Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Eight
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2014-01-24 05:00:00+00:00

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 fodder 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.

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.

My personal favourite is when we are face to face. There’s usually an argument about who gets to be on top.

I like to be on top. He thinks it’s his right to be on top because I’m such a fucking girl about admitting that I love him and only him.

Because he failed me with the Chalet Girl I get to be on top.

Elon lies back on the bed.

If I want to be on top then I can do all the work.

We learned the hard way to buy only unscented lotion. It’s that or we both walk around smelling like lilacs.

It’s snowing outside.

When I’m on top of Elon I can see out the window over my bed.

We kiss as we rub together.

There is no rush.

Neither of us are particularly keen to get to the slopes.

It’s really snowing hard.

I watch his face as he climaxes.

We switch positions.

He rolls me on my back.

He touches me as he kisses me.

He rolls me onto my stomach.

Instead of lotion he takes the lube we have hidden in the nightstand.

His thumb massages my anus.

Please. He kisses me on the cheek.

No.

He massages a little deeper.

Please. He kisses me on the mouth.

No.

Please just once and if I don’t like it he’ll never ask again.

He slides a finger into me.

Will he use a lot of lube?

He’ll use the whole tube.

Will he be really gentle?

Yes. He swears he’ll be as gentle as he can be.

It’s not like he’s done it before. Does he actually know what he’s doing?

He’ll figure it out.

I’d prefer he not figure it out on me.

Like I was going to figure it out on the Chalet Girl?

Good point. Lots of lube and if I tell him to stop he has to stop.

He loves me. He’s so happy I’m his first.

He kisses my shoulders. He kisses my neck. He puts on a condom.

I get nervous. But there’s something about the way that he touches me that is comforting.

He really does care for me. He doesn’t want to hurt me.

Penetration comes slowly.

I don’t think he’s in an inch when he stops.

I can’t imagine how this feels. I really can’t.

I know how it feels from my end. No pun intended.

What is it like?

Honestly, pretty awesome.

I don’t think either of us can breathe properly.

He’s going to keep moving. Okay?

Okay.

He slides deeper into me.

A sound comes out of me. Sort of a cry and a sigh.

He stops. Am I okay?

Good. Good. It’s all good. Don’t stop.

There is the moment when he’s in me as far as he can go.

We stay like this for a very long time.

He holds my shoulders in his hands and rests his head on the pillow next to mine.

This is better than he could have ever imagined.

I have no complaints.

He wraps his hand around my cock and strokes me.

And it has just gotten that much better.

I ejaculate all over the clean sheets the Chalet Girl went to the trouble to change. That’s what she gets for laughing at me.

Elon begins to move inside of me.

Slow movements that rock with his breath.

The movements and his breath gain momentum.

When he climaxes he lets out a cry from deep inside.

He falls on my back. I can feel the sweat on him mingling with mine.

He loves me. He does. I know he loves me don’t I?

Yes. I know he loves me.

He slides out of me. He gets up and goes to the bathroom.

I stare at the ceiling then roll onto my stomach. I’m ready to fall asleep.

He comes back into the bedroom wrapped in his robe and stands next to the bed at the window.

I’m really fucking hot with my ass in the air.

His words are like music. I’m seduced by his poetry.

Do I want to do it again?

Can he give me five minutes?

He can give me ten.

My ass kind of hurts.

Did he hurt me?

Not so much as I think it would have hurt no matter what.

But I liked it right?

I did. Penetration is awesome.

My parents.

What?

My parents are coming.

Huh?

My parents are coming up the path.

He’s lying.

He’s not lying.

I push up just enough to see my parents approach.

Elon – ever the astute observer comments – They’re necking.

Do they ever stop? Honestly. He’d think they would have reached an age in which they’d start acting their ages.

Which are?

Uhhh… Let’s see… Mum’s thirty… four? I think. And Dad’s forty. That I do know. Remember that party mum had for him?

The one in Tunisia we weren’t invited to?

That would be the one.

So what’s the plan? Do we hide out and pretend we’re not here assuming they’ve come back to shag and they’ll be too busy to notice us soon enough?

Could he not talk about my parents like that?

Elon snorts. I live in a fantasy world. It’s a wonder my father bothers with trousers.

Still my mother he’s talking about.

Maybe just like a silk dressing gown. And a cravat. My dad could rock an outfit like that.

At least my parents are still married.

His parents are married.

To each other.

When the door to my parent’s bedroom opens and closes.

We can hear the lock engage.

Tea? I get up from the bed and start dressing.

Do I think the Chalet Girl has any more of that apple cake?

I hope so.

He can’t be certain, but he thinks my parents are fucking.

Could he please not press his ear to the wall?

Actually he is certain. They are fucking.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Library is My New Home

I’m camped in the library. This is my new home. I’ve taken to holding court here. Mrs. Gresham keeps brining me cups of tea. I consider having her bring me a bucket to pee in so I really don’t have to move at all.

My phone rings.

The Latin Pop Star.

Am I okay?

I’m fucking pissed off.

Who the fuck is that woman?

Parvati? I was going to marry her.

Why?

Honestly? Mostly for the money.

Bullshit. Meet him in Toronto. He’ll be my sugar daddy.

He cannot even begin to know how tempted I am at that moment.

So?

I have to go to my Cousin Margaret’s wedding.

This he understands. Family is important. After?

I’ll call him. I’ll probably come to meet him.

Good. He misses me.

Same.

My phone rings again.

The real housewives of London.

Darling! The three speak in unison.

What happened?

Where am I?

Can they come and nurse me back to health?

I laugh. I’m fine. So much the better for their call.

They have a pitcher of icy cold martinis for me when I’m back in the pink.

I cannot wait.

My phone rings again.

The Psychiatrist.

Am I okay?

I don’t know. Are we talking physically or mentally?

Both.

Every sound makes me jump.

I dream about getting kicked in the guts.

I’m afraid.

Sounds like I have PTSD.

Isn’t that a bit exaggerated? It’s not like I’m returning from fighting the Prussians in the trenches.

No. Sounds like PTSD to her. Promise her I’m going to talk to someone about this.

Other than her?

Yes.

I’ll see what I can do.

That’s not actually good enough. This is something I need to address. I need to talk to someone that I can trust. A professional.

I’ll find someone to talk to. I promise.

If she sends me the name of a friend do I promise I’ll call?

I’ll call. I promise.

She’ll send me that number. I can call her while I’m getting an appointment sorted out. I’m not alone.

I hang up the phone.

I telephone Mistress Jennifer.

Am I bothering her?

No.

A friend told me I should talk to someone I trust.

She agrees. She is someone I can trust. Am I okay?

This is the first question that every person asks me.

And?

I’m fine. I’m confused. I feel disoriented and lost. Most of all I hurt. Mentally and physically.

Do I remember what we talked about?

Yes.

Just focus on that and my path will reveal itself.

I’m trying.

What does she always tell me?

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Exactly.

I’m curled up in the corner of the leather couch in front of the fireplace when Elon makes his presence known.

Where is my mother?

Driving with Sanjay and the rest of them. Do I know how slow that man drives? He couldn’t take it anymore. He left them eating his dust.

He hands me a stack of newspapers.

Have I seen this?

Yes. I’ve seen it.

Fuck.

Did he seriously just drive from London to bring me a bunch of newspapers?

Ehhh… more or less. He felt a pressing need to get out of town. Harvey had gone into crisis mode and it was easier just to play along.

Marcus walks into the library. All blond and American.

I have a feeling I know why Elon wanted to get out of London. Best to keep ones lovers in two different locations.

I’m not certain what to say, so I decide to stick with everyone’s health and the weather.

Olga comes into the room like a tornado.

Elon sort of smiles. He brought Olga with him.

Based on her reaction, one would think I had just returned from a year in the trenches missing two limbs and most of my marbles.

There is weeping alternating with the cursing.

Mrs. Gresham and Aunt Maisie come running in.

They thought I was being attacked.

In a way I am.

Olga smells like violets and apple shampoo.

I’ve missed her.

Everyone gives us privacy.

I don’t know how long we sit together in front of the fire, but it’s long enough for my world to feel right again.

Why didn’t I lie to her? Her fingers trace the lines of my wounds on my face.

I didn’t want her to worry.

She’s going to have Parvati killed.

From almost anyone else I would assume she was using hyperbole. With Olga it’s best to be cautious.

No. Do not have Parvati killed.

Hmmm… Can she have her beaten?

No. Do not have Parvati beaten.

She gets up from my lap. She needs to make a call.

I do not want to know.

CHAPTER SIX

Chalet Girl

Davos Switzerland is where the Chalet Girl has apple cake and tea.

She still thinks I’m adorable.

She wants to know what the two of us have been up to.

Fucking. Elon is a poet.

Were we? She gives me a wink.

Elon puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m still sort of a virgin. Sure she doesn’t want to make a man out of me.

I take my tea and go into the sitting room.

My family returns. The slopes are closed because of the conditions. It’s a blizzard and no one is going anywhere.

We all start to get on each other’s nerves by tea.

My parents appear in time for dinner.

My grandmother makes no comment. She doesn’t need to. The look she gives my mother says it all.

The blizzard nearly buries us.

I go into the kitchen at the wrong moment and find my dad talking to the Chalet Girl.

I hate that he’s so handsome and that the Chalet Girl has so clearly noticed.

I hate it even more that they’re laughing and that they laugh louder when I appear.

Pictionary nearly gets bloody when my grandmother and my mother are on the same team.

I glare at my father a lot.

He just grins. Every once in a while he ruffles my hair. More than once he gives me a bear hug. If he’s trying to make me look like an infant in front of the Chalet Girl.

My grandmother orders us all to bed early.

Elon presses his ear to the wall.

He thinks my parents are fucking again. He admires my father’s stamina. He hopes when he’s as old as he is that he still has some snap in his turtle. Speaking of his turtle …

Leave me alone. He can snap his own turtle.

I pull my blanket over my head.

I fall asleep in about two seconds.

I don’t wake when the bedroom door opens.

I do wake when there are hands on me.

I think it’s Elon looking for more.

Go snap his own turtle. I’m ass hurts.

The dulcet tones of the Chalet Girl whisper in my ear.

She thought I wanted this.

My hands grasp a naked body that is distinctly not Elon’s. Much softer and far less angular. Perfectly lovely. And breasts. I don’t even know what to do with them, I just know I never want to let go.

Elon’s nightstand light turns on.

I’m certain I look like a deer in the headlights.

What the fuck? Oh. He turns off the light.

The Chalet Girl doesn’t scurry away.

Elon joins us.

I’m not certain I can take this without my head exploding.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Love is Overrated

For mum’s arrival I pull myself up from the couch and make myself as presentable as possible.

I consider putting a bag over my head.

I shoo Olga away when she comes at me with the foundation and powder.

She arrives with Sanjay, Uncle Harvey, and Aunt Lucy.

She puts her hand over her mouth when she sees me.

I hug her so she can’t look at me.

I’m fine really. It looks much worse than it is.

We go as a group to the library.

I want a moment alone with mum.

Everyone leaves except for Olga.

Olga?

What?

Does she mind?

She doesn’t mind at all. It’s a good idea we sit and talk about what happened.

I’d like some time alone with my mother.

Without her? Why? What do I need to say to my mother that I can’t say in front of her? If we’re going to be a couple then we shouldn’t have to have secret conversations. I’ve already lied to her enough. She’s staying. No more talk without her around. She can’t trust me. Until she can trust me she’s not going anywhere and I’m not going anywhere that we’re not together.

My mother points to the door. Olga. Leave.

But…

No. She will have a conversation with her son without Olga present.

But…

Olga. She understands. She was young, in love, and rather foolish when she was about her age. She also made unreasonable demands and had unreasonable expectations that seemed perfectly acceptable at the time. Now she needs to go so that we can have a private conversation.

But… why can’t she stay? Why do there have to be secrets? What do we have to say that she can’t be part of?

No. Olga needs to leave. We’re going to have a chat without her. Stop being such a baby. Because she is being a baby.

My mother is harder to bully than I am.

Oliver …

I want to talk to my mother alone. Stop being so difficult. It makes it hard to love her when she’s so demanding.

Olga stomps off in a huff.

My mother sighs.

She is going to tell me something she never thought she would say. She actually feels some level of empathy for my grandmother.

I nearly fall off my chair.

She does. She really does. When she was Olga’s age she was Olga. She refused to let my father have a minute alone with my grandmother. Mostly because she assumed, probably correctly, that my grandmother would slice her to ribbons.

But she likes Olga.

Yes. She likes Olga. Olga is sweet. She is very young and very sweet. Olga is deeply kind and deeply caring. She is also very young.

She’s not that young.

Emotionally immature.

That I cannot argue with. I would like it if she could grow up a little.

Give it time. Eventually she grew up. Maybe a little life experience will help. One suggestion if I’m interested.

I like that she doesn’t give me unsolicited advice.

My grandmother used to give her unsolicited advice all of the time. It drove her insane. She’s learned to ask before she offers. So?

Shoot.

Don’t get her pregnant. She has that look of a woman that will do just about anything to hold on to her man.

Nah…

Trust her. She knows that look. She saw it in her own eyes when my grandparents were actively trying to get my father to date anyone other than her.

Is that why she got pregnant with me?

Yes. She’s sorry. But I am old enough to know the truth. She wasn’t ready to be a mother when she became a mother. She understands that now. She also understands that her immaturity she caused me a lot of pain. She could have been a better mother. Olga is not ready to be a mother. Everything is still just a touch too much all about her.

So use a condom?

That sums it up. She’s absolutely certain that someday Olga will be a wonderful mother. She just needs to get over her insecurities first. Grow up a little. So. That sorted. Please do tell her about this riding accident.

Yeah… I lied.

Really? The newspapers pretty much confirmed this. Why did I lie to her?

Because I didn’t want her to worry.

There are a thousand reasons why this should make her angry, but she’s just not going to let it bother her. What is happening with Parvati and the Singhs.

Uncle Albert and Harry are going to sue the pants off of her. It’s my sincere hope that we can squeeze them for enough cash to fill the coffers and keep us afloat. I imagine at this point they’ll be willing to pay a lot not to get the police involved and to avoid anymore press coverage.

Then what?

I don’t know. I really don’t.

What about work?

What work?

My job. My client services job.

Oh.

Have I been lying to her?

What makes her think that?

Because. I just did that thing my father always did when he lied to her. I’m lying to her about something. What is it? Does it have something to do with my job?

Sort of.

Tell her.

I can’t. I really can’t.

Have I been sacked?

No. I’m actually doing really well.

What kind of work am I doing?

Uhhh…

Just tell her.

Right. I can’t do that.

Just tell her. She’s not half as fragile as everyone wants to think she is.

I… I really can’t tell her.

She’s getting angry.

I’m sort of exchanging my time for cash.

Mum looks at me. Am I a prostitute?

Well…

Oh dear lord I am.

It’s not half as sleazy as she might be thinking it is. In my defense I’ve made a lot of money since I started.

Do I have sex with these people?

I’d prefer not to answer that.

Mum starts to laugh. Oliver! Of all the things. She doesn’t know if she should be angry or impressed by my ingenuity.

Don’t be angry. In a way I really do enjoy the work. I like most of my clients and truly it’s not just about the sex.

Olga? Not a party planner?

No. We do the same work.

That does make a lot of sense.

Because she’s pretty?

Because she thinks that’s all she is. Her beauty is her bread and butter. It’s going to be a hard fall for her if she is nothing else when that starts to slip. Trust her. She’s speaking from experience.

I think she’s beautiful.

It took her a long time to realize she was more than just beautiful. Too long. Fortunately better late than never she figured some things out.

Such as?

How much I matter to her. Please tell her that Gita was not a client.

NO! No. Not ever. Gita was a genuine prospect the Matchmaker put forth.

So who?

I can’t tell her that.

The Actress.

I…

Absolutely makes sense. Explains some of the conversations she’s had with the actress since the weekend at Wold Hall. Did I know they were becoming quite good friends?

I did not know this.

True. Her. The Actress. The Doctor. Lionel. Only Lionel truly gets what it was like to have to deal with my grandmother. They’ve bonded.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

My feelings don’t really matter when it comes to her friendships. Moving back to my career. Why would anyone pay for… What precisely should she call me? A geisha?

I think gigolo rather covers it. Most of my clients are really just very lonely. It’s convenient and easy to pay me. No strings. Relationships are complicated. Having someone to talk to that is paid to be a good listener is worth the money to some people.

Do I really have … help her out here.

Clients.

Clients? Really? Okay. Do I really have clients that just want to talk?

That’s a good part of it. I have a few clients that just like to have me go shopping with them to aid them spend their ex-husbands money. I’ve learned a lot about myself.

