Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE Prologue

  CHAPTER TWO Home

  CHAPTER THREE Voyage of the Damned

  CHAPTER FOUR Castle on the Sea

  CHAPTER FIVE Wold Hall

  CHAPTER SIX The Greshams

  CHAPTER SEVEN Social Secretary

  CHAPTER EIGHT I should have been an archaeologist

  CHAPTER NINE The Return of Elon and Renata

  CHAPTER TEN How I Find Out My Mother is Terminally Ill

  CHAPTER ELEVEN The Long Room

  CHAPTER TWELVE Dinner in the Long Room

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Baby Daddy

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN Olga the Psychic

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN The First Catch

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Bachelorette Number One

  Memoirs of a Gigolo

  Volume Four

  Livia Ellis

  Copyright © 2013 Livia Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1481139398

  ISBN-13: 978-1481139397

  For my tribe of indy writers.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prologue

  Prologue

  From the diary of the Former Fiancee written the morning after Oliver’s 25th birthday:

  I met a man. A beautiful man. Margaret’s cousin. The one that is always in the tabloids.

  Oliver Adair. Oliver. Ollie. London’s favorite playboy.

  Yes. That one.

  I’m still just laughing at myself because of what happened. I slept with him. I still can’t believe it. What could I possibly have been thinking?

  Top marks for being an excellent lover. Not that I was able to relax enough to enjoy it. All I could think about was the size of my arse and the fact I’d had onions with dinner.

  God I feel like such an idiot. He kept turning the lights on. I kept turning them off. It was like a game after a while. That’s him isn’t it? All life’s a game and the party never ends for Oliver Adair.

  He’s just so lovely. I honestly cannot say I’ve been with a more attractive man. Every inch of him absolutely perfect. He has the most breathtaking eyes. So green and pretty. Like crispy green leaves. Or a margarita. Not a drop of hazel in them.

  But yet he’s not perfect. He’s so lost and sad. I don’t think he knows how lost and sad he is. That false bravado and the need to constantly appear devil-may-care must be exhausting. He wears his sad mask like some handsome Pagliacci.

  His mother is a bitch and his father seems just as lost and confused as Oliver does.

  They forgot it was his birthday. How is this possible? What kind of parents do that? I can’t imagine dad forgetting my birthday.

  I just wanted to protect him from them. Mostly her.

  This beautiful man with so much hurt in his heart.

  His Uncle Harvey is an absolute riot. Him I like. He’s my sort of people. Very down to Earth even in his outrageous purple jacket and orange fez. I like him. Ollie’s Aunt Lucy is like my aunts. Motherly and kind. I can’t believe she’s the sister of Oliver’s mother. They are black and white.

  I still don’t know what happened last night. He had to give this heartbreaking toast to his parent’s happiness. It very nearly made me cry. I stayed at his side during the evening. Not because I pushed but because he was always just there. We danced. Not to get all Eliza Doolittle or anything but I’ve never danced like that before. I was the cockney flower girl all dressed up in her finest to put on a show at the embassy ball. I did everything perfectly and my reward was the best sex I’ll ever have and couldn’t be relaxed enough to enjoy.

  Such is my lot in life.

  I don’t know why he asked me to spend the night with him.

  Maybe I do.

  Maybe he just didn’t want to be alone. I understand this. I’m lonely too. It’s been too long since I’ve had a man in my life and god knows the clock is ticking.

  Unfortunately Ollie is chronologically eight years younger than me, twenty years younger in maturity, and absolutely not what I’m looking for in a husband and father of my children.

  Not that I would turn away his genetic code if that was all I was looking for!

  Would I sleep with him again?

  Maybe.

  I can’t stress how intimidatingly handsome he is.

  Oh well… a one night stand does not a lifelong commitment make.

  I’m late for breakfast as it is and don’t want to stick out anymore than I actually do. I’m not like these people. I wasn’t raised with money. I didn’t go to boarding school and I don’t have their backgrounds. I’m not comfortable. I stick out. My father might be wealthy, but he never finished secondary school. I’m proud of my father and everything he’s accomplished. These people make me think I should be ashamed of the fact that I’m the child of a man that worked for his money.

  Ollie made me feel like a princess. Like I belonged with him. Even for just a little while it was magic. Like Cinderella. I even had the gown. My beautiful gown that I loved so much. What a mistake that was.

  I can’t believe how inappropriate my dress was for the party. Oliver seemed to like it, but it just seemed dated comparted to what the other women were wearing. I’m not even going to comment on the fact that mother of his had her boobs hanging out.

  Unbelievable.

  Cow.

  Hate her.

  Would steal her son and make him safe from her if I could.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Home

  People keep waking me up, and it’s truly starting to piss me off.

  At some point in the darkest hours of the night two women were arguing somewhere in the house. I very nearly got up and told them to either shut up or know my wraith. Fortunately Olga was just as annoyed. She got out of bed and let them have it for me.

