Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Eight Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO Grandmother Charlotte was a dirty old bird

  CHAPTER THREE No Comment

  CHAPTER FOUR Davos Switzerland

  CHAPTER FIVE The Library is My New Home

  CHAPTER SIX Chalet Girl

  CHAPTER SEVEN Love is Overrated

  CHAPTER EIGHT Freshers Week

  CHAPTER NINE Reading in the Library

  CHAPTER TEN Renata

  CHAPTER ELEVEN The Singhs

  CHAPTER TWELVE Delusions of Love

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Deal with the Devil

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Icelandic Model

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Circus Train Part 2

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Inverness

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Cousin Margaret's Wedding

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Court of Harpies

  CHAPTER NINETEEN Is it Love if it Doesn't Hurt?

  CHAPTER TWENTY Cocktail Hour

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE The Yacht

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO The Persecuted Jesus Christ and the Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate Play Golf

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Ending

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Time Out

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Swedish Princess

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Women All Have Vaginas

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Death

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Ana

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE The Saudi Princess

  CHAPTER THIRTY Future Talk

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Mistress Jennifer

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Living My Truth

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Eight

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2014 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  My Tribe of Writers

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  Question posed to each interviewee: What is the one thing you remember most about Margaret’s wedding?

  Oliver – the rain. I will never forget that rain.

  Roland – other than Ana? It absolutely poured. It was like the harbinger of the second coming.

  Olga – the rain. Poor Margaret. She was simply beside herself. Here she’d gone and planned this beautiful wedding and it just rained and rained and rained.

  Gita – it wouldn’t stop raining. For days it rained. Poor poor Margaret. She was just distraught. But it was such a beautiful wedding in the end.

  Elon – other than Ana? It fucking came down in buckets. It was like buckets of water were being poured down over our heads.

  Harvey – The rain was bloody biblical.

  Harry – I fell in love. And it wouldn’t stop raining. You’d think with the way Margaret went on about it that it was something personal.

  Margaret – My period started right in the middle of the ceremony.

  Elizabeth – I fell in love. And the rain. Just sheets and sheets of rain. This is why when we got married May. Lowest average rainfall. That wedding traumatized me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Grandmother Charlotte was a dirty old bird

  Here is the problem with trying to find a gift for Margaret for her wedding. There is probably not much she isn’t familiar with in Wold Hall. She didn’t spend as much time as I did at Wold Hall growing up, but she was there often enough.

  What do I find as I spend the afternoon with Uncle Harvey digging through the crap we found in the old servants rooms? Grandmother Charlotte had a past.

  I find the letters and the diaries. I call mum.

  Did she know anything about my great-grandmother, and someone named HQ?

  Mum tells me to hold on a moment so she can ask Aunt Lucy.

  Not her grandmother. Great-grandmother Charlotte.

  That evil old bitch. No idea who HQ might be. This is the problem with dad being dead. He’d know.

  Damn him for dying on us.

  She agrees. How dare he die on us? I should talk to the Gresham’s, Aunt Maisie, or Uncle Albert.

  I try Mrs. Gresham first. Does HQ ring a bell?

  A little one. HQ. HQ. HQ. Where am I getting HQ from?

  I show her the picture.

  Handsome.

  I show her the back.

  She reads the saucy little love note on the back.

  CW – Charlotte Wilkes. Maybe. I should keep in mind there are more CW’s in the world than my great-grandmother. As for HQ… she can’t help me. She will say he looks rather familiar, but…

  Mr. Gresham joins us.

  Mrs. Gresham shows him the picture.

  That’s Harold Quinn. He was the grounds keeper back years ago. Died during the war. Quite a gardener. Actually he is the one that put the original rose garden in and revitalized the maze. Where did I find the picture?

  Servants’ rooms. Any chance he might have had an affair with Countess Charlotte.

  Don’t be daft. Countess Charlotte was not that kind of woman.

  I look at the picture. He’s probably right. Best get back to it.

  Have I found anything useful for the television people?

  Maybe. Lots of pictures. I found some old uniforms someone took the time to pack up properly.

  I should have them clear through the rubble in those rooms. If they want to use them so badly the least they can do is clean them out.

  He has a point. But I am enjoying myself.

  When it starts to get dull, call the TV people.

  Has he thought about giving them what they want?

  Yes. He’ll do it. He’d do just about anything for the kind of money they’re offering him. He’s surprised they haven’t tried to lure me in.

  They have. I’m thinking about it.

  Don’t do it. If I want his advice, don’t do it. I’m down, but I’m not out. I don’t need to stoop so low.

  He’s right. I know he is. But the money is desperately tempting.

  When I’m alone again I continue to paw through the past. Then I find the letters and the diaries. Great-grandmother Charlotte was a dirty old bird and Harold Quinn was her naughty naughty lover.

