by Livia Ellis
The wedding is called off when my grandmother dies suddenly of a stroke.
It’s back on again after a few months.
Then my grandfather dies because he really can’t cope without my grandmother. No one says this, but we all know it.
I meet a princess during all of this. A beautiful Swedish princess with hair like gold. She’s neither kind nor warm. In fact, she’s a touch mean. She makes me work like a bitch for her love. But I love her. I love her so much I would do anything to be with her. The only problem is that she’s married.
Someone rats us out. Not that we were being particularly stealthy. But still… I’m ready to break off my engagement with my fiancée. I’m bored being with a woman that works all the bloody time, bitches about her weight incessantly, and hates going to clubs. I only need for my princess to tell her husband that she’s leaving him. But she doesn’t. Instead she tells me that it’s over. Did I honestly think it was going to last?
My fiancée doesn’t want to discuss it. She just doesn’t want to know. She just wants me to grow up and start acting like a man and not a spoiled boy. I’ve lost my grandmother and my grandfather. The tabloids smash her for being a doormat. They’re kind of right.
We agree that the wedding should go forward for September as planned.
We move the venue from Scotland to England.
We’ll get married at Wold hall.
She orders a complete overhaul of the place. The workmen have eight months. They practically gut the wiring and the plumbing in a day in order to put it back together again over a period of no less than four months according to their estimates. The place was being held together by little more than bits of wire and duct tape as it was. We suddenly are left without hotwater or heating. The Greshams, the only permanent employees remaining on the estate, move into the garden house and I take up permanent residence in London.
My fiancée returns to work.
This is good. I’m heartbroken. I need some time for myself. I travel. Wherever I go there is the same Saudi Princess that had dogged my steps in London for a year.
I let her catch me. The surest way for a woman to get bored with me is to let her have me.
Not even a night of infidelity. Just a few hours. I’ve had enough. I’m ready to settle down into my boring life and get married. I’ve had a taste of real love and I know we don’t have that. But we have comfort and familiarity. We’re friends. We’ll make a good team. She’ll be an excellent mother. Kind, warm, and loving. She will be good to me. I’ll be good to her. I can’t promise I’ll be faithful, but I’ll be good.
I don’t know there are cameras aimed at me and the Saudi Princess until I return to London.
This is the bridge too far.
She’s a good person. For three years she’s put up with my shit. My constant infidelities. My lies. My broken promises. Three years she’s wasted on me. All she wanted was to get married and have children. She loved me from the first moment she saw me. Why couldn’t I just give her a little back? Why couldn’t I have just given her a couple of years of just being with her?
I am a changed man one mistake too late.
She ends it with me.
I don’t know if this is such a terrible thing.
Then her father goes after me with a sort of preternatural fervor that would make a grand inquisitor proud. She moves to Beijing to oversee the expansion of the chicken burger empire.
I have nothing. I personally own nothing.
He can’t touch me. He can sling all the lawyers he wants to at me. He can try to get me to pay for the canceled wedding. He’ll walk away with handfuls of dust.
My father inherited everything when my grandfather died. The only thing I own is my sailboat which is waiting for me back in Tortola.
As much of an arse it is, we’re going to finish the repairs on Wold Hall. Truthfully it had to be done and my Former Fiancée’s father paid for the miles of pipes and wires being stored in the ballroom. We might get lucky. There have been a few film crews sniffing around. We might be able to rent the place out again for some nice coinage.
Then my father dies. I have something my Former Fiancée’s father can go after. Wold Hall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dinner in the Long Room
It is on this night that I have returned home with Olga, Elon and Renata have appeared, and I’ve discovered my mother is dying, that something special happens.
We come down for dinner and are told by Mrs. Gresham who is in a smart dress and pearls under her pinny to go put on proper dinner clothes. We’re dining in the Long Room. She’s made roast lamb. Just like I like it with the little potatoes.
We’re dining in the Long Room?
Yes. We’re dining in the Long Room. She’s already put out the good china and crystal. Mr. Gresham’s lit the fire and the candles. It’s been too long since there have been guests. I’ve never had guests in the house since I’ve become earl. My first dinner party should at least be on the good plates.
Olga loves this idea. She loves this. She knew she was right to bring a cocktail dress. She kisses Mrs. Gresham on the cheek then runs off.
Mrs. Gresham avoids my smirking stare. She’s up to something.
She is not.
She is so. What is she up to?
Nothing. Just making Olga feel welcome.
Any particular reason why?
Do we need a reason to make our lovely guest feel welcome?
She’s up to something.
Not at all. Suit and tie. Elon’s already digging through dad’s old things and she gave Renata one of my mother’s dresses. Not that she isn’t refusing to wear it. But none the less, she has something proper if she chooses to be anything other than a pain in the ass.
I return to my rooms, change into the suit and tie Olga has set out for me in less than five minutes, then watch her as she transforms herself into a vision of loveliness.
