciate that.

One thing. How do I know the Actress?

We’re lovers.

Uncle Albert is incapable of speech.

Seriously. We’re lovers.

He doesn’t believe me.

We’re lovers. She’s a tigress in the sack.

Good show! Well done! I am my grandfather’s heir. I am the envy of men the world over. Including him and probably Gresham.

What can I say? I have a way with the ladies.

He’ll pitch in for groceries and electricity.

Actually, what I really need if for him to read through my prenuptial agreement.

I’m really going to marry that Indian girl?

I’m really going to marry her.

He should have gotten involved in this long ago. I don’t need to marry that girl. I don’t. Legally there has to be another solution.

I don’t mind. She’s not so bad. It could be worse.

How many men in our family have said that before marrying a woman that they liked just fine but could never love?

I don’t know. Hopefully I’m the last.

Let’s get the papers. He’ll start going through them with Harry. Promise him I won’t sign anything until he gives me an all clear.

I won’t sign without his nod.

Moving along I find Sanjay who is holding a medical bag and looking for mum.

I show him to mum who is sitting on the bed watching television.

Could I tell Gita where he is?

Of course.

I go looking for Gita. I find Gita with Cousin Harry in the Map Room. He’s giving her, the Esthetician, the Matchmaker, the Party Planner and the Actress a tour. Mr. Gresham is following along as if he’s actually interested. Which I know he’s not. He’s staring a big googly eyed at the Actress. I’ve never seen that expression on his face before. It’s disturbing.

I tell Gita that her father is looking for her and where she can find him.

I join the tour. My phone rings when we’re in the dining room.

The Footballer. He’s not coming. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I don’t know what I was thinking inviting him to the house the weekend I was planning on meeting with the television people. This is my home. Not a brothel. Granted, three of my clients (one former – I’m pretty sure Roland and I are done for good) are with us, but this is somehow different. This is seedy. This busts through the boundaries between this world and the one I have carefully maintained over the months.

I’m nothing if not relieved.

I find Elizabeth. She’s in the kitchen perched on a stool as Mrs. Gresham, Uncle Harvey, Aunt Maisie, Lionel and the Doctor get down to the business of feeding us all.

Is this a spectator sport? I give her a smile. A smile that means get off her bottom and see if there is anything that needs doing.

She doesn’t want to muss herself.

He’s not coming. He just called me. He’s not coming.

Instead of getting up and helping, running the risk of mussing herself, she stomps out of the room.

Aunt Maisie looks at me over the chicken she’s stuffing. Where did I pick up princess? Where is Olga? At least Olga will get stuck in and help.

What can I do to help?

Go down to the wine cellar and get reds and whites.

I recruit Lionel to help me.

His baked brie is oven ready and he can be spared.

My grandfather loved his baked brie. He tells me this when we are well away from all ears in the kitchen.

He must miss him terribly.

He does. It’s a hard thing. Do I know they were together nearly fifty years?

I didn’t know that.

He didn’t realize Albert was going to be here. If he’d known he would have stayed away.

It’s all right, really.

He thinks Elon and Roland are lovely. It’s such a different world now. Elon is clearly having a hard go of it. It’s wonderful that Roland can just walk with him down this path he has to travel. No secrets and lies.

Did he bring any of those pictures and things he mentioned to me?

He did! He did! But surely I’m just being kind.

I’d like to look at them. I’d like to talk to him about my grandfather.

He’d like that very much. It’s been difficult.

We walk silently the rest of the way to the cellar.

As we walk I get it. Lionel is in mourning and he has no one to share it with. He’s alone. The monthly lunches I had with him and my grandfather stopped as abruptly as granddad’s life. He wasn’t welcome at the hospital or the funeral. No one gave him a second thought after granddad died.

I can see how he would look upon Elon and Roland and perhaps feel hope for the future.

I don’t know if my grandfather would have made different choices if he’d come of age in my time. I’ve made a choice. I’m going to get married, settle down, and raise a family. I couldn’t live a lie as my grandfather did.

We get the wine. We return to the kitchen.

Can they spare us?

We can be spared.

I ask Lionel to show me what he brought.

We go up the steps to the Green Room which is curiously yellow.

I’ve always wondered why they call this the Green Room.

It used to be painted green with green furnishings. He despises green. My grandfather had it painted yellow, which is his favorite color, to please him after they quarreled.

He did not.

He did. He knows I know that his relationship with my grandfather was not a secret kept from my grandmother.

I still have problems trying to reconcile this.

He understands. There were moments when he didn’t wholly get the dynamic. But it worked. The Green Room being painted yellow was a concession to the fact he’d been permanently booted out of the master bedroom when my grandparents were married.

I had no idea.

That was part of the deal.

We sit together on the couch.

Lionel holds a large leather bound photo album on his lap. We flip through it page by page.

I look an awful lot like my grandfather.

I do. I have his spirit too.

He’s crying. I don’t realize it because the tears are silent. I take his hand and give it a squeeze. Does he remember all of those holidays we went on?

He does. Very well.

I loved those holidays. I miss our lunches. Why did we stop having our lunches?

Because my grandfather was dead and he was no longer a part of my life.

Nonsense. We need to get back to those lunches. I have no one in my life that knows how to speak Greek anymore.

I’m patronizing him.

Does it matter? Who cares? I have to have lunch with the Doctor at the club every Thursday. He should join us.

It won’t take much arm twisting to convince him. I do need to come by the house. There are some things there for me. We also have to discuss the house.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s not ringing. Then my pocket buzzes again. I still have Elon’s phone.

I need to take this.

Go go. I’ve indulged him enough.

We’re not done going through the pictures.

Later.

I answer Elon’s phone.

Marcus.

Hi ho it’s Oliver not Elon. (I’m quick about establishing my identity before he says something vulgar or skeevy – I’m pretty out there sexually, but Marcus just takes it to a whole new level.)

Where is Elon?

I have no idea. We’re all Wold Hall. We went to the seven winds. I have his phone. When I locate him I’ll tell him to call.

Who the fuck is Roland?

Oh… uh…

It’s cool. (another person that uses cool far too much) He gets it. He’s not exactly a saint when he’s away from Elon. He’s just getting a little pissed off. Every time he calls Elon he’s getting this cunthammer (Elon’s word) on the phone.

Elon’s having a bit of a hard go of it.

Hard go of what? What does that fucking mean anyhow? He gets we both speak English but sometimes he just does not understand me.

He’s not dealing well with fatherhood.

Did Renee drop the kid?

Renata. Is he asking me if she gave birth?

Yes.

She has. I thought he was going to be here for the birth.

Why the fuck would he want to be around for the birth of a kid Elon doesn’t want? Or the birth of any kid for that matter.

To support him?

To support him do what?

Cope with fatherhood.

What is there to cope with? Elon doesn’t want to be a father. He sure as shit doesn’t want to be a father. The kid is not a problem.

(I like Marcus. I do. I think he’s a hell of a lot of fun. Based on recent experience I happen to know he’s an incredible fuck – yes I went there with Olga as a matter of fact. But he is not the man to have around in a crisis. Not that I imagine he’d stick around during a crisis. Roland is the man to have around with life starts getting real.)

I’m going to go looking for Elon. As soon as I find him I’ll tell him to call.

No, it’s cool. He just needs to know if they’re good for Bermuda.