  CHAPTER THREE

  No Comment

  I sit at the breakfast table in the China room with cold coffee and the newspaper in front of me. Gita respects the silence.

  The newspaper paints of me the portrait of a victim. I’m not longer a source of amusement, but rather pity. I’m not entirely certain this is good or bad.

  My phone rings yet again.

  I check the display.

  Unknown caller.

  I set it back on the table.

  Gita picks it up. She’s my doctor, surrogate sister, best friend, and now personal assistant.

  We have no comment.

  The phone goes back on the table.

  Mrs. Gresham enters with fresh coffee and toast for me and tea for Gita.

  I don’t want toast.

  I have to eat something.

  What do I want her to make for me?

  Make me disappear.

  That’s not on the menu. What about pancakes?

  Fine. But I’d rather have French toast and bacon.

  She can do French toast and bacon.

  Make it with the bacon and the egg in between the slices of French toast like she used to do.

  Do I want her to put a syrup smiley face on the bread?

  Yes.

  She presses her lips against the crown of my head before she leaves.

  Gita reaches over the table and takes my hand yet again.

  It’s not really as bad as I think it is. Nothing ever is.

  I know. I just thought I was done being fo
dder for the press. I was doing so well.

  I am doing well. At least this time they didn’t have to blur the pictures to conceal bits of my anatomy.

  Small favors.

  She squeezes my hand again and smiles at me.

  Will she marry me?

  No. But she does appreciate the offer.

  Is she going to marry Harry?

  It’s still very early to make any sort of assumption.

  Bullshit. They’re crazy about each other.

  She just smiles. My hand gets another squeeze.

  My phone rings again.

  I check the display.

  This is a call I will take.

  I regret it the moment I answer. It’s not my former fiancée. It’s her father.

  Not that he greets me properly or gives me his name.

  Oh no.

  I know it’s him because he’s the only person I know that has that Jabba the Hut laugh.

  All sort of meaty and rolling.

  What does he want?

  To savor the moment. He continues to chortle as he speaks.

  He’s all class.

  Do I know how to find the man that beat the ever loving piss out of me?

  Why?

  Because he wants to buy him a drink. The chortling turns to the sort of congested coughing of a man with a desperate heart condition.

  I silently urge him to have a heart attack.

  Before I can hang up I am privilege to an altercation between him and that blushing flower of a daughter of his.

  She takes the phone.

  Oliver.

  So they call me.

  Am I okay?

  Does she really care?

  A door closes in the background.

  Yes. She cares. The pictures are so bad. She needs to know from me that I’m okay.

  I’m okay. My pride is really what’s bruised.

  Am I actually going to marry that woman?

  Not anymore. I’m taking a page from her book and I’m going to sue the pants off of Parvati.

  She knows the name of a good lawyer.

  Harry and Uncle Albert seem to have it under control.

  Am I still going to Margaret’s wedding?

  Yes.

  We’ll talk then. Just don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.

  I can hardly move. That limits my ability to be stupid.

  Am I really renting out Wold Hall for a reality TV show?

  Yes. I’m actually trying to take responsibility for my life.

  We’ll talk at the wedding. Am I still bringing Olga?

  Not Russian Barbie?

  I know about that?

  She and Margaret are fairly predictable. I can leave her at home if she wants me to. I’m not unaware that it could be awkward.

  It’s fine. She’s bringing a date. It’s all good.

  We say our goodbyes. I put the phone back on the table.

  Gita says nothing.

  Does she know how when she breaks up with someone and it’s totally okay if she moves on with her life, but it’s not okay if they move on with theirs?

  Gita smiles. She might be familiar with the concept.

  Sure she won’t marry me? I figure if I keep asking she might accidently say yes.

  No. But it is very sweet of me to ask.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Davos Switzerland

  I’m torn between my love for Elon and my love for the Chalet Girl. She’s nineteen or twenty. Maybe twenty-one. It doesn’t matter. She’s a grown woman in my boyish eyes.

  She’s tells me I’m adorable.

  She loves the roses in my cheeks.

  Someday I’m going to break hearts.

  Elon skis like he was born on the slopes. I’m good but not great. He refuses to slow down for me. I’ve already had one broken arm and don’t necessarily fancy breaking another limb. So I stick to the green and blue slopes.

  I’m in love. A deep and abiding love with the Chalet Girl.

  Dad just sort of chuckles a lot at my sighs.

  I find a box of condoms in my dresser.

  I don’t know for certain where it came from, but I have my suspicions.

  Dad has become the perfect cool older brother, or slick younger uncle.

  He’s got granddad to do the heavy lifting leaving him free to be awesome.

  Sometimes I’m okay with this.

  Sometimes I’m not.

  I run hot and cold when it comes to my parents.

  I’m a teenager.