That sounds so cliché.

I really have. I’ve become much more honest with myself. I’m learning for the first time what I want and not what I think other people want me to want.

Am I in therapy?

Sort of.

Her son the gigolo. Do I realize my father is flipping in his grave? Or maybe not. Considering he gave that Chalet Girl in Davos three-hundred quid to have sex with me he might be okay with it.

He did not.

He did. Took the money right out of her purse. Told her to consider it charity.

Did he tell her or the Chalet Girl to consider it charity?

Possibly both.

This is not possible. Not even my own father would be so … inappropriate.

I don’t remember how shy I was around girls back then. She does. Whether I believe it or not, my father loved me. A few hundred pounds to make my dream of the Chalet Girl come true was a small thing to him.

I understand that, but that doesn’t make it okay. Some problems shouldn’t just have cash thrown at them.

Oliver he truly had the best of intentions.

I know he did. Which is what bothers me the most. Why instead of paying that girl to have sex with me didn’t he sit me down and just tell me to be patient and wait until the moment was right?

Because that wasn’t him. If I haven’t figured out by now my father was flawed then I’m never going to get it. He tried his best. Even he knew it wasn’t good enough. But he did try.

I know he did. I miss him.

Mum smiles. She likes talking about him. It’s getting easier.

I know he wouldn’t handle this as well as she is. He wouldn’t have understood my willingness to do just about anything for money.

That’s because my father never had to work a day in his life. The man had no work ethic. I get that willingness to work from the Wright side of the family. I’ve done a good turn by Harvey.

She really is okay with my work.

No. She is not okay with it. But she would never disparage me for doing what I needed to do to keep my life going. Would she rather I had something punishing dull desk job? Yes. Does she admire that I’ve taken what I’ve got and turned it into an opportunity? Absolutely.

What does she think about the fact I was going to marry Parvati?

That was brilliant. I would have been in and out of it in under five years and that much more wealthy to boot.

Most mothers would find it vile that I would marry for anything other than love.

Love is overrated. She loved my father. That love could be a prison at times.

Is she in therapy or something?

Yes and no. Sanjay has helped her see some things differently. She’s going to move in with him.

Seriously?

Yes. Aunt Lucy needs her space.

I’m not certain I approve of this.

Perhaps Olga isn’t the only one that needs to grow up a little. Now go and fetch her. They need to have a chat woman to woman. She suspects Olga doesn’t have a lot of older women that she can talk to.

Because older women have it going on?

Because older women have it mostly figured out and they know what matters and what doesn’t.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Freshers Week

Trinity College Dublin

Fresher’s Week

Elon takes one look at our on campus student accommodation and walks out the door.

No.

But…

No. Nothing is going to make him live in such retched squalor.

It’s a dorm room.

Precisely. If he wanted a communal toilet then he’d do something worthy of being thrown in jail.

I like it. It’s…

Small?

Quaint.

The idea of having to wash his own dishes. Never. He knew it was a sort of lunacy when I tried to talk him into the full university experience (the air quotes are unnecessary). We need a proper flat with a housekeeper. Sigrund agrees.

Since when is he agreeing with his mother about anything?

Since she is capable of seeing reason when it comes to what proper housing is.

I’m staying.

Fine. When I’m done living like a serf just let him know.

Where is he going?

To find a proper abode. Until then, I can find him at the Shelbourne.

I shout at him as he walks down the hallway. He’s being insufferable!

He ignores me.

I watch him until he’s gone.

I consider following him when not one but two spiders are found crawling across my small bed.

But I shall persevere. If it was good enough for Oscar Wilde it is good enough for me.

I unpack.

There’s a knock on my door as I try to put the sheets on my bed.

The door opens without my going to answer it.

Why is my door closed?

A girl with long dark hair and the sort of thick Irish accent that comes from Limerick smiles at me. She’s pretty.

Because it’s noisy in the hallway.

The girl offers me the bottle of cider she’s holding.

No thanks.

I’m a bit uptight aren’t I?

Not really. I’m just trying to get myself sorted out.

What happened to my blond friend? He’s hot.

He’s gay.

Maybe he just hasn’t met the right girl.

No. He’s really gay. It’s got nothing to do with meeting the right girl.

Am I gay?

I’m trying to get my room sorted. Is there something I can help her with?

She thinks I’m cute. She likes boys with green eyes.

She puts her cider on the desk and comes to me.

I think she’s going to take the pillow I’m struggling with out of my hands, but she kisses me.

Do I want to have sex? She sits on my sheets in her jeans. No comment on the fact she’s wearing her shoes in my bedroom. I will be pissed off if she puts her trainer shod foot on my sheets.

Uhhh…

Don’t I think she’s pretty?

Sure. She’s pretty. Could she get off my bed? At least let me put a towel down.

She rolls her eyes and snorts. But she does not move.

What’s my name?

Oliver.

She’s Megan.

That’s a nice name.

She laughs. Her name isn’t Megan. It’s … Kitty.

Is it really Kitty?

No. What do I think her name is?

How could I possibly guess?

Guess. Guess and she’ll get off my pretty linen sheets. Did my mummy pick out my sheets for me?

No. (My grandmother did.) Hester.

Hester? That’s a horrible name. Where did I come up with Hester?

I just finished reading The Scarlet Letter.

Am I a smarty boy?

I’m rather average actually.

Oh I’m just so proper. She laughs loudly. Her accent has changed suddenly. She’s no longer sounding Irish but rather like she just wandered in from Chelsea.

She’s not Irish.

No. Not at all. Her mother is a Duchess.

Oh is she? I’ve met a few duchesses in my time. Who is she?

I’m starting to get the pattern with my mystery guess. If I assume everything that comes out of her mouth is a blatant lie, then I’m on solid footing.

Her mother is the Duchess of … Windsor.

The last Duchess of Windsor was Wallis Simpson. Go away. I’m trying to get myself sorted out.

Her name is Renata. She’s from London. Her mother is a drunk and her father committed suicide when he fell from grace after being photographed with a Thai Ladyboy.

Astonishingly this actually seems like the truth.

She’s sorry she lied to me. It’s just so hard sometimes with her mother the drunk and the shame of her father’s suicide.

She starts to cry.

I don’t want to doubt the sincerity of her tears, but they do seem a bit contrived.

She cries louder. Nobody loves her. They don’t. She lies to get attention.

I sit on the bed next to her and put an arm around her.

She kisses me.

I kiss her back.

I only get up to make certain my door is locked and Elon didn’t steal my condoms.

When I’m done I lie on my back and stare at the plaster ceiling.

I can feel my heart in my chest and Renata breath across my arm.

This quirky, weird, lying girl has touched me.

She lifts up and leans over me.

She kisses me then climbs on top of me.

Another condom is put to use.

I’m sort of glad Elon jumped ship. At least I have the place (what it is) to myself.

Do I believe in love at first sight?

I don’t know. I hold her hips as she slides to and fro on me.

She does. She’s in love with me.

I don’t know what to say. Fortunately during sex I’m assuming I’m not required to be a talker.

Do I love her?

Okay – apparently I am required to talk during sex.

Sure.

I’m lying to her. But that’s okay. People lie to her all the time. She’s used to it.

I’m not lying. I just don’t know yet.

Her mouth comes down on mine.

That tongue of hers is sweet and soft.

Just like her round curves and small breasts.

Elon can try and try, but he’s never going to convince me I don’t like girls.

She tumbles off of me and back into the curve of my arm.

Now that I’ve fucked her will I buy her dinner?

It’s just noon.

Lunch?

Yes.

We dress and she makes my bed for me.

Maybe I could love her.

CHAPTER NINE

Reading in the Library

Harry finds me in the library.

Does he know I’ve never read Harry Potter?

Is that even possible?

Yes.

He doesn’t believe me. How hard was my head battered?

I seriously haven’t read them. I used to think they were babyish.

They’re not babyish. They’re awesome.

I think I might give them a try. Make mum come and read them to me. I’m wounded. I need comforting.

He has all of the books up in his room if I want them.

I do.

The Singh’s have responded. They want to have a face to face.

What does he recommend?

He would advise it. We are in an excellent position to negotiate a sizable settlement.

How sizable?

Sizable. Parvati could face jail time if we pursue this. At the moment we are the only ones that know she refused to call an ambulance.

Bitch. Fine. Make them come to us.

He will.

He leaves me to my sulking.

Twenty minutes later mum enters the library.

How was her chat with Olga?

Private. Did I tell Harry I want her to read to me?

Yes.

Am I regressing?

No. I just want my mummy to read to me.

She nearly sits on the chair, but I move just enough to make room for her on the couch.

She sits on the couch.

I put my head on her shoulder.

Am I okay?

No. I’m hurt.

I’m her poor baby.

She puts an arm around me and gives me a cuddle. There’s even a kiss for my forehead.

Mum reads to me. It’s like music.

We’re interrupted by my phone.

Renata.

I show mum the phone.

Take it.

I answer. What does she want?

Can she come to Wold Hall?

No. She knows she can’t come here.

Please. She’s drowning. She can’t do it.

Has she talked to Elon?

No. He won’t talk to her. He keeps putting that twat Roland on the phone.

What does she want me to do?

She needs help. That baby cries all of the time. It just pierces.

I can’t help her. I’m sorry. She’s not a safe person for me (this is my time with the psychiatrist coming through).

What do I mean she’s not a safe person? That’s crazy. She needs me. She thinks I’m the only person that ever really loved her. She needs that now.

I waver.

In my experience there seem to be two kinds of love.

The solid nurturing kind and the burning dangerous kind.

With my Former Fiancée and Elon I found the former.

With Renata and Olga I found the later.

I know how to handle that sort of fire now. When I was a boy in love for the first time I was repeatedly burned.

I’m sorry. I can’t help her. I’m not in any position to help her.

I don’t understand. I really don’t. She hasn’t slept. She’s just so tired and that baby is like a spider.

Hold on a second. I put the phone down.

What the hell am I supposed to do? I think she’s having some kind of breakdown.

Renata is always having some kind of breakdown.

But now she has a baby to bring down with her.

Call Sigrund. She’s in London. And if she’s not in London she has enough money to get to London to manage the situation.

Sigrund? Is she sure about that?

What other choice is there?

I put the phone back to my ear. I may have a solution.

Can she come to Wold Hall?

No. And don’t show up here. Does she want my solution or no?

Only if it’s a good one.

Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m going to call Sigrund.

No.

It’s that or nothing.

What can Sigrund do?

Bring her wallet. I imagine there aren’t many problems she’s having that Sigrund can’t throw cash at.

I do have a point. Why couldn’t I just have gone along with her plan? We’d all be living together now and it would be so much fun.

I’m going to call Sigrund for her. Please don’t call me again.

But…

I hang up.

Mum shakes her head. Of all of the people she knows the one that is least suited to have a child is Renata. Renata is just too damaged to be healthy for another human being.

Not Elon?

Elon would have the presence of mind to hire enough people to manage the problem for him. Renata has neither the resources nor the ability to put another person’s needs above her own to do that.

I call Sigrund.

She’s returned to the motherland to buy ergonomic baby furniture.

Because they don’t sell baby furniture in London?

She also had to break the news to Elon’s father that he’s a grandfather.

Elon didn’t tell his father?

No darling. Of course not. So she had to do it. And nothing was going to get between her and seeing the look on his face.

How did he take it?

He went for Botox and immediately started shopping for a younger wife. She couldn’t have been more delighted. But – enough of her joy. What does her little Oliver want?

Renata is in trouble. She’s not managing well.

Does she seem truly desperate?

Yes. She does.

Perfect. Marvelous. She was hoping this would happen.

I’m confused. I know none of us are particularly fond of Renata, but I don’t think any of us wish her bad.

Of course she doesn’t wish her bad. She simply wishes her needy. There is no easier way to hook a person than with money. As soon as Renata starts dining at her table then she can order the dinner. Capisce?

I think I have it. As soon as Renata starts taking money from her then she can tell her how to live her life and how to raise her child.

Exactly! She always knew I was a very clever boy.

Remind me never to take a loan from her.

Don’t be silly. I’m family. Renata is not.

She’s the mother of her granddaughter.

Which makes all of this so much the easier. She adores me. She loves me. I’m the brown haired son she never had. But she must dash. She needs to get the jet fueled and the baby furniture acquired. Don’t let Renata know help is on the way. No need to ease the pressure just yet. Ta!

I hang up. I look at mum who has skimmed ahead in Harry Potter whilst I’ve been on the phone.

I take back everything I ever said about her and her parenting.

Mum looks up at me over the book. She smiles at me. Should she continue?

Please.

CHAPTER TEN

Renata

It might be the middle of September, but it’s bloody cold in Dublin.

It’s fucking freezing.

One minute it’s torrential rain and gale force winds and the next it’s blue skies and soft breezes.

Either way it’s cold.

We hold hands as we walk through the main gate then up Grafton Street. I buy us cans of lager and pad Thai which we eat out of cartons in Saint Stephen’s Green.

We kiss a lot.

We walk and talk and hold hands.

Maybe she’s right about the love at first sight thing.

It’s dark when we return.

The party that had been gaining steam when we left was fully underway when we return.

We slip past it and go into my room.

I think we have our clothes off in under a minute.

Surely a record has been broken.

If I have one complaint about Renata, it is that she cannot suck dick as well as Elon can. But I’m willing to overlook that one small thing in exchange for all of the other benefits her delectably curved nubile body brings to the party.

We are quite engrossed in exploring each other’s forms when someone else knocks on my door.

Go Away!

There is another pounding.

It’s father. Open the door. Immediately. Or do I have a girl in there?

He starts pounding again.

I could pound him.

I fall off Renata and out of bed. I bang my knee, stub a toe, and break a lamp.

I throw Renata’s jeans at her.

Get dressed.

We bang heads as we stumble around each other.

I see stars and her nose bleeds.

When I get to the door my parents look amused.

Renata disappears around my mother holding a pile of tissues against her nose.

Mum laughs behind her hand. James – perhaps he need to have a chat with our son. Birds and bees and all that sort of thing.

He thinks that ship has sailed. At least I put my trousers on.

Would I like to join them for dinner? We’re leaving in the morning. Or do I have other plans?

I … I search past them down the hall for Renata. I’m afraid that I’ve let her go and now she’s going to disappear.

Who is my new friend?

Renata.

Mum smiles at me. My new friend is very pretty. Do I want to invite her?

No. Let’s go for dinner. I don’t want them to scare her away.

When I return the party rambles on.

I find Renata. I’m nervous when I first see her and she doesn’t see me.

What if she doesn’t like me?

What if she doesn’t want me?

What if my parents scared her off?

What if it was all just a momentary lapse in her judgment and now she knows better?

She smiles at me when she sees me.

She hugs me and kisses me.

My parents must think she’s a total slut.

My mother thinks she pretty and my father bought me a box of condoms then gave me a lot of really embarrassing advice.

Really? Like what?

I’m not going to revisit that conversation. Ever.

That bad?

My parents are a bit unusual. But they did enjoy embarrassing me over dinner. I can say for certain I may never be able to stomach cheese soufflé again.

She kisses my cheek. So it’s all okay? My parents didn’t tell him to stay away from her?

Not at all.

Good.

It’s possible I’ve found the only other person in the world who needs to be loved as much as I do.

We join the party.

I meet my neighbors.

I drink. I smoke. I socialize.

I make friends that are not Elon.

I fall into bed with Renata. I never want to leave this place. I feel loved both physically and emotionally.

I fall hard and fast for her. I want her to be my girlfriend. I’ve never had a girlfriend before. She willingly obliges me.

Elon reappears in the morning.

He jabs at me and Renata with a ruler as we lay wrapped sleeping in the blankets.

This is how we are roused.

Get up. Get up both of us.

He swats at Renata with the ruler. Shoo. Shoo. Go. Go.

He keeps it up until she leaves snarling. She doesn’t close the door behind her.

Elon shouts at her. Close the door!

She sticks her hand, middle finger raised to the ceiling back in the doorway, and then disappears.

Renata makes me smile.

Elon is incredulous. He closes the door then locks it. Who is that?

Renata.

I have the stupidest grin on my face.

Do I?

I don’t waste any time do I?

No. Where has he been?

He has a three bedroom house about a ten minute walk away. Newly refurbished. Semi-detached. Walled garden. Under floor heating. Sauna. Steam room. His father already signed the papers. He gets the keys in a few hours.

How much did that cost?

He doesn’t care and it was worth every penny.

One of my fellow students vomits on the floor in front of my door.

Did he mention the housekeeper and that each bedroom has a private bathroom?

I’m staying. I like it in the dorms.