When are they going to Bermuda?

Three weeks. After some wedding.

That would be my cousin Margaret’s wedding.

That’s it. In exchange for him going to Wales…

Scotland.

Same difference.

Not to the Scottish or the Welsh.

Whatever. If he goes to the wedding they’re going to Bermuda for two weeks. That is if Elon can please get his ass in gear and confirm the dates.

I’ll pass on the message.

Do it.

I hang up on Marcus just as I locate Elon and Roland.

They’re in Elon’s usual room.

Elon is curled on the bed in the fetal position crying (how many sets of tears am I going to have to confront this weekend?) Roland sits on the bed next to him stroking his back.

I crook a finger at Roland from the door.

He leaves Elon and comes to me.

I hold up the phone. Marcus called.

Lose the phone. Throw it in the sea. Run over it with a car. He doesn’t care. Elon doesn’t need some arrogant American prick telling him to just run away from it all so they can have a good time at this moment.

Agreed.

Don’t expect much out of either of them for the next few days.

I won’t. Just take care of Elon.

He will.

He’s my best friend, but I don’t think I have what he needs to help him through this.

It’s fine. He’s not going anywhere.

He slips back into the room closing the door behind him.

I’m running around like a crazy person. I go to the kitchen. I’m sent to set the table.

Elizabeth passes me as I go to the China Room.

Could she help me? (not really a question – we all chip in at Wold Hall – it’s the only way to keep the place running.)

Do what?

Get the table sorted for dinner?

Hmmmm. No. She’d rather not. She’s so sad. She’s so disappointed. She really thought he was going to come.

I am going to be totally honest with her. I’m glad he’s not coming. I wasn’t thinking when I invited him out here. My family is here. This is neither the time nor the place for this sort of thing.

If she’d known he wasn’t going to come then she wouldn’t have let me drag her out into the middle of nowhere for an entire weekend. Did I know that people expect her to do things like cook? She doesn’t cook. The next thing they’re going to be expecting her to do dishes or make beds or clean toilets.

Would she like me to take her to the train station? It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. She’ll be back in London in a few hours.

But the television people are coming.

And?

And she could end up on television.

She keeps walking down the hall.

Useless.

I keep moving to the China Room.

I stop outside the door when I hear a voice.

Eavesdropping is a major pastime at Wold Hall.

Margaret. On the phone. I hear one side of a conversation. I smell cigarette smoke.

No idea where I find the women I find.

Pause.

English Barbie.

Pause.

Probably a fucking vicar’s daughter.

Laughter.

Looks like a total slut – but one of those I’m so fucking sweet I’m going to fuck your boyfriend kind of sluts. Total gold digger.

More laughter.

No clue.

Pause.

Hasn’t seen or heard from Russian Barbie in weeks.

Pause.

Yes. She’s pretty sure Russian Barbie is going to be at the wedding.

Pause.

It’s bullshit. It’s her wedding. She should be able to tell me not to bring Russian Barbie.

Pause.

She won’t say anything. Tempting as it is, she won’t say anything.

Pause.

I bust into the china room.

Margaret is smoking at the open window.

She nearly jumps out of her skin.

Good. That’s what she gets for talking shit about me and smoking in my house.

Tell her I want my fucking ring back.

I pick up the pack of cigarettes next to Margaret and help myself.

Margaret passes on the message.

She holds her phone to my ear as I light up.

Twat. (the dulcet tones of my former fiancée’s voice is like music)

Nice. Ring?

She already told me, she needs to pick it up.

Will she have it at the wedding?

Planning on using it?

No. Yes. I’m going to give it to mum.

That’s shockingly sweet for me. How is mum?

Stable. Okay.

She’ll get the ring. She promises. She’ll be back in London a week after the wedding. Am I smoking?

Yes. Bye.

Margaret takes the phone back. Says a few goodbyes, then sticks it in her pocket.

We smoke but we exhale out the window. It’s like we’re sixteen again.

Will she help me set the table?

Sure. Just in case I didn’t know, my friend Elizabeth is just a touch too precious for her. Not that she’s a fan of Russian Barbie…

Russian Barbie. Nice.

Olga.

Russian Barbie works. Would this be a name she and my former fiancée came up with?

Yes. Any chance I can talk Russian Barbie into not coming to her wedding?

Would she really like me to do that?

It just might things easier all around.

I’ll see what I can do. Olga’s not really so bad.

She likes Olga. It’s just my former fiancée is her best friend.

It’s been nearly a year since SHE broke it off with ME.

She knows. It’s just still raw sometimes.

We set the table. When it’s ready and most of the dishes have been brought in I get to do my favorite job. I bang the dinner gong.

When everyone is gathered, even Elon and Roland, I address the room.

I lay it out there for them.

To put it simply I tell the truth.

I need their help.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Producers

It is decided after long debate that I will wear my riding kit. I will greet the producers as if the whole thing bores me terribly. I don’t shave.

The Actress and Uncle Harvey have their shtick down to an art.

We are in the China Room having breakfast when the Producers arrive.

The Actress and the Esthetician have been working on her look since long before I was up.

Everyone takes their places.

Roland removes Elon to a secure location.

I don’t know if any of the Producers are women, but I am certain some must be. I can’t take any chances he’ll start accusing them of having vaginas during the tour.

Uncle Albert and William are in the Library.

Mum convalesces on the terrace with Aunt Lucy and Sanjay at her side.

Elizabeth and Margaret are on the tennis courts.

Harry, the Doctor, and Lionel are hunting with the dogs.

The Actress, Sigrund, and the Matchmaker are spectators as the Party Planner, the Esthetician, Gita, and Aunt Maisie play croquet.

The Shaman wanders through the herb garden gathering bits from one plant than another. He has exchanged his solid purple for pure white.

The truth is I’m in a special kind of heaven. I am a boy again. Wold Hall is as it was when I was growing up. The house is full of life. There are dramas and intrigues around the corners. People are jumping from bed to bed. The sun is shining. The grass is green. The sea in the distance blends a deeper blue into the azure of the sky. I am home.

Mr. Gresham brings the Producers to the terrace where I stand observing my world which stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction.

There are four of them that seem to matter. With them are another six functionaries and four with cameras of one sort or another.

I greet them. I introduce them to my guests.

Sanjay gives me cred. I know people.

Contrary to what they may have been lead to believe based on accounts in various and sorted broadsheets and tabloids, I am neither down nor am I out. I am young. I am handsome. I am wealthy. I am healthy. And I could give five flying fucks about my detractors and the shit they sling about me. They wish they could be me.

The Actress has just the effect we hoped she would. She has this way of turning her head as they approach her that I’m not certain I could properly describe or an average woman could replicate.

It was elegant. She has this hat on. Large brimmed. The dress was chosen with purpose.

How does she turn her head to look at them? It’s as if there is a stick attached to the point of her chin and her entire head pivots on that point. Her hat conceals her face and as she turns to look at them it is slowly revealed.

I’m not doing this moment justice.

I’m not.

It was pure cinematography in action. It was as if she knew where the cameras were and gave them what they wanted even if they didn’t know it.

The Producers are taken aback.

I introduce her. Not that introductions are necessary. They all know exactly who she is.

The Actress is a pro.

I tell the Producers to just do whatever they want to do and not to touch anything.

The Actress chides me. It would be her pleasure to show them around.

