Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Five Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO London

  CHAPTER THREE Mummy

  CHAPTER FOUR Miss Parvati Singh

  CHAPTER FIVE Kafkaesque

  CHAPTER SIX One Night in Bangkok

  CHAPTER SEVEN Green Lanyard

  CHAPTER EIGHT Land of the Rising Sun

  CHAPTER NINE Secrets and Lies

  CHAPTER TEN Odysseus

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Party Time

  CHAPTER TWELVE Coitiōn or Coetus?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN ‘The triple pillar of the world transformed into a strumpet's fool…’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Carnival at Sea

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN Partying like it’s 31BCE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Pompeii

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Field Trip to Kyoto

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Ruins of Carthage

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Jealousy

  CHAPTER TWENTY Home

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 1001 Nights

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Awkward Moments

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE School Boy

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Schoolboy Hijinks

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Limbo

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Acceptable

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN The Truth About Harold

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT History Repeats Itself

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE First Times

  CHAPTER THIRTY It's Just Lunch

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Lotus Eater

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Final Shots

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Hotel California

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR A Final Chance

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Happy Halloween Oliver

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Paris Postscript

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Five

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  My Writing Tribe

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  If I were to think of the tale I’m attempting to tell in terms of a three act play, I could say with confidence we are reaching the end of the first act. I have introduced the main players and outlined my various and assorted troubles. I have reached a turning point at this moment. The questions which must be answered have been asked. Will I save my home? Will I marry for love? Will I marry for money? Will I beat off the onslaught from my former fiancée?

  I suspect at this moment that my former fiancée is complicit in my downfall. That is how she and her father operate. They were the ultimate tag team. A pair of mask sporting luchadores ready to go to the mat against anyone that dare fuck with them. I don’t condemn her for this. This strength in her was one of the things I admired. I just wasn’t sufficiently fearful of her power – no, not that – I never believed she would turn that focused determination and annihilation against me until it happened. I was me after all. And she loved me. That she hid behind her father should have just been assumed. I’m no genius, but I thought I was at least that smart. How wrong I was!

  The story moves on. We enter the second act. I am committed to my quest. I have traveled to an unknown land. My mentor is at my side. She supports me whether she wishes to or not – she is as much a part of the journey as I am.

  CHAPTER TWO

  London

  We arrive in London just after noon on Thursday. Olga has said nothing about my meeting that afternoon with the family of my first potential bride. Either she doesn’t care, or she is in the most terrifying way imaginable, being silently passive-aggressive about the whole thing. Truthfully, I know her well enough to fear the worst.

  There is a Gordian knot of a riddle wrapped up inside of that woman. I lack the balls to just slash through it with a sword. So I pluck at it with bleeding finger tips as if that might actually get me somewhere.

  As I shower Olga sets out my clothes. Black suit, white shirt, and a pearl white and royal blue stripped tie I didn’t know I owned.

  Is this mine? I hold up the tie.

  Yes. She bought it for me.

  When?

  In Bath. When I was doing that thing with the car that took so long.

  Trying to find a parking place?

  Yes. That.

  That took maybe twenty minutes. I’ve seen her shop. Nothing happens that quickly when Olga is shopping.

  She moves fast when she sees something she likes. Not just for ties. Everything. She knows what she wants when she sees it. She stares at me.

  Thanks? It’s a nice tie. Not really my thing. I like solids.

  Solids are blah. Am I going to start fussing about her packing for us for the Japan trip? Or am I just going to cooperate?

  What time are we leaving in the morning?

  The car is booked for seven. Our flight leaves at eleven. We will be in Bangkok thirteen hours later. We are there for exactly thirty-six hours. Then seven hours later, we land in Tokyo.

  Why aren’t we flying on a private jet again? This was sold to me with the promise of a private jet.

  Do I want to squeeze the Latin Pop Star in or not?

  Yes. I do.

  Then we fly commercial. The taxi is waiting. We need to go.

  She is not coming with me.

  She picks up her handbag and slips on her sunglasses. She looks like a woman ready to go with me.

  She knows she is not coming with me. Right?

  She has shopping to do. She’ll drop me off.

  This is acceptable. I’m all for carpooling.

  Do I want her to come back around to pick me up?

  No – I don’t want her to come back around to pick me up. I’m going to go and see my mother after the meeting.

  She’ll go with me.

  No. Not this time. Next time.

  Okay. She understands. She pulls her agenda out of her bag along with the packing lists.

  The packing lists are both thorough and unnerving. I have this feeling of dread in my guts when I see those lists. My Former Fiancée had those lists. They’re couple lists.

  Olga peruses her lists as I sit back and ponder my destiny, fate, the nature of the universe, and whether or not I have time to get an Americano before I’m due at the Matchmaker’s offices. My mind is made up when something very obvious occurs to me. I don’t want to pull up outside the offices with a woman. What if someone sees us together? Talk about a bad first impression. I’m surprised Olga didn’t realize that. She’s aware of these subtle nuances. She is forever telling me to pay attention.

