Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

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.
r />   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?