He gives it a month.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Singhs

The Singhs arrive via helicopter.

They are brought to the Library where I refuse to get up to greet them. I’m too aggrieved to be bothered.

Elon has been instructed to remove Olga from the premises. He is to sit on her if necessary. She is not part of this meeting.

We sit in chairs around a low mahogany table.

Mr. and Mrs. Singh, Parvati, and one of her sisters have come to meet with me.

Mrs. Gresham brings tea.

We are all very civilized.

The Singhs are cooly apologetic.

Parvati refuses to budge. She blames me fully for what happened to me and the aftermath that has landed on her like a bus.

Uncle Albert gets to it. There is no dancing around.

He plays the recording of Parvati admitting she refused to call an ambulance.

Uncle Albert tells him that we are prepared to make this a matter for the police.

Parvati’s father reaches out a hand and slaps his daughter so hard she and her chair are knocked to the floor.

I nearly jump to intervene, but the pain in my ribs stops me.

The Singhs are in a huddle as the women try to pull the man off of his daughter.

Finally Harry has to get into the center of it.

Then it’s over. The Singhs are back in their seats.

Parvati is crying. Her mother and sister try to comfort her. The father won’t have it. He tells them to be silent or they will all feel his hand.

I almost feel sorry for Parvati. I certainly understand her better.

I am mostly silent as Uncle Albert gets down to brass tacks with Mr. Singh.

The wedding is off. He best be prepared to write a large cheque. Otherwise we will drag him and his family through the mud. We are prepared to make this uncivilized and ugly. Our reputation is already shot to hell. His on the other hand could be salvaged with some clever public relations.

Mr. Singh wants the wedding to go forward.

I can’t believe this.

He’s willing to make it worth my while.

The door to the library opens. Olga comes in. Large strides bring her across the floor.

Olga takes Parvati’s sister by the back of the head and slams her face into the table. The sound of crunching bone and sinew is chilling. Her head is lifted slightly then Olga reaches for an earring and rips it out through the lobe. The girl is then pushed from her chair to the floor.

Olga kicks her hard as she screams.

Roland and Harry pull Olga off of her.

That is not Parvati. I scream at Olga wondering if she’s lost her mind.

She knows. It’s the sister. That was the point.

Olga is cold and clearly in control. A contract killer couldn’t be more composed. She looks to Parvati.

Does she love her sister?

Yes. Parvati holds her weeping and bloodied sister. Of course she does.

Good. Now she knows how it feels to have someone she loves hurt by no fault of their own. She’s a stupid bitch. Next time she comes for her.

She takes two steps towards the women.

Parvati’s mother stares her down. She is not afraid of a whore. She knows what Olga is.

Olga slaps Parvati’s mother hard across the face.

She may be a whore, but her daughter is a cunt. She plays them for fools. Blind fools.

Olga spits on Parvati’s father before departing.

Harry runs for Gita and Sanjay.

My rage at Olga is silent and kept in a ball in my chest. If she has ruined my negotiations because she couldn’t control her temper, we’re finished.

Gita goes to Parvati’s sister. Her nose is broken. She’ll need to be taken to the hospital.

I expect the Singh’s to leave with what remains of their dignity intact.

I expect they will be calling the police so all things will then be equal.

The mother and the daughter go but the father remains with Parvati.

This is unexpected.

My friend is correct. He is blind when it comes to his daughters. He is done being blind. If I agree to marry Parvati then he will make it worth the trouble. She is out of control and needs a husband to keep her on a short leash.

Parvati protests.

She gets the back of his hand across her mouth.

He will not have a daughter that doesn’t know how to keep her silence. Name my price.

Do I have a price? Of course I do. It’s just higher than it was when I began this journey. I’m not sure Parvati is worth any fortune. But I’m willing to see how far I can push the man before he walks.

I want cash up front and a guarantee that I am given full and total custody of all children.

Harry starts to object, but Uncle Albert silences his son. This is my negotiation now.

I want my own residences. One in London and one in Mumbai. I want guarantees that my children are mine. I want the infidelity clause removed from the prenuptial agreement for my part. It stays in for Parvati. I have every intention of keeping a mistress.

The woman that beat his daughter?

Yes.

Am I a fool or honorable for making these demands?

Neither. I’m just trying to live my life honestly. Nothing more nothing less.

He will agree to this on one condition. I am to keep the woman discreetly.

Fair enough.

Parvati starts to protest again and once again her father slaps her.

One final thing. Please don’t do that. It’s not really necessary. I don’t like it at all.

Mr. Singh stares at me. It is obvious that I know nothing about how to keep a woman in line. When she is my wife then she is my problem. Until then do not presume to tell him how to control his daughter.

We clearly have very different ideas about how women should be treated. I’m going to have a conversation with Olga about what happened. Could they give me a moment with Parvati?

Everyone leaves but Parvati.

I feel a deep and consuming pity for her. I didn’t realize her father beat her.

Fuck off. She doesn’t need my pity. She’s rich and she’s beautiful.

Regardless. I feel very sorry for her.

What does she actually think about all of this?

It’s all my fault. If I’d just stayed out of it then Andre wouldn’t have flipped out.

That’s what she’s sticking too.

Will I go through with the wedding?

Yes. If we come to an understanding about what our life together will be like.

What about her boyfriend?

As far as I’m concerned as soon as they catch up with him he can go to jail.

She loves him.

I don’t really care. What is going to happen to her if I don’t marry her?

They’ll disown her. This is what they’ve told her.

Interesting. Would they actually do that?

Yes. They would. She’s embarrassed them one too many times. As long as it didn’t become public, they were willing to forgive her.

But this was the bridge too far.

Yes. She needs me to marry her.

I need to know that she knows what she did was wrong.

Why couldn’t I just stay out of it?

Not what I want to hear. I need to hear what she knows to be the truth.

Fine. She should have called an ambulance.

Does she understand that I don’t think she’s fit to parent?

She doesn’t really want to have kids. She was going to tell me this after the wedding.

This is the ultimate deal breaker for me. Is it the pregnancy or the actual caring for the children that concerns her?

Honestly she doesn’t think she’d be a very good mother.

How about this for a compromise. She produces a child for me. If it’s a boy, she’s done. If it’s a girl I want a second. If the second is a girl I will just consider it my fate to be a father of girls and call it a day. Either way that’s it. As for the children themselves, I’d prefer she just absent herself from their lives when they are very small and I can replace her conveniently.

They’ll hate her.

Yes. Probably. But that said she’ll have her money and her freedom. And, as a bonus, I won’t beat her. Regardless of how tempting it might be.

She shrugs a little. Okay. This all works for her.

So – wedding back on?

She’ll let her parents know.

Go get her father. We can tell him together.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Delusions of Love

I cling to the idea of the love I feel for Renata like a drowning man clutching a plank. I want to be loved so desperately that I more than forgive her every transgression. I delude myself into believing they don’t exist.

I give the relationship everything I have.

She takes it all and then some.

She breaks up with me on the last day of exams for our second year.

I’m heartbroken.

Elon’s only comfort is that she at least waited until exams were over to cut my heart out.

Renata has left me. She wanted to travel to places unknown without me holding on to her ankle.

That she broke my heart didn’t seem to matter to her.

It’s a small thing to her my heart.

Elon says nothing the entire summer we spend in Miami with his newly single mother.

We are basically allowed to roam free without any supervision. Best of all, we can both drink legally in the States.

By the time we return to Dublin for our final year at Trinity, I think we’re both ready to have a stint in a rehab clinic.

At least school will put some structure back in my life.

I move in with Elon. His house is beautiful. I should have done this three years earlier.

I’m done living in the dorms. I also want to minimize running into Renata.

I like my bedroom with the heated wood floors and the bathroom with the Jacuzzi tub.

It physically hurts to have my heart broken. It really does. I feel it like I feel real pain.

Everything makes me cry.

The wind blowing makes me cry.

The rain makes me weep.

The wind blows often and it rains a lot in Dublin.

Elon just rolls his eyes and snorts a lot.

He’s never had a girlfriend. He doesn’t understand my pain.

He snorts again. He will never have a girlfriend for many reasons not the least of which he (unlike some of us) accepted his sexuality years ago. I’m given another of those looks.

After three years of not being physical with Elon we are physical again.

I need that comfort.

I’d forgotten how good he is in bed.

The dynamic changes.

The sex changes.

We’re no longer fumbling boys fondling under the sheets.

We are men and we have sex like men.

I have no interest in being anything other than a passive bottom.

I learn the lingo.

I meet Elon’s friends that haven’t crossed over into my world.

They think I’m very young even though I’m actually slightly older than Elon.

These are men. Real men. With few exceptions, they’re no longer students. They are grownups with jobs.

I’ve had three years of the college experience. Now I am in college, but I do things like go to cocktail and dinner parties.

This is how Elon lives his life. I knew he was into this sort of thing, but I had no idea that the evenings he wasn’t hanging out with me, Renata and our friends that he was the young gallant of the Dublin gay scene.

My world melds into Elon’s.

Some of the men in Elon’s inner circle do not appreciate my incursion.

They see what I don’t – what an incredible catch Elon is.

He’s beautiful and crushingly wealthy. More than that – he’s openly and proudly gay.

I’m coming around slowly but surely.

Elon’s love is calm and healing. He doesn’t pressure me.

He certainly doesn’t do what Renata did and make his love contingent on my meeting his demands.

There is no insanity to this love and it almost seems dull in comparison.

There are no fights. There is no rage.

It’s just solid. Build on a foundation of granite and not teetering on pillars of sand.

Neither of us have lectures on Fridays.

It’s practically perfect for our new lives as young devil may care lads about town.

It is on a Friday afternoon that Renata crosses our path.

I stopped going to the Pav when I stopped dating Renata.

The only reason Elon and I are there is so I can meet up with the other people in a group project I’ve been assigned before we move on to our actual plans.

We see her, but other than acknowledging her presence, we ignore her.

It’s when Elon is at the bar getting drinks, that she approaches me.

My heart remembers the hurt. I miss her. For three years she was the love of my life. I thought we would be together forever.

Have I gone gay or something?

What is that supposed to mean?

I look gay.

How does gay look?

She pulls her powder compact out of her handbag and hands it to me. Look in the mirror. That’s what gay looks like.

I return the compact without looking. What does she want?

She misses me.

I’m just starting to get over her. The wound is there, but it’s healing. This is not what I want to hear.

Maybe it was a mistake breaking up with me.

Please don’t do this.

Do what? She’s just being honest. Isn’t that one of the things that used to bother me? That she wasn’t totally honest all of the time.

I need to get on with my life.

So let’s get on with it together.

I don’t want to get back together.

Because I want to be gay with Elon?

That’s not it. I just don’t want her to hurt me again.

I’m such a baby sometimes. Can’t we be friends?

Elon puts two pints on the table.

No. We can’t be friends.

He never liked her.

She knows perfectly well that’s bullshit. He likes her just fine.

Is he turning me gay?

Does she want a drink? He’s buying.

Fine. She’ll have cider.

Elon goes to the bar a second time.

This confuses me. I don’t know why he’s being so accommodating. It wasn’t a lie when he told Renata that he likes her just fine.

He would just rather she ceased to exist.

My pain has become his pain. I don’t wholly understand what he means by this, but this is what he often tells me. Or did tell me when I was still in that weeping and moaning phase.

We have drinks with Renata.

Elon tells me we need to go. We have dinner reservations.

I leave Renata reluctantly.

As we walk to dinner Elon is in good spirits.

So?

So what?

Was it good to see her?

Sort of.

Do I see now that I’m over her?

Actually no. I don’t think I’m over her. Did he plan on us running into Renata?

Sort of. He wanted me to see her and then I’d know that I was over her.

Oh.

We go to dinner.

He wants us to go home with Cameron.

I don’t want to go home with Cameron.

Do I care if he goes home with Cameron?

I don’t care.

He kisses me on the cheek then leaves with Cameron.

I sit at the table and finish the wine.

I wander the streets until I end up at the Pav.

Renata is still there.

I kiss her.

We can’t go back to Elon’s house and we can’t go to her apartment. Her roommate is a bitch

I get a room at the Shelbourne.

I come clean to Elon the next day.

He doesn’t care. Her crazy will resurface eventually. In time I’m going to realize he’s the one I love.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Deal with the Devil

I’ve made a deal with the devil and for the first time in a year I feel the weight of the world slip from my shoulders.

It’s ugly, vulgar, and unscrupulous. It’s also clean. The pretense has been washed away. What’s left are the cold hard facts. This is truth pure and simple.

The Singhs are willing to pay for respectability. I’m willing to sell my family name.

This is what I set out to get and now I have it.

Everyone understands their place in this little family drama.

There is only one small snafu.

Olga isn’t so willing to accept my need to be fully up front about the arrangement.

This is not okay.

She either needs to accept that I have agreed to marry Parvati or we need to go our separate ways.

She will not be my mistress. I think she screams this at me about a thousand times before she starts chucking shoes.

No how.

No way.

She will not be my mistress.

I really need her to be reasonable.

Reasonable? REASONABLE?

I stand between her and the fire irons. I do not need my third lacing in a week.

After that bullshit she pulled with Parvati’s sister, she should be grateful at the moment I haven’t kicked her ass out of my house. I expect her to apologize.

Never.

Never better be in the next day or two. I expect her to send flowers and a card.

Hah.

I need her to face what she has done and acknowledge that she was wrong.

She wasn’t wrong. She was angry.

Here is the truth. I’m going to marry Parvati. It’s done.

Fine. She was going to wait to tell me when we were in St. Petersburg for Easter, but she’ll tell me now.

Tell me what?

She’s sorted it out with her father. He has a job for me.

I’m not going to go work for her father.

Of course I am! This is wonderful good news. Her father was hesitant to give me a job, but she convinced him. We’ll have everything we want.

Oh no. No. No. No. I will not go to work for her father.

Why not?

Because he is a criminal. This is the truth and she knows it. If I go and work for her father then I will never have any freedom. I will live my life under his thumb.

I’m not understanding properly. It would be a real job. He has legitimate businesses.

I have no doubt about that. He has a whole lot of businesses that front that whole syndicate of underworld dealings of his.

That’s just business in Russia.

Bullshit.

So I go to work for one of those businesses. I was going to go work for Singh. What is the difference?

I’m not going to say she doesn’t make a valid argument. I have every intention of going to work for Singh. But Singh is not a Russian oligarch who made his money through intimidation and racketeering and profiteering.

But if I go to work for one of his legitimate businesses …

Her father is not going to be a different man than he is. Nor will I. I will not go and work for her father. I am not going to pretend something else is going on with his businesses and then proceed to talk myself into becoming nothing more than one of his indentured servants. I am trying to live my life honestly. This is inherently dishonest.

What does she have to do to convince me that going to work for her father would be just fine?

Nothing. She’s never going to convince me that going to work for her father is a good idea. I will not take money from him. That would really be selling my soul.

She doesn’t want to be my mistress.

That’s all I can give her for the moment. If she wants to stick around for a few years, I can probably give her more later.

Am I going to have children with Parvati?

Yes. That’s part of the deal.

She wants to be the mother of the next earl.

Seriously? That actually is part of this?

Well… yes. She has this image in her head of us and the family we could have. It’s a beautiful image. If she could only make me see it the way she does then working for her father wouldn’t be such a big thing. We could have such a beautiful life together if I’d I could be reasonable.

I need her to understand something. After what she did to Parvati’s sister, I’m not wholly certain I want to have children with her.

She overreacted. She’ll admit she overreacted.

Overreacted? She broke that girl’s nose and ripped her ear.

She was angry.

That was more than angry. That was her father in her reacting. That scares the shit out of me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Icelandic Model

The Icelandic Model

Wold Hall

Just after my twenty-fifth birthday.

Of all of the women I’ve dated in my life I would have to say the Icelandic Model was the most beautiful.

There was an elfish ethereal quality about her. Almost like she was a creature not entirely of this world.

That probably had something to do with the heroine.

I break up with her over the phone.

She tells me she’s going to kill herself if I break up with her.

Why the fuck can’t I get a girlfriend that isn’t a fucking mental patient?

She who will become my fiancée isn’t precisely tapping her foot and checking her watch – actually she is. That’s precisely what she’s doing. I have a feeling she could easily get bored with me.

If I want to go with her and turn the Adair charm on, I need to get a move on.

I abruptly end the conversation with the Icelandic Model.

I have bigger priorities than managing her crazy.

I need to kick start that charm.

I pocket my phone.

Did I just breakup with my girlfriend?

Yes.

Why?

I like her. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together. She seems reasonably sane. Does she have a heroine problem?

No! Definitely not! She laughs loudly.

It was time for me to end it. Past time.