Uncle Harvey in the role of Wright the Butler appears.

The Actress is simply delighted. What wonderful timing he has. She introduces him.

This is Wright.

He is Wright. At their service.

I follow along for the ride as Uncle Harvey (a.k.a. Wright the Butler) takes the Producers on a tour of Wold Hall and the Actress regales them with tales of her time playing Queen Such-in-Such and Lady BlahBlahBlah.

She speaks their language.

She knows how to flatter them.

She’s amazing.

And they know it.

We exit through the glass house.

Uncle Harvey points with his cane to this feature and then that feature. Do they know this and do they know that? He’s a veritable encyclopedia of trivia.

We venture to the stables.

The Producers would like to see the site of the Roman ruins, where the archaeologists are back dusting the ground with their tiny brushes. I have been sufficiently assured that they are not spying on me. I have been assured by my former fiancée, if they really wanted to watch me they have other means. Such as the Wi-Fi and security cameras that she had the house rigged with.

It took Gresham some doing, but he located the antennas up in the attics and on the roofs.

Was it thoroughly childish that I had him rip them all out?

Yes.

Can I sleep not fearing somewhere somehow they’re watching me?

Yes.

Was Gresham totally in agreement with me?

Absolutely.

As we crest a small hillock we come upon a tableau.

Elon is standing on the lawn screaming at the sky.

Roland, completely unperturbed, is lying on the grass reading a book.

The Actress pauses mid-sentence.

He’s…. (She smiles for a long moment as the gears in her head turn furiously) Norwegian.

The Producers all nod. It explains so much.

Without missing a beat the Actress continues regaling the Producers with a tale of when she played Lady Hammer for nearly six years and one of the extras just simply couldn’t manage to deliver a letter on a tray properly.

I nearly put my teeth through my bottom lip to stop the laugher.

We continue to the stables cutting a wide arc around Elon in the midst of his mental breakdown.

By the time we make it back to the house I know we will all get a slice of what we want.

The Producers, the Actress, and I sit on the terrace.

Uncle Harvey continues inside.

We discuss the show. They give me the pitch as if I’m the one that needs convincing.

Uncle Harvey arrives with tea.

Do I have questions?

Not really. I just don’t want a mockery made of my home nor do I want it destroyed.

The Actress has a question. If I don’t mind.

I don’t. Ask away.

How many participants will there be?

They’ll start with forty on the first day. They will be broken into teams of eight. Five teams total. The winning team splits the pot.

How are they planning on judging?

Panel of four.

How are they choosing the people on the panel?

They name a few minor celebrities.

Uncle Harvey clears his throat. He doesn’t wish to be impertinent, but do any of these people have any idea what it would take to make a place like Wold Hall function in the present day, let alone one hundred years ago? Perhaps instead of D list pop stars, Sloane rangers, celebutants they should seek substance.

The Actress agrees wholeheartedly. The problem with so many of these television programs, not that she would ever wish to cast a pallor over their work, is that the judges are no judges but rather fringe celebrities trying to grasp a little star dust. These people don’t care about the quality of the show or their performance; they care about making enough noise to get noticed. It’s shabby. Simply shabby.

Yes madam. Well said. Uncle Harvey dishes out biscuits with a pair of tongs. The idea is a brilliant one, but could so easily turn farcical.

The Actress nods. There is an opportunity here to do more than entertain. Her recommendation, which of course they can take or leave as they like - she is simply an observer, would be to take this concept and raise the bar. Make it educational and entertaining. Bring in real experts. People like… well like Wright. Or Gresham. Or both. Get real people that know what it is to serve in a great house. And get people that have been guests in a great house. Pick the contestants based on their perceived ability, or conversely their inability, to manage. This is where the humor can come in. And by all means make them actually serve. Have parties. Have guests. They can populate the show with the… What did Wright call them? The Sloane Rangers?

Yes madam. The Sloane Rangers.

How marvelously witty he is. Here is a fun thought. Just because she’s game and she loves the idea, she’d be happy to participate in a little soiree.

Would she? The Producers are practically humping her leg and salivating. She might not have worked in years, but she has cred. Her name attached to their project would give it class. It would transcend the mundane.

Absolutely. In fact – the more she hears about this – she finds the whole concept one she could embrace. If done properly of course.

I can hear the Producers collectively swallow this whole. Not that the Actress and Uncle Harvey don’t have a point.

One of the Producers casts an appraising eye over Uncle Harvey. What is his job?

Uncle Harvey has no job. He has a calling. He is my gentleman’s gentleman.

Would he and the Actress be interested in looking at some of the CV’s of the potential candidates? They would all be interested in their opinion.

The Actress would be delighted. Simply delighted. She has quite an eye for talent. What they need is the right mix of people on the teams. She is certain she could help them find that certain je ne sais quoi that would make for interesting viewing. Wright?

If I can spare him, he would be delighted to assist.

I can spare him. If they don’t need me I’m going riding. They’re all welcome to stay as long as they like. I take a few steps down the terrace as Margaret and Elizabeth come around a corner in their tennis skirts.

Elizabeth should be forbidden from wearing tennis skirts and pigtails. There is something criminally adorable about her.

I change direction with Elizabeth’s hand in mine.

As we pass close to the Producers I do not miss the comments.

They can think whatever they like.

If they think I’m taking Elizabeth inside to spend the rest of the morning in bed with her, then they would be right.

To a man they wish they could be me. I have sold them lock, stock, and barrel on the idea of Wold Hall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wold Hall the Television Show

The producers leave. They will be returning in the morning with their cameras. Preliminary deals have been agreed to under the watchful eye of Uncle Albert and Cousin Harry.

We breathe a collective sigh of relief as their cars and vans disappear through the trees.

Champagne? Mr. Gresham has his finger on the pulse of the mood.

Everyone loves this idea. Mrs. Gresham, the Esthetician, Elizabeth, and Aunt Maisie go searching for glasses.

Gresham and I head to the wine cellar.

Do we have any champagne left? I would have thought it would be done by now.

He’s pretty sure there’s a case left over from the last party.

What was the last party?

My parents twenty-fifth.

Right. That one.

Bygones Oliver. Bygones.

I know. In fact, it’s a little surprising to me sometimes how much I don’t let these things bother me anymore.

I have changed.

We find champagne in the cool dimly lit interior of the wine cellar. Many of the racks are empty, but there is still enough inventory to make me feel respectable.

What does he think about this show?

They’ve asked him to be a consultant.

Which means?

His retirement fund will get an enormous boost. One thing. Just in case. Don’t be part of this. Don’t sell out.

I’m about to marry for money. I think that ship sailed long ago.

No. I’m not understanding what he means. Not me Oliver. Me Lord Harkslon. Let them rent Wold Hall. Let them film their show. But don’t let them have Lord Harkslon. Be above this.

I think I understand.

Did they offer me money to participate?

No. But it’s coming. I can feel it. I imagine they want to put it to me in a way that I won’t find disagreeable.

I put on a pretty good show. I remind him of my grandfather. How he used to rule over this place when he was a young man. But unlike my grandfather I have kindness. I get that from my mother.

I won’t do it.

Don’t. I’ve worked too hard to rehabilitate my image. Don’t piss it away by selling out to the media.

He’s right.

Good. He looks to the case of champagne. How many bottles?

Let’s just bring the case.

Do we stop at the humidor for cigars?