  I tell the driver to drop me at the Starbuck’s near to the offices.

  Olga looks up from the lists. I don’t have time for a coffee.

  I’ll make time for a coffee.

  It’ll make my breath smell. I don’t want that.

  I’ll use a mint.

  Best to go straight to the office. I don’t want to be late.

  No. Stop at Starbuck’s. I want a coffee. More than that, I think it’s a bad idea for us to show up together outside of the Matchmaker’s office. Bad idea for us to be seen together.

  There is a twitching around her eyes that nearly makes me scream J'accuse! I got her. She wanted us to get caught together. There is a conversation coming I do not want to have. I am so looking forward to the flight to Bangkok. With any luck I might be able to slip her a valium. She’ll sleep like the dead. We won’t get arrested on an international flight for fighting. No one with a phone will record us. We won’t end up on YouTube.

  I tell the driver to drop me at the next corner. I’ll walk.

  He stops the car.

  I kiss Olga’s cheek. Don’t bother with my
stuff. I’ll pack for myself when I get home. She has enough to worry about. I’m not her problem.

  I open the door before she has a chance to object.

  I close the door quickly cutting off whatever it was she wanted to say to me.

  I don’t go for a coffee. I go for a brisk walk around the block to clear my head.

  When the clock strikes on the hour, I walk up the steps to the Matchmaker’s offices. I’ve shaken off Olga. My head is where it needs to be. I’m my most charming self. I’m ready to woo and win a billionaire’s daughter.

  As the buzzer for the door indicates I may enter (no one comes to the door for me anymore!) a two tone cream Rolls Royce Phantom catches the corner of my eye.

  What do I see? A flock of dark haired women watching me. Some are in saris. One is not. Hard to get a good look at her behind the big black bug-eye sunglasses, but I’m certain that one has to be Miss Parvati Singh. My future bride.

  From the distance stretched between my place at the door and the car across the street she seems lovely. So much could be bad about that. The thing about women that are not so pretty is that they are generally more pleasant to be around. They’ve had to actually make an effort to develop their personalities.

  A beautiful woman just has to be beautiful. An okay or sort of pretty woman has to put in some effort to make herself appealing. This is what society teaches them.

  This is especially true with Indian women. I understand I’m generalizing, but the simple truth is, there is no feature a girl can possess in Indian culture that could rival beauty. Intelligence comes second. Of course this is my opinion.

  I step inside and close the door behind me. The Matchmaker’s French male secretary Guillaume greets me. He’s warmer and more welcoming than previously. We’re coworkers now. Different divisions, but still working under the same masthead. I could do his job. Probably wouldn’t make as much money, but I could do his job. Maybe what I need is a real job.

  She’s on the phone. There’s tea set up in the sitting room. I’m meeting with the mother, two aunts, and one of the younger twin sisters.

  Not her.

  No.

  Not a surprise. Could be the younger sister I saw in the car.

  He noticed they were parked out front. Probably wanted to check me out in advance.

  Will they want to check my teeth and have a vial of my blood for testing?

  They already know I have a clean bill of health from the Doctor.

  Really?

  Oh, was that a joke?

  That was a joke. (I force myself not to snort, but I do roll my eyes. The French.)

  The Matchmaker joins us in the sitting room. Guillaume is dismissed.

  I tell her she looks lovely as always and kiss her cheeks.

  Honestly – why am I so charming? Very quickly. First. She is so very sorry about my mother. She truly thought I knew.

  I should have known. Too many people are keeping things from me. This needs to stop.

  If it helps, she’ll always be truthful with me.

  This helps.

  Getting down to business. We only have a few minutes. They will be late even though she knows they’re waiting out front in the car. When they ask, which they will, I work for her.

  I…

  She raises a silencing finger.

  I work for her. She reaches in the pocket of her suit jacket and removes a small stack of business cards.

  Oliver Adair – Public Relations.

  I laugh. How can I not? She was serious? Public relations?

  She continues briskly. Let’s be honest. I can only do so much fucking and I need to be careful about whom I take on as a client. If discretion was not an issue, she could have me booked night and day. Working for her doing client relations is an excellent cover. I am not to forget that she actually has a legitimate matchmaking business. Those clients would be very comfortable meeting with me. I’m like them. I’m not pretending to be like them. She’s going to put me on the payroll. I already have appointments in Tokyo.

  Is she quite serious?

  Yes.

  What does she want me to do?

  Interview clients. Bring in new business. It’s a job. A legitimate job that will pay me a real salary. It will explain why I am spending time in her offices and traveling around to meet with a variety of people on their own turf. It’s truly the perfect cover.

  I can do this.

  Of course I can.

  The doorbell rings.

