Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five

by Livia Ellis

  She’s far too thin and her cheek feels like paper when I kiss her.

  She wants to apologize for the fight after dad’s funeral. She wants to apologize for a lot of things.

  I don’t want her to. I was wrong. We were both hurting. Enough said.

  It’s sunny outside so we go for a walk. I walk and push her in her chair. This is not as hard for me as I imagined it would be. In fact I’m rather pragmatic about the whole thing. I can’t wonder if I’m becoming desensitized to the constant blows.

  We take a spin around the park near Aunt Lucy’s place. I give her my pirate scarf. She likes it. She can have it. We talk about crap. I tell her about my “job”. She’s very proud of me going out and finding work. I’m not nearly as precious as my grandparents wanted me to believe. Not that I’m not precious. I am precious. But I’m not some hot-house flower. Did I know I look just like my dad?

  I’ve taken up rose gardening.

  This makes her laugh and cry a little. Not what I wanted, but in the end it’s all okay.

  I take her home when she starts to get tired. Aunt Lucy has tea and fairy cakes for us.

  We talk about Cousin Margaret’s upcoming wedding and my decision to go.

  They both agree I should go.

  I ask mum if she wants to go with me.

  She doesn’t want to be a lot of bother.

  She won’t be a bother in the slightest. I’ll sort it all out.

  That would be very nice. But don’t go to too much trouble.

  I promise to return when I’m back from Japan. With presents.

  Aunt Lucy walks me to the door. She pulls a roll of hundred pound bills out of the pocket of her pinny.

  Where did Harvey really get this from?

  Elon. Really.

  The money goes back into her pocket. I’m going to pay him back as soon as I can?

  Of course I will.

  She gives me a hug and a kiss. Hands me a few fairy cakes wrapped in a paper kitchen towel which I stash in my messenger bag. All is better in my world than it has been in a long time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Miss Parvati Singh

  I take the tube to Mayfair. I have time to kill so I don’t rush. I want to be early even though I’m absolutely certain she’ll be late. I get a text from Olga as I’m switching from the tube lines. Where am I? When am I going to be home? What about dinner?

  Fuck me. I text her back. Just finished with mum. Having dinner out. Will be in late.

  I put my phone in my pocket on silent. I don’t want this now.

  I arrive at the Four Season’s in good time.

  I run into fucking Booth Buxton in the lobby. Twat. I hated him at school and I still hate him. Works for the government. MI5. He gives me a card. Twat. Then I give him one of mine. Twat. Give me some business cards and I become a twat. Amazing.

  What the devil am I doing working for a dating service? He recognizes the name. He’s sure he does.

  I want to punch him.

  He knows the name. The old noodle is still working. Man to man… Isn’t it true some very very exclusive company can be booked through the agency? Is that what I’m doing?

  What does he mean? (I need to think twice about passing out cards)

  Am I the one planning those parties he’s heard about? They’re like this urban legend. All very Eyes Wide Shut freaky deaky shit. All Venetian masks, passwords at the door, and fit models itching to fuck.

  I might know something about this. (Note to self – get a copy of Eyes Wide Shut)

  Any chance I could get him on the invite list?

  That might be possible. (Do I at long last have something to dangle in front of that odious Booth Buxton?)

  That would be damn fine! Damn fine indeed!

  A woman walks up to us. She’s obviously pregnant. Booth Buxton – twat – introduces me to his wife.

  I’ll be certain to give him a call if something opens up.

  He gives me a man to man wink then walks off with his wife.

  Twat.

  I find a table in the bar that has a view of the door. I order a drink. I wait. At nine-twenty she arrives.

  She’s petite and perfectly formed. She’s wearing a gold silk sheath dress that shimmers rather than sparkles, under a black silk coat with shining red shoes. The mass of her black hair plus the shoes make her appear taller than she is.

  I could marry this woman on looks alone.

  Who am I when I greet her? I’m not James Bond. I’m my grandfather. I’m polite, gentlemanly, and courteous. I treat her like the princess she thinks she is. I take her coat, I offer her a chair, I order her drink. We talk.