Why can’t I be just a few years older?

And run the risk of losing my boyish charm?

She fears there is no chance of that happening. Dating someone so painfully disturbed doesn’t speak well for me. But breaking up with the Icelandic Model was a definite sign of maturity.

So she knows about this.

She knows what everyone that walks past a news stand knows.

Ah. So she does not live in a cave.

No. She has an apartment in Chelsea.

We’re practically neighbors.

Well not anymore if I’ve broken up with the Icelandic Model.

Point taken. I should probably get my things at some point.

Not a bad idea. Are we going to get moving?

My phone rings and rings until I turn it off. It’s the Icelandic Model. I’ve said all that I’m going to say. Breaking up with a girlfriend is best done quickly and brutally.

I drive.

The most marvelous thing happens.

We talk.

We actually talk.

There is conversation.

We have a mutual love for poetry, think Terry Pratchett is a genius, adore both Thai food and Thailand, and enjoy music.

We stop for the night at a castle hotel.

Whatever her inhibitions were the first night they seem to have dissipated.

She still likes the lights off when I make love to her. But she’s more expressive.

We drive a few more hours. As promised we would slowly wind our way to her father’s home in Scotland.

We stop the second night at a ridiculously romantic inn.

We drive some more. We make a plan make our final stop in Glasgow before going to Inverness.

We stay in her home. She has a beautiful home in Glasgow.

This is her home. Hers and hers alone.

Everything else they share. But this is hers.

I’ve learned nothing if not that she and her father are close.

I know other things.

Her mother died from complications during childbirth. I had no idea women still died in childbirth. Apparently they do.

Her father raised her.

She was raised in the first chicken burger restaurant.

She knows of no one that works as hard as her father.

She adores her father.

I tell her about my parents.

I don’t even embellish the truth.

She fells pity for me.

We go to bed in her room that has a four poster bed and an open marble fireplace.

There is a chaise covered in pale blue silk and a series of Persian rugs covered the dark wood floors.

I like this bedroom. It’s more of a boudoir. This is her inner sanctum.

I’m a little surprised at how feminine and girlish it is.

It’s a reflection of her inner world.

She’s showing me a part of herself.

I build a fire for us.

She puts on this very pretty white cotton eyelet nighty and a shimmery lipgloss.

I don’t think she feels wholly comfortable being a seductress, but I appreciate the effort.

I have no issue handling the seduction.

The bedroom seems to be the one place in her life that I could potentially be the boss.

In the morning after that night in her home, she makes breakfast for me.

French toast and bacon.

A housekeeper arrives with a stack of newspapers and warm greetings.

The headlines are all the same. The Icelandic Model died of a heroin overdose. She was found in her hotel room. I’m a main feature in the pictorials.

There is a hand on my arm. This is not my fault.

I actually agree. I’ve spent three days with a woman that is both sound of mind and body. This insanity is not my fault.

I check my phone for the first time since I turned it off.

I have hundreds of missed calls.

What the hell am I supposed to do? I never know what to do when this shit happens. I would think I would have learned at this point, but I haven’t.

She’ll handle everything.

I can’t ask her to fix this. There is no fixing this.

Just trust her. She knows what to do.

The first call she makes is to her lawyer.

He will be meeting us in Inverness. We are to meet him there.

The second call is to her publicist.

I’m shocked to learn that she has a publicist. Why would she have a publicist?

It’s the Chicken Burger Empire publicist. She does not personally have a publicist. Why would she need a publicist? Sorry to be a disappointment, but she lives a comparatively boring life.

I’m dismissed with a raised finger. The person on the phone is more important than me.

I’m asked only one questions.

When was the last time I saw her?

About a month ago. We were in New York and we had a vicious fucking fight in a vodka bar.

Good.

This is no longer my problem. She’s taken over.

Within the hour we are on a helicopter heading for Inverness.

A press release that I had no part in drafting is being sent out to all major media outlets.

I read the fax that is handed to me as the helicopter heads north.

“I am heartbroken to hear that the Icelandic Model has passed away in such tragic circumstances. She was a caring friend with a warm heart that made her a thoroughly beautiful person.

“She was a believer in women’s rights and wished to use her place in the public eye to become an advocate for change. I am saddened she will never have this opportunity.

“While I mourn the loss of this truly extraordinary person, it is my sincere hope that her death serves as an example to young people around the world to live a clean and healthy life. Drugs are never a solution. Her constant struggle with addiction which led to her death was no burden any person or their family should have to bear. My thoughts are with them at this moment.

“I ask at this moment for a simple request to be granted. If someone you love or care about is in the throes of addiction, please get the professional help. I long hoped that I could help her and found that I could not. Although our recent parting of ways was amicable and we remained friends, her loss is a tragic blow.”

She could have given a fuck about women’s rights. She only cared about herself.

That is a nonissue. It’s perfect.

She was neither warm nor beautiful on the inside.

Again. Not important.

She was cold and vicious.

Fine. She was a heartless bitch that would just as soon stomp on a baby that wouldn’t get out of her way.

That sounds more like it.

Do I want the press chasing me around, or do I want them to think that I’d long ago washed my hands of her? Because if they think I’m genuinely in mourning they’ll be following me until I start crying over my sandwich on a park bench.

She makes an excellent point.

She needs me to do one thing.

What?

Learn to love golf.

Why?

Because I’m going to be front and center at the celebrity golf tournament her father is organizing and I’m going to have a wonderful time.

This makes me uncomfortable.

I wouldn’t be human if it didn’t. I’m simply going to have to trust that she knows what is best for me. Can I do that?

Sure.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Circus Train Part 2

The plan is to fly in Elon’s jet to Scotland for the wedding.

We will travel together like a pack of gypsies.

This is our new thing apparently.

My new family extended family.

This band of misfits.

I would not give this experience up for anything.

We gather at Wold Hall.

This is our star chamber.

The morning the entourage was due to arrive, Marcus buggered out.

Marcus has been replaced by Roland.

Roland is the boyfriend that goes to family functions and weddings.

Marcus is the boyfriend that refuses to participate.

Roland is unaware that Marcus is in England.

Marcus leaves before Roland arrives with the rest of the party that will be traveling with us to Margaret and William’s wedding.

I don’t know if Margaret was drunk when she started inviting everyone, but they certainly remembered when they were sober.

No one makes him any the wiser when he arrives at Wold Hall with Elizabeth, the Actress, the Esthetician, Lionel, the Doctor, the Shaman, Sigrund (with her little dog), and the Matchmaker.

Roland goes straight for Elon and the scotch.

Never again will he travel anywhere with the lot of them in one confined space.

Never.

Not ever.

Elon takes the bottle and Roland and they disappear.

We don’t see them again before dinner.

Sigrund has marvelous news for all of us.

She insists the dog is the reincarnation of River Phoenix.

She’s certain of it.

She channels his spirit.

She makes an appeal to Sanjay and Gita – the two genuinely Hindu people in the room.

Is it not possible the dog is the reincarnation of River Phoenix?

Sanjay, in typical Sanjay fashion, is both kind and willing to humor. In his singsong voice he tells her that anything is truly possible if we believe.

Elon refuses to participate in what he calls his mother’s latest bit of lunacy.

Sigrund ignores Elon. River Phoenix has been slowly working his way up the reincarnation ladder. Next time around he might make it from dog to donkey. It’s her mission to give him good Karma. He has to sit with us at the table. And he’s a vegan.

A vegan dog? Elon feeds bits of duck to the dog. There is no such thing as a vegan dog. They’re naturally carnivores.

Dogs can be enlightened too. Sigrund moves the vegan reincarnation of River Phoenix away from the reach of her son.

Elon looks to the Shaman. Was this his doing?

No.

Elon looks to his mother. How precisely did she come to the conclusion the dog was the canine reincarnation of River Phoenix? Elon looks around the table. Is he the only one that really wants to know?

Roland pours more wine. Have more wine. Please Elon. Have more wine.

He will have more wine. He just would like to know how she came to this determination.

The dog told her.

Elon holds out his glass to Roland who fills it to the top.

Sigrund isn’t done being the center of attention.

She has pictures of her granddaughter.

Would anyone like to see them?

Pretty much everyone except for Elon and Roland (who is clearly siding with him purely for solidarity sake – don’t think I see him catching glances at the images on Sigrund’s phone) wants to see the pictures of Ana.

I’m not much of a baby person, but she is a beautiful baby.

No one dares speak the obvious – she’s a tiny little bald Elon. But adorable.

Sigrund tried to borrow the baby for the wedding, but that boyfriend of Renata’s wanted more cash than she was willing to pay for four days with her grandchild.

Outrageous really.

The real pity of it is that she bought the most adorable Baby Dior dress for Little Sigrund.

ANA! HER NAME IS ANA! IT IS NOT LITTLE SIGRUND! AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Elon begins howling again.

The sound is eerie as it echoes through Wold Hall.

Elon goes running from the room with Roland on his heels.

River Phoenix barks loudly as he jumps from Sigrund’s arms and chases the two down the hallway.

Sigrund holds her glass out to be topped up.

Is he back to doing that again?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Inverness

The far north of Scotland is perhaps the most ruggedly beautiful place in the world.

This is my first trip this far north.

It’s May and it’s freezing. The helicopter lands in the middle of a field of green on the edge of the sea.

It’s almost like home.

Just really really cold.

The older gentleman in the wool overcoat and homburg looks like a quietly distinguished businessman that has made his fortune through hard work and perseverance.

I admire him instantly.

I like the look of him. Sort of reminds me of the gentlemen in the pictures my great-grandmother Lady Charlotte had of her father, grandfather, and uncles. Industrialists that worked for their fortunes. Somewhere inside of me is the blood of men that built railroads and steel mills. That bit of me responds to them.

In my defense the fat bald man in the oversized shell suit strikes me as a poorly dressed footman. I’m frankly surprised the gentleman in the homburg allows this level of slovenliness in his employees.

If I would have known it was the Rat Bastard, I wouldn’t have handed the man my bag and told him to leave it for me to unpack.

Conversely, the Rat Bastard knows I’m a guest. If he had any manners he would have taken my bag and laughed the whole cringe worthy incident off as an unfortunate misunderstanding.

The other man is the Lawyer.

The one that will pull my fat out of the fire consistently until he tosses me into the flames and roasts me like a pig on a spit. He is every bit worthy of the admiration I feel for him.

The Rat Bastard hates me from the get go.

We have no common ground.

Not a thing.

I’m even English which he finds offensive on a cultural level.

I’m everything he’s not and he resents it for me implicitly because the unspoken truth is, his daughter doesn’t want a man just like her dear dad. She wants a man that’s nothing like him.

I half expect him to tell us we need to sleep in separate bedrooms.

I sort of hope he does.

I don’t like that look he gives me every morning. The one that tells me he knows I’ve violated his daughter and were it another time he could have my head on a spike.

She tells me to ignore him. He always gets like this with her boyfriends.

How many boyfriends has she had?

Not that many. She’s busy. Most men find it hard to be with a woman that works harder and makes more money than they do.

I have no issue with either.

She’s figured that out already.

What does that mean.

Never mind. We’re going on an outing.

She takes me into Inverness. We go to the first chicken burger restaurant.

The people that work in the restaurant know her well.

They’re family. Literally. They’re family. Cousins mostly.

No one is allowed to slack. If they want money they need to work for it.

We actually have lunch there.

It’s a whole lot better than what I would have imagined.

There is a reason for that. Everything is still made there the way her father did it thirty years earlier.

Not so much in the other places?

Not really. She wants to show me something.

She brings me to the apartment above the store where she lived the first twelve years of her life.

It’s tiny.

She had the bedroom and her father slept in the living room.

It smells like fried chicken.

She used to do her homework in the window.

There’s an ancient picture of Princess Diana cut out of a magazine stuck to the wall with yellowing sticky tape. Another two pictures of the Windsor boys in their teenage years.

Very interesting.

They had this black and white telly. She’d watch Doctor Who while her father worked.

What is it I feel as I walk around this space that isn’t bigger than the China Room at Wold Hall?

I’m confused.

I don’t know what she wants from showing this to me.

I don’t think she’s proud of her roots.

Everything she has said to me indicates that this is not really a source of pride for her like it is her father.

So I dig down deep and examine everything I know about her.

I know people that know her from St. Andrews.

People that don’t particularly like her.

They send me emails filled with information.

My cousin Margaret is another great source of information.

This place is one she has worked diligently to grow away from.

She’s a relentless social climber.

She’s always angling for invitations.

She reads etiquette books.

She seems to have a poor man’s desire to prove herself worthy of a place in polite society.

The answer comes to me.

I think she’s brilliant. Everything she’s done and everything she’s accomplished. I really think she’s brilliant.

No I don’t.

I do. How did she go from this place to the empress of her own chicken burger empire? Because I am really impressed.

She smiles at me. Am I really?

Yes. I’m very impressed. Too bad she doesn’t like horses.

Horses?

Yes. I was thinking it would be fun to go to Ascot together.

Her eyes light up. The Royal Enclosure?

Of course. Where else? I don’t want to assume that she wants to spend the next two weeks with me, but we could certainly make a date.

She needs a dress. She needs shoes. She needs a hat.

She strikes me as a person that has no problem finding solutions to problems.

I take her hand and make a sweeping gesture with my other hand.

Look how far she’s come. Does she like parties?

Depends on the party.

Am I assuming too much by inviting her to be my plus one to a few weddings I have coming up?

She kisses my cheek. She’d love to go with me.

This is what I can bring to the relationship.

I may not have a job, but I have pedigree.

She doesn’t need a man with money.

She needs one with connections to the sort of life she dreamed of living when she sat in the window doing her homework and watching Doctor Who on the black and white television. This is what she’s been working for. Fortunately, like dresses, shoes, and hats, it’s for sale. The cost is the keep of one husband that will one day be an earl.

Best of all – I can make her a countess!

Talk about catnip for the girl that used to cut out pictures of Princess Diana.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cousin Margaret's Wedding

Scotland. What can I say? Scotland.

The moment has arrived. A confluence of people and events.

Aunt Maisie has everything sorted for us. We are staying in a series of rooms on the ground floor. Olga and I in one room. Mum, Aunt Lucy, and Gita in another room. Uncle Harvey and Sanjay in another room. Elon and Roland in the third and final room.

Aunt Maisie pulls me to a corner.

My former fiancée has arrived.

Okay.

She’s brought her new boyfriend with her.

Fine.

He’s a very nice young man.

Great.

Charming and handsome. Young. Good for her.

Terrific.

He’s Israeli. A writer. Did I know that writers actually held a very prominent position in Israeli society?

Sure. I knew that. Amos Oz.

He’s working on his PhD actually. Smart young man.

She’s called him young three times. How young is he?

Young.

Interesting. Is there a point, or are we just having a good chin wag?

Chin wag. And she wanted to warn me. In case it was awkward.

I’m good. I get it. She’s moved on. I’m happy for her.

Really?

Really. Honest to god. I’m happy for her. She deserves to be happy.

Can she tell me something.

Of course she can. She can tell me anything.

She truly thought the two of us just might get back together. Crazy. She knows. She just thought we might get back together.

That’s not going to happen.

Why not?

Because she figured out that I’m an ass wipe and not good enough for her.

Stop it. I’m better than I think I am. Has anyone told me recently how much I look like my father?

No. Actually no one tells me that. Wait. Not true. Mum said something about that.

I look just like my father. Handsome.

Bah.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Court of Harpies

There are seven bridesmaids including my Former Fiancée.

Mary.

Harriet.

Jemima.

Katherine.

Ophelia.

Anne.

Kathleen.

They hate me with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

They train their laser beam stares on me, boiling my innards.

They despise me.

But it could be worse.

I could be Olga.

If they hate me they secretly plan her demise based on the looks she’s getting.

Either she’s oblivious or she’s ignoring them.

I’m going to go with ignoring them.

Olga’s used to being the prettiest girl in the room. The stares don’t bother her anymore.

She spots Avan across the room before I do.

A nudge into my bruised ribs pulls a low cry out of me.

Seeing Avan makes me screech.

When he walks up to my Former Fiancée and puts a familiar hand on her back I nearly fall to the floor convulsing.

What? What? What? What?

A thousand thoughts flood my head.

Smoke very well might be coming out of my ears.

When Avan kisses her on the cheek I’m certain I’m being filmed. Someone is playing a practical joke on me.

Olga nudges me once again in ribs.

Did I know Avan would be working the party?

No I did not know Avan would be working the party.

I scream again when I see Elizabeth going straight to Avan to greet him.

They are friends and colleagues.

Of course she would think nothing of going across a room to say hello when finding him unexpectedly at the same party.

