Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Seven Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO Interview with Roland Flynn

  CHAPTER THREE Down the Rabbit Hole

  CHAPTER FOUR Strange New World

  CHAPTER FIVE The Place between Dusk and Dawn

  CHAPTER SIX Four o’clock in the Morning

  CHAPTER SEVEN The Morning After

  CHAPTER EIGHT Bon Voyage Olga

  CHAPTER NINE The Pure Fabulousness of Sigrund Olafsdottir

  CHAPTER TEN Renata

  CHAPTER ELEVEN The Footballer

  CHAPTER TWELVE The Matchmaker

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Actress

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Gigolo Interrupted

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Second Time I am Kidnapped

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Psychiatrist

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Circus Train

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Call me Darcy

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Wrangling Cats

  CHAPTER TWENTY The Producers

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Wold Hall the Television Show

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO It’s Always a Party at Wold Hall

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Former Fiancée

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Olga

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Parvati

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Dirty Laundry

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Seven

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  For My Tribe of Writers

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  Prologue

  Welcome faithful readers to the heart of the second act.

  I am no longer an innocent. I am battle tested. I have learned the lessons of a warrior. I have taken my knocks. I have been brought to my knees only to rise again.

  I am stronger, better, harder, more resilient, and more resourceful than I ever would have believed. I’m no coward. I’m a fighter.

  The world I enter is juxtaposed to the world I have come from. The streets are the same. The buildings don’t move. The rain still falls from the sky. But it is a different world populated with people that would have previously passed through my perception as shadows.

  I see the homeless now. I notice the woman in the utility closet that cleans the toilets after each flush. I tip better in restaurants.

  It is here I find who my allies are and uncover the true nature of the beast I must ultimately confront.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Interview with Roland Flynn

  L.E. We’re recording.

  R.F. Would you like me to just tell stories? Or are you going to ask me questions? How is this done precisely? Just, for the record, I’m not certain I wholly agree with this. I’m not as firmly set against it as my son in law, but I find that I’m a bit hesitant to participate.

  L.E. Because you were a client of Oliver’s?

  R.F. Quite frankly, yes. It’s a poor indicator of who I am.

  L.E. Who you are today, or who you were then?

  R.F. Both. I’m not a man that would hire a prostitute either then or now.

  L.E. But you were a client of Oliver’s.

  R.F. I was. That doesn’t mean that I want those seven rendezvous – one of which I didn’t pay for and the other of which ended with me taking home Elon forever – to define my relationship with Oliver. My friendship with Oliver was and is so much more than that. We are family.

  L.E. But you did pay him for sex.

  R.F. I’ve also told a lie or two. It doesn’t make me a liar.

  L.E. Does it bother you that Ana knows you were physically intimate with Oliver?

  R.F. That ship has sailed hasn’t it?

  L.E. Has it?

  R.F. Yes. It bothers me. Ana is a grown woman with children of her own, but she is now and will forever be my little girl. I think that in this respect she is truly Elon’s daughter. There is something very Scandinavian about her attitudes regarding sex. I am the boring dad that tends to be quite Victorian about these things. I am not unaware that when she was sixteen she went on birth control and there was a vast conspiracy to keep this from me. I truly appreciated this. And yes, I am also not unaware what she and James were up to when they were supposedly cleaning out the attic at Wold Hall that summer many years ago. I preferred not to know. I liked my daughter thinking I was insufferable and straight laced when it came to sex. I like to live in a fantasy world in which what happens in our bedroom stays there, but I know perfectly well that Elon has never been able to keep his mouth shut about our sex life. So yes, it bothers me. This is not the sort of thing I would have liked my daughter to learn about me. Now – what do you want to know?

  L.E. When did you meet Elon?

  R.F. The night Ana was born. Would you prefer the sanitized version I was always comfortable with, or the lurid truth?

  L.E. What’s the sanitized version?

  R.F. Oliver introduced us at a dinner party and it was love at first sight. We were together from that moment forward. On that day not only was she born, but our family was born. We’ve always celebrated Ana’s birthday and the start of our relationship on the same day. It’s a very special family moment. As a rule there is a lot of cake. Much nicer than the lurid truth.

  L.E. What’s the lurid truth?

  R.F. I fell in love at first sight. It took Elon a while longer to realize I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  L.E. I am curious about one thing. There is no mention in Oliver’s diaries of what happened that night when the two of you returned to the house.

  R.F. Probably because neither of us ever told Oliver what happened that night.

  L.E. What happened?

  R.F. What do you think happened?

  L.E. I have no idea.

  R.F. And you never will. Some things are private. What happened between us that night is sacred.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Down the Rabbit Hole

  It is an odd thing to be in the back of a silent car after leaving a noisy environment. Sort of like a moving cocoon. It reminds me of my time at university when I would lock myself in my dorm room, lie on the bed and enjoy just listening to the party happening in the world beyond my sanctuary.