  She’s certain I’m very nice, but she has a boyfriend.

  Oh. Okay.

  But her family will never let her marry her boyfriend. He’s a musician. She could marry him, but they’d cut her off and she’d be broke. That she cannot have.

  Fair enough.

  She likes the idea of being a countess. What are my thoughts on her boyfriend?

  As long as she doesn’t have any issue with my seeing someone, then we’re all good.

  Man or woman?

  Woman.

  Fine. She can live with that.

  Would it have mattered if it was a man?

  Sort of. She’d really like for me to fall desperately in love with her and that won’t really happen if I’m gay.

  Okay. What does her boyfriend think of her wanting another man to fall desperately in love with her?

  She shrugs and takes a long drink of her martini. She doesn’t really care what he thinks. He’s black and he has an enormous dick. Her parents hate him.

  Because he’s black or because he’s a musician?

  Both. They’re bigots.

  They don’t like black people? (this is worrying)

  They don’t like poor people. But I’m okay. Because I’m an earl.

  Good to know. I take it she’s not actually a virgin?

  I didn’t actually believe her mother did I?

  Just so we’re clear, I need to be the actual father of my children. I will not raise some other man’s bastards.

  Not a problem. She made her black boyfriend with the big dick have a vasectomy.

  She made her black boyfriend with the big dick have a vasectomy.

  Yes.

  How long have they been together?

  Six months.

  Six months. So she got him to have a vasectomy after being together only six months.

  She got him to have a vasectomy after only two months. Poor people are funny. They’ll do almost anything for money. In fact, she’s pretty sure poor people will do anything for money.

  How much is the going rate for infertility?

  She has dresses that cost more. So here’s the deal. Her family approves of me. They think I’m a good catch. They like the idea of me being both royal and poor. I’m the exception to their ‘we hate poor people’ stance. It makes me easier to control. She wants to get married in India which immediately means it can’t happen before next fall. Spring is too soon and summer is too hot.

  A year?

  Yes. Is that a problem?

  I suppose not. I was hoping to get married sooner.

  Because of my ruinous debt?

  Well… yes actually.

  I’ll have to figure out a way to manage until then.

  Fortunately I have a job.

  So we’re decided then?

  Yes.

  Good. I’m cute. She got a room. Do I want to go up with her? Sort of give me a test drive. She read in Cosmopolitan that a girl should always test drive a car before she buys one. Seems a reasonable thing to do with a man.

  Just so I’m clear, she wants to go upstairs and fuck?

  Yes.

  Her black boyfriend with the big dick shooting blanks isn’t waiting up in the room to beat the shit out of me for daring to dream the dream of falling madly in love with her?

  No. He thinks she’s having dinner with her parents. />
  I finish my G&T in one gulp and set the glass down with a thump. Let’s kick the tires and see if it’s a sale.

  As we walk she comes just past my shoulder even in her heels. She’s so tiny it makes me laugh. I love it. I’ve never dated a tiny woman before. Not that I could possibly call our half-hour over cocktails dating. We’ve already skipped to engaged. Sort of. There’s that bit with her family actually knowing we’ve met.

  Where does her family think she is?

  On a plane to New York to go trousseau shopping with her younger sisters. She’s flying to meet them in the morning. As much as she hates flying commercial, it was worth it to get a chance to check me out properly.

  Isn’t she worried her parents will find out? I’m assuming she was supposed to fly in their jet. Won’t someone tell on her?

  They wouldn’t dare. Besides, she’s very well practiced at deceit.

  Good to know. A quality every man wants in a future wife.

  The snarky comments are funny up to a point, but it’s a little annoying after a while. (For a brief and fleeting moment I miss Olga – I miss the fact my snarky comments tend to fly right past her. I’m not saying she’s dumb, but she didn’t go to Stanford like Parvati. Some things tend to get lost on Olga making being a snarky little bastard that much more fun.)

  Sorry. It’s my defense mechanism. I go to it when I’m nervous. I fear I won’t measure up to her black boyfriend with the big dick.

