Happy Valentine's Day Oliver

by Livia Ellis

  She has a date?

  Yes. She has a date. What do I think? She’s not dating? How else is she going to find a husband? I’ve sucked away four years’worth of her fertility. One of the reasons she’s moving back from Beijing.

  She’s moving back from Beijing?

  Yes. She wants to find a man. Not impossible in Beijing, but certainly easier in London. She knows people that know people in London. People that can introduce her to eligible men. Friends. Speaking of friends, how is my band of merry misfits? God help her, she actually misses them on occasion.

  Renata’s pregnant.

  Seriously? That’s just bad. Who’s the father?

  Elon.

  She starts laughing loudly. She sits on the edge of the bed, misses, then falls to the ground.

  I know. I laugh along with her.

  Why does she miss this? For some reason she misses this. Ridiculous. Poor baby. When is it due?

  Another month.

  Poor baby. Why is it the Renata’s of the world get pregnant when a man blows in their ear and she can’t?

  Not like we tried.

  True. We didn’t try. We were the rare exception that actually wanted to be married before we started trying to make babies. Maybe a baby would have changed me. But probably not.

  A baby would have changed me.

  She isn’t so sure about that, but it’s possible. Anyhow, we’ll never know.

  So this isn’t going to make Margaret’s wedding weird is it?

  Nope. Not even a little. It’s all good.

  She hands me the leather box that contains the tiara after I get my shirt on.

  Am I seeing anyone?

  Sort of. I don’t want to be rude, but she really should give me the engagement ring back.

  Of course. She doesn’t have it in London. It’s at the house in Inverness. She’s going there after the wedding. She’ll pick it up. We can get together when she’s back in London.

  Together together? (I give her the smile that always worked on her no matter how busy she was)

  No. Never again. The look doesn’t work anymore.

  I’m ushered to the door. She practically uses her foot to boot me out.

  I get it. We’re done. It’s over. Get out. Blah blah blah.

  If it’s any consolation, I’m still great in bed.

  Thanks. At least I can do one thing well.

  I do many things well. It wasn’t all bad.

  No. It wasn’t all bad. (I bend over and kiss her one last time) I’ll see her at Margaret’s wedding.

  She’ll let me know when she’s back in London for the ring.

  Good. Maybe we can have lunch.

  No. She doesn’t want to be seen in public with me.

  Seriously?

  Yes. Does that actually surprise me?

  No. Sadly no. Does it bother her I never bought her flowers or did anything special on Valentine’s Day?

  Why do I ask?

  Curious.

  Yes. It bothered her a lot. In fact it broke her heart every time I made it very clear to her she wasn’t worth even minimal effort.

  I’m sorry.

  Yes–I am very sorry. In fact I’m the sorriest person she has ever known. I am also the most damaged person she has ever known. That she thought she could somehow fix me is a testament to how dumb she can be at times. Just so we are clear, it hurt a lot when I didn’t treat her like a woman but rather her chum. Flowers, lingerie, dirty weekends, making plans for us rather than waiting around for her to do all of the work. She would have liked these things. A modicum of effort on occasion to let her know she was something more than just a bank account I could draw funds from would have been nice.

  I never thought of her like that. I didn’t. I didn’t think she’d like lingerie or dirty weekends.

  Because I offered and she refused?

  Well no. I suppose I didn’t.

  While we are on the subject, she put up with more shit from me than she should have. Maybe if she had put her foot down long before that fucking Swedish cunt wormed her way into our lives, then things might have righted themselves. What she should have done was just forced me to end it long before it went anywhere.

  How long did she know about what was going on?

  From the beginning. In case I didn’t know, I am the most fucking inept adulterer known to man.

  Really?

  Yes. Really. And Elon sucks at covering for me. Something to carry forward into my next relationship.

  Good to know.

  She’s absolutely certain that if she’d been such a demanding, punishing, bitch as that fucking Swedish cunt then I might have actually worked a little bit for her love and affection rather than taking it for granted. She is never going to understand me. Never. Maybe if she’d treated me like shit I would have followed her around like an asshole. But no. So to bring the answer back around to the question, YES, it bothered her a lot that I never did jack or shit for Valentine’s Day. She just pretended she didn’t care so it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

  I’m sorry?

  She’ll get the ring for me. Her secretary will call me to arrange a time to pick it up. I can piss off.

  The door slams ending the conversation. I take the elevator down. In the lobby I cross paths with The Baron. Thursday afternoons from three-thirty. His office.

  I hate myself and the choices I’ve made so much it burns. It isn’t often I feel like this about the job, but when I do it is the strongest I feel about anything in my life at that moment. Up that elevator shaft and behind a door is the life I once thought I’d have. A life I assumed was mine by some cosmic right.

  He gives me a nod. He lets the elevator go. He’ll get the next one. What am I doing here?

  Business.

  Finished? Or heading to?

  Finished. Moving on to my next appointment.

  His car is out front. Do I want some quick business?

  Sure.

  We go to his car. He makes a call that takes thirty seconds. He tells whoever it was he was on his way to meet that he’s been held up. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

  I take that number as a challenge. Not much of one. We both know I’m good and he takes about seven minutes.

