Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven

by Livia Ellis

Boring.

  I walked into a glass door.

  Charmingly clumsy. But still boring.

  I was out with Roland and Elon, we were in the back of a taxi and I saw the Esthetician fighting with her boyfriend. I jumped out of the car and beat the piss out of the guy.

  Is that really what happened?

  Yes.

  Could I please do her a favor?

  Yes.

  Please don’t get into any more fights. She’s not a well woman. The last thing she needs is to hear I’ve been busted up by some thug.

  I won’t get into any more fights. One was my life quota.

  She puts the headband on. How does she look?

  Ridiculous. She couldn’t possibly imagine the woman who gave that thing to me.

  Loud? Bullish? Overly familiar?

  Does she know her?

  She knows her type. She grew up around those women.

  She takes off her headband and examines it. It’s marvelous. A treasure. Speaking of treasures, do we talk about the huge fight we had over Lady Charlotte’s diamond?

  We’re we really fighting over Lady Charlotte’s diamond?

  No.

  I kiss her on the cheek and hug her. That was a bad day for both of us.

  Did I get the ring back yet? Not that she really wants it.

  Not yet. But I will.

  Do her a favor.

  Anything. Find Sanjay. She needs to take her pills and he’s probably wondering where she is.

  I can do that. If she’s wondering I’m really okay with her and Sanjay.

  At the moment they really are just very good friends.

  Even if they weren’t I’d be okay with that.

  She smiles at me. She goes to lay down on the bed. I go find Sanjay.

  Uncle Albert corners me nearly immediately after I leave mum in my rooms to sit and read whilst everyone else gets sorted.

  Why did I bring that man to his home?

  This isn’t his home. It’s my home.

  That man has no place in Wold Hall.

  It’s my home. I don’t want to be a dick, I really don’t, but this is my home. I’m working like a bitch to hold on to it. This is my home. Maybe if he stumped up some of the cash for the tax bill or even for the electricity after he comes and stays here for a long weekend I’d be willing to hear him out, but he doesn’t even ask me if he can stay. He just assumes.

  Since when does he need my permission to come to his childhood home?

  It would be the polite thing to do. What would grandmother say?

  I’m right. It’s my home. At the very least he should have the courtesy to let me know he plans on visiting. He realizes that I’ve been working hard. He probably could have helped. I’ve proven to him that I am willing to try to solve my own problems.

  Really? I’m not a total and profound disappointment?

  He never thought I was a profound disappointment. He didn’t like that my father left me with my grandparents like he did. James should have left me with him and Maisie. That would have been the smart choice. Not with the grandparents. Honestly - he and James grew up with their parents and then he leaves me with them. It just made no sense.

  He would have taken me in? (This is a thought that has never occurred to me. I had an alternative to my grandparents. What would I have been like if I’d grown up with Harry as a brother, Margaret as a sister, and with Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie as acting parents? I really just can’t imagine it.)

  Of course he would have. What do I think? This is the problem with our family. We make too many assumptions and don’t take enough time to talk. This is my grandfather’s legacy. The lies and the secrets. Truthfully, he’s not thrilled about Lionel being at Wold Hall, but it’s my house. He’s going to respect that.

  I appreciate that.

  One thing. How do I know the Actress?

  We’re lovers.

  Uncle Albert is incapable of speech.

  Seriously. We’re lovers.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  We’re lovers. She’s a tigress in the sack.

  Good show! Well done! I am my grandfather’s heir. I am the envy of men the world over. Including him and probably Gresham.

  What can I say? I have a way with the ladies.

  He’ll pitch in for groceries and electricity.

  Actually, what I really need if for him to read through my prenuptial agreement.

  I’m really going to marry that Indian girl?

  I’m really going to marry her.

  He should have gotten involved in this long ago. I don’t need to marry that girl. I don’t. Legally there has to be another solution.

  I don’t mind. She’s not so bad. It could be worse.

  How many men in our family have said that before marrying a woman that they liked just fine but could never love?

  I don’t know. Hopefully I’m the last.

  Let’s get the papers. He’ll start going through them with Harry. Promise him I won’t sign anything until he gives me an all clear.

  I won’t sign without his nod.

  Moving along I find Sanjay who is holding a medical bag and looking for mum.

  I show him to mum who is sitting on the bed watching television.

  Could I tell Gita where he is?

  Of course.

  I go looking for Gita. I find Gita with Cousin Harry in the Map Room. He’s giving her, the Esthetician, the Matchmaker, the Party Planner and the Actress a tour. Mr. Gresham is following along as if he’s actually interested. Which I know he’s not. He’s staring a big googly eyed at the Actress. I’ve never seen that expression on his face before. It’s disturbing.

  I tell Gita that her father is looking for her and where she can find him.

  I join the tour. My phone rings when we’re in the dining room.

  The Footballer. He’s not coming. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I don’t know what I was thinking inviting him to the house the weekend I was planning on meeting with the television people. This is my home. Not a brothel. Granted, three of my clients (one former – I’m pretty sure Roland and I are done for good) are with us, but this is somehow different. This is seedy. This busts through the boundaries between this world and the one I have carefully maintained over the months.