  I won’t. But I shouldn’t be nervous. She’s really not expecting much. Truthfully she knows her beauty is intimidating and she won’t judge me if I fail to perform adequately. She’s not saying I’ll get used to her beauty, but I’ll grow accustomed to being around it.

  How fun! (I keep that snarky comment to myself)

  The room she’s secured is a suite. The lights are on. She clearly got ready for the evening in the room.

  I take off my messenger bag and set it on the ground.

  I excuse myself and go to the cavernous bathroom. I lock myself in the toilet for privacy and check my phone.

  Two texts from Olga and a few missed calls. They all run along the lines of where am I. Not good on many levels.

  Two texts and a missed call from Elon. Olga thinks we’re together. Next time I need him to cover my ass, warn him. Fortunately he’s home alone getting drunk. He’s considering hiring a hit man to take out Renata and her fetus.

  I text both of them.

  Olga: I’m out for the evening. Will see her in the morning when we leave for the airport.

  Elon: At what point did I end up in a relationship with Olga? Met Parvati. Beautiful but sort of a bitch. She wants to fuck me. Was compared to giving a new car a test drive. Keep covering with Olga. Will call from Bangkok.

  Response from Elon: What the fuck is going on? She was very where the fuck is my man but nice.

  Me to Elon: I’m fucking cursed. Ran into Booth Buxton.

  Response from Elon: Cunthammer. What is that insufferable prick doing?

  Me to Elon: Wanted to know if I could get him into Eyes Wide Shut orgies. Must watch movie once and for all. Ass hole asks me and then his PREGNANT wife makes appearance.

  Response from Elon: You’ve never seen Eyes Wide Shut? Do you live in a cave?

  Me to Elon: Apparently.

  Response from Elon: Can you get us into orgies?

  Me to Elon: Actually I think I might just have the right connections now.

  Response from Elon: Fuck yes! You will hook us up!

  Me to Elon: I’ll call from Bangkok. Must dash. Don’t want her to think I’m having massive shit.

  I leave the bathroom after a final text to the Matchmaker – What does she know about Parvati’s boyfriend? Is this guy going to be a problem? Will call her from Bangkok.

  Parvati is in the bedroom laid out like an odalisque on the bed wearing only a layer of sparkling gold body shimmer. And her shoes.

  I’m impressed. I’ll give her that. I’m not certain if she expects me to faint from shock at the sight of her actually pretty good body or if I’m to ravage her. I reach inside of my soul for some guidance. The tuneful voice of Timothy Dalton (yes – my inner voice is starting to sound like Timothy Dalton – all rounded woody Welsh tones – note to self; ask the Psychiatrist if this is a sign I’m starting to go funny in the head) tells me to just go for it. Show her that white boys can pack it in the trouser area too.

  I drop my clothes like snotty tissue. Instantly I’m into this. I could fist pump the air and shout to the heavens. I’m back. I’m going to bone a girl I’ve only met thirty minutes prior. Whatever that fog was hanging on in my head for the past few days is shaken free. I’m back. I’m me again. I don’t need Olga to do my job, pack my suitcase, or wonder where I am when I’m not home by ten. Ridiculous. Even if she was my girlfriend that sort of nonsense would not fly.

  I give Parvati a good look of what I have to offer. She’s not the only one in the room that has something to offer. I’m some kind of beautiful too.

  I appreciate the slightly widened eyes and the curved smile.

  So? (I point just to make sure she understands) Thoughts?

  She crooks her finger at me and gives me a wink.

  I dive into it. Despite my best efforts, Parvati is either an unresponsive lover, I’m terrible in bed, or she’s a bad lover. She’s one of those women that think being beautiful is enough. She doesn’t have to make any effort. So I do all of the work. Fine. I think of this as I would any other paid assignment. I make certain she gets her money’s worth then finish off.

  She gets up from the bed and starts roaming around. I drift off.