  Five minutes later in the back of his blackened out Mercedes limo, I make a quick two-hundred pounds. What was I actually doing in that building? He knows my former fiancée lives in the building.

  How does he know this?

  That isn’t the question. The reason he likes me is because I have a lot to lose if the true nature of my employment comes to light. He knows a whole lot about me. What was I doing visiting my former fiancée?

  I had to pick something up from her that I left behind.

  What?

  Instead of engaging myself in a conversation that will go nowhere, I simply pull out the leather box and show him what I was picking up.

  He examines the tiara. Nice. Where did I get it?

  It was a gift to my great-great grandmother from Empress Alexandra of Russia. Faberge.

  Why am I blowing people for a living when I have something like this to sell?

  That’s really my business.

  How much do I want for it?

  It’s not for sale.

  Everything is for sale. Get out of the car. He’ll have a check sent around to me for the tiara.

  He needs to give it back to me. It’s mine. It’s not for sale.

  I don’t realize I’ve received a crack across the jaw until after it happens.

  He doesn’t like the way I get mouthy. He doesn’t like my arrogance. That’s been a long time coming.

  I touch my cheek then look at my fingers. I’m not bleeding, but it stings.

  I’m a touch too proud for him. He doesn’t like that about me. At least Harold understood his place. That arrogance. He doesn’t like that. That’s the problem with people like me. We’re all really nothing with our meaningless titles.

  Is that so? Is he going to give me my tiara back
?

  He already told me. He’ll give me a check for it. Now get the fuck out of his car.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. I will call the police and I will report that he stole my property from me. Too many people know that tiara belongs to my family for him to get away with taking it from me. I already told him it was not for sale. What’s it going to be?

  He tosses the box at me and orders me out of his car.

  I get out and disappear. But I don’t go far. I go to the bar across the road where the two of us went often enough for drinks when we felt like getting out of the house. Elon is waiting for me.

  What the fuck took so long?

  We might have hooked up.

  Genius. Because so many good things will come from that.

  I know.

  Not that he’s really one to talk.

  Nope.

  Looking forward to the Reunion Islands.

  Can he go?

  Maybe.

  Seriously.

  Maybe. Does he really want to go?

  Sure.

  He asked me to bring a friend.

  What about Olga? She’s a friend.

  Not that kind of friend.

  He thought we weren’t going down that road again.

  Ehhh…As long as we both agree that this isn’t about anything other than fucking around and going on vacation.

  He can live with that.

  What about Marcus?

  What about him? They have an open relationship. Does Marcus know they have an open relationship?

  Elon takes his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.

  He poses the following questions to Marcus.

  • Do we have an open relationship?

  • I have been invited to go to the Reunion Islands for what will more than likely be a big gay male orgy. Do you have any objections to my going?

  • Just a moment.

  Elon looks at me. Can Marcus come?

  No. But I’ll hook him up for the Saint Patrick’s party The Matchmaker’s girlfriend is organizing in Dublin.

  We have come to an agreement.

  The two talk for a few minutes.

  I don’t know what to make of their relationship. I don’t. I think Elon is in love with Marcus, but that Marcus is neither willing nor desirous of committing himself wholly to a relationship. In my heart I believe Elon wants to be in love with all of the accoutrements. Monogamy, stability, constancy. This is not Marcus’thing. At least not as far as I can tell.

  I have another of those revelations that I wish I didn’t have. My former fiancée wanted those things from me. Monogamy, stability, constancy. I didn’t give them to her. I was the Marcus in our relationship. But she kept holding on as Elon does. I feel like such a shit.

  I get another round and pay for our drinks out of the cash I got from The Baron. I text the LPS while I’m waiting on our order. Olga is sitting at the table when I arrive.

  I get a text back. Send a picture.

  Move together.

  Olga and Elon move their heads together and smile. I take a picture and send it across the world to Mexico City.

  I get a message back a few minutes later. Smoking hot. Invite along.

  I show the message to Elon and Olga. You’d think they’d won the lottery.

  7 Valentine’s Day Olga Style

  When we’ve finished our drinks, Olga smacks her hands together and announces time is wasting and we are leaving. She kisses Elon on the cheek, tells him to be a naughty boy, and then takes me by the hand. We leave together holding hands.

  We walk. It’s not far and the evening is mild even for mid-February. She is vague about the clients and I don’t really push. I don’t care enough to push. Clients are clients. I know her well enough at this point that I don’t question much. If there was something I needed to know, she would have told me.

  At the hotel, we go directly to a room. This is Olga. Everything is organized. She already has the key cards. The room is filled with roses, the bed is covered in petals, a bouquet of balloons is tethered to the back of a chair, there is champagne chilling in a bucket, violin music on the sound system and cinnamon flavouredbody oil waiting to be slathered on a willing body. I nearly gag when I spy chocolate covered strawberries. There is no clichéleft untouched.

  She brought a suit for me. It’s hanging in the closet. Put it on. She needs to get dressed.