  Just one day, I'd like to sleep in. Then I remember. I'm going home. No one will wake me up at home.

  The insistent hand which keeps nudging me persists.

  Olga tells me to wakey wakey. I promised to take her to the castle.

  I did not promise. She strong armed me into agreeing.

  What’s the difference?

  Go away. I'm sleeping.

  Get up. I promised to take her to the castle. I said we were going to leave early. It's early. Let's go.

  I have no response.

  She gets on the bed and starts bouncing and pushing me. Get up. Get up. Get up.

  I grab my watch. It's 6:10 in the morning.

  This is how people end up murdered.

  I roll over onto my stomach and put the pillow over my head.

  Shaking me is not working, so she changes tactics.

  She climbs on my legs and straddles me with her thighs.

  Cool, but not cold hands start kneading my back muscles.

  Please will I get up? Please? She coos prettily as her hands work my back.

  I'll give her credit. This is working.

  She'll buy me breakfast. She'll let me drive her car.

  That wakes me. The car. I remember the offer of the car. What kind of car?

  Aston Martin.

  I'm awake. Tell me more.

  What more? It's a car.

  What kind of car?

  Aston Martin.

  I silently count slowly to ten. Which model?

  Silver. With black interior.

  Silly woman. Which model? Is it a DBS, Virage, DB9...?

  How does she know? It's a car. Two doors. Two seats. It's new. Birthday present.. She never drives. She can't figure out how to drive on the left side of the road. Too confusing. What's wrong with the English? Why can't they drive on the right side of the road? If she l
ets me drive the car will I get up?

  Are we negotiating?

  Yes.

  In exchange for breakfast and unlimited access to the car, I will get up.

  When?

  She's a clever one. I'll get up at 10.

  If I get up now, right now, she'll let me use the car whenever I take her places. But only when I take her places. And I have to take her places on occasion even if I don’t want to go just because she wants a ride.

  I get to use the car whenever I take her places and four additional days per week to be agreed upon in advance. I don’t have to go anywhere I don’t want to go.

  I have to be reasonable when refusing to take her places, she gets two vetoes which mean I have to take her even if I don’t want to twice within a three month period which cannot carryover. I can have the car two additional days per week and I don’t have to ask her in advance as long as I wear what she wants me to wear for her sister’s wedding.

  She’s not going to ask me to dress up like a chicken or wear a kilt in the dead of winter?

  No.

  I think we’ve reached an accord.

  Does that mean we have a deal?

  Yes.

  Get up. We're burning daylight.

  I'll get up. But first some things need to be made clear. I'm going for four nights and five days. Home is a real castle. Neither Sleeping Beauty's Castle at Disneyland Paris nor a recently constructed manor house purposefully designed to look antique.

  It's old.

  The oldest part of the house was built in the 1520's. Henry VIII once visited.

  The newest part was built in 1786.

  The plumbing is older than both of us combined.

  The electricity has a tendency to go out when a breeze blows.

  There is no central heating.

  It's cold.

  Very cold.

  If it were 200° outside, it would still be freezing inside.

  All of the bedrooms are closed up.

  There are dustcovers on the furniture.

  I have no extra bedding.

  I will not open up a bedroom for her simply because I do not want to have to haul enough wood up to get the fire going in two rooms.

  She can sleep in my room.

  If she doesn't want to sleep with me, she can sleep on the couch.

  I am not gentleman enough to give up my bed for her.

  There is no Sky.

  There is no internet.

  Cellular coverage can be hit or miss.

  It is not a hotel, nor has it even been, nor will it ever be a hotel.

  I don't care how miserable she is.

  I will not leave early to bring her back to London.

  She can take the train when she realizes how inhospitable castle living actually is.

  For meals, she can either cook in the kitchen, which contains a fire place big enough to roast a whole spitted deer, or she can eat with me at the pub.

  I'm not taking her into Bath or Bristol every night for meals.

  Will I take her to Bath once? She's never been there.

  That I can do. Do we understand each other?

  Yes. Is there a stable?

  Yes.

  Are there horses?

  Not anymore. Get packed.

  She's already packed.

  I tell her to go and unpack then repack only warm clothes and practical footwear.

  She's already packed. Really. Warm clothes and practical footwear. She'll sleep with me. She won't cook, but she can microwave if we go to Marks & Spencer for food. Please will I get up? The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be there. It's supposed to be cool, but sunny and clear with light breezes. She's checked the weather forecast.

  My final argument. I will not be her entertainment committee.

  I need to clear out the rose garden and the kitchen garden needs tending to.

  It's going to take more time than I have.

  She'll help me. She likes gardens.

  Liking gardens and gardening are two completely different activities.

  One requires using of the back whilst the other requires sitting on ones backside. There's work to be done. I'm not going to listen if she tells me she's bored. In fact, if she does tell me she's bored, I'll lock her in the dungeon.

  Is there a dungeon?

