Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

  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.