  I’m ever so good at doing as I’m told, so I put on the black suit, white shirt and red (yes red) tie.

  I comb my hair, give it a coating of gel, then wait. And wait. Women. Bah.

  Olga emerges from the bathroom in a red (yes red) dress that is far prettier than anything I’ve seen her wear. More than pretty, it’s feminine and lovely. Her ass isn’t hanging out and I don’t have a front row view of her boobs. In a word, she’s covered. How extraordinary. I had no idea Olga was capable of looking like a lady. I know that makes me sound a bit like a prick, but being wholly honest, Olga is sort of slutty.

  I ask her again who the client is. Because I can imagine no client of ours that would like Olga in her red chiffon and silk dress with the knee length skirt and the bateau neckline and capped sleeves looks wholly proper.

  There is no client.

  What?

  There is no client. Surprise! I’m her valentine.

  What?

  We have then tickets for music. Royal Albert Hall. Opera. Not opera. It’s like a concert that they’ll be singing a lot of opera songs. That seems like the kind of thing I’d like. She already ordered room service. We can eat quickly, then go.

  I’m confused. Why did she get opera tickets? More specifically why did she get tickets to go to a place that I will more than likely run into someone I know (I don’t say this–but I think it).

  She thought I’d like music.

  I do like music. There is no client.

  There is no client. She wanted to surprise me for Valentine’s Day. Am I surprised?

  Yes. I am very surprised. She should have asked me if I wanted to do something for Valentine’s Day.

  Do I not want to do something for Valentine’s Day?

  That’s not the point. She should have asked me.

  What exactly do I find objectionable? I really don’t want to go out in public with her do I? She’s right. She knew it. I think she’s not good enough for me. This is why I don’t want her going with me to my cousin Margaret’s wedding. It has nothing to do with the fact I’m also bringing my mother. Admit it.

  That’s not it.

  Then what is it? Why don’t I want to be seen in public with her?

  We are in public together all of the time.

  Not in proper public. We go to bars and such, but we don’t go to nice places.

  Really? We were out every night when we were in Paris. What about Rome?

  What about London?

  She's got me there. I have no response. It’s true. We don’t go out in London except to places I’m absolutely certain we will not run into anyone I know from my other life.

  We never go on dates. I’m ashamed to be seen with her in public. Even when she goes to all the effort to buy a dress that covers her boobs and is so long a nun would wear it.

  If only I had to gun to shoot myself with. There is only one way out of this and that is to capitulate and hope to god we do not run into anyone I know.

  Fine. She has made her point. If she wants to go out, then we can go out. Her dress is lovely. Very nice. Perfectly appropriate for an evening at a concert. I’m an idiot, I’m a fool, I’m wrong, so very wrong. Can she ever forgive me?

  This makes her smile. Of course it does. She’s won. I can’t say no to her. Not even for my own self-preservation.

  I open the champagne as instructed. She’s charming and sweet. She makes me toast to things like love and romance. I’m forgiven for not having a proper gift for her as she did sort of surprise me. She’ll give me my gift later. It’s a special surprise. We wish each other a happy Valentine’s Day a
nd kiss.

  Dinner arrives. I can’t eat. I’m too nervous. It’s Valentine’s Day. Everyone that I know with a wife or a girlfriend that is treated with a modicum of respect will be out trying to prove he’s a thoughtful man.

  Time ticks on as it does. The moment arrives in which we must depart.

  I take some consolation in the fact that Olga is both beautiful and appropriately dressed. I feel like an asshole for thinking less of her than she deserves. I’m just not ready for this. But she’s right. I have avoided taking her out in public. I just didn’t realize she had noticed.

  I help her on with her coat. I kiss her cheek. She really is lovely with her black hair tied at the nape of her neck and her makeup purposefully subdued. This is all for me. She is being exactly what she thinks I want her to be and she’s not wrong. I do appreciate the effort. The problem is this lovely young woman is not her. This is not Olga. Olga is all legs and tits. This is an illusion.

  We take a car from the hotel to that bastion of all things English. The Royal Albert Hall. Of all places she could have duck marched me into going to.

  Immediately upon arriving we walk straight into the path of Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie. Immediately! It’s as if they were waiting for us. The instinct and intuition of Uncle Albert to find me when I least want to be found is nothing short of supernatural.

  They are with CousinMargaret, her fiancé, CousinHarry and some woman who I don’t think he knew the name of. Martha or Emily or Towanda. Either or neither nor do I care. There they were. As if it was all planned.

  And it fucking was! Treacherous Olga! Vile evil treacherous Olga! That harridan! That sneak! That wicked naughty girl!

  And double for Cousin Margaret!

  The two of them. Sneaky women colluding against me. They planned this. Margaret and her desire for there to be no awkward moments at her wedding. Selfish girl!

  Aunt Maisie is happy to see me. How is my mother? Is she well? Is there anything she can do? She’s already sorting things out with the hotel for when we come for the wedding.

  I give the usual responses to all of these questions.

  It’s Uncle Albert’s turn. He hears I’m working. That I actually have a job. I might actually make something out of my life.