  The sound of Parvati talking wakes me with a start. She’s cooing like a baby into her mobile while walking around in a short robe and a pair of fluffy kitten heel mules. I very nearly throw a pillow at her and tell her to shut the fuck up because I’m trying to sleep. But I don’t. I’ve made strides with Miss Singh. So I put the pillow over my head and squirm deeper under the bedding.

  Before I disappear into the cotton cloud of bedding, I pick up my watch. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I fly out of bed.

  Parvati gives me a look.

  I silently mumble my fuck fuck fuck mantra as I pull my clothing on as quickly as I can. It’s just after five. I have to get home and get packed to be out the door in less than two hours.

  Parvati finishes her call. Where am I going?

  Japan I told her this. I have a business trip.

  Boring. Go to New York with her. Could be fun. I could carry her handbag.

  Fun as that sounds, unless she wants to get married tomorrow I need to earn money to hold my creditors at bay.

  How much money do I want?

  How much money do I want to go to New York with her and blow off work? Is that what’s she’s asking me?

  Yes. How much?

  Is that how she got her boyfriend to get a vasectomy?

  Yes.

  I’m not for sale.

  She thought I was. Why else would I go to a matchmaker? I’m not Indian.

  Because I’m smart. Look. I found her didn’t I? (Even at five in the morning a little flattery goes a long way with a woman that didn’t take her mascara off before fucking) What more could I want? How many bars would I have had to prowl to get so lucky?

  A million.

  Precisely. I have to go. Should I call her? Pretend we never met?

  Pretend we never met. Her parents will sort it out with the Matchmaker. Bring her a gift. Something nice. She doesn’t like cheap gifts. Nothing stupid like flowers. She likes jewelry. Nice jewelry. Not trinkets. Do any jewels come with being a countess or have I pawned them all?

  There are jewels. I have not pawned the jewels. I’m not that desperate.

  Nice jewels?

  Yes. There are some nice pieces. I think my mother still has most of them.

  Get them back.

  My mother is sick. I’m not going to ask for her jewelry box.

  Is there a tiara?

&nb
sp; Yes – but I need to get it back from my Former Fiancée.

  That fat Scottish cow?

  Bit mean, but yes.

  Get it back. She wants a tiara. She’ll wear it for her sisters’ wedding. That’ll make them grind their teeth. Who has a double wedding? Honestly.

  I’ll do my best. (So looking forward to making that call!)

  She doesn’t want to hear do my best. Just do it.

  What are her thoughts on beating servants?

  If only it were legal. Then they’d probably not screw up so often.

  I have few weddings and things coming up. My cousin Margaret for one. Does she want to go with me?

  No. No interest.

  I’m planning on going with a plus one. If not her I’ll find someone else.

  Clearly she needs to explain the situation to me – until the date is set and the engagement is announced, she doesn’t care what I do and with who. Clear? Just get the tiara back for her sisters’ wedding.

  When is the wedding?

  Valentine’s Day if I can believe it. Nauseating. Cliché. They even have matching dresses. Barf.

  Where?

  India. We’ll announce the engagement the week before.

  Shouldn’t we wait until after the wedding? Might be a bit more polite.

  No. What am I stupid? The point is to make them jealous.

  I’m not stupid I have manners and we’re not going to announce our engagement in the most attention seeking manner possible.

  When I’m in the lobby tell someone call a car for her. A nice car. Not a crappy limo that smells like a hen party and mojito vomit. She needs to get to the airport.

  Polite Oliver nearly says something like Oh of course. Not a problem. Living in the cold hard world Oliver that has a very real understanding of the need to set some ground rules takes charge.

  The voice of Timothy Dalton silently urges me on in the depths of my head offering me nuggets of wisdom on how to be really fucking sexy. Per instruction, I take Parvati in my arms, dip her back as if we were dancing some lude tango, kiss her on the throat, nip her earlobe with my teeth, then kiss her. With a quick flip, I return her to her feet, give her a smack on the bottom which elicits a rather delighted OOOOOHHHHHH, then step back.

  I’m not her servant. Don’t give me orders. Ask me nicely. Please and such works marvels with me.