by Livia Ellis
Uncle Harvey flicks them at her. They smack her in the face.
He picks up a shoe with his cane. Anyone?
Emer raises a hand.
He chucks it at her.
She catches it with a yelp. She scrambles for its mate before it comes hurtling at her.
Ladies. Each of them will gather their – he picks up a bra with the cane then tosses it at the women – belongings and remove them from the public areas. They will then go to their respective bedrooms and clean them. There will be an inspection in precisely one hour. If their rooms are below his standard there will be consequences.
Like what? Talitha – of course – is the first to open her mouth.
They will find themselves out on the street.
He can’t do that. It is pas acceptable! She will not be spoken to in such a manner! Simone gets all French on Uncle Harvey.
Yes. He can. He is Wright.
She is not a femme de ménage. She does not clean. C’est tout!
Mademoiselle can go and pack her bags. This is not a hotel. Checkout time is in thirty-minutes.
But… She will telephone the Matchmaker.
She can be his guest.
We wait as Simone calls the Matchmaker. I am put on the phone after about a minute.
Can she assume the butler I mentioned to her has arrived?
Yes she can.
Is he scaring the shit out of them and telling them that they either need to clean up their acts or get the hell out?
Yes he is.
Good. He has her permission to boot out anyone that doesn’t toe the line. It’s not as hard as any one of them thinks for her to replace them.
I hand the phone back to Simone.
Wright has the Matchmaker’s full authority to remove anyone from the house that doesn’t follow his rules.
But!!!
Uncle Harvey raises his cane. No buts.
Who the fuck is he to tell them what to do? Talitha snarls and stomps. She could get work with another madam without blinking an eye.
He is Wright. Never forget. He is Wright. She is welcome to pack and leave. From this moment forward he is the head of this curious little household.
Which means what exactly? Emer holds her shoes as she gathers up another two pairs.
He is the Butler. Consider him the new sheriff in town. The housekeeper will be arriving in the morning. She is about as easy to intimidate as he is. Neither he, nor the housekeeper, has been engaged by the Matchmaker to pick up their mess. They are supposedly young ladies – not a herd of swine.
That banging sound in the background – he places a hand to his ear – that would be the sound of the hammer falling. They are to take their things – he picks up another pair of unclaimed panties then flicks them – gather their belongings or he will gather them for them.
The women stare at him.
NOW!
They scramble around the room for their things.
Who will show him to his rooms?
He's staying? Talitha with a double armful of garments and shoes shrieks.
Until the end of time.
I offer to show him to his room.
He picks up his suitcase then follows me through the dining room then the kitchen to the apartment on the garden level under the kitchen.
The door closes behind us.
They're all hookers?
They're all hookers.
Blimey.
I hate to do this, but my afternoon is booked. I can’t stay to help him settle in.
Not to worry. He can manage the girls. Talitha and Simone will be the real problem. He may have to have them removed from the house.
My phone rings in my pocket. It’s the Matchmaker. I speak to her for a moment, and then put Uncle Harvey on the phone.
Madam. Yes. No. Yes. No. He will have the situation well in hand before mid-afternoon. If that is what must be, then that is what must be. Certainly. The moment he has concluded inspections, he will telephone her. Yes. No. Yes. No. Not at all. He would be delighted. Cocktails it is. He makes a martini that will make her weep for Mother Russia. All will be ready for her when she arrives.
The phone is handed back to me.
She sounds positively charming.
She is. I have what I like to call the Ladies. I’m going to be out most of the afternoon.
All at once?
Four right in a row.
How much is that going to net me?
Probably about three thousand depending on tips.
Damn. Have I really thought about what I'm getting myself into?
Yes. Japan was… interesting. My baptism by fire. I’m good.
What does Elon think about this?
He’s rolling with it.
What about the former fiancée?
Still out to get me. At least I have the tax collectors off my ass. If someone named Harold shows up call the police.
Trouble?
I took over for him. He’s pissed off about losing his job.
He can manage. It’s good being just a touch crazy. It scares the shit out of most people. Do we tell the girls we are family?
Maybe. Eventually. Let’s see what happens. For the moment I just want my life to get easier.
Sounds like things are still pretty hard going.
Things are still pretty hard. But I'm trying to make it all better.
Sounds like I'm changing. For the good. He looks around. It's a good setup. We are on this road together. We will see it through to the end.
CHAPTER SIX
The Ladies
I have four female clients that live within a four block square in Belgravia and Mayfair.
They are the Ladies. They know each other well. They love and despise each other in equal measure. Each of them are divorced from men they shoved up their respective corporate ladders. Each of them replaced by women significantly younger than them. Nothing pleases them more when their ex-husbands become fathers to the children of these much younger women. These women that expect them to do things like change diapers and go on play dates. More than one of them has had an ex come scratching at the door once they coped on to the fact this new generation of wives isn’t like the old generation.