If he weren’t so charmingly attentive to my Former Fiancée I would go and say hello then introduce myself to his lovely “date”.

My shoes skid across the floor as I run/walk as fast as decency allow.

I grab Elizabeth by the elbow.

We are all pretending we don’t know Avan.

But we do know Avan. She loves Avan. Avan is so sweet.

I know. We all adore Avan. I will explain later. Just please for me let’s all pretend we don’t know him. Go. Go talk to Olga. Just go.

Where am I going?

I’m going to talk to Avan.

But…

Just go.

I send her off with a little shove.

Oh please let her have hired a male prostitute as her date because she didn’t want to show up without one. Oh please oh please oh please oh please. OH PLEASE!

Why hello there!

Avan is always cool.

This is his charm.

Nothing fazes him.

How nice to see me. Allow him to introduce his friend.

My Former Fiancée turns those eyes on me.

We already know each other.

Yes. Yes we do. So ... I smile at my Former Fiancée … how do they know each other?

My Former Fiancée smiles at Avan. Could he give us a moment? We’ll be right back.

She drags me out of the reception and into a quiet library.

We’ve been in this room before.

I asked her to marry me at this room on the night of Uncle Albert and Aunt Maisie’s thirtieth wedding party.

It wasn’t the planned proposal my grandparents had coached me to make.

We were neither in Paris, nor did I have Lady Charlotte’s diamond ring at the ready.

What I did have was a slightly tipsy girlfriend with a broken zipper and a needle and thread.

She cannot believe I know how to sew.

I am a man of many talents. If she doesn’t stand still I’m going to stab her with the needle. Why didn’t she bring more than one cocktail dress?

Because she didn’t think she’d need one. Who needs more than one dress for a party?

Point taken. I’m going to have to cut her out of this. Is she sure she doesn’t want to just call it a night and go to bed?

It’s not even eight. Dinner hasn’t even been served.

Stitch by stich I close the busted zipper.

We talk about random foolishness.

I make no comment on the fact the dress might be just a size too small.

I’ve become very sensitive about these things.

Personally I think she’s lovely.

My standards have readjusted since we started dating.

I like that she has a bit of a body to grab onto.

I’m enormously fond of her breasts.

She likes to tease me by telling me the reason I like her cans is because I have mommy issues.

She knows all about my mommy and daddy issues. Only Elon knows as much about me.

I tie the knot firmly. The last thing either of us want is for her dress to split apart during dinner.

I clip the string.

She’s good.

Is she good?

Yes. She’s very good.

She sits on my lap and I wrap my arms around her.

I get kisses on my neck and my lips.

She loves me.

I love her too.

I’m a pain in the ass.

I am. But it’s part of my charm.

I am charming. And handsome. She likes how handsome I am.

Is she objectifying me?

Just a little. She knows perfectly well that I’m not going to stick around forever. She’s going to enjoy it while she can.

Why is she so certain I’m going somewhere?

She can barely keep my attention as it is. What’s going to happen when she wants my genetic material purely for selfish reasons.

She wants a baby?

Yes. But she also knows I’m not there yet. I need to grow up a lot.

Maybe that’s what I need to encourage me to grow up.

That would probably do it.

I’d rather get married first. Call me traditional, but I like tradition. Does she want to get married?

Am I proposing?

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Does she want to get married?

I’m not funny.

I’m not trying to be funny. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love her. Let’s get married and mingle our genetic material.

Am I actually being serious? Because if I’m not I’m an ass.

I’m being serious. I move her off my lap and into the chair. I get down on one fucking knee and do it right.

Will she marry me and make me the happiest man in the world? Not only will I devote myself to her and father her children, I will carry a sewing kit with me wherever life may take us.

Yes. She’ll marry me.

We kiss to seal the deal.

I have something for her.

We leave the library and go to our room.

I pull Lady Charlotte’s diamond out of my suitcase. No need to keep it stashed away until Paris.

She can’t believe I had a ring on me.

She likes to think I’m insincere, but I did plan on asking her to marry me when we were in Paris.

This is better. She admires the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly.

Of course it does. I had it sized and everything.

I was really going to ask her to marry her.

Yes. I love her. She’s the center of my universe. She’s the cream in my tea. She’s the stars in my heavens. I love her.

Then there are tears.

Happy tears.

We return to the party just as the guests are sitting for dinner.

Our absence hasn’t escaped notice.

Aunt Maisie is the first to comment on the fact my Fiancée is wearing Lady Charlotte’s diamond. She thinks it’s lovely. We can make an announcement if we like.

It hers and Uncle Albert’s party.

Tosh. There’s happiness to go around. My Fiancée is a lovely girl. Just lovely. She’s always liked her. I couldn’t have made a better choice.

My mother has no comment.

My father will do anything to get on my good side – even be happy for me when I don’t think he is.

My grandmother is less pleased. She thought we had my proposal planned out.

It was perfect.

What happened? Perhaps it can be fixed.

I kiss the old girl on her cheek. Trust me. It was perfect.

She’s unconvinced, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Here we are again – back in the library.

Time and treachery have come between us.

I’m not the same person I was on that night when I sewed her zipper close and asked for her heart.

We’re both older and more battle scared.

Oliver. My Former Fiancée stares at me. Fuck off.

His name is Ariel; he’s Israeli, and a writer. She just met him. Jemima and Harriet know him. They set it up for her. He seems nice. She’d appreciate it if I didn’t humiliate her in public. Any more questions?

No. I’m all good. I’m sure he’s a nice guy.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Is it Love if it Doesn't Hurt?

I think I’m in love, but I can’t really tell. With Renata I knew I was in love because it hurt.

This doesn’t hurt. It just feels solid and good.

I question whether or not love can be like this so I remain uncommitted.

I am smart enough though to tell her I love her when she tells me she loves me.

I take her to Royal Ascot.

My grandparents are wonderful.

It’s like we’re colluding to make the experience as memorable and repeatable as possible for her.

She goes to a string of summer weddings with me.

With each one she gains confidence mingling with the crowd that had previously snubbed her.

We go from place to place.

New York.

Hong Kong.

Sydney.

We go from chicken burger headquarters to chicken burger headquarters.

Sometimes I go on tours with her.

The Americans love me.

I’m practically the crown prince of England as far as they’re concerned.

The chicken burger managers bow and curtsy to me.

Sometimes it’s very weird.

We laugh about it in our anonymous hotel rooms as we travel from town to town.

I love this gypsy life of luxury.

She buys me treats and pets me.

She takes me shopping and turns me into her live doll.

She likes me pretty and happy.

She works all the time.

I watch her work.

It’s marvelous to me.

I couldn’t do what she does.

She facilitates the production of mass quantities of food that is only slightly preferable to hunger.

She’s like Lady Macbeth without the warmth.

Nothing will stand between her and her throne.

She works constantly.

It never ends.

I hate this.

I understand the money has to come from somewhere, but I just get so bored.

It’s fine when we’re traveling. But when we’re in London I have nothing to do.

So I go out.

I’m young.

I have fun.

I’m human.

But I know how to make her happy.

Especially when she’s cross with me.

She’s pretty easy to read. So I know when I’ve walked just a step over that line.

Generally speaking my picture appearing in the tabloids with models or actresses at bars is one of those things that piss her off.

A few weeks of being good is usually all it takes.

When she left for work, I didn’t know I’d made the papers again.

After she’s gone I learn the awful truth.

Renata loves to call me to let me in on these things.

She ignores my calls.

I wait for her to come home.

She walks in after ten fairly plastered on white wine.

She’s been out with that pack of harpies she calls friends.

I’m an asshole.

She loves me. Nothing happened. She knows I love her.

I kiss her neck.

I fondle one of those beautifully rounded breasts.

She resists slightly.

The pack of harpies has convinced her to be pissed off at me.

They’ve plied her with booze and dripped poison in her ears.

She thinks she should be mad at me.

But I know better.

She doesn’t want to be angry with me.

She’s drunk.

She wants me to fuck her.

Life doesn’t need to be complicated.

There are easy solutions to problems.

I know her well enough to know that fucking on the kitchen counters would be a touch too exotic for her.

Just once I’d like her to just want me and want me where we stand.

But she likes our bed.

I get that. I like our bed too.

It’s taking time, but I’m starting to appreciate boring marital sex. There is something very comfortable about being with her in our bed.

I’d like a little excitement to balance out the vanilla, but this is the price I pay for the life I live.

We walk together to our room.

I let her drop on the bed.

I pull one shoe off toss it to the side then pull the other one off.

She isn’t wearing tights so no need to wrestle her out of those.

Why can’t I be nicer?

I am nice.

No I’m not. I’m mean to her. I treat her badly.

That is not correct. Would a man that treated her badly undress her drunk ass and put her to bed?

I do have a point.

I do and I know I do.

I get her naked and between the sheets.

I sort of like her like this. She’s vulnerable and emotional. Sad that it takes copious amounts of Riesling to get her to express herself.

I drop my clothes and get into bed with her.

She kisses me. Wet kisses.

Do I actually love her?

Yes. I love her. How can she ask me that?

Easy.

Be quiet. I love her.

I slide on top of her and into her.

The sigh that comes out of her tells me this is exactly what she wants.

No where else in her life does anyone else get to be the boss. This is where I’m the man.

She climaxes with a purr and a laugh then pushes me off of her.

I’m not done.

She’s certain I can figure it out on my own.

She stumbles into the bathroom.

The water runs.

I figure it out on my own.

She stumbles into the bedroom in a pair of velour track pants and a camisole.

She falls on the bed.

Is she okay?

No she’s not okay. She’s working too much and she misses me.

I pull her to me. I miss her too. I hate that she works so much.

Why I can’t be home when she’s home? Why do I always have to go out?

Does she want me to be home when she’s home?

Yes. That’s all she wants. She wants us to make dinner together and just be together. Why do I have to go out all of the time?

I don’t. I can be home with her.

She likes home. Don’t I like our home?

I love our home. It’s perfect for us.

She mumbles. Her words are drowsy and incomprehensible.

She’s asleep. More than asleep. She’s pretty well passed out.

I slip out of bed.

I dress.

It’s not even eleven and I’m out the door.

Elon is standing at the bar with Renata.

What the fuck kept me?

I had to take care of domestic matters.

The bartender knows me and what I drink. Lately it’s icy cold vodka with lemon. Keeping it simple and classy.

Does that mean I had to fuck my cash cow? Renata is always charming. She despises my girlfriend. She refuses to accept the fact that I will never get back together with her.

Fuck off.

I gulp my vodka and order a second.

What’s the plan?

We pick up some people and head back to Elon’s house.

The party is still far from over when I quickly duck into the shower, borrow clean clothes from Elon, then take a taxi home.

It’s just seven when I let myself back into the apartment.

My fiancée is still sound asleep in our bed.

She stirs when I lay next to her.

I wake her up with kisses.

What am I doing?

I can’t get enough of her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Cocktail Hour

I stay across the room from the Rat Bastard during the cocktail hour before the dinner.

Every few minutes he looks at me like he’s staring at me down the barrel of a shotgun.

Elizabeth stands next to me. She has no interest in trying to make headway with the other guests so she doesn’t bother. What she wants is intel.

Him.

I look to where Elizabeth nods.

Robert Barkley. Banker. Old wife. New money. Big house.

Oh?

The house is too big. If I had to guess he has very little in the way of actual wealth. Lots of show. Not a lot of substance. Probably has debt.

Never mind. Him.

Bill Gregory. Another banker. Wife’s dead. Old Money. Lives in the house he grew up in somewhere in Tunbridge Wells.

Hmmm...

No. He’s not right. He wouldn’t spend the money to keep her.

Am I sure?

Positive. He’d probably expect her to cook and do dishes. There might be gardening and light housework.

Moving on. Him.

Walter Miller. He’s gone through his second wife. Might be interested in a third.

Oh?

Could be interesting. He works for the EU. Lives in Brussels. Family money. Boys are still youngish.

Where do they live?

They’re in Switzerland at Le Rosey. So school most of the year.

Who pays for that?

His ex-wife is Swiss. She comes from pharmaceutical money.

Could work. Him.

Walter Wroe.

As in the House of Wroe? The department store?

Yes. I hate to disappoint her, but he just got engaged to his third wife.

Who?

Kiki Knight.

That slag?

That would be the one.

Bitch. Him.

That would be the Rat Bastard.

Who?

My Former Fiancée’s father.

The chicken burger princess?

Yup.

Well?

Uhhh… Okay. He was married once to the girl he grew up next to. They got married when they were eighteen and she was pregnant.

Still married?

No. Widower.

Recent?

No. Years ago. She died right after giving birth to my Former Fiancée. Complications from the birth.

That still happens?

Apparently it does. He took the money from an insurance policy and opened the first chicken burger restaurant. He’s spent the last thirty-five years raising his daughter and making chicken burgers.

Never remarried?

No. He’s had girlfriends, but he never married again.

How much money does he have?

Lot’s. Including mine.

Hmmm… Thoughts?

It’s a curious thing really. She is his type. The problem is always my Former Fiancée. She never approves of his girlfriends.

They really are a pair aren’t they?

Yes. Personally I say nothing ventured nothing gained.

What are his likes and dislikes?

Likes football, Judge Judy, fried food, bargain matinee movies, car boot sales, golf, stout, and his daughter.

Not terribly sophisticated.

No. Assume all things sophisticated are off the table and that’s a good place to start.

Good. Dislikes?

The Royals, cricket, me, the French, and bananas.

Bananas?

He thinks they’re mushy.

These are all things she could work with. Wish her luck.

God speed young woman.

Elizabeth makes it over to the Rat Bastard via the bar.

I sort of edge around the room. I need to eavesdrop on this seduction.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drink a pint of stout before, but there she is with one creamy foam topped glass of the black stuff in her hand.

She introduces herself. She doesn’t want to embarrass him, but she wanted to thank him.

For what?

Her first job was working for him. She always wanted to thank him. Without that job she never would have gotten out of her house and made a life of her own.

The Rat Bastard looks her up and down. He’s a man for fuck sakes. I know what he’s thinking as he gives Elizabeth the eye. If only she had a plate of sausage rolls in the other hand and was wearing just her panties he’d be in heaven.

She hands him the pint. She didn’t exactly buy it, but it’s the closest she’s going to get under the circumstances of buying him a drink.

He strikes her as a stout man. It’s a man’s drink. Not like a silly margarita or even worse, a banana daiquiri. She can’t stand bananas!

The Rat Bastard takes the pint with a hearty chuckle.

Elizabeth is relentless. She’s back on the job and the Rat Bastard seems to actually believe Elizabeth is interested in him for something other than his money.

Elizabeth seems to have this well in hand.

I dodge out of the room and find an empty toilet.

When I try to exit, my Former Fiancée pushes me back in and closes the door behind her.

She reaches down and grabs me by the nuts. She sort of squeezes and twists.

If I am purposefully trying to fuck with her father she is going to paint the walls with me.

A squeak comes out of me. She squeezes harder. She’s not done with me.

She doesn’t care what I have to do, but I am going to keep English Barbie away from her father.

She squeezes and twists. I’m in agony.

She knows exactly what English Barbie wants and she’s not going to get it from her father. Do we understand each other?

I nod vigorously.

I’m like a mongoose at the mercy of a cobra.

Whatever massively fucked up kinky bullshit I’m getting up to with the Barbies is none of her business. Just so we’re clear. She just needs me to keep it away from her father. Understood?

Couldn’t be clearer.

Good. She releases my ball-sack from her claw.

For fuck sake. I don’t control Elizabeth. I’ll have a chat with her, but they’re consenting adults.

Not acceptable.

I don’t care. What am I going to do about it? She has a problem, she can deal with it.

Why do I have to make her life so difficult?

Seriously? I’m the one making her life difficult? For fuck sake. Could she please pull the blinders off? What does she think the last year has been like for me? Look at me for fuck sake. I’m fucking bruised both mentally and physically.

Her hand touches my face. I’m right. And I’m wrong. But I’m mostly right.

She hates to see me like this. Was I really going to marry Parvati Singh?

That’s actually back on.

What?

That’s back on.

No. It’s not possible.

September. Should I make certain she’s on the guest list?

Could be awkward. But send an invitation just in case.

Don’t think I won’t.

What does Russian Barbie think about this?

I’ve asked her to be my mistress.

My former fiancée laughs loudly. I did not. But yet – she believes that I did.

I’ve decided to be totally honest in all aspects of my life.

How is that working for me?

On balance, it seems to be working. Can I be honest with her?

Absolutely. No time like the present to start.

I kiss her. I don’t know if it’s just natural reflex or what, but I kiss her.

Why did I do that?

I wanted to.

She needs me to stop fucking with her.