It’s like he’s reading my mind.

We all get drunk. Except for mum who is permanently off booze and Sanjay who doesn’t drink because that’s Sanjay and the Actress who thinks it’s probably for the best to refrain for the time being.

We move to the games room. We drink, we play records on the phonograph, we dance, we are joyful.

Uncle Albert and Mr. Gresham make right fools of themselves over the Actress. Aunt Maisie and Mrs. Gresham just ignore them as they take the Matchmaker and Sigrund to the cleaners at the cards table. Lionel plays the piano and the Doctor with the Esthetician sing. They are bawdy and it’s marvelous cabaret. The Party Planner, Elizabeth, and Margaret sit around gossiping and talking weddings. The Shaman throws darts with unnerving accuracy.

I pretend not to notice Harry – god bless my cousin Harry – putting the moves on Gita. He’s a sly dog that one!

It’s when he catches me in a corner that I know shit is getting real.

He doesn’t want to be indiscreet.

Out with it. I’m true drunk. No – I’m too drunk – that’s it – to care about propriety.

Would I have any condoms he could borrow?

Borrow? No. Have to use and dispose of properly, yes. Why?

Well – again not wanting to be…

I put my hand over his mouth. If he says he doesn’t want to be indelicate again I’m going to punch him.

Well – he might be reading the situation wrong, but he thinks he very well might pull.

With who? (I know who. I just love to make Harry squirm.)

Well – Gita.

Harry. I think that’s wonderful. Does he want to know something?

Sure.

I wish we were friends.

I’m drunk.

No. It’s true. I wish we were friends.

He’s certain I’m drunk.

I wish we were friends and I’m sorry we aren’t. We live what – maybe a mile from each other? Our paths probably cross daily. Why aren’t we friends?

Because I was always mean to him.

I’m sorry. I am. Truly. Can we be friends? As a token of my friendship I offer him condoms and the hand of the lovely Gita.

I think maybe he should walk me up to bed.

Good. Because that’s where the condoms are.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It’s Always a Party at Wold Hall

I wake up feeling rough, but oddly aroused.

Then I get it. Elizabeth has her mouth on my dick. It’s a wonder I’m able to sustain an erection feeling as hung over as I do. But I manage.

Do I compare the oral techniques of the two women in my life?

Why not.

Olga is better. Hands down, Olga is better. Olga is a machine.

But Elizabeth has style. And this capacity to somehow unhinge her jaw like an anaconda that is nothing short of astounding.

Being totally honest, both women get the job done.

So who am I to pick nits?

I really do appreciate the extra attention from Elizabeth. I don’t wholly understand it, but I do appreciate it.

She missed me after I disappeared with Harry.

Harry needed condoms.

She knows. Everyone knows.

So Gita and Harry?

Yes. They’re not the only ones. There were hookups all over the place.

Really? Who?

She’s not going to tell me.

Why not?

Why ruin the fun of discovering who is awkward around whom this morning at breakfast.

She gets up from the bed.

I follow her into the bathroom.

She loves my shower. Without even a skipped heartbeat she’s made herself totally at home.

I love my shower. It’s new. Recently installed.

She picks up a bottle shampoo. Not my shampoo. Olga’s shampoo.

She discards it with a flick of her wrist.

When she is not around I will very quickly and very discretely snag it back out of the bin and hide it. What is it with woman and wanting to mark their territory with their crap? Olga will notice the missing shampoo. Then there will be questions.

She turns on the shower.

I hear this weird sort of thumping noise in the background.

Damn. Damn damn damn. Just what I need. To have to get a repair man to come out and look at the shower. I have no doubt anyone qualified to fix it will charge a fortune.

I turn off the shower.

The thump thump thump is louder.

What the fuck is that?

It’s not the shower.

It gets louder. And even louder.

Elizabeth goes to the window.

It’s a helicopter making an approach to Wold Hall.

The Footballer.

She shrieks.

She turns the shower back on. She washes in record time. I had no idea a woman could get in and out of a shower in literally two minutes.

She dries just as quickly then picks up Olga’s moisturizer.

I’m ordered to get a dress. Any dress. Something pretty.

I’m not her ladies maid.

I need to help her. I would help Olga.

Actually Olga would kick me out. She doesn’t like to have me around when she gets ready for a client. We try to keep our private life and our professional life separate.

Why am I being an ass?

I’ll just get out of her way.

I go into the shower as she rushes about doing her hair.

The noise from the helicopter is deafening.

Elizabeth shoves pins in her hair as I quickly dress.

Is everything ready? The cottage?

No. It’s not ready. I already told her how I felt about this.

And?

I’m not happy about this. Not even a little. He was supposed to be here on Saturday. Before the television people were on the property. How does he even know we’re still here?

She told him. He called her.

He should have called me.

Why? It’s between them.

So they worked this out without bothering to let me know?

What do I need to know?

That a major celebrity is going to be on my property when I’m meeting with the Producers. I need to control this situation. I don’t need him coming along and screwing it up.

How could he do that?

I don’t know. But this is all going far too well for me for it not to get screwed up.

Whatever. I’m overreacting.

I don’t think so. I told her very clearly that I was happy, not sad, that he wasn’t coming. She should have respected that.

Why am I being such a little bitch? This is about her and the Footballer. Not me.

It’s my house.

Whatever.

We leave the room together.

The camera crew has already arrived. They are filming the helicopter which has landed on the lawn.

The Matchmaker is there. She grabs Elizabeth by the hand before she can go charging across the lawn.

Elizabeth struggles. She’s just too dumb to get it. Fortunately the Matchmaker has smarts enough for herself, Elizabeth and a few other people.

I go across the lawn with Mr. Gresham and Uncle Albert to greet the new arrival as he exits the helicopter. I can feel the cameras on my back.

We stand out of harm’s way until the pilot signals we can approach. This isn’t the first time a helicopter has landed at Wold Hall. My former fiancée often had us travel by helicopter from London to Wold Hall when she needed a mental health break.

The Footballer exits. The noise from the still churning engines makes me shout to be heard.

There is a television crew here filming.

Not cool. Why the fuck do I have a television crew filming on the property when I know he’s coming? Not cool.

Because I didn’t know he was coming. Elizabeth didn’t tell me. If she had I would have called him and told him not to come. He should have called me and not Elizabeth. My entire family is here. He’s a married man. I can’t have him carrying on like he isn’t married in front of my mother and my Aunt Maisie.

So not cool. Get them the fuck out of here now.

I’m not going to do that.

He gives me that look. The one I get from clients from time to time. That look that says I’m fucking rich, you’re fucking poor, do what I fucking tell you to do look. Not cool. Get rid of them. Get rid of all of them.

He wants me to get rid of my family, the film crew, or both?

Get rid of all of them. Now.

No. I’m not going to do that. The crew is here for personal business. They’ll be gone in a few hours. My family is here because this is my home – not a brothel. He’s welcome to stay if he likes. But they need to be able to film wherever they need to on the property. I’m not going to call a stop to it because he wants to hook up with Elizabeth two days after we’d arranged for him to visit and he cancelled.

He doesn’t get it. I can see the blank look in his eyes. He’s not used to being told he did something wrong.

Does he understand that I am not going to tell my family and the crew to leave? (I don’t have to scream anymore. The helicopter is shutting down and we are approaching the house.)