  I slip the cards in my pocket. They’re another piece of my armor. The cards are a thick cream paper with black script print – I rather like them. Simple and elegant. The sort of thing I would have if I did have a real job. If I did have a real job it would be doing something like public relations for a small boutique firm. Why don’t I have a job again? Am I really that much of a lazy bastard? I have a new identity to hide behind. Or maybe an identity to grow into.

  I stand and wait for the Singh women.

  They walk in with their jewel toned saris fluttering like butterfly wings. They’re all quite tiny.

  I am introduced to each lady based on her importance. The younger sister is not the woman I saw in the car. She’s not as pretty.

  We are invited to sit by the matchmaker. She and Mrs. Singh and her sister Mrs. Harayama do the bulk of the talking. There is much talk of the weather and everyone’s health. I speak when spoken to.

  Yes – I do enjoy working.

  Yes – I would be willing to work for Mr. Singh in his enterprises.

  Yes – I understand that my children would be raised as Hindu.

  Yes – I’m a tiger that has quite changed his stripes.

  Yes – I am convinced having the Matchmaker seek out a bride for me was the wise choice as I have no women in my family capable of seeking a bride for me.

  Yes – it is terrible my mother is so very ill.

  Yes – this is the reason why I have decided it is time to settle down with a proper lady that would make an appropriate wife.

  Yes – it is my intention to care for her not only because it is my obligation as her son, but because it is the right thing to do.

  These are all very good answers.

  I am handed a picture of Miss Parvati Singh.

  She is stunning. For certain she is the young woman I saw in the car. In the picture she is wearing a teal and orange sari covered in turquoise and ruby gems. Her eyes are the color of honey, her skin is creamy, her hair is black and shines like silk.

  I look at Mrs. Singh and tell her the truth. Miss Singh is truly beautiful. I would be the luckiest man in the world to have such a perfect wife.

  This makes all of the women smile.

  I am given a list of facts about Parvati.

  •She is twenty-six years of age. Perhaps a bit old, but as I can see she is none the less still very beautiful.

  •She was educated in the United States at Stanford University.

  •She currently lives in London, but she is a very traditional girl with traditional values.

  •She is very fond of her charity work.

  •She is a virgin.

  •She comes with a more than acceptable dowry.

  •Would I be interested in meeting Miss Singh?

  Yes. I would like to meet Miss Singh.

  The Matchmaker takes over again and I am left to sit silently. A meeting will be arranged for a time after I’ve returned from a business trip in Japan.

  This is very good. Very good indeed. Mr. Singh will be very pleased that I am a man that is not incapable of doing work.

  The meeting is over. Mrs. Singh offers me a hand with I take, then move down the line to the other ladies with the younger sister last. When are palms touch, she slips a folded piece of paper in my hand.

  When they are gone I open the note.

  Tonight. Nine sharp. Cocktails. Amaranto. Parvati.

  When the women are gone I show the note to the Matchmaker.

  Not surprising. Miss Singh is perhaps a
touch more modern than her mother let on.

  This is good.

  Just don’t let mama catch me. That could throw a spanner into the works.

  I’ll be discrete.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mummy

  The original plan had been to go directly to Aunt Lucy’s place in Croydon, spend the afternoon with mummy, then head home to sort myself out to leave in the morning.

  But I need to change. I need to be a different person for Parvati than I was for her mother.

  When I get home, Olga is still out.

  Elizabeth and Mi-Young are lurking about.

  They help me decide what would be good to go from day to evening. Tan trousers, slim fit dress shirt in midnight blue, stripped aviator scarf (that I’m tempted to pitch as soon as I’m away from them – I look like a pirate), simple brown leather jacket.

  They stand back and study me. I’m free to go.

  Are they absolutely certain?

  Yes. I may go.

  I give each of them a kiss on the cheek then take off. I’ll admit I rush. I want to be out the door before I run into Olga. My head is where it needs to be to meet Parvati. I don’t need Olga coming along and confusing me. I’ll admit it. I’d very nearly reached the point when we were together in the country that I considered marrying for love alone rather than duty or family. I don’t need that right now.

  The trip to Croydon takes about forty minutes not including a stop for flowers.

  Aunt Lucy lives in an apartment behind the butcher’s shop that used to belong to my grandfather. The shop is long closed and news stand operated by a Pakistani family is in its place. They complain about the rent and want to buy the building. Aunt Lucy has common sense enough to know not to sell. That rental income supplements her and Uncle Harvey’s income. And now it takes care of mum.

  When I see mum for the first time since our blowout after dad’s funeral I’m a boy again. Looking at my beautiful mummy who has lived her life being compared in looks to Joanna Lumley I’m transported to my childhood. I don’t see the resemblance. I think my mummy is much prettier. No offence to Joanna Lumley.

  My beautiful mummy. Butcher’s daughter turned model turned countess. It’s no wonder my father fell in love with her. How could he not?