I’m not. I just wanted to kiss her. I miss her sometimes. How protective she can be. I miss having her take care of me. I’ll do something about Elizabeth.

Never mind. Her father is a grown man. Elizabeth isn’t the first woman with a gleam in her eye to go after her father.

I kiss her again.

She kisses me back.

Why do we keep doing this? When we were together we weren’t this spontaneous. Now that we’re at each other’s throats we’ve found that passion our relationship so desperately needed.

She’s wearing this dress with this sort of floaty full skirt. It’s very pretty and very romantic. Just the sort of thing she likes to wear.

Her hand goes down my trousers again. This time she handles with care.

I wince.

Did she hurt me?

No. Just very nice.

The skirt goes up and the panties come off.

This is new for us.

This is crazy spontaneous bathroom sex in the middle of a party.

I don’t have a condom.

She doesn’t care.

Good. Because I don’t want to stop to do the smart and responsible thing.

She looks fantastic.

She smells like a garden.

Her skin is like silk.

Can I just shut the fuck up and fuck her?

Yes. Yes I can.

Two handfuls of rounded bottom fill my hands as I pull her against me.

She kisses my neck and bites my earlobes.

She but her hands on my body and pulls me tight to her.

She growls like a tigress and claws at my back.

I bite my lip to stop the sound when I ejaculate like a geyser.

Anyone walking by the door is going to know something is up in the toilet.

Some sounds are unique to some activities.

I set her on the sink and take a step back.

Right. That was good.

I hand her the rather saucy panties I’m certain she didn’t own when we were together. I aim to please. Just curious. Better than her date? The Israeli writer?

She hasn’t had sex with him. She told me already. He’s just a friend.

Really?

Really.

I find that hard to believe.

Believe it.

He’s goodlooking.

She’s probably going to get to it if I’m concerned. Would she like me to text her when the deed is done?

No. I’d rather not know. I’d prefer to think I’m the only man in the world that can really rock her world. What does Ariel the Israeli writer write?

Fiction. Very Philip Roth.

She’s read it?

Yes. Some of it. He’s working on something. He let her read part of it.

Really? Is it any good? (Could this be the mystery of Avan? He’s a writer? It fits actually. Solitary and thoughtful.)

Yes. It’s very good actually.

Does she actually like him?

She shrugs. Yes. But she thinks he might be religious. That could be a problem.

Are we seriously discussing her dating another man?

Why not? It’s not like we’re ever getting back together.

So, how do we do this? Should she wait in the bathroom for thirty seconds or something after I go out? How does one normally go about having covert sex? I would be the one that would know.

Never can pass up an opportunity can she?

No.

Wait a minute then leave.

Oliver.

I look at her. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are bright. She looks like she’s just been well seen to. What?

Never mind. Just go.

I slip out the door.

Margaret is there. Waiting for me. Like a Rottweiler.

She grabs me by the tie. At least it’s not the nuts.

I’m not going anywhere.

Any particular reason why?

Oh she just wants to see who is going to come out of the toilet next.

No one is in there. How about we go back to the party. I’ll buy her a drink. We haven’t even had a spin around the floor.

We’re not going anywhere. We’re just going to stand right where we are.

There is no one in the bathroom.

The door to the bathroom opens.

Liar liar pants on fire. Both of us.

My Former Fiancée looks caught.

Margaret looks from me to my Former Fiancée back to me.

There’s this sort of crazed look in her eyes. Like a woman that is passed unglued and on the cusp of murderous rage.

She’s going to make something clear to both of us.

She speaks in this freaky whisper. It’s very Exorcist.

This is her wedding.

We’ve had our chance.

Four times.

My Former Fiancée tries to correct her. It wasn’t actually four times.

Margaret doesn’t want to hear it. She will not hear it.

This is her wedding.

She is the bride.

Everyone has to do what she says.

She is the bride.

This is her wedding.

If we do anything to take even a moments worth of attention off of her with our fucked up fucking up of fuckity fuck fuck fuck then she will fuck us the fuck up.

Do we fucking understand?

DO WE?

YES! Yes we understand.

Good.

This makes her happy.

No one wants the bride to be unhappy. Do they?

Margaret smiles pleasantly.

She hopes we’re having a wonderful time.

We return to the party going in precisely opposite directions.

I find Elon. He’s sulking in the corner. Roland is mingling and making friends.

Everyone likes Roland. He’s so charming and polite. They can’t imagine what he’s doing with Elon.

What is the body count?

I have no idea what he means.

How many women have I fucked since we arrived?

A gentleman never tells.

If he finds a gentleman he’ll keep that in mind.

Two.

I disappoint him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Yacht

I like Norway.

It’s very beautiful.

We are in Norway for Elon’s father’s eight (ninth?) wedding.

For reasons which are unclear to me, he has a desire to make nice with his father.

It could be that whole being disowned thing that has him worried. Not that he doesn’t have more money than he could ever spend coming from Sigrund, there is an evil streak in her that makes him nervous.

The fjords really can only be properly seen from the water in the early morning light.

Which is why I am so pleased we took the yacht my Fiancée recently acquired. My idea. Hotels can be so impersonal. So little privacy. But a yacht…

I think she agreed to it to give me something to do.

I love the yacht. It’s my cat pad. It’s where I bring my hookups. Everything contained in one place.

I can make absolutely certain that all evidence of my bad behavior is erased before my fiancée comes on board.

In my defense, I never bring women back to our apartment or to Wold Hall.

I have the yacht.

We have Elon with us.

Does she want to have a three-way?

No.

Does she want to have a three-way?

No.

Does she want to have a three-way?

Have I lost my mind?

No. Does she want to have a three-way?

Absolutely not.

It could be fun.

She’s certain I already know.

It is fun.

Not for her. The only man that gets to see her naked is me.

Elon’s seen her in a bathing suit.

Not the same.

Elon looks at us over his Bergensavisen. He likes her tits if that helps.

No. It doesn’t. She is just not that kind of girl.

Elon returns to his newspaper.

How can she be certain of that if she doesn’t try?

She is certain she has no future as a tightrope walker without trying that out either.

So no three-way?

No. And just so we’re clear, if she were going to agree to something like that it would not be with Elon.

Elon looks over his newspaper. What’s wrong with him?

Nothing. It’s just… She looks at him. She shakes her head a little. No.

Is he just too sexy for her?

Yes. Absolutely. That’s it. He’s so sexy it hurts.

He is hard pressed to believe her.

He should be. We’re not having a three-way.

Elon is now engaged in this conversation and there is no extracting him. Is it him? Is he the problem? If it were some other man would she be into it?

Yes. Absolutely. That’s it. It’s not that she finds the idea of a three-way both icky and totally inappropriate, it’s that she doesn’t think Elon is hot.

Elon raises an eyebrow. She really doesn’t think he’s hot?

It’s like trying to reason with chimps.

She doesn’t like Elon? Fine! I’ll find another man. I mentally go through my phonebook.

No. I’m misunderstanding. She has no problem with Elon being part of the three-some. It’s me. If I’m going to be the father of her children then that’s not really the sort of thing she wants to do with me. She’d like our bed to be a sacred sort of place. Do I understand?

No. I do not understand.

Yes. Elon understands perfectly. Does she have a preference? Blonds, brunets, gingers?

I do not like the way she seems to genuinely give this thought.

Truthfully she’s sort of into really beautiful Asian men. Really really good looking tall Chinese men.

This is brilliant! Elon knows just the guy. He’s fucking beautiful.

No. No he does not. This is not what I meant.

Maybe I should look at it like this. If she turns out to like it, maybe she’ll change her mind about including me.

Here. Elon hands her his phone.

He has naked pictures of men on his phone? Her finger flicks through photo after photo.

Yes. What does she think?

Set it up. Clearly it matters so much to me that she start experimenting with her sexuality. It might as well be with someone she trusts.

Elon promises her that if she really gets uncomfortable he’ll call it off. No hard feelings.

She kisses Elon on the cheek. He’s sweet. She’ll be sure to buy some really slutty underwear just for the occasion.

She can buy slutty underwear for Elon but not for me?

Considering the amount of money I put on my AmEx bill at Rigby & Peller a few months back she just assumed I was buying lingerie for her and just waiting for the right moment to surprise her.

Silence falls like a bomb.

She looks at my AmEx bill?

She reads it like a Quaker reads the bible. She’s going to get dressed.

When she’s gone I turn to Elon.

That is not what I wanted.

To get busted buying lingerie for another woman or to try to force my fiancée into a situation that would make her inherently uncomfortable? Do I even know my fiancée?

Yes. I know my fiancée. I can’t believe she audits my credit card bills.

He can’t believe I’m so stupid to charge lingerie for another woman on the credit card she pays.

It’s not what either of them thinks. This is not what I wanted. And for the record, I pay cash for those sorts of things.

He shrugs. He doesn’t care what I wanted. I pushed and pushed until I got her to change her mind. Just because she changed it in a way I’m not happy with doesn’t mean he isn’t going to respect her decision.

This is not what I wanted.

If it helps he’ll be there.

I want her to be adventurous with me. Not him.

Look. Just trust him. He’ll make it an experience worth repeating. Maybe she’ll want to repeat it with me.

What if she doesn’t want to repeat it with me?

Then that should be okay too. Maybe what we need is an honestly open relationship.

I don’t want an open relationship.

Because I want a relationship that allows me to fuck around all I want while she’s at home being faithful?

Pretty much.

That is unsustainable.

I don’t want to hear this. I go down to our stateroom.

She’s in the shower.

She’s crying. She never cries.

I step in with her.

I stand behind her.

I wrap my arms around her.

I don’t get an elbow in the ribs. This is salvageable.

The charge at Rigby & Peller…

Stop talking. She called and had them send her a copy of the receipt. She has never worn a 32C balcony push-up bra in her life nor does she own a pair of matching French knickers.

I really can explain.

She ordered a duplicate set just to see it with her own eyes. I do have excellent taste. She’ll give me that. Did it ever occur to me to buy something like that for her?

Well no. Not really. I just didn’t think she’d be into that sort of thing.

But she’d be into a three-way. Do I even know her?

Elon just said the same thing.

I should listen to him.

Does she want me to buy her lingerie?

Don’t bother. She wouldn’t want to put me to any trouble.

It’s not any trouble; I just didn’t think she’d like that sort of thing.

Yes. Because women always hate being treated like beautiful objects of desire. They despise having men give them things like jewelry, flowers, and underwear.

I just don’t think of her liking things like that. She could have told me.

Why? Did Miss French Knickers have to ask me to buy her something pretty? She’s going to go with probably not.

I’ve had enough. I get out of the shower and get my phone. She’s determined to think the very worst of me. I know that I’ve done a lot of things wrong, but that’s not one of them.

I return to the bathroom.

Get out of the shower.

Get out of the bathroom.

I swear to god I can make this better. Just get out of the shower.

She turns off the water and gets out of the shower.

I hold my phone up to my ear as it rings.

My father answers eventually.

Ollie?

Yes. Just a moment. I need him to answer one question.

It’s four in the morning. Am I okay?

I’m fine. I just need him to resolve a dispute.

I hand the phone to my fiancée.

Ask him what he got my mother for her birthday and how he paid for it.

What did he get Martina for her birthday and how did he pay for it?

She pauses as she listens.

No really it’s not a problem. It was just a small charge anyhow he truly needn’t pay her back. Yes of course. She is not going to tell me to do that.

She laughs.

Honestly James …

She laughs again.

She couldn’t.

She smiles.

I hate that my fucking father can make her laugh and smile when all I can seem to do is make her cry.

She laughs again.

Fine. She’ll tell me to do that.

She hands me my phone.

Dad.

Do I want to tell him what that was all about?

Not particularly at that moment.

Would it have anything to do with a charge for a lingerie store that she’s never received a gift from showing up on my credit card bill?

Yes it would.

Sorry about that. Next time he drops his wallet in a storm drain he’ll postpone his shopping plans.

My fault. I probably should have realized I was being watched by my own personal gestapo.

Would I care for a bit of fatherly advice from a man that’s been married for twenty-seven years?

Shoot.

Best not to call the woman I love the gestapo. And buy her underwear on occasion.

I’m going to get right on that.

I hang up on dad and toss my phone to the side.

I may not be a saint, but I’m not that bad. What did my father tell her to tell me?

Nothing. Just never mind. She’s been sufficiently humiliated for one day. She’d rather just let it go.

I could just call him back and ask him.

He is to take me out saucy pants shopping. Which she cannot believe my father just said that to her.

I can do that.

Do I know what’s worse than having to ask her fiancée to buy her lingerie?

Do I want to know?

Having his father tell him to do it. She’s absolutely humiliated.

Don’t be sweetheart.

Don’t sweetheart her.

Is this why she’s been so cross with me?

Amongst other reasons. But yes – this is the primary one.

The tears are gone. Her ability to compartmentalize and switch off her emotions is a lesson in stoicism.

To be perfectly frank I’d like to be able to buy her those kinds of gifts and know she’d actually appreciate them. If we’re being totally honest she’s not very …

I’ve talked myself into a corner that I’m not certain I can talk my way out of.

Womanly?

Sort of.

Maybe if I treated her like a woman on occasion she might be more comfortable acting like one.

Maybe we both could have done things differently. For certain I could have. Maybe I’m not so wrong that we need to add some zest to our physical relationship.

She’s sorry she’s boring. She’s just not very adventurous. She doesn’t think a three-way is the right way to add some zest into our relationship.

Please don’t have a three-way with Elon without me. Please.

She wasn’t really going to go through with it. She was just jerking my chain.

Can we at least watch porn or something?

Sure.

What are her thoughts on sexual paraphernalia?

What? Like vibrators and such?

Yes.

Fine. But don’t expect her to go shopping for them.

I can handle that.

If I really want we can do that thing I keep asking for.

This thing? I run my hand over her bottom.

Yes.

Now?

Not now. Later.

We can make time now.

No. Not right before we have to go to a wedding. We’re going to be in a church soon.

I laugh. Oh my darling love. She makes me smile. Next time something bothers her just ask me about it. Don’t let it fester for two months.

I take her hand and walk her the three steps to the bed.

Do we go wild and try something other than missionary?

Am I teasing her?

A little.

How about later, not now, we do some research and figure out some ways to spice it up.

Or … here’s a wild thought … she just lets me be in the boss in bed.

But…

Not arguing with me might be a good start.

I’m not going to do anything weird am I?

Sweetheart. No. We’re just going to switch things up a bit. Fine?

Fine.

What is switching it up? Reverse cowgirl followed by doing the deed with her on knees with me behind her.

Talk about shaking the paint off the walls.

I either have to accept the fact my fiancée is the most vanilla woman in the world when it comes to sex, or find someone else.

When we’re done she kisses me. Maybe she would like things to be more exciting. She just doesn’t know how to talk about it without feeling like an idiot. This is something she can’t control totally.

No.

She needs to get dressed. Am I getting dressed?

I’m getting dressed.

She’s wearing dark pink with my grandmother’s pearls.

Her style has evolved since letting my grandmother make subtle adjustments to her taste.

No more romantic dresses with empire waistlines or flouncy skirts.

Everything is very prim. If only she were secretly slutty under that tailored raw silk I’d be in heaven.

But she’s not.

But perhaps she can be.

Maybe we’ve both learned something.

If I slowly open the door to sexual adventure, she just might step through it.

She will never be the sort of woman that would participate in an orgy, but all signs indicate our sex life is on the upswing.

We are certainly more affectionate after our fight and reconciliation.

I feel exhilarated.

It’s not until the problem is resolved that I realize there has been a wall between us.

I put my mouth against her ear. Will she sing for me later?

She blushes and smiles. There is a nod.

Elon is in a solid black morning suit and I’ve mixed it up with gray trousers, black jacket, and tan waistcoat.

I’m feeling rather dapper.

We leave for the wedding in a Rolls Royce which belongs to Elon’s mother.

Sigrund has been ordered not to crash the wedding. The security team has pictures of her just in case.

Everyone is slightly on edge.

The flotilla of helicopters flying overhead in formation playing Der Valkyrie was not only blatantly ripped off from Apocalypse now, it also had Sigrund written all over it.

We hold hands as we watch the helicopters make their third and final pass.

We agree that Sigrund has nothing if not style and that perhaps the leaflet drop with pictures of Elon’s father in flagranti with an Italian model might have been a touch too much.

I’m attentive because I want to be and not because I should be.

I’m engaged to a lovely woman that will never be described as beautiful, but is certainly handsome. More than that – she is my friend and she’s willing to look past my faults.

It hits me like Thor’s hammer as we drive away from Bergen and into the rough and rugged countryside where the reception will take place.

We are my grandparents.