Cool. He’ll tell them to leave. People do what he tells them to do.

No. This is my property. If he kicks off I will make it uncomfortable for him. Do we understand each other?

He thought I had some kind of a cottage that they could use. That would be cool.

I need him to understand that my family is here. I will not let him, a married man, engage in an affair in front of my guests. If he wants to wait and do it old school style and wait until everyone is in bed before he goes tiptoeing through the halls, then that’s fine by me. We have a sort of tradition of that in the country. For the love of god, my mother is in this house. He has a mother. Would he like it if I showed up at his place to have a booty call?

Cool. Okay. He’ll wait.

I think I’ve somehow managed to get through to him.

When we reach Elizabeth the Matchmaker has told her something that seems to have registered. There is no enthusiastic jumping into his arms.

Margaret’s fiancé is about to go apoplectic. The Footballer. The Footballer. If I have to fear anyone jumping into his arms, it’s William.

We travel inside as a group to the China Room.

I need fate to toss me a bone here.

Fate tosses me a bone.

The Footballer introduces himself.

We’re mates. We work out together. I told him that it was quiet here. Sometimes it’s good to get out of London.

He gets it.

The Producers arrive.

I think one of them ejaculates in his trousers when he learns that I’m “mates” with the footballer.

The Footballer’s wife has a reputation for being easily convinced to participate in anything that has a sheen of class and is on television.

I’m fairly certain that William is going to have a stroke when the Footballer asks if anyone wants to go to the lawn with him and kick the ball around.

Roland volunteers Elon in the name of him needing to do something other than scream for the third day straight.

Football seems to work for Elon. That he takes a Sharpie and draws a face on one side of the ball and writes Renata on the other is only a touch worrying.

We get down to business in the Map Room.

They’ve contacted the Actress’s agent.

She is aware of this. She is also aware of their offer. It is a bit of a surprise. Not that she’s opposed to television. On the contrary. As they well know she was on television for years. It’s just the nature of unscripted television that has her concerned. She would have to insist on a level of control to – for lack of a better way to put it – keep it classy. She does have her reputation to think of.

They make her every promise and assurance that she will be the star of the show.

Then they should proceed.

I sit at the table and wait my turn. They get to me after Gresham and Uncle Harvey. They would like me to be a judge.

No.

They offer me a lot of money.

No.

They offer me so much money I nearly waver.

No.

They offer me so much money my heart quivers in my chest and my resolve falters.

Obviously they don’t understand. This is not a negotiating tool. I am James Albert Oliver Alexander Stanley Adair, 18th Earl of Harkslon, 14th Earl of Connalara. I don’t do television. Not for any money.

Uncle Albert gives me a nearly imperceptible nod.

They would in some way or another like to give a nod to the lineage of the inhabitants of Wold Hall. Perhaps one appearance?

I’ll consider it. But the answer is probably no.

They were hoping to use me in the opening credits. Perhaps doing a voice over.

I have no idea what that is. Follow me. I may have a solution for them.

I rise from the table. I’m working on instinct at this moment. I walk out of the Map Room through the library and down to the long gallery. Along the two walls are sixteen portraits.

As we pass each one I give a brief history of each of the preceding Earls of Harkslon. There is no portrait of mum and dad and there is no portrait of me. Granddad and Grandmother are staring at me from their place on the wall.

If they want me in the show, they can have me hanging on the wall. I recommend they commission a portrait painter to get on the ball.

I’d agree to that?

Yes. They also need to get one of my parents done. Wouldn’t be right otherwise.

But isn’t my father...

Yes. He’s dead. There are about ten thousand pictures of him around the place. I’m sure a competent portraitist could manage.

They would be very generous if I would agree to one appearance.

I will not agree to be in their television show. At least not at this moment. If, in time, I am confident it does not in any way diminish my standing, then I will consider it. Quite frankly after that nasty business I had to wade through previously if I wanted to be on reality television I’m certain they would have found a spot for me on Big Brother.

They can assure me that their project will be the highest standard in unscripted television.

High standard in unscripted television? Bit of an oxymoron that. Now – anything else?

By the time they leave a deal is hammered out.

Mrs. Gresham, Aunt Maisie, the Esthetician, Margaret, the Doctor, and Lionel have been in the kitchen most of the day preparing a celebratory feast.

I find Uncle Harvey on the terrace staring off at the sea.

This big man that has always been such a rock in my life has glycerin slick trails of tears down his cheeks.

I thought he would be happy. He’s going to be Wright. On Television.

He grabs me and hugs me. I fear for my ribs. When he releases me I can breathe.

I’ve given him everything he ever wanted.

Well, nothing has really been done yet. This all could fall apart.

It won’t. He’s been praying for this for years.

He prays? When did he get religion?

A desperate man leaves no stone unturned. He was a very desperate man.

I thought he enjoyed being Wright.

He is Wright. But now he can be Wright professionally.

Extreme Wright?

Precisely.

Just think of what this will do for his cooking blog.

He’s imagining his own line of cookery. Perhaps aprons.

Something with a stripe I think. Like a signature.

We laugh.

This is going to bank him more money than he dreamed of having.

I imagine it might.

He can’t believe I turned them down. If I’m negotiating for more money, then I’m a genius. They’ll probably give me whatever I want.

I was serious. It’s not a negotiating tool. I wasn’t trying to be a prick either. There is going to come a moment when I will want to live this life. Not the other one. I don’t want to let that world creep in on this one. Someday I want to be able to close the door on that world and never open it again.

He understands. Is this why I was so upset with Elizabeth?

Yes. If I showed up at her father’s vicarage with a trick I don’t imagine she’d be terribly happy. I never should have agreed to let the Footballer come here. I’m annoyed that she not only didn’t respect my need to keep boundaries intact, but that she didn’t even ask me before telling him he could come here. Olga never would have done that.

Elizabeth is not Olga. Elizabeth is far more of a mercenary than I seem to realize she is. Elizabeth is also not as dumb or innocent as she has led me to believe. But she is an excellent violinist.

I didn’t know she could play the violin.

Really? I’ve been dancing a jig to her tune for weeks. Don’t think Olga hasn’t noticed. Just because Olga lacks the emotional maturity to properly express herself doesn’t mean she doesn’t know what Elizabeth is up to.

Am I really that blind?

No. Not really. We are just strangers in this strange land and sometimes we mistake friend and foe.

Elizabeth is not my enemy.

Surely not. Elizabeth is a lovely girl. But she is a diversion. She has waylaid me. I have strayed when I should have stayed on the straight and narrow. I am doing the same thing with Elizabeth that I did with the Swedish Princess.

I don’t get what he means?

I’m using Elizabeth as an excuse to ignore my commitment to Olga.

My commitment to Olga is going to come to a crashing halt the moment I get married.

Think about it. Take some time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Former Fiancée

Elizabeth wants more from me than I’m going to give her.

I’m not going to break up with Olga for her.

I’m pretty certain that’s what she wants.

I’m getting married.

Uncle Harvey’s words stuck with me.

I did as he suggested and I thought about it.

I had an epiphany.

My five nights at Wold Hall gave me ample time to read through my prenuptial agreement.

This wedding is going to happen, short of a meteor strike.

It also gave me time to come to terms with what is happening with Olga.

I’m purposefully acting in a way that will cause me to pull away from her.