  I’m nothing if not relieved.

  I find Elizabeth. She’s in the kitchen perched on a stool as Mrs. Gresham, Uncle Harvey, Aunt Maisie, Lionel and the Doctor get down to the business of feeding us all.

  Is this a spectator sport? I give her a smile. A smile that means get off her bottom and see if there is anything that needs doing.

  She doesn’t want to muss herself.

  He’s not coming. He just called me. He’s not coming.

  Instead of getting up and helping, running the risk of mussing herself, she stomps out of the room.

  Aunt Maisie looks at me over the chicken she’s stuffing. Where did I pick up princess? Where is Olga? At least Olga will get stuck in and help.

  What can I do to help?

  Go down to the wine cellar and get reds and whites.

  I recruit Lionel to help me.

  His baked brie is oven ready and he can be spared.

  My grandfather loved his baked brie. He tells me this when we are well away from all ears in the kitchen.

  He must miss him terribly.

  He does. It’s a hard thing. Do I know they were together nearly fifty years?

  I didn’t know that.

  He didn’t realize Albert was going to be here. If he’d known he would have stayed away.

  It’s all right, really.

  He thinks Elon and Roland are lovely. It’s such a different world now. Elon is clearly having a hard go of it. It’s wonderful that Roland can just walk with him down this path he has to travel. No secrets and lies.

  Did he bring any of those pictures and things he mentioned to me?

  He did! He did! But surely I’m just being kind.

  I’d like to look at them. I’d l
ike to talk to him about my grandfather.

  He’d like that very much. It’s been difficult.

  We walk silently the rest of the way to the cellar.

  As we walk I get it. Lionel is in mourning and he has no one to share it with. He’s alone. The monthly lunches I had with him and my grandfather stopped as abruptly as granddad’s life. He wasn’t welcome at the hospital or the funeral. No one gave him a second thought after granddad died.

  I can see how he would look upon Elon and Roland and perhaps feel hope for the future.

  I don’t know if my grandfather would have made different choices if he’d come of age in my time. I’ve made a choice. I’m going to get married, settle down, and raise a family. I couldn’t live a lie as my grandfather did.

  We get the wine. We return to the kitchen.

  Can they spare us?

  We can be spared.

  I ask Lionel to show me what he brought.

  We go up the steps to the Green Room which is curiously yellow.

  I’ve always wondered why they call this the Green Room.

  It used to be painted green with green furnishings. He despises green. My grandfather had it painted yellow, which is his favorite color, to please him after they quarreled.

  He did not.

  He did. He knows I know that his relationship with my grandfather was not a secret kept from my grandmother.

  I still have problems trying to reconcile this.

  He understands. There were moments when he didn’t wholly get the dynamic. But it worked. The Green Room being painted yellow was a concession to the fact he’d been permanently booted out of the master bedroom when my grandparents were married.

  I had no idea.

  That was part of the deal.

  We sit together on the couch.

  Lionel holds a large leather bound photo album on his lap. We flip through it page by page.

  I look an awful lot like my grandfather.

  I do. I have his spirit too.

  He’s crying. I don’t realize it because the tears are silent. I take his hand and give it a squeeze. Does he remember all of those holidays we went on?

  He does. Very well.

  I loved those holidays. I miss our lunches. Why did we stop having our lunches?

  Because my grandfather was dead and he was no longer a part of my life.

  Nonsense. We need to get back to those lunches. I have no one in my life that knows how to speak Greek anymore.

  I’m patronizing him.

  Does it matter? Who cares? I have to have lunch with the Doctor at the club every Thursday. He should join us.

  It won’t take much arm twisting to convince him. I do need to come by the house. There are some things there for me. We also have to discuss the house.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s not ringing. Then my pocket buzzes again. I still have Elon’s phone.

  I need to take this.

  Go go. I’ve indulged him enough.

  We’re not done going through the pictures.

  Later.

  I answer Elon’s phone.

  Marcus.

  Hi ho it’s Oliver not Elon. (I’m quick about establishing my identity before he says something vulgar or skeevy – I’m pretty out there sexually, but Marcus just takes it to a whole new level.)

  Where is Elon?

  I have no idea. We’re all Wold Hall. We went to the seven winds. I have his phone. When I locate him I’ll tell him to call.

  Who the fuck is Roland?

  Oh… uh…

  It’s cool. (another person that uses cool far too much) He gets it. He’s not exactly a saint when he’s away from Elon. He’s just getting a little pissed off. Every time he calls Elon he’s getting this cunthammer (Elon’s word) on the phone.

  Elon’s having a bit of a hard go of it.

  Hard go of what? What does that fucking mean anyhow? He gets we both speak English but sometimes he just does not understand me.

  He’s not dealing well with fatherhood.

  Did Renee drop the kid?

  Renata. Is he asking me if she gave birth?

  Yes.

  She has. I thought he was going to be here for the birth.

  Why the fuck would he want to be around for the birth of a kid Elon doesn’t want? Or the birth of any kid for that matter.

  To support him?

  To support him do what?