I am my grandfather.

She is my grandmother.

Elon is Lionel.

The three of us are in this relationship together.

I vomit slightly in my throat.

Is this what I want?

I don’t know.

It’s what I have. Like it or not.

At home I have my prim and perfect countess who never makes a misstep.

Away I have my exotic and enticing lover.

This is all I can think of as we change into our formal wear.

This is all I can think of during the reception.

I don’t want to be my father or my grandfather.

I don’t who I am but I am not them. And that is precisely who I am turning into.

I pass from woman to woman as I dance with each of them.

I don’t notice the Swedish Princess until I have her in my arms.

Have we met before?

She thinks we have.

We probably have.

Was I at Prince Alex’s wedding?

No.

Was she at Princess Maxine’s wedding?

No.

Was I at Queen Amelia’s birthday?

No.

Was she at Count Ludwig’s coronation?

No.

She knows where she knows me from.

Where?

I was the devil at that randy little orgy in Venice during Carnevale!

That’s it. She was Marie Antoinette with nothing on under her slutty panniers.

Yes!

Loved the corset.

She still has it.

Does she now?

The answer is a smile.

The music ends.

We break apart and make our way to the edge of the dance floor.

I need to discretely give her my number.

Why discretely?

I’m here with my fiancée. We have an open relationship, but I try to be very discreet.

She understands this. She has the same agreement with her husband.

Husband? I’m gutted.

Don’t be. He works all the time. He neither cares nor knows what she gets up to most of the time.

It’s like we’re with the same person.

My fiancée hones in on me like a laser beam.

She’s at my side in a second.

She introduces herself to the Swedish Princess as my fiancée.

The Swedish Princess sizes my fiancée up with a long look.

The Swedish Princess introduces us to her husband the Dull Dickhead.

Elon hands me a card with her number on it when we are back on the yacht and my fiancée has gone to bed.

Just so I know, she’s a total bitch and everyone knows it.

I don’t care. She’s the woman of my dreams.

I’m an idiot.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Persecuted Jesus Christ and the Roman Prefect Pontius Pilate Play Golf

Olga is blocking the mirror as I slip past her stopping to kiss her on the neck.

She’s wearing just the silk robe she brought back from japan.

I tug the sash loose and push it open.

My hand takes one breast then the other in hand before it slides down her stomach to her bare sex.

How did she sleep?

Fine. Me?

Fine. Why is she up so early?

I know she needs at least two hours to get ready.

What is happening today?

I need to read the schedule. She’s going to a bridal breakfast. She thinks I’m golfing. But I need to check the schedule.

What schedule?

The one in the packet.

What packet?

The packet Margaret sent about two weeks ago.

She sent a packet?

Yes. I opened it, looked at it for about a second, and then handed it to her. There was something about it being her job to deal with this sort of bullshit.

Oh that packet!

Yes. That packet.

I’d be lost without her. I kiss her on the cheek. Have I told her how much I love her?

Yes. She loves me too. She’s still not going to be my mistress, but she loves me.

Where is the packet?

In the yellow tote bag. There is a schedule for each of us. Hers is on the pink paper.

Mine would be on the blue?

Yes.

I find the schedule in the packet.

I read the schedule which was included in the packet.

I am golfing that morning.

I don’t hate golf.

I’m not crazy about it, but I don’t hate it.

I’ve grown to appreciate it during my years with my Former Fiancée.

Like it or not, I’m playing golf that morning.

There isn’t a cloud in the sky to save me.

Olga walks past me and goes to the armoire. She holds out two dresses. Both of them are acceptably conservative. She’s making a great deal of effort to please me after the incident with Parvati’s sister. Her temper has been well in check and she’s been on her best behavior.

Wear the yellow. She looks beautiful in yellow.

She’ll wear the yellow.

How much time do we have?

Because …

I kiss her.

Because of that. She smiles at me. Do I promise I won’t muss her hair?

Do I ever muss her hair?

No. I’m pretty good about that.

I’m where I have been instructed to be at precisely seven-thirty.

The Evil Bastard is already seated at the table with some of the other men including Avan having his breakfast.

I find a spot between Roland and Harry after I make the two of them move to accommodate me.

Are they my human shield?

Yes. They are my human shield. Will one of them go and get me breakfast?

Because I’m too much of a coward to walk past the Rat Bastard?

Pretty much.

Harry gets me breakfast.

We proceed to the golf course after being summoned by the organizer.

The organizer informs us that this is a friendly tournament. We will be randomly put into groups. There is no switching groups. Some of us are excellent players. Some of us will never be contenders for the Ryder Cup.

This elicits gentlemanly chuckles from all of us.

Each man pulls a colored chit out of a sack. This is how we determine our foursomes.

I get green. Not my lucky color.

The Rat Bastard gets green.

It’s like I’m cursed.

Uncle Albert and Roland get the other two green chits.

There are discreet chuckles all around.

Even if we could switch teams, no one would accommodate us.

They all want to see what’s going to happen next.

Uncle Albert’s presence guarantees we are all on our best behavior.

More or less.

There is an undercurrent of snippy comments that are targeted and just polite enough to pass without comment.

Roland watches, his head swiveling from one of us to the other as we lob veiled insults at each other.

It’s when we are on the eleventh hole that I stop the Rat Bastard just for some clarity.

Just so I understand, in his metaphor, I am the persecuted Jesus Christ and he is the Roman prefect Pontius Pilate. Do I have that straight?

No. What? No. That’s not what he means.

Sure it is. He has just very cleverly made that inference. He was very clever. I know how clever he likes to think he is with his middle-school level of education. One thing his daughter knows that he never will is that money will never buy class or sophistication. That’s one of the reasons why she liked me. I gave her something he never could. He might be wealthy, but he’s just a chav and he always will be.

On his best day he will never be cleverer than I am on my worst day.

So I need to make it clear I’m not fooled. I know exactly what he’s doing.

He starts gurgling.

He hates me as much as he does because he knows perfectly well that the reason his daughter wanted to marry me is because I’m nothing like him.

There is some speaking in tongues as he shouts.

I’ve also had enough of him thinking he is far cleverer than he is. He may have a lot of business savvy and have parlayed that into a fortune, but I need him to understand once and for all that all of his money will never buy him intelligence or sophistication.

The pure rage coming out of the man is practically comical.

I almost feel as if the year of hell he’s put me through hasn’t been made worth it by this moment.

I cannot understand how a man of his girth and obvious disdain for cardiovascular exercise is capable of giving chase across the green.

This is one of those miracle feats. Like a mother lifting a car off of her child. Or a firefighting leaping across a unbridgeable gap to rescue a trapped family.

I have little doubt that if he catches up to me he will bludgeon me with the driver he shakes at me.

We draw a crowd as we round the eighteenth hole.

We run through the bridal luncheon happening on the terrace.

Big mistake.

Unless I want to make a twenty foot leap off the far end balustrade, then he’s going to catch me.

I dodge to the left.

I dodge to the right.

Tables are toppled.

Aunt Maisie gets a punchbowl in her lap.

He swings that club with thoughtless abandon.

Two kissing doves on an ice-sculpture get decapitated.

Women scream.

This is unbelievable.

I don’t know that Uncle Albert and Roland have followed until they arrive. Elon and Harry joined the chase somewhere around the thirteenth hole.

It takes the four of them to restrain the Rat Bastard and one Former Fiancée standing between me and him to bring the chaos under control.

She grabs me by the earlobe and drags me into the house. We walk past bridesmaids and Bridezilla Margaret who might just pick up the golf club and start chasing me.

We go into the library.

What happened?

I am innocent.

Bullshit. What happened?

He started it.

Her lips press together and those eyes squint as she studies me.

He did. He started it. I was behaving myself. Ask Roland or Uncle Albert. I was being very good. And it was hard. But I was good. She would have been proud of me.

She’s not ready to believe me. But she does know her father was itching to get into it with me. She also knows how he can be. How we both can be.

God as my witness I didn’t start this.

But I certainly finished it didn’t I?

Needs to cut me a little slack. I’m not the one chasing me with a golf club.

Olga stalks into the library.

What is the matter with her crazy father!? What kind of people are they?

Olga examines me. Her hands run over my arms and shoulders then go to my face. She kisses me. She looks at my Former Fiancée.

Leave us alone. They’ve gotten everything they are going to get out of us. Her and her crazy father just need to leave us be. She’s sorry for my former fiancée, but it’s over between us. She’s just making a public fool out of herself by carrying on like she is. Enough. If she could see this the way everyone else does, she’d be embarrassed.

My Former Fiancée is silent. I think Olga has actually stunned her.

Olga takes my hand. She leads me from the room.

I don’t look back at my Former Fiancée.

We go to our room.

What happened?

That crazy ape… never mind. She’s right. Enough. I’ve had enough of their bullshit. I’m tired of getting drawn into their idiocy.

Good. Now. Help her with her zipper.

I draw the zipper on the dress down then slip the yellow fabric off of her shoulders.

The dress falls to the ground in a puddle of yellow silk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Ending

The fight is a relationship killer.

Like all hurricanes it started like a small rain shower.

Did I remember to send the cheque?

Yes. I sent the cheque.

Am I certain I sent the cheque?

I am certain I sent the cheque.

She gives me that stare. The one that makes her look like an angry mother or a disapproving teacher.

She goes to her leather satchel. The one she always carries to and from work.

It was a gift from me.

Sort of.

My grandmother gave it to me to give to her for her birthday. Hand stitched caramel saddle leather. A handsome piece. One of a kind.

The repository of all of things Chicken Burger Empire.

My grandmother feared anything I would pick out myself would be a touch too jejune.

I resent the satchel as much as the implication that I am incapable of picking out a gift for the woman I’m going to marry. But not half as much as I resent the bracelet I bought for her that will remain hidden in my dresser.

From within its red silk lined interior she pulls the envelope containing the cheque I should have mailed.

Well? What do I have to say for myself?

Fine. I haven’t mailed the cheque. I meant to mail the cheque, but I didn’t mail the cheque.

It’s not like I even had to get a stamp. She even put a stamp on the envelope for me. All I had to do was put it in the mailbox. How is it possible that even with my busy busy schedule of doing nothing twenty-four hours a day that I can’t manage to put an envelope into a mailbox? How? There is a mailbox just outside of our door.

Fine. Would she like me to go to and mail the cheque? Because I’m leaving now anyway. I might as well drop it in the mailbox and just be done with it.

Oh? Where am I going?

Out.

Why?

To get away from her.

Because she’s just such a bitch.

Kind of. Yes. At that moment she’s really kind of being a bitch.

If I’m curious, she’s had a really long day making money for me to go out every evening.

Maybe if she didn’t work so much she wouldn’t be such a bitch. Why the fuck does she have to work as much as she does anyway?

Because someone has to pay my American Express bill. Without that who would pay for that fucking Swedish whores drinks?

I’m stunned speechless.

No witty retort? No clever comeback? I disappoint her.

She knows about the Swedish Princess?

Yes. She knows about the Swedish Princess. It’s not like we live in a vacuum. She has friends. Friends that go to the same bars and restaurants I go to with the Swedish Princess. They not only are kind enough to text her, they also send her pictures.

I’m sorry.

She’s not. She’s grateful that she has so many friends that are looking out for her.

No. I’m sorry that she had to find out like this.

That what? That I’m a liar and a cheat or that I’m using her? Do I even like her? Because there are times she wonders if I even like her. Or is it just the money? Because if it’s the money she needs to know. We’re both better people than that.

I like her. I do like her. Sometimes I think she’s too good for me.

Bullshit. I’ve never thought that once in my life. I think I’m better than everyone her included.

No. It’s true. Really. Sometimes I think I do the things I do so that she’ll have to break up with me.

What a crock. She doesn’t know who the bigger fool is? Me for spouting such incredible bullshit or her for wanting to believe it. Am I going to stop seeing the Swedish Whore? I do know she’s married, right? I do recall that moment when she introduced both of us to her husband. Right?

I know.

Does this even matter to me? Or is there no sanctity in marriage in my mind? Or her mind? We two really are meant for each other. A couple of loathsome selfish pigs walling in our own pretty shit.

My mobile rings. It’s on the counter. She gets to it before I do.

It’s the Swedish Princess. I’m late to meet her.

My fiancée introduces herself. Apologizes for detaining me. Would like to know if the princess enjoyed whatever it was that cost her upwards of seven-thousand-pounds at Chanel. She does know about that. She is the one that pays my credit card bills. Denying any knowledge of the shopping trip is insulting to both of them. She does wonder if the Swedish Princess’s husband would mind if she gave him a call. Maybe if they could get together whilst we two were entangled in our trysting it might help pass the time.

The phone is passed to me.

Oliver – the Swedish Princess has this sort of deep, throaty voice. It’s not her prettiest feature. What is happening?

I need to call her back.

No. I need to meet her like I said I would. We have reservations. Elon and Renata are already waiting on us. If that bovine bitch is going to start kicking off she’s not going to be happy. She’s guessing that we’re in the middle of some fight I can easily walk out of anyway. So just do it. If I’m not there in twenty minutes I’m going to know what it is to have a woman really pissed off at me.

She hangs up on me.

Just go. Stay with Elon. She’ll have my things sent to me. She’s had enough of this.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

I’ve had enough of this.

I want to be with the Swedish Princess.

I understand that there will be a shitstorm surrounding our relationship, but eventually the dust will settle and we can get on with our lives.

Granted, we’ve never actually discussed her leaving the Dull Dickhead, but I know she will. She has to. We are in love. Not me and my fiancée nor her and her husband.

The heart wants what it wants and love conquers all.

I was only going to marry my fiancée for her money.

Okay – that’s not the only reason. We found something together. It worked.

But it wasn’t this wild reckless love I have with the Swedish Princess.

She makes me feel passion.

My fiancée makes me feel comfortable.

The house phone rings. This is not the first time the phone rings during this fight. It’s not someone calling to complain. We’re keeping our voices low. We have neighbors that listen with their ears pressed to the walls.

She answers the phone. Any port in a storm.

I nearly leave, but she waves at me to stay.

After four minutes she hangs up.

Her lips are pressed together.

That was my father. My grandmother has had a stroke. She’s been taken to hospital. They need me to contact my grandfather and let him know.

Why? Where is my grandfather?

He’s with Lionel.

Right.

Do I want her to call? Do I have Lionel’s number?

No.

How do they expect me to contact him?

I don’t know. I suppose I could go to his house.

She’ll drive me.

I thought she was breaking up with me?

That’s just going to have to be postponed. This is more important. Unless of course I want to walk out the door right now.

No. I need her. I’m not good at these things.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Time Out

I lie back in bed and check my schedule.

I don’t have to be anywhere until the ceremony.

We’re leaving first thing in the morning.

Olga walks past me in her skin.

Long limbs make me smile.

We’re not leaving first thing in the morning. Check my schedule. There’s a brunch.

I’m aware there’s a brunch. I want to leave before the brunch. I want to leave before the sun rises. In fact, why don’t we go tonight? I can book a hotel in Glasgow for us.

No. We’re guests and we’re staying.

Okay – can I be totally honest with her?

I fucked my former fiancée.

That isn’t what I was going to be honest about.

But I did.

What makes her think that?

The way she looks at her.

Which is how?

Like she fucked her boyfriend.

I think we’re more than boyfriend and girlfriend.

Yes. We are. But I did fuck her.

When did I have the opportunity?

She knows me well enough to know I have the power to bend space and time if I really want to fuck someone. She also knows the two of us disappeared during the cocktail party. So?

She cornered me in the toilet.

Is it really any wonder that she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight?

She was pissed off at me because Elizabeth is going after the Rat Bastard.

She gets that. She’d be pissed off if Elizabeth went after her father. But what does this have to do with me?

That is precisely what I said. This has nothing to do with me. What’s up with Elizabeth and the Rat Bastard anyhow?

She’s fucking him.

Good. Maybe what he needs is a distraction. Something to get him to think about something other than me.

He’s taking Elizabeth to Barbados after the wedding.

Excellent. I hope she enjoys the jet. I picked out the interior.

She doesn’t trust my former fiancée.

Whatever.

My phone rings.

Aunt Maisie. We have a problem. A flower problem. She needs us.

We’ll be right there.

I put my phone down.

Aunt Maisie needs us.

Why?

There is a flower problem.

How are flowers a problem?

I don’t know, but I think we’re about to find out.

As it turns out, a flower problem is Margaret holding double handfuls of tulips and screaming they’re cream not white they’re cream not white at the top of her lungs whilst whipping them against any solid surface that enters into arms reach.

She’s like a hydra snapping and swatting with every limb.

I slide up to Aunt Maisie.

What does she want us to do?