I love Olga. I want to sabotage it. I want to diminish what I feel for her. I want it to be less real.

I love Olga and it is breaking my heart that I have to give her up.

I’m being an asshole to save myself the grief of having to face up to the fact it is going to hurt like a bitch when I have to say goodbye to her.

I want her to get so angry with me that she believes she’s better off without me.

History is repeating itself and I know it.

I did this same thing with my former fiancée. I’m doing it with Olga.

I don’t know that I loved the Swedish Princess, so much as I was afraid of falling in love.

There is this thing I need to do.

I know I cannot rest until it’s done.

I need to explain.

I meet my former fiancée at her apartment which used to be my apartment. The doorman has been instructed to let me in.

What was so urgent I couldn’t wait to see her?

I kiss her.

I’m not certain if she is too shocked to clock me across the jaw or if she’s not as upset as she looks.

I kiss her again.

What has gotten into me?

It’s hard to explain. Something happened to me. I’m not afraid anymore.

When was I ever afraid?

I’ve been terrified all of my life. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m starting to understand things. I made so many choices because I was afraid. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m strong and I can take care of myself.

Have I been drinking?

No. I just wanted her to know something.

What?

I’m sorry. I was afraid. I made choices because I was afraid.

Afraid of what?

Afraid of realizing that I loved her. It was okay for us to be together when the world thought I was with her for her money.

I’m starting to piss her off.

Just hear me out. Fine. She’ll hear me out. There’s nothing on worth watching. This might be marginally entertaining. Am I having some kind of breakdown? Because she might enjoy that.

Maybe. It’s possible I’m having some kind of breakdown. For certain I’ve had an epiphany.

This ought to be good.

We go into the apartment. She doesn’t turn the television off, but she does mute the sound. She sits on the couch we argued over. She was right. The fabric choice does work better with the other pieces in the room.

I sit opposite her on the couch.

She picks up a cup of tea with the bag tag hanging over the side of the cup.

I never loved her.

Yes. She knows I never loved her.

No. I never loved the Swedish Princess. Her – I point just to make certain we’re on the same page – I loved her. I was just afraid.

She stares at me. It’s that look.

I don’t know how to explain this. I was afraid. I was terrified to give up and trust that she wasn’t going to hurt me. So I did everything I could to make certain she didn’t love me. I kept pushing at her. Testing her. Giving her excuses to tell me that I wasn’t good enough.

I gave her plenty of those.

I know. Because if I just allowed myself to be loved and love in return, I was terrified it was going to consume me.

Like my parents.

Yes. Like my parents. I didn’t want us to be like my parents.

Because that’s what I thought being in love had to be like.

Yes.

I really am fucked up.

I know. I’m really getting that.

My parents were fucking obsessed with each other. Crazy, unhealthy, fucking obsessed with each other. I get that right? They damaged me with their love.

I know. I get that now. I was afraid of being like that. So I tried to sabotage the only love I ever had. And I’m sorry.

I loved her.

Yes.

I had a hell of a way of showing it.

I was afraid.

And that fucking cunt was the answer?

Yes. I knew she’d never leave her husband. I pretended I didn’t know that, but I did. I used her to put a wall between us. She was my excuse not to give myself wholly to our relationship.

Did it ever occur to me that if I’d just been honest with her we could have worked through this? We could have gone to counseling. Together. Together we could have gotten to the root of my fear. She knew I was fucking action packed with commitment issues. She would have stood by me. She wasn’t oblivious to the fact I was damaged by my relationship with my parents.

I get that now. I needed to learn that.

What is she going to do with me?

I don’t know. I don’t know what I need to do with myself. But I’m figuring it out.

Is this some sort of ploy to get her to deal with her father for me?

No. I’ve more or less come to terms with the fact I’ve gotten what I deserved. I just wanted her to know that I loved her. I realize that now. It wasn’t a pack of lies. I wasn’t using her. I did love her.

She starts crying. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her cry. I’ve seen her angry, happy, sad, enraged, and joyful. But I’ve never seen tears.

I move close to her, I take the cup of hot liquid that could be dumped over my head from her hand, and hug her.

I’m sorry. I really am sorry.

I hold her. We start kissing. We start moving and adjusting. I know where this is going.

I do the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I go against my instinct and I pull back.

I’m sorry. But I can’t.

Why not?

Because…

Because why?

Because I’m in love with someone and it would hurt her terribly if I were to do this. It doesn’t matter that she’d never find out. It doesn’t matter that she’s in Ibiza. What matters is that it would hurt her. I get it now. I get why monogamy matters.

Who? Russian Barbie?

Yes. I love Russian Barbie. I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out when we were together. I really am. But I’ve figured it out now and I’m not going to do the same thing to Russian Barbie that I did to her.

Now is the moment I decide to not be an asshole. But yet I am still an asshole. Unbelievable.

I am sorry. I really do want to go to bed with her. But I just can’t. I can’t cheat anymore.

Get out. Get out now before her fucking head explodes.

I’m going.

Good. And just so I know, we are so not okay.

I know. But I’m not afraid anymore. She and her father can try to break me, but they never will. I’ve realized that.

Get out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Olga

I call Olga on my way to Parvati’s apartment.

She answers after three rings.

What? Am I done being angry with her?

Yes. I’m sorry. I love her. I haven’t been the easiest person to be around. I love her. I’m sorry. I’m going to make it up to her when she’s home.

Keep talking.

She is my sun, my moon, my starlit sky.

This might be working.

Her eyes are sapphires, her hair black silk, her skin pure satin.

She’s sorry she got so crazy.

I haven’t exactly helped the situation. I’ve been distant, moody, basically a shit.

Yes. And so much more. She’s not going to forgive me anytime soon for cutting her out of the television thing. Don’t think she doesn’t get what I’ve done.

We’re not going to be on television.

Grrrrrrrr.

No. When is she coming home?

Four days.

We need to talk about Parvati.

She doesn’t want to talk about Parvati.

I know. But we need to talk about it. We need to talk about what is going to happen after I get married.

If I get married.

We’ll talk about this when she’s home.

Fine. Will I go with her to Saint Petersburg for Easter? We’ll go straight from Margaret’s wedding. She wants to be with her family. It’s the first time she’ll be home for Easter in too long. She wants me to be with her.

Yes. I’ll go with her.

Good.

I love her. I have to go.

Where am I going?

I’m having dinner with Parvati.

What?

Does she want me to lie to her or tell her the truth?

Truth.

I love her. I’ll call her when I’m home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Parvati

Olga being out of town makes my life infinitely easier when it comes to Parvati.

I may have come clean to her on the phone about the fact I’m meeting Parvati this evening and that I will be getting married, but I can tell the news has yet to really sink in. I should have told her the date was set already, but I know enough to wait and not tell her over the phone.

Keeping the details of my engagement to Parvati from her has been nothing short of aneurysm inducing.

Booth Buxton trying to contact me through Olga is not an accident. That he knew she was going to ask me to go to Russian with her for Easter was no guess. It’s a message. He knows all.

I will be marrying Parvati in September and then I will be getting the hell out of town for no less than two or perhaps three years. Maybe five. If I can sort it all in such a way that I can include Olga in the deal, I’m gold.

I’m meeting Parvati at her flat for our “date.” Parvati has a fucking gorgeous flat in Chelsea.

Am I so shallow that I would marry a woman for her flat?