  No. But there are a couple of very grim root cellars that are probably haunted.

  Is the castle haunted?

  Yes. It's haunted. The castle and the grounds. Ignore the ghosts and they ignore you.

  Am I messing with her?

  No, I'm not. If she's going to freak out the first time she sees Earl Edward in the library, or Lady Jane running across the grounds in the moonlight, or the Romans camping on the cliffs, I'm not taking her home.

  She's positively delighted. She loves ghosts and spooky things.

  Please will I get up? She promises she won't be a bother.

  I'm not convinced.

  But... Her enthusiasm is infectious.

  I'm ready to get up and going. An early start on the day is probably for the best anyhow. I have a lot to get done. Getting a jump on the day means I will make a good start on the work.

  I nudge her off of me, roll out of bed, and stumble into the shower.

  When I emerge, my bed has been made and clothes are on the bed. T-shirt, black cashmere sweater, heavy toffee-brown cord trousers. Clothes I can work in.

  I get a look at her. Hunter green riding breeches and thick black sweater over black polo shirt. I'm pleasantly surprised. She won't freeze. The riding breeches might be a bit much, but why not? If she wants to go country native, she wears it well. I tell her this.

  She looks at me. That you are so dense I find it personally offensive look.

  I am reminded she is Russian.

  She knows how to dress warmly.

  Her father has a house in the country.

  It's not her first time outside of a city.

  I'm told to get dressed.

  Her stuff is already downstairs in the foyer.

  She'll get the car out.

  I don't need to pack anything, so I'm downstairs less than ten minutes later.

  As promised, in the foyer is a pile of luggage.

  Not a big pile.

  A little one.

  But one topped with something that explains so much.

  A well-used caramel leather Hermes saddle is at the peak of the stack.

  Olga rides horses.

  Being fitted for a new pair of boots at the cordwainer was for a practical reason.

  The freakishly strong thighs are explained.

  So are the riding trousers.

  And the early start.

  No wonder why she wants me to take her to the country. If I didn't have to get the garden sorted single handed, I'd join her.

  I pick up the saddle and the duffel of riding gear.

  How stupid am I that I was resisting this? A beautiful girl that likes to ride horses actually wants me to take her in her magnificent sports car to the country for a long midweek break. I am the stupidest man in the world.

  As I walk outside, the car comes to a halt in front of me.

  But not without Olga running into a flower planter and demolishing it.

  I drop the bag and the saddle. My dream car has just arrived with a bang.

  The Aston Martin DBS Coupe. Silver with black interior. 6.0 liter V12 engine with 20” wheels, aluminum suspension, and ceramic brakes. £200,000 worth of the best British and German engineering.

  And she runs it into a flower planter.

  With the patience of a kindergarten teacher and the iron will of a bomb diffuser I go to the driver’s door and open it.

  Get out of the car.

  Did she break the flowers?

  Just get out of the car.

  She gets out of the car.

  She told me she wasn't a very good driver.

  She looks at the planter. She sighs and clicks her tongue. Poor flowers. Such a sad sigh. Poor flo
wers.

  This is what bothers her. The flowers.

  I throw the riding gear into the trunk, then go for the rest of her stuff. It all goes into the back. The boot whispers shut.

  Olga is already sitting in the passenger seat.

  She has a Gauloise in her mouth as she searches in her bag for her lighter.

  I take the cigarette out of her mouth and toss it out the window.

  Not in the car.

  There will be no smoking in the car.

  This beautiful car.

  My perfect English rose.

  I think I'll call her Beth.

  No.

  Emma.

  Olga mutters at me in Russian as she tosses her bag into the back seat.

  I don't care if she's telling me that it’s her car and she can smoke in it if she wants to.

  I don't care.

  The only sound I can hear is the gentle purr of that 6.0 liter V12 engine as it comes to life.

  She wants to know if we can stop for coffee, or am I going to deny her that pleasure too?

  My hand runs across the leather dash then lands on the Bang & Olfsun stereo. I turn it on. AC/DC. It's a sign from god.

  I'll get Olga her coffee.

  I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

  Thanks for getting me out of bed.

  The clock on the dash reads 7am.

  It's good to get an early start. I do appreciate her.

  Can she smoke?

  No. I kiss her on the cheek again.

  As the car of my dreams rolls out onto the street in front of the swanky Notting Hill townhouse that has become my home, I don't wonder when it's all going to come to a crashing halt.

  I know I should wonder this, but I don't.

  For the first time in a year I'm genuinely happy.

  I'm the me that I was a year ago.

  The one that thought life was good and only good things happened to me.

  I kiss Olga on the cheek again.

  The third time makes her smile.

  I'm a ridiculous man. Men are all ridiculous. Why do they like fancy cars so much? It’s just a machine. Drive the car. But stop for coffee.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Voyage of the Damned

  The trip to Devon starts off easy.

  There is enough petrol in the car to get us to a Shell station not far from the house.