We walk together holding hands through the house to the Long Room. Mr. Gresham is there in suit and tie with Elon who is pouring drinks. Renata enters carrying a bread basket which is placed on the table with a petulant thump, followed by a laden down Mrs. Gresham.
Olga asks if she can help.
Mrs. Gresham glares at Renata for a moment then smiles at Olga. That would be very kind.
Renata is wearing the same frumpy gypsy skirt and tie-dye tank with thread bare sweater she showed up in earlier.
Lovely to see she made such an effort.
Why should she act like a pretentious twat to impress the pole dancer?
Olga is not a pole dancer. Please try to act like she has manners.
She looks like a pole dancer. Where did I meet her anyway?
I don’t have a quick enough answer.
Didn’t I meet her at my new job? Mr. Gresham hands me a drink. Mrs. Gresham told him I’d found a job. Well done.
You met her at your new job? Renata is beside herself with laughter.
Elon takes her by the elbow.
He needs a smoke. Now.
He drags the howling Renata out on to the terrace.
I swallow down the good scotch in a gulp. Mr. Gresham refills my glass. Olga is a lovely girl.
Olga and Mrs. Gresham return with the first course.
I get to sit at the head of the table in the Long Room for the first time. It feels good. I toast my guests. I thank them for their company. I thank Mrs. Gresham for preparing dinner for us. Renata mumbles something about it being odd that the cook is sitting down to dinner with her betters. We all ignore this except for Olga who doesn’t know yet not to pay attention to Renata.
We eat.
Renata continues to poke and prod at Olga.
Olga continues to engage Mr. Gresham in stories about his childhood at Wold Hall, what it was like years ago, and in speculation about what it must have been like when his father and his grandfather before him was the butler. How grand it all must have been. And the parties.
He has albums of pictures she can look at. In
fact there are trunks of the old livery up in the attic. They could go upstairs and have a poke around.
She’d like this very much.
Renata finds all of this very boring. She wants to know all about my new job.
Mr. Gresham would also like to know all about my new job.
Olga is smoother and more practiced at answering the potentially awkward questions. So she does.
Renata is like a grand inquisitor. She’s relentless.
Then comes the question.
Are you a whore?
Olga is speechless. I’m speechless. Mr. Gresham looks confused. Mrs. Gresham is appalled. Only Elon has the capacity to say a word. That word being SILENCE.
Renata is relentless. What is the problem? It’s a legitimate question. She has no problem with prostitution. In fact she thinks it’s marvelous Olga makes men pay cash to fuck her. If only she had so much business savvy.
Olga looks as if she’s been slapped.
Elon deals with Renata. He is the only one that I have ever met that can get through to her when she’s being purposefully malicious and painfully ignorant.
Renata refuses to hear.
She cannot understand what the problem is.
She attempts to engage Olga as if the two will join up together in solidarity.
Is Olga a whore or not?
There is a lot of dancing about the real nature of what it is Olga and I do for money.
She’d just like a straight answer.
If she is a whore then why is she so ashamed of being a whore that she refuses to admit she’s a whore?
If one is going to be a whore one should not be ashamed of making that choice.
Unless of course she’s being forced by a pimp.
Is that the problem?
Does Olga have a pimp?
Renata is suddenly all doe eyed and round mouthed.
Oh dear – is Olga the victim of a white slaver? Is she being held captive by a pimp? Should someone call Amnesty International? Or Unicef?
Unicef is for children. This is the only thing I seem able to say.
So what is it? Renata persists. Because if Olga is ashamed of being a whore…
Then it comes. Olga’s arm snakes out and her hand smacks Renata across the face with enough force to knock her off her chair.
Renata laughs as she holds pulls herself up off of the ground.
She knew it! She totally knew Olga was a whore. Had to be. All Russian girls living in London are prostitutes.
Renata should consider herself very lucky that she’s pregnant. This is Olga’s response.
Renata is silent. There is no immediate and clever retort.
If she weren’t pregnant she’d be getting her ass beat.
Elon chuckles. He told Renata she was looking chubby.
She’s not chubby!
Then shit really gets real.
Renata screams at Olga. Feral shouts that are practically indecipherable. What comes through is worrying until I do some mental maths.
She’s pregnant.
How the fuck does Olga know?
She’s psychic. She always knows when a woman is pregnant. It’s her gift.
Bullshit. How does she know?
She’s psychic.
I silently recalculate. Not my baby. Not physically possible. I’m in the clear without a doubt.
Mr. Gresham turns to the outraged Renata. He raises a hand. She is to be silent. Immediately.
She starts chirping with outrage. She stands up to Mr. Gresham. He really needs to learn his place. After all, he’s just a servant.
Mr. Gresham looks at me.
I blink, my mouth moves, I’m quite literally speechless.
Olga walks out of the room followed by the Greshams.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Baby Daddy
Renata looks as close to humbled as I’ve ever seen her.
The three of us are alone in the dining room.
I’m absolutely certain I am not the father of her child. There is a question mark hanging in the air of whether or not I am the father of my princess’s child, but I strongly suspect I’ll never know the answer to that question. I’m not even certain I want to know. I probably don’t.