Do I really need to answer that?

Yes. I am that shallow.

But then again I don’t think I am. At least not anymore. For certain I used to be that shallow. But now I wonder. Clearly I’m marrying Parvati for the money and the accompanying accommodations. But would the person I am now make the same choices I did six months or even a year ago? I don’t know.

The doorman knows who I am. (Which is more than I can say for myself. I am ever so funny!) He is on the telephone. He waves at me.

Odd. Not that I’m opposed to friendly, but that seems out of character for the level of sophistication of the tenants.

I give him a nod as I walk past him to the elevator.

I slip between the doors as they shut.

Lord and Lady Tightass with their daughter Lady Ivefuckedmorethanonce are passengers.

We’re all very polite. Lady Ivefuckedmorethanonce gives me a give me a give me a call look.

Then the questions come.

Yes – I will be attending Cousin Margaret’s wedding.

Yes – I’m truly looking forward to going.

Yes – Mum will be there.

Yes – Awful tragedy Dad’s death under the tires of the bus.

Yes – I’m so looking forward to seeing them in Scotland.

Yes – I did get into an accident.

Yes – I do look rather dangerous.

Yes – I walked into a plate glass window.

Yes – I will try to be more careful in the future.

I leave them before they reach their floor. I cannot escape the feeling my star is on the rise again. Perhaps I’ve been in purgatory long enough.

I reach the door. I don’t have a key. I don’t imagine I’ll get a key before we get married. But then again, after marriage I’m moving to Mumbai. She can do whatever the fuck she wants to do. I’m perfectly fine taking my turn being the poor victim in a relationship. It works in my favor when our divorce comes.

I ring the bell.

I nearly jump out of my fucking skin when a man I don’t know pulls open the door with a jerk.

What the fuck do I want?

I… (double check my location – I am where I should be and right on time) I’m Oliver.

Okay – truth be told I didn’t understand half of what was coming out of his mouth. I’m pretty good deciphering what people are saying. But I couldn’t cut through this guy’s East London accent with a buzz saw.

I think – although I will never know for certain – that he had every intention of fucking me up and then fucking me up some more and then fucking me up again. But then again – I will never know for certain.

Parvati is there.

She invites me in. I realize that she and the huge man blocking my entrance were in the middle of a rather heated argument. This must be the previously mentioned fixed boyfriend.

I figure what the hell. The woman is going to be my wife in a few months. The least I can do is get in the middle of a fight between her and the man I can only assume is her boyfriend.

I take a seat on the couch. Chocolate suede. It’s like being hugged by a giant brown bear. I love the couch. I pick up the remote and turn off MTV and turn on cricket. I then turn down the volume. No wonder they have to shout. It’s the only way to be heard over the noise.

There is screaming. There is breaking glass.

I sort of pay attention.

I am the cause of this fight.

Lovely.

I don’t really have a horse in this race so I keep quiet.

This is between them.

When it comes down to me telling Olga I’m getting married, I would appreciate Parvati keeping her nose out of it.

What Parvati and I need to do is come to an arrangement about the other people in our lives.

It’s sort of hard not to pay attention.

The boyfriend knew she was getting married.

This is old news.

He objects to the fact that she is getting married to someone other than him period.

She thinks he’s stupid. When is he going to get that if she doesn’t marry me that her parents will cut her off. Does he understand cut off? No money? Is he really that dumb?

They would manage without her parents’ money – this is the heart of his argument. I give him credit. He certainly does seem to care for her. Not that I could imagine her giving up her standard of living to be with any man. This just doesn’t seem like the Parvati I’m getting to know. My Parvati – do I dare call her my Parvati? – likes her money. She’s willing to marry me to keep it.

I’m in a good position. If she calls off the wedding without good reason, then I’m paid a fair amount of money to say we decided to go our own ways and it was all done very tactfully and we will always be friends.

Of course if I fuck it up I’m out in the cold. I’ve read the prenuptial agreement. So have Uncle Albert and Harry. The list of amendments they’re insisting on will hit the cabal of lawyers serving the Singh family in the morning.

I don’t want to intrude, but truth be told we have a dinner reservation and I’m starving. So I intrude.

I’ve heard about all I’m going to listen to. He needs to go. I understand that he doesn’t like this situation – my girlfriend doesn’t like it either – but the ones that need to come to an agreement about how he and my girlfriend are going to slot into this are me and Parvati. Fighting with her about it isn’t going to do anything other than make her upset.

This man. He looks at me. He sizes me up. He fucking cleans the floor with me.

I’m fairly certain he is going to pummel me to death.

The taste of blood in my mouth bites like a copper penny. I think my stomach has been kicked to a paste. Every breath is a sort of torture.

I can’t understand what he’s saying as he continues to kick me.

I think this is how I’m going to die.

Then it stops.

Boom.

Done.

Parvati is screaming off somewhere in a cave.

There are footsteps near my head and the door opening and closing.

Parvati is next to me on the ground.

Her hands are poking at me. This does not help anything.

She asks me idiotic questions.

Can I get up?

Can I please just go home?

Can I not tell anyone about this?

Can I just mind my own business?

I have one question for her.

Can she call an ambulance?

No. No she’s not going to call an ambulance. I need to leave. I’m getting blood everywhere.

Gita.

No – her name is Parvati.

Get my phone from the coffee table and call Gita.

She gets my phone and hands it to me.

I call Gita.

Gita tells me I need to get to a hospital. I’m to call her when I know where I’m going. She’ll meet me there.

I try to call for an ambulance but Parvati takes my phone.

She already told me no ambulance. She can’t have that kind of trouble.

I’m hurt. Prove she has a shred of decency in her body and help me.

Fine. She’ll call a taxi for me. But I need to go out the back entrance. She can’t have me going through the front entrance.

Somehow – someway – she gets me to the street. The taxi refuses to take me. In fact the driver takes off repeating something about not wanting to get involved.

In the end she drives me. Unlike my previous trip to the A&E I’m admitted immediately. No need for the battered man to sit out in the waiting room.

I’m stabilized. That’s what they call it. Stabilized. The nurses take pictures. The doctors make diagnoses.

Gita arrives with Harry. I’ve interrupted their date. I am sorry about this. They are a lovely couple.

Finally someone that cares I’ve had the piss beaten out of me holds my hand.

Parvati stays. Not because she wants to, but because the police have been called and they won’t let her leave. She has to give a statement. She lies.

I don’t lie. I tell the police the truth. Harry gives his name and his card. We will be pursuing this with the full force of the law.

Parvati refuses to give up the name of her boyfriend.

I promise them I’ll get it for them. And yes – Harry is correct – I want to pursue the matter to the fullest extent the law will allow me.

When they leave Parvati turns on me with a vengeance. Do I have any idea how much trouble I’ve gotten her boyfriend in? I should have lied to the police. Told them I was in some kind of accident. Am I stupid or something? What am I thinking?

I’m thinking she’s not worth bruised ribs, the tear through my eyebrow, , the massive contusions covering my abdomen and back, the dislocated shoulder and tooth that is dangerously loose. I want her to go. Far far away. Then go just a little bit more.

Fine with her. Hospitals give her the creeps. We can discuss this after I’m back from that wedding. Until then I need to keep my fucking mouth shut about her boyfriend. Tell the police I hit my head or something and I don’t remember anything.