Each of these men gets laughed at and a door slammed in his face. They are truly happier collecting their ruinously expensive alimony payments. They live their lives in this small practically incestuous circle of friends. No one new is allowed in. None of them are allowed to leave.
They have their hair done by the same man. They shop in the same boutiques. They drive the same cars. They lunch in the same restaurants. They fuck the same man (that would be me). They keep score in the ever increasingly complex game that is less about winning and more about maintaining the status quo of their little group.
I adore each of them. I absolutely love them all. They are unapologetic about the fact I am their paid bit of fun. We are marvelous friends each of us. I’m privy to their secrets and I get to hear from each of them their own version of events after a particular party or function.
I am often expected to work very hard for my money. Which I buy a bottle of water from coffee stand and yes – take one of those incredibly handy blue pills. It’s not that I can’t get an erection when I need to; it’s just that sometimes I really don’t feel like making the effort. I have four appointments back to back. That’s a lot of work.
In order, I have Nichols, Bailey, French, and then Dawson. They are the true housewives of London.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mrs. Bailey
I go to Mrs. Nichols house first.
She invites me in as she lets out her private yoga instructor. She’s wearing a velour track suit. I love dogs. I don’t love those little yippy giant rats some people call dogs.
Kisses on each cheek. She pulls out her wallet and counts out the cash. This is not a discreet relationship. She is who she is and I am who I am. There are no little brown envelopes to make us feel better about the sex for cash thing.<
br />
We go to her bedroom.
She wants me to tie her up and spank her.
Huh?
She wants me to tie her up and spank her. They’ve all been reading this book about bondage. Marvelous! She can’t get enough of it. Have I heard of it? Everyone is reading it. Have I read it?
No. (If it’s the book I’m thinking of I know Olga has read it. I refuse to touch it on principle.)
I must read it. She’ll give me her copy before I leave. We absolutely must try bondage. We must. It’s all the rage. She wants me to spank her like the bad bad girl she is.
Sure. But I have to tell her that in all honesty I’ve never done this before.
Not a problem. She bought a book.
I’m not sure that book really has anything to do with bondage. (In fact I hear it’s just derivative fan fiction that somehow got popular because someone knows how to market more than she knows how to write)
She bought a bondage how-to manual. The bookstores are absolutely overrun with them.
Okay. That’s helpful.
With pictures. Very nicely illustrated.
If nothing else, I’m not afraid to fail.
That’s the spirit!
On the bed is the illustrated book, fuzzy handcuffs, a whip made out of ribbon, a blindfold, and a riding crop. Not a real riding crop. One topped with feathers.
Mrs. Nichols slips into her dressing room then emerges wearing a revealing leather bustier and a pair of rather saucy thong panties.
Mrs. Nichols! Quite frankly I’m a bit shocked. I really thought I was beyond shock, but clearly that bar has been raised once again.
Now. Turn to chapter one. Let’s see where we begin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mrs. Bailey
She’s absolutely certain I’m not hurting her?
Yes. Do it again!
I give Mrs. Bailey a swat on the bottom.
Tell her how naughty she is.
She’s very naughty. (She’s very fucking naughty for fucking making me do this – it’s all I can do not to bust up laughing)
She flips through the illustrated guide to bondage that is identical to the book Mrs. Nichols had. Apparently they went shopping together. Clearly they are reading the same books.
Okay – tie her up and blind fold her. I can do that.
I look at the illustrations as I hold the silk cord in one hand. This shouldn’t be too hard. First I blind fold then truss up Mrs. Bailey.
I’m a bit unsure what to do next. So I take the feather tipped riding crop that is identical to the one Mrs. Nichols had on hand. I give her a paddling with it.
Who is to say if she really is enjoying this or if she thinks she must enjoy it because it’s the THING to want to do.
CHAPTER NINE
Mrs. French
I’m getting pretty good at tying up women by the time I have Mrs. French on her bed trussed up like a calf. I do have to say that she switched it up and decided a little naughty school girl role playing made the whole experience a bit more fun for me.
Maybe it’s not the little skirt, the pigtails and the button busting blouse so much as I’m increasingly more comfortable with this whole faux bondage thing by the time I roll around to her house.
I’m the headmaster and she’s the bad schoolgirl. I’m to give her a spanking for getting caught cheating on her French test.
I give her another swat.
Stop.
Really stop or just stop stop it hurts so good?
Really stop.
I stop.
Could I untie her?
I untie her.
Can she be honest with me?
Absolutely.
She doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, but honestly, isn’t this just a bit ridiculous?
Yes.
It’s just not working for her. Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. Bailey were just so into this she agreed to go along with it. But it’s just not her.
Can I be honest?
Abosolutely.
If she’s not comfortable then I’m not comfortable. I’ve never really done this before and I’m feeling a bit out of my depth. Not everything is everyone’s cup of tea.