  Is this an odd thing?

  Perhaps in my heart I am not a party animal.

  Perhaps I fear being exposed for what I really am; a homebody that likes the quiet and would be perfectly content living a silent life.

  Maybe I would have made a good monk.

  Maybe it would have bored me to tears after a week of doing nothing but reading books, drinking beer, and meditating.

  I’m pretty certain the celibacy thing would do me in.

  The taxi driver lays on the horn for so long I have no choice but to pay attention to what is happening in the world beyond the cocoon.

  What is the matter?

  Traffic.

  Obviously. What is happening?

  How should he know?

  Marvelous.

  Roland is being a tremendous sport about Elon attempting to climb into his suit with him.

  I glance at the two of them.

  I wonder if my presence isn’t a bit intrusive.

  I consider offering them the room I had to get that afternoon for the call with the Latin Pop Star.

  Elon is a father.

  This is surreal.

  I knew it was coming, but I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. In fact, I’m certain I won’t believe it until he has the results of the genetic testing done. Then I’ll believe it.

  I am surprised Elon believes it.
r />   Were I him, I would have remained skeptical until I had undeniable proof in hand that the child was mine before I played along with Renata. But then again, I paid for a couple of abortions I took on faith were my responsibility. Chances are I paid for some other man’s faulty judgment.

  The traffic is not moving.

  Elon is kissing a very polite and somewhat abashed looking Roland’s neck.

  Get off of him. Swatting at Elon like a humping dog does me no good.

  Assuming Elon even remembers this moment, I know him well enough to know the Rolands of this world are not his cup of tea. This irks me. I like Roland. He’s a nice man. He is a good, decent, kind, and generous man. Because Elon is as aggressive as the Ebola virus when he’s drunk means I might lose a client I enjoy seeing.

  Elon wrinkles his nose at me. He sticks his tongue out. Just the tip. Roland doesn’t witness this. That’s the point.

  Fucking juvenile.

  I am not proud to admit we start kicking each other. Not hard. Mostly just our feet nudging.

  Roland separates us.

  Elon uses the change in positions to back Roland up against the door of the taxi.

  I look away before I have to witness what comes next.

  Elon and Roland begin necking – yes – they wholly and unashamedly with mouths pressed together and hands fumbling – make out right next to me as if I weren’t even there.

  What do I do with this?

  What can I do? It’s not like I can get righteous and demand Elon remove his hands from my john.

  The taxi moves forward perhaps four feet.

  The rain is coming down like a punishment.

  I enjoy being in the silent dry interior of the taxi.

  I can ignore Elon and Roland and the smacking moaning noises of their hookup as I stare out the window. If we can get Elon home, then I might be able to salvage the evening and my relationship with Roland.

  Unfortunately, the taxi isn’t moving.

  Elon is mumbling and murmuring the sort of nonsense that is undoubtedly working on Roland.

  We edge forward. I hadn’t realized it until we came to yet another stop but we are parked practically in front of the cabaret where the Esthetician is due to perform.

  Despite the rain, there is a crowd out front. There is something almost admirable in the pure determination of a smoker to persevere even in the most torrential of rainstorms. It’s this ability to carry on and reach the goal (even if it is just having a smoke) in the face of biblical rains that make the English great. Neither the Luftwaffe nor the risk of cancer will stop a truly determined Englishman from carrying on.

  I watch the crowd.

  They’re not huddled together to smoke.

  They’re spectators.

  Fight.

  I watch from the confines of the taxi. The perfect place from which to be a spectator. I am protected from the rain and the crowd.

  The crowd moves as the combatants circle each other.

  The one. A smallish man that has the look of an undernourished bruiser trades places with a very tall woman wearing a lot of feathers.

  The Esthetician.

  Fuck.

  She raises a handbag and starts swinging it like a mace.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  What the fuck is my problem?

  Elon pulls himself away from Roland for a moment.

  I know her.

  The flashing police lights coming our way make a lot of sense.

  The taxi driver turns slightly.

  Looks like the traffic might be clearing up.

  I reach for the door handle.

  Where the fuck am I going?

  That’s my friend. I have to help her.

  I look at Elon. He is also my friend and I need to get him home.

  I am torn.

  Roland looks past me to where the Esthetician is being held back by her arms although her legs alternate kicking at the man who simply has to be That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin. Has to be.

  I know her?

  I do. I have to help her. If nothing else I have to try.

  It’s all good. Roland gives me a nod. He’ll take care of Elon. I can go take care of my friend.

  I’m so sorry.

  It’s all good. Clearly I’m a good friend. He respects that.