I don’t think she understands. I never want to see her again. I don’t want to marry her. Not now not ever.

It’s not her fault I got beaten up. I should have known better than to mess with her boyfriend. Next time…

No! No next time. Never again. I’m not going to marry her. I’m not. She’s not worth it.

I have to marry her. I have to. Everything is being arranged. If I don’t marry her then her parents might find out about this. The main reason she has to marry me is because they hate her boyfriend.

She can count on the fact they will find out about this. She can also bet that I will be asking for compensation for the days I’m going to miss from work.

She can’t believe me.

Believe it. In fact, I might just sue her ass for refusing to call an ambulance.

Harry clears his throat. Does he understand correctly that she refused to call an ambulance?

Of course she refused to call an ambulance. I was bleeding all over the place as it was. Why would she call an ambulance?

Harry has this one – because I had been seriously beaten and needed emergency medical care? She was witness to the assault? Was she not?

Yes. She was there. She saw the whole thing. She can’t imagine what I was thinking getting in Andre’s face. I sort of got what I deserved.

So she was aware how injured I must have been after witnessing such a brutal assault?

Of course she was. She was there. Andre was brilliant. I went down like a sack of rice.

But yet she refused to call an ambulance.

She called for a taxi. What more did I want? I’ve caused enough problems as is. If they put her boyfriend in jail because I’m such an idiot she will make me suffer.

Gita tells her to leave. Gita – tiny little Gita – gets nasty with Parvati. No one gets nasty with Parvati. She doesn’t know how to manage.

Harry tells her to leave and that he and Uncle Albert will be in contact with her family’s attorneys in the morning regarding nullifying the betrothal contract. She might be the daughter of a billionaire, but she is unworthy of being an Adair. (Go Harry!).

Realization contorts the contours of her face. No. No no no. I can’t do that. I agreed to marry her. We have a deal. The wedding is being planned.

Harry tells her that under the terms of the agreement I have the right to cancel it. That she has a boyfriend is enough. Getting beaten up by her boyfriend is damning. That she refused to call an ambulance is just criminal.

Fine. Maybe we can make a deal. She can make up for it a little. Am I still going to that wedding? She’ll go to the wedding with me. That’s what I wanted right? I did ask her. She’s changed her mind. She’ll go with me to the wedding. She supposes she could do that. Just don’t let her parents find out about this. I really don’t understand. They really want her to marry me.

I was just being polite. I was relieved when she refused. I could care less about her and what her parents want. I have limits. I will not put myself in that kind of danger for anyone especially her.

She’ll break up with her boyfriend.

They belong together. In fact they deserve each other. Somebody please make her go.

Finally security removes Parvati.

Harry has to leave simply because medical things make him a bit ill, but Gita stays with me while my shoulder is set, my elbow is sewn back together, and I’m placed into a room where I will remain until it is absolutely certain I can be released back into the world.

There is some debate between the three of us. Then we agree we will tell mum nothing. She doesn’t need to know what’s happened.

Harry calls Uncle Albert who arrives while I’m waiting for the drugs to kick in.

Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps the screen. Playback of Parvati quite righteously declaring that she refused to call an ambulance repeats.

Harry that sly dog. I had no idea he was so sneaky.

Uncle Albert is incensed. This we cannot have. This is unacceptable. The Singh family will be hearing from him. He takes pictures of me. Lots of pictures. We will be suing for gross indifference if nothing else. He wholeheartedly agrees mum does not need to know about this. It is decided that I will be removed from the city to the country.

After the drugs have taken effect, I call the Matchmaker and tell her everything.

She already knew about the boyfriend. But this is different matter entirely. This is criminal.

I tell her my Uncle Albert knows about what has happened. He’s going to contact the Singh family.

Have him telephone her.

I tell her I’ll call again when I’m not so heavily medicated and hang up.

When I’m released the next morning, Gita picks me up. She drives me to Wold Hall where I will hide and heal until it is time to leave for Scotland and Cousin Margaret’s wedding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Dirty Laundry

I sleep for long periods of time those first days at Wold Hall. Gita and Mrs. Gresham care for me.

Gita sits on the bed next to me, where I drift in and out of sleep. She reads voraciously. She changes my bandages. She washes my wounds. She helps me bathe. She doesn’t feed me, but she does facilitate the process.

Harry, Uncle Albert, and Aunt Maisie arrive at the weekend.

We have a family meeting in my bedroom.

Everyone is on board with the conspiracy to keep mum in the dark.

Mr. Gresham believes the best thing to do is to tell mum something rather than nothing. Like it or not, I will not be fully recovered when Margaret’s wedding rolls around. I will be bruised. These things must be explained.

We are all in agreement that she will be told I had a riding accident. Every one of my injuries easily accounted for.

Olga is also a problem.

After a fair amount of discussion, we are all in agreement the same lie will do.

Olga doesn’t need this kind of stress.

I’m also not entirely certain how likely it is that she would call her father and ask him to send one of his knee busters around to deal with Parvati’s boyfriend.

I want this to be dealt with through the legal and acceptable channels. Not through gangland score settling.

It’s the next morning when the shit hits the fan.

There really is no other way to put it.

The shit hits the fan.

The first warning comes in the early morning hours.

The phone rings and rings and rings until Gita gets up from where she’s sleeping on the couch to answer it.

It’s Uncle Harvey.

We have a problem. Elon is getting mum and Aunt Lucy. Sanjay has been called. They’re coming to Wold Hall.

They can’t come to Wold Hall. I’m in no shape to see mum.

I’ve made the papers.

Pictures of my busted up face, Parvati, the Boyfriend, and some rather lurid details about me getting beaten up in a lovers tussle. The details are not entirely correct, but close enough to the truth to be damning. They always are.

To sum the article and its contents up in a few statements:

1. I am named as Miss Parvati (daughter of the billionaire industrialist) Singh’s fiancé. The details of the engagement have been kept private in anticipation of a public announcement sometime in June. It’s a lovely thing that I’m going to get married. I deserve some happiness after that long run of bad luck I’ve had.

2. Unknown to me, innocent newspaper selling lamb that I am, Miss Parvati (daughter of the billionaire industrialist) Singh has a secret lover. Mr. Andre Laurence (bad guy!) of Whitechapel is being sought by police for questioning. Mr. Andre Laurence (bad guy!) of Whitechapel is a bad bad man with a criminal record as long as a baby’s arm. In fact – Mr. Andre Laurence (bad guy!) roasts babies for his dinner. Daily.

3. I had the stuffing knocked out of me when I walked in on Miss Parvati (daughter of the billionaire industrialist) Singh and Mr. Andre Laurence (bad guy!) in flagrante delicto (that means having sex). I was rushed to the hospital by a totally distraught Miss Parvati (daughter of the billionaire industrialist) Singh. I am currently recovering at my country estate Wold Hall (location of the soon to be shot reality drama The Noble Service, thenobleservice.com).

4. A family spokesperson speaking in the strictest of confidentiality reports that I am doing well, in good spirits, and looking forward to putting this incident behind me and getting down to the nuts and bolts of planning our September wedding. (Poor deluded man!)

5. Miss Parvati (daughter of the billionaire industrialist) Singh and Mr. Andre Laurence (bad guy!) are photographed making out in the hospital parking lot while I am inside getting patched up. (Poor deluded man!)

Oh fuck me. Oh fuck me times a million.