This is not her cup of tea.
I just so happen to know what her cup of tea is.
Do I now?
Yes. I do. I knock the bondage gear for beginners off of the bed, get the condoms out of my messenger bag and go old school on my naughty school girl.
CHAPTER TEN
Mrs. Dawson
As I walk down the steps from Mrs. French’s house I check my phone. I have a text from Mrs. Dawson. She’s not home. Meet her at Harvey Nichols.
Unless there’s a dungeon at Harvey Nichols I don’t know about, the tie me up tie me down portion of my day has come to an end.
I find Mrs. Dawson in a dressing room wearing a gown.
Does her ass look enormous?
I give her a good look as I sit in the silk upholstered chair.
Yes. It’s an unflattering dress.
The sales woman could slay me with her eyes.
I am her darling. She knew I would tell her the truth. Get the envelope out of her purse.
I get the envelope of cash out of her purse and put it in my messenger bag.
The dress is removed and discarded with a bump from her perfectly painted toes.
Did they make me tie them up and spank them?
She knows I don’t talk about clients with other clients.
She’ll take that as a yes. She slips into a second dress. Well?
Better.
But not fabulous.
Not fabulous. What’s it for?
Her daughter’s wedding.
She can do better.
This is why I am her darling. Did I enjoy bondage 101? She slips out of the second dress and into a third.
No comment.
She’ll take that as a no. They’ve all read that book. Have I read that book?
No.
Don’t. It’s shit. Pure shit. She couldn’t get halfway through it before she gave it to one of the maids. She’s never read such poorly written crap before. It’s not the bondage that bothered her as much as the language. Really amateur writing. The only reason people are reading it is because of the buzz.
Mrs. Nichols gave me a copy.
Of course she did. She’s the one whipping everyone into a frenzy. She thinks it’s the best thing since lubricated condoms. If I get twenty pages into it and tell her that I actually genuinely truly love it, she’ll buy me a car.
She’s on.
The saleswoman finishes zipping her up. She turns around. Well?
Yes. That’s the dress. Not too much tit and her ass looks like a peach.
That’s what she thought. She should have gone with her first impulse. We’re not going back to her place. Aunt Flo has come for a visit. Honestly she thought she was done with all of that and then boom out of nowhere. So? Cocktails? She could absolutely murder a gimlet.
She’d have to tie me up to stop me.
I am a treasure!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
December
Buy Christmas presents:
Gift cards for the girls
Elon – agree to go to his mother’s next wedding
The Doctor – cognac from cellar
The Matchmaker - ???
Olga - ?????????
Mum – laptop and tablet (maybe computer class?)
Aunt Lucy – NEW APPLIANCES!
Uncle Harvey – gorgeous holiday (cruise?)
12:00pm to 2:00pm – Lunch with the Doctor
8:00pm to 11:00pm The Coffees
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Doctor
Lunch with the doctor is a trial.
A once a week trial.
Not even one that I get paid for. I do this voluntarily.
Not that I find his company anything less than a delight. I enjoy his company. After living with the girls and Uncle Harvey, I welcome the company of a person that li
kes to talk about something other than shoes or fondant. I now know more about shoes than Christian Louboutin.
Lunch is not the problem. Rather it is his insistence I join him at his club that I find painful.
Yes.
His club.
His gentlemen’s club.
It was my grandfather’s club and I think technically I’m a member.
The last time I walked through the doors, before the Doctor insisted I meet him for lunch at the club, was that final lunch I had with my grandfather and his friend Lionel.
At that time I’d become the messenger between my father and my grandfather.
I passed messages back and forth.
They were done speaking to each other. A line had once and for all been dashed under that relationship.
The only time they were in each other’s presence was when it involved me.
I never want to have that sort of a relationship with a child.
I will do things differently.
I get why dad clung to mum. I do. Finally he had someone that loved him unconditionally and completely. I get why he would need that and would fear losing that. Dad wasn’t perfect. Neither was granddad. But at least dad understood he had made mistakes when it came to me. Granddad went to his grave believing his hands were clean.
I don’t hate the club so much as it symbolizes the past that holds me hostage. It’s my grandfather incarnate. It’s a dinosaur. A relic from an era that has drifted into the past, but just doesn’t know it yet.
Maybe like me.
I wonder as I wait.
Am I a relic from a past that has no place in the present?
This is the question I ask myself repeatedly when my past life comes in contact with my present life.
Would it really be so bad if I just walked away? Would it? Sometimes it seems like such an obvious thing to do.
Another line drawn under another chapter in my life.
But then again, I’m no quitter.
I’d rather meet the Doctor at his office. That suits me. This insistence that we go to lunch bi-weekly is a trial. Not because of his company, but because it forces me out into the world I used to live in. I’m pushed out of the seedy underworld that I inhabit on a day to day basis and made to be that other me. The me I was raised to be.