  I reach in my coat pocket and pull out my keys. I single out the two keys for Elon’s front door. I give him the security code.

  He repeats the number back to me then confirms the address. He’ll get Elon home, stick a bucket next to the bed and a bottle of water on the nightstand.

  I am so sorry.

  Don’t be. He hasn’t had such an entertaining evening in longer than he can remember. He’ll call me in the morning.

  I want to believe this. There is a message in those words. He’ll call me. Don’t call him.

  I dive from the warmth and shelter of the car into the rain. I’m immediately nearly run down by a car.

  My heart bumps in my chest. I realize I’ve left my messenger bag in the back of the taxi.

  I turn and find the taxi has moved farther than I can chase it and it’s still going. This is the moment the traffic decides to ease up.

  I have nothing. Not even an umbrella. . The rain washes over me and runs in rivulets into any opening it can find in my clothing. There is nothing I can do about it now. I must make do with what I’ve brought with me.

  The circle of spectators forms a ring around the Esthetician and That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin.

  I’ve already realized that the police lights up the street have nothing to do with this altercation, but rather something else entirely.

  No one is coming to break up the fight.

  There is no cavalry coming to the rescue.

  So that leaves me.

  Have I somehow been infused with a sense of nobility I didn’t know I had?

  Am I really contemplating doing something other than screaming like a little bitch from the side at the two of them to knock it off and knock it off right now?

  When did I become the sort of man that breaks up a fight between lovers?

  Probably sometime between the moment my father walked in front of a bus and I started working for the Matchmaker. Around then I decided getting involved in other people’s lives on occasion was worth the accompanying squeeze of personal discomfort.

  So with a bloody battle cry reminiscent of something I might have heard in a Viking berserker movie, I jump in the middle.

  Sure enough I get their attention.

  The Esthetician stared at me mouth agape.

  That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin is a small wiry man that up close looks a lot stronger than he does from a distance. I know his kind. I have no doubt that even though he’s half-head shorter than me he could easily kick my ass.

  So what do I do? Damn fool that I am I tackle That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin before he’s able to take another swipe at my friend.

  Never in my life have I tussled on the ground in the rain with someone that obviously has a lot more experience using his fists than I do. Never. I don’t know that anyone would believe me if I told them.

  Surprise has worked in my favor. I’ve caught That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin off guard. I’ve given the Esthetician a chance to use elbows, knees, spikey heels, and guts to pull away from the men that were holding her.

  I roll on the ground in the filth, the muck, and the discarded cigarette butts as I pummel That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin. When my fist connects with his soft bits it feels good. Really really really good. I have these muscles that I’ve built artificially over the months in the gym. No amount of real work created the bulk in my arms. I didn’t throw bales of hay or plow fields to get the biceps and shoulders I have. But that doesn’t make the strength less real nor the damage they can inflict.

  Pummeling the shit out of That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin feels so incredibly good. So good I don’t want to stop even though I have him on the ground. It’s a fairer fig
ht than I first imagined it could be.

  My fist crunches cartilage before pulling back to deliver another blow. Before I can bust him again, the Esthetician grabs me by the scruff of the neck and yanks me to my feet whilst planting her foot into That-No-Good-Son-of-a-Bitch-Martin’s crotch.

  We run.

  We break through the crowd and run.

  How the hell do these women learn to run in those shoes of theirs? How?

  I don’t know and I don’t care.

  I run as if I’ve been freed from a prison.

  I’ve never felt so alive before in my life.

  I’m elated.

  I’m ecstatic.

  I’ve never felt quite so alive.

  My skin tingles and vibrates.

  I’ve never brawled before and it felt good.

  I think I have a broken finger.

  We run through the rain.

  When we’re certain no one is chasing us we stop.

  I try to figure out where we are.

  What the hell was I thinking?!

  It takes a moment for me to realize the Esthetician is screaming at me.

  What the hell was I thinking?!

  She looked like she was in trouble.

  Baby (because she always calls me baby) what the fuck was I thinking? Don’t I know I could have gotten hurt? (she examines me) I’m going to have a shiner.

  I think my finger is broken.

  She looks at my hand.

  Fingers don’t bend like that.

  Curious. It hardly hurts.

  It will in the morning.

  She needs to get me to a hospital.

  We both look around.

  We are both in unexplored and unfamiliar territory.

  We are strangers in a strange land.

  Where are we?

  Baby, I’ve a feeling we’re not in the City anymore.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Strange New World

  The world around us is somehow darker, dirtier than the one we ran from. The shadows are deeper and longer. The rain is more oppressive. The winds blow harder.

  This is the London of the cut-purses and the grave robbers. We are in Jack the Ripper territory.

  Somehow the Esthetician gets us a taxi.