So… I smile as I look at Renata. Who’s the baby daddy?
She looks at me, bats her eyelashes, produces a few tears, then tells me I’m the father of her child.
I laugh. How did I know this was coming? How did I know?
I’m not the father.
Yes – I am.
She’s crying big tears and it somehow makes her look vulnerable – I’m momentarily transported back to our days as undergraduates living in Dublin. It was that vulnerability that kept sucking me back in.
(n.b. My desire to rescue her from her life has all sorts of implications relating to my own issues with my family that were eventually resolved through many sessions of therapy. For four years we were part of a group of English students that were drawn together by virtue of the fact we were all strangers in a land that wasn’t always friendly to us by virtue of the fact we were English. She was my girlfriend for three of those years and one beyond. Talk about the voyage of the damned.)
For the first time since I met Renata during orientation week, I pull back. This is not my problem. My problem is upstairs in my bedroom either slashing the cushions with a knife or crying. Neither is good. So my attention is focused on dealing with what I shall now refer to forever as the Renata Problem.
I am not the father of the child. I can’t be.
But I am.
To put it as bluntly as I can, I put it as bluntly as I can. I have not ejaculated into her vagina in no less than a year. There is no physical way I am the father of her child. Unless she raped me in my sleep, then I’m in the clear.
How soon I forget.
What have I forgotten? I have forgotten nothing.
That night the three of us went clubbing? Ended up back at Elon’s?
OHHHH – Yeah. Of course.
So. (the smile through the tears was annoying smug) I’m the father of her child.
Not. I hadn’t forgotten. As being blunt is the only way to go at that moment, I’m blunt. I had her up the arse.
But…
Yes – butt. I laugh at my own joke. I’m not the father and she isn’t going to convince me that I am. If she wants we can DNA test.
Elon interjects at this moment. Why are we even discussing the fetus as if this is inevitable? He’s very confused. Why hasn’t she gotten an abortion yet? Clearly she is incapable of raising a child. Anyone as dysfunctional as she is cannot raise a child. It’s not like it’ll be the first time she’s had an abortion.
I snort as I laugh. Just so we’re clear, I’m not paying for this one. She can get it through the NHS.
Elon will pay for it. Problem solved.
Problem not solved. It’s too late to have an abortion.
I raise a hand. We need to back this train up. How could she assume I was the father of her child if she is already far enough along for it to be too late to have an abortion? Because that night at the club was just a couple of months ago. Unless the law has changed she has twenty-four weeks.
About that…
Never mind. I just don’t want to know. Who is the father? Really. No bullshitting. How many names are on the list? Should I fetch a pen and paper?
Elon tells me to leave. I’m no longer needed for the conversation to continue.
I couldn’t get out the door fast enough.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Olga the Psychic
At the door to my rooms, I pause, place my ear to the door and hear nothing. No crockery slamming against the walls. No screaming. Just silence.
I tiptoe inside, slowly close and lock the door behind me. Olga is in the bedroom in her hoodie robe and pajamas, propped up in bed, with her book opened on her bent knees.
Am I the father of that child?
No.
Am I absolutely certain?
/>
Yes. Physically impossible. How the hell did she know Renata was pregnant?
She’s psychic.
I stop midway from pulling my jumper off over my head. Psychic.
Yes. She’s psychic. All of the women in her family have the eye. She always knows when a woman is pregnant. Renata is going to have a girl. She’ll stake her reputation on it.
Her reputation as a psychic?
Yes.
Because she’s a psychic.
Yes. Am I really going to leave my dirty clothes on the floor?
I’ll tidy up in the morning. What does my future hold?
That all depends on whether or not I pick my dirty clothes up from the floor.
I pick my clothes up from the floor and dump them on a chair.
Happy?
Yes.
Am I going to have a happy ending? I could use some good news. It’s been a rough day.
She smiles at me and again I have this feeling everything wouldn’t dare to be anything but okay with her around. Of course there will be a happy ending.
If she’s so psychic how could she not know I wasn’t the father of Renata’s child?
Renata’s energy is toxic. It’s hard to look at her. She really should not have a child.
No shit.
She reaches over and pulls me to her. I’m given a hug. Warm, strong arms, hold me and make me feel safe and wanted.
Then her hands start moving over my body. The underwear I’d come to bed in is discarded like a greasy chip wrapper. I try to get inside her pajamas, but I’m stopped at the boobs. I can touch the boobs. Nothing else. There are kisses which evolve from sweet to passionate.
I feel my body and soul gently curving around Olga’s little finger. How well she knows me already. That little finger she so completely wrapped me around starts inching and moving.
I wish I could pay attention to her technique when her mouth starts working me. She does this thing… It’s sort of a suck, twirl, push/pull, throb, flutter. I need to learn this. But I can’t pay attention. That’s the beauty of the technique. It fully pulls your mind away from any other thoughts than this wonderful thing is being done to me by this beautiful woman.
Add to that the probing finger and I have found heaven. Sexual Heaven.