  Cope with fatherhood.

  What is there to cope with? Elon doesn’t want to be a father. He sure as shit doesn’t want to be a father. The kid is not a problem.

  (I like Marcus. I do. I think he’s a hell of a lot of fun. Based on recent experience I happen to know he’s an incredible fuck – yes I went there with Olga as a matter of fact. But he is not the man to have around in a crisis. Not that I imagine he’d stick around during a crisis. Roland is the man to have around with life starts getting real.)

  I’m going to go looking for Elon. As soon as I find him I’ll tell him to call.

  No, it’s cool. He just needs to know if they’re good for Bermuda.

  When are they going to Bermuda?

  Three weeks. After some wedding.

  That would be my cousin Margaret’s wedding.

  That’s it. In exchange for him going to Wales…

  Scotland.

  Same difference.

  Not to the Scottish or the Welsh.

  Whatever. If he goes to the wedding they’re going to Bermuda for two weeks. That is if Elon can please get his ass in gear and confirm the dates.

  I’ll pass on the message.

  Do it.

  I hang up on Marcus just as I locate Elon and Roland.

  They’re in Elon’s usual room.

  Elon is curled on the bed in the fetal position crying (how many sets of tears am I going to have to confront this weekend?) Roland sits on the bed next to him stroking his back.

  I crook a finger at Roland from the door.

  He leaves Elon and comes to me.

  I hold up the phone. Marcus called.

  Lose the phone. Throw it in the sea. Run over it with a car. He doesn’t care. Elon doesn’t need some arrogant American prick telling him to just run away from it all so they can have a good time at this moment.

  Agreed.

  Don’t expect much out of either of them for the next few days.

  I won’t. Just take care of Elon.

  He will.

  He’s my best friend, but I don’t think I have what he needs to help him through this.

  It’s fine. He’s not going anywhere.

  He slips back into the room closing the door behind him.

  I’m running around like a crazy person. I go to the kitchen. I’m sent to set the table.

  Elizabeth passes me as I go to the China Room.

  Could she help me? (not really a question – we all chip in at Wold Hall – it’s the only way to keep the place running.)

  Do what?

  Get the table sorted for dinner?

  Hmmmm. No. She’d rather not. She’s so sad. She’s so disappointed. She really thought he was going to come.

  I am going to be totally honest with her. I’m glad he’s not coming. I wasn’t thinking when I invited him out here. My family is here. This is neither the time nor the place for this sort of thing.

  If she’d known he wasn’t going to come then she wouldn’t have let me drag her out into the middle of nowhere for an entire weekend. Did I know that people expect her to do things like cook? She doesn’t cook. The next thing they’re going to be expecting her to do dishes or make beds or clean toilets.

  Would she like me to take her to the train station? It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. She’ll be back in London in a few hours.

  But the television people are coming.

  And?

  And she could end up on television.

  She keeps walking down the hall.

  Useless.

  I keep moving to the China Room.

&n
bsp; I stop outside the door when I hear a voice.

  Eavesdropping is a major pastime at Wold Hall.

  Margaret. On the phone. I hear one side of a conversation. I smell cigarette smoke.

  No idea where I find the women I find.

  Pause.

  English Barbie.

  Pause.

  Probably a fucking vicar’s daughter.

  Laughter.

  Looks like a total slut – but one of those I’m so fucking sweet I’m going to fuck your boyfriend kind of sluts. Total gold digger.

  More laughter.

  No clue.

  Pause.

  Hasn’t seen or heard from Russian Barbie in weeks.

  Pause.

  Yes. She’s pretty sure Russian Barbie is going to be at the wedding.

  Pause.

  It’s bullshit. It’s her wedding. She should be able to tell me not to bring Russian Barbie.

  Pause.

  She won’t say anything. Tempting as it is, she won’t say anything.

  Pause.

  I bust into the china room.

  Margaret is smoking at the open window.

  She nearly jumps out of her skin.

  Good. That’s what she gets for talking shit about me and smoking in my house.

  Tell her I want my fucking ring back.

  I pick up the pack of cigarettes next to Margaret and help myself.

  Margaret passes on the message.

  She holds her phone to my ear as I light up.

  Twat. (the dulcet tones of my former fiancée’s voice is like music)

  Nice. Ring?

  She already told me, she needs to pick it up.

  Will she have it at the wedding?

  Planning on using it?

  No. Yes. I’m going to give it to mum.

  That’s shockingly sweet for me. How is mum?

  Stable. Okay.

  She’ll get the ring. She promises. She’ll be back in London a week after the wedding. Am I smoking?

  Yes. Bye.

  Margaret takes the phone back. Says a few goodbyes, then sticks it in her pocket.

  We smoke but we exhale out the window. It’s like we’re sixteen again.

  Will she help me set the table?

  Sure. Just in case I didn’t know, my friend Elizabeth is just a touch too precious for her. Not that she’s a fan of Russian Barbie…

  Russian Barbie. Nice.

  Olga.

  Russian Barbie works. Would this be a name she and my former fiancée came up with?

  Yes. Any chance I can talk Russian Barbie into not coming to her wedding?