  It’s my prerogative.

  After our last family holiday together I was reluctant to commit to two weeks in Switzerland over Christmas and New Year’s. But my grandparents, Uncle Albert, Aunt Maisie, Henry, and Margaret are present.

  And of course Elon.

  We’re like conjoined twins.

  I’m not alone. There are other people I can disappear into if my parents become insufferable.

  Truthfully, I must admit too, things have gotten better with my parents

  We five (me, my parents, and my grandparents) have come to an accord.

  My parents are sort of like what I would imagine a cool aunt and uncle would be like. I’m guessing of course. Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie are the antithesis of cool. They are in fact rather boorish. They disapprove of my rearing. They think my grandparents are too indulgent and ridged simultaneously. They think my parents are a dog’s dinner.

  Margaret is okay. She can be fun.

  Henry just begs to be picked on.

  He’s the studious sort of goody goody I pretend to be for my grandparents benefit. My grandparents would be thoroughly disappointed in me if they actually believed for a moment I was such a dork. We three know perfectly well my polished veneer is just that – a veneer. Beneath the surface I’m incorrigible and that’s just how they like me.

  Henry ignores me as best he can. When I come in the room he spends a great deal of time sitting next to his mother.

  Aunt Maisie has this look she gives me if I come close to poking at her baby.

  In the dark of night when I have the burden of exploring my deeper thoughts I envy Henry to the marrow of my bones.

  Oh what I would give to have my mother welcome a cuddle from me. To welcome me in that space on the couch next to her with my head on her shoulder.

  Or even my grandmother.

  Either of them.

  But these are not the kind of women they are.

  They’re not Aunt Maisie who lets her son (whose my age no less!) sit next to her and reads Harry Potter to him.

  For heaven’s sake! He can read for himself. It’s a child’s book anyhow. This is what my grandfather told me. I can’t be bothered.

  The Chalet Girl gives me smiles. She is the daughter of a banker and is on her second gap year.

  In the mornings when she serves breakfast she’s practically comatose.

  My grandmother complains bitterly that she lacks decorum. The very minimum we could expect would be for her to have had at least an hour or two of sleep before serving us after an evening out on the tear.

  Aunt Maisie agrees with her.

  My mother is silent. This is her default when we are gathered together. She goes quiet. No one seems to mind.

  Aunt Maisie has firmly worded conversations with the Chalet Girls on two occasions.

  Her behavior does not improve.

  This pleases me well. I like my Chalet Girls full of badness.

  Together Elon and I hatch a plan.

  Elon has come to believe that one experience with a woman is all I need to convince me that he is the one that I am meant to love.

  I’m open to giving his theory a good test.

  The family is always up and out early. Elon and I go with them, but then double back to the chalet after they’re scattered to the winds.

  My Chalet Girl is hard at work making beds when I find her.

  I want to be smooth about all of this, but Elon has other plans.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder.
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  Oliver has never had sex with a girl and he really fancies her.

  The Chalet girl laughs. We’re so cute!

  I could pound Elon.

  How old are we?

  Old enough for it to be legal in Switzerland.

  Again – I could beat Elon. It’s like he’s pimping me out.

  She has work to do. But we are cute. And she does appreciate the offer.

  She picks up the laundry basket and brushes past me as she walks out the room. I get a kiss on the cheek and I’m told once again how adorable I am.

  I could beat him.

  Ehhh… Elon shrugs. He’s not sure I’m out of the race quite yet. Do I want to ski or fool around?

  Well considering I’ve been imagining what sex with the Chalet Girl might be like, I think fooling around sounds like a good idea.

  Good. He agrees. Unlike women, he’s easy.

  Time has taught us well.

  I lock the door and he strips down.

  The room is ours and no one is going to bother us especially if they’re all skiing.

  We’ve gotten very good at satisfying each other.

  I almost forgive him for making me look like a virginal ass in front of the Chalet Girl when he’s on his knees and my hands are threaded through his blond hair.

  His mouth is like magic.

  I’m not as eager as I used to be. I can enjoy the feel of his tongue on my cock without exploding like a firecracker.

  Time has taught me restraint and how to hold back.

  What do I give him? Am I the most selfish lover in the world?

  No. I am not. I’ve found my comfort zone.

  If he doesn’t like it, then too bad.

  This is where our Greek education has come in handy. Greece has practically become a how-to manual for us.

  Diamērizein.

  To do between the thighs.

  That’s what they called it.

  Greek. Such a great language.

  We’ve found a hundred different ways to experiment with this bit of mutual masturbation.

  I can’t imagine ever getting bored with this.

  We each have a personal favourite.

  He likes me lying face down on the bed with a large quantity of lotion smeared on my bottom. The he slides his cock between my thighs.

  I like this too.

  I know what he really wants, but this is going to have to do.