by Livia Ellis
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 ou
t 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.