Margaret looks at me. Her eyes burn like Medusa’s.

I need to find the proper table cloths.

Huh?

She snarls. Steam comes out of her nostrils.

I need to go and find the white table cloths.

I thought the flowers were the problem. Which, if she wants my opinion, they seem white enough to me.

She beckons for me to come closer.

She needs me to listen to her.

Why is she whispering?

Because if she whispers then I have to make absolutely certain I’m paying attention. She needs me to go and find the white table cloths. She needs Harry, Roland, Avan, and Elon to drive to Glasgow with Uncle Albert and Gresham in the vans and get the correct flowers. She needs Elizabeth and Olga to get the proper ribbon. She needs mum, Mrs. Gresham, and Gita to please for the love of god rearrange the place cards how she wants them to be and not how that idiotic wedding planner put them.

Where is the wedding planner?

I catch Aunt Maisie’s do not ask look too late.

SHE FIRED THAT STUPID CUNT!

Got it.

Has she been perfectly clear?

I nod. Table cloths. Is anyone going to help me?

My former fiancée volunteers. Whatever. She’ll help me. Her nails are already done.

Olga will help me. My former fiancée can go with Elizabeth for ribbon.

Elizabeth shakes her head no with enthusiasm.

My former fiancée likes this idea. Yes. She sort of purrs. She’d love to have Elizabeth all to herself.

Aunt Maisie intervenes. Perhaps that’s not the best idea.

The Former Fiancée snorts. Fine. Everyone spoils her fun.

Olga doesn’t like this.

My Former Fiancée rolls her eyes. Olga has nothing to worry about. She wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.

Olga does not accept this.

She needs her ribbon! Margaret growls as if in the throes of demonic possession.

Go. My eyes plead with Olga.

She just doesn’t understand why Margaret can’t send someone else.

Grow up. Margaret goes for the gut with Olga. She needs people to do shit for her without arguing with her. Does That Compute? She Is The BRIDE. It’s HER WEDDING. PEOPLE HAVE TO DO WHAT SHE FUCKING TELLS THEM TO DO!

Olga will go and get ribbon.

Elizabeth protests. The Rat Bastard was going to take her for a ride in his Maserati.

My Former Fiancée growls.

Curls of smoke come out of Margaret’s nose.

Elizabeth and Olga quickly leave together.

My Former Fiancée, Margaret, and I go to the attic in search of table cloths.

She thought she told me to keep Elizabeth the fuck away from her father.

Are we seriously going to go there again?

Yes. She told me to talk with that fucking gold digger and manage her.

I have no control over Elizabeth. How does she think I have control over Elizabeth?

I brought her with me.

I may have traveled here with her, but I did not invite her. So if she wants to be a bitch about Elizabeth being here, then talk to Margaret.

Margaret holds up a hand. Stop talking. We are to stop talking.

We continue arguing. But we do it silently with our eyes and gestures. At least for about ten seconds. Then we move on from Elizabeth to her insane father.

The argument continues as we wind our way up to the top of the manor.

Margaret asks me for my phone.

I pass it back to her as I once again catalogue my Former Fiancée’s many faults.

Margaret asks her for her phone as she responds in kind.

Truthfully she has much more to complain about than I do.

Margaret walks in front of us, pushing the two of us to either side as she goes for a door. She holds the door open for us. We walk inside the room. The door slams shut behind us then locks.

We stare at each other for a moment then rush to the door, fists pounding.

Enough! Margaret shouts through the solid wood. She’s not letting the two of us out until we start acting like adults. This is her wedding! We are acting like fucking children! This is her wedding! We are stealing her thunder. We are thunder stealers. We had four weddings planned and couldn’t get our shit together for long enough to get through one of them. We can’t have her wedding.

We pound on the door.

No! She’s not letting us out!

She cannot leave us locked up in here.

Yes she can! She’s the bride!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Swedish Princess

Something happens after my grandmother’s stroke.

My fiancée and I have a new relationship.

If she gives me a stamped envelope with a cheque to mail I mail it. It goes in the postbox right away.

I don’t exactly learn to cook, but I become proficient at ordering in.

My evenings are spent with her.

Our weekends are spent at Wold Hall.

My fiancée is brilliant with my grandmother.

She’s done everything.

We Adairs aren’t known for our brilliant composure when a crisis lands on us.

We’re known for being the life of the party. When the party ends we aren’t much for sticking around and cleaning up.

This is where my fiancée shines.

She hires nurses. There is staff attending my grandmother around the clock.

My fiancée keeps my grandmother occupied with plans for renovating Wold Hall.

She brings my grandmother fabric swatches and carpet samples.

Everything is decided upon by my grandmother.

My grandfather crumbles. He is consumed with guilt. That I had to come to find him at Lionel’s home is devastating. He should have been with my grandmother. They quarreled before he left for London. She didn’t want him to go. He thought she was just having one of her moods.

My father and Uncle Albert barely speak to him.

My mother takes great pleasure in baiting my grandfather.

Were it not for the presence of my fiancée and my Aunt Maisie there would be brawling in the hallways.

My grandmother convalesces.

All of the treatment and therapy seems to work.

My grandmother improves.

Things seem to get back to normal.

I like this life.

The wedding which had been called off yet again is back on.

I truly think this time I’m ready to make the commitment.

I miss the Swedish Princess. I loved her. I long for her. Her beauty calls to me. Her demands make me want to jump. But I resist. Not hard considering she hasn’t called me since I didn’t show for our dinner reservation the night my grandmother had her stroke.

The call from the Swedish Princess comes a Wednesday morning after my fiancée leaves for work.

I resist the urge to meet her.

But I am a weak man.

I agree to meet her for coffee. Just to be polite. To draw a line under our relationship.

But she pulls me back in.

I’m determined to destroy my own happiness.

For once in my life I feel happy. It’s like that moment when pain goes and one doesn’t realize how much pain they were in. I know what happy is.

I like my life.

But I cannot resist the Swedish Princess.

She’s my irresistible badness.

We go to her apartment. I know what’s going to happen before we leave the coffee bar. I want to tell her no, that I’m happy, but I have this need to sabotage the happiness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Women All Have Vaginas

My Former Fiancée has taken to speaking in tongues as she paces the room.

Break the door down.

Huh?

Break the door down.

She wants me to break the door down?

Yes. For once be a man and do the manly thing.

The manly thing being breaking down the door.

Yes.

That door is solid oak.

And?

Why doesn’t she try breaking it down?

Don’t be absurd.

I look around the room to see if there’s another way out.

There is a four story straight drop to the ground outside the window.

What if she ties the bed sheets together and I use them as a rope?

I’ll follow her.

This is my fault.

How?

If I hadn’t gotten into a fight with her father then Margaret wouldn’t have gone mental.

Margaret went mental months ago. Do I need to remind her of the orange tie email?

Point made.

This has nothing to do with me.

On the plus side the plumbing works in the bathroom.

A basket has been left for us. This makes me suspicious.

Did she have something to do with this?

Don’t be absurd. She doesn’t have to resort to juvenile hijinks to get me alone. This stinks of Margaret.

It sort of does, doesn’t it? I don’t know if it’s worrying or comforting that Margaret planned all of this out in advance.

Yes. What’s in the basket?

We have six bottles of wine and sandwiches. A worrying number of sandwiches. And a ton of cheese and crackers. The smoked salmon is a nice touch.

How long does she plan on keeping us here?

How long until someone knows we’re missing?

Could be hours. Let’s be honest. Margaret could throw anyone off that thinks to look for us with that ape-shit bride thing she’s got going on.

She has gone off the rails.

She’s been like this for weeks.

So – red or white?

We’re going to start drinking?

What else are we going to do? If we are getting along when she comes back for us …

Assuming she will come back for us …

I live in hope. If we’re still fighting she’s never going to let us out.

Let’s start with the white.

Does she remember that Christmas we were buried under snow in Davos?

My Former Fiancée actually smiles. One of our few very happy memories.

That was good. We were happy then.

We were happy a lot of the time. She just chooses to focus on the negative. I hand her the bottle of white. She knows I prefer the red anyhow.

No glasses?

No. But we do have four different kinds of ewe’s cheese and a really nice looking cherry jam.

Just out of curiosity, what’s up with the manscaping?

Why? Does she like it?

No. It makes her edgy. Is it part of my new career in public relations?

She heard about that?

Yes. She heard I have a job. Amazing. It’s up there with Moses parting the Red Sea.

I’ve got to look good to do my job. I also like running. I never thought I would like it, but I really do.

I was always too pretty for her to begin with. It was unnerving. The fact that I’ve started to get all body beautiful just makes me that much more intimidating.

I always found her intelligence intimidating.

I’m lying.

No. Really. That’s the truth. I always thought it was amazing how smart she was. I always hoped our kids would get her smarts.

Of all the things she hates me for, that’s the number one.

That I wanted our kids to be as smart as her?

I’m such an asshole. No. That I took four years of her fertility.

We were only together for three.

Because she was going to snap her fingers the day after she broke up with me and a man was going to appear? It generally takes time to get to the baby making stage.

I’m not the one that kept on cancelling our weddings.

Grow up. Stop being such an infant. The moment I convince her I’ve actually changed I go and say something so fucking stupid that makes her think she was wrong about me once again. What was that bullshit anyway the other day? Showing up at her apartment like that practically convincing her that I wanted to get back together and then just legging it?

I think. I realize something. My actions could have been interpreted in that way.

OH. I didn’t realize.

Oh. Didn’t I? She could beat the piss out of me sometimes. What am I doing with Olga anyhow if I’m planning on marrying Parvati Singh?

I love Olga.

But yet I’m marrying Parvati Singh.

That’s a business arrangement.

Unbelievable. There are no depths I won’t plunge for money.

Right back at her. At least I don’t pay the poor and disenfranchised slave wages to make chicken burgers.

At least they have jobs!

I have a job!

Being a male prostitute is not a job! Her eyes get big and her lips seal together. I can hear the giant WHOOPS booming in her thoughts.

I feel like I’ve been slapped.

She knows about that.

She might.

What does she think she knows? Because it’s not half as bad as she probably thinks it is. It’s not like I’m some rent boy working a street corner.

She knows everything about me already.

Stalker.

Maybe a little. Her father told her. He’s the real stalker. And just in case I was wondering, her father is on to Elizabeth.

So he knows.

Yes. He knows. And here’s the crazy thing. The Rat Bastard actually sort of admires me. He really thought I was incapable of doing any kind of work let alone manual labour.

Is this why she thought I was beaten up?

No. She just found out.

When?

A few hours ago. Her father told her after our little display on the terrace. He didn’t like the way we were looking at each other. Apparently we were giving each other looks.

We’re we?

She doesn’t think so, but then her father is slightly crazy where I’m concerned. The idea of us getting back together gives him nightmares. She even had a moment when she thought he might have been the one to have me trounced.

No. I got in the middle of Parvati and her gangster boyfriend having a fight.

Why am I marrying her?

For the money. But more than that. I want a new life. I’m ready to actually be a productive member of society. I saw what the apathy did to my father. I need to do something other than a whole lot of nothing.

I’m going to work for Singh?

Yes.

Now is when I make these decisions. Unreal. So what’s it like being a prostitute?

It’s really hard work. No pun intended.

This makes her laugh.

So what does she want? Etorki? Ossau-Iraty? Roqufort?

This is ridiculous. What time is it?

I check my wrist. My watch is in my room. Is she planning on pacing a path in the floor? Or does she want chicken with mango chutney on a bap?

Is there ham?

We have ham.

We have no way of knowing how long we’re in the room.

We fight. We talk. And yes – eventually we get naked. This is what happens when the only thing available to drink are six bottles of wine and rusty water out of an ancient bathroom tap.

Elon frees us.

He didn’t really believe Margaret when she told him she had us locked up. He thought she’d lost her last marble. But then again, maybe she has.

It’s a good thing he decided it was a good idea to check if we were actually where she said we were.

There is no comment about the fact there is a small scramble to get back into our clothing. Elon at least averts his eyes.

We have an hour to get ready.

My Former Fiancée runs off cursing Margaret and her unruly hair that needs more time than that to be put to rights.

Elon looks at me.

Yes?

Is Margaret the only one that has gone off the rails, or have we gotten on the same train to Crazy Town?

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t.

Are we getting back together?

I don’t think so. In fact, I’m going to say no. If I had to make a guess, and this is a shot in the dark, but based on when she’s gotten my trousers off of me, I think she’s trying to harvest my sperm.

Women. Elon grumbles. They all have vaginas.

Yes. They all have vaginas.

I need to put a stop to this. Immediately. Or, before I know it, I’m going to have a little bastard too.

I don’t really look at it like that. I kind of think I owe her. I think I need to have a chat with her.

When?

I don’t know. I’ll find the right moment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Death

My grandmother dies on a Sunday.

Unbeknownst to me and the rest of my family, my Fiancée has planned the funeral down to the smallest detail.

Everything was sorted months earlier.

I tell her she’s cold.

It’s not cold to be prepared for the inevitable. It’s common sense. If I had bothered to listen to the doctors then I would have known like she did that my grandmother didn’t have much time.

The funeral, which was annoyingly perfect down to the hymns which my Fiancée obligingly sang the solos for, happened on Thursday. My grandmother was laid out in her Nile green raw silk suit with onyx buttons and her platinum hair had been coiffed just as she would have liked it.

My grandfather is inconsolable.

Only a Valium and a tumbler of scotch get him into the car.

My father is deep in his grief.

My mother is silent. She has outlived the only person that she needed to outlive. She’s won and she knows it. There is no need to gloat.

It is probably a good thing that we have my Fiancée to manage for us when we are incapable of functioning.

The church is filled with paper whites, roses, and lilies.

Everything happens with precision timing.

It is a beautiful funeral.

But I refuse to forgive her for knowing my grandmother was going to die.

My grandmother was the strongest person I knew.

She was my mother when my own mother failed.

I loved her so much and my heart is breaking.

It isn’t three weeks later when my grandfather dies.

There are no explanations the doctors can give us.

This is just one of those things that sometimes happen.

When the spouse that is the cement in the relationship passes, it happens the surviving partner doesn’t live long.

Truthfully my grandfather wasn’t in the best of health. He’d had a heart condition.

My grandfather did not have a heart condition.

My father and my uncle confirm this. The doctor is wrong.

The doctor checks his notes.

My grandfather in fact had a heart condition. He had been on medication for years. Again. Sometimes the family is the last to know. He is truly sorry for our loss.

My Fiancée isn’t prepared for this. She doesn’t have a secret plan for my grandfather’s funeral hidden away somewhere on her desktop. But the plan for my grandmother’s funeral works just as well with a few minor changes.

Instead of paper whites and lilies, the church is filled with roses.

A thousand roses of every color and variety.

It’s beautiful.

Many of the hymns are the same with only a few changes to the program.

I can’t believe how well my Fiancée knew my grandparents.

My grandfather is dressed in his tweed walking suit with his flat cap under his hands.

My mother, Countess Martina, is only feeling emotional because my father is incapable of pulling himself together.

She’d be tap-dancing on their double grave if only she could.

My Fiancée goes back to work while my heart is breaking.

She leaves me alone in our apartment in London.

It doesn’t matter how much I’m crying or how much pain I’m in.

She makes me an appointment with a therapist and goes to work.

I decide I’ve had enough of her.

I’m going to live my life for me and not for anyone else.

I go to the Swedish Princess.

We make love and for a moment I’m at peace.

I give her my heart.

She gives me the shaft.

She is never going to leave her husband. How could I think she was going to leave her husband? That was never part of the plan. Didn’t I know that?

I did. But things happen. Life changes. Death comes around every corner. Why settle?

She isn’t settling with her husband. Her husband is her husband and I’m her lover.

But I need her.

Go back to my Fiancée. She doesn’t want to be cruel, but she was going to end it anyway. Sometimes being cruel is the only way so here is the cold hard truth.

It pissed her off when I blew her off for my Fiancée. No one leaves her. She leaves them.

I’m confused. I don’t understand.

Let’s see if she can make this clear to me. When I didn’t show up that evening for our date, she got mad.

Does she mean the night my grandmother had a stroke?

Yes.

My grandmother had a stroke.

And?

I couldn’t meet her.

This is part of the problem. No matter what she is the most important person in the world. Period. Her husband gets this. If his mother, grandmother, father, and grandmother all died in a plane crash and he was supposed to meet her for dinner, do I know what he would do?

Meet her for dinner?

EXACTLY! Now here’s the kicker. After I blew her off it made her angry. She doesn’t like to be angry. Angry gives her lines. She’s too beautiful to have lines. She’s also too beautiful to have men blow her off and think they can get away with it.

No one is this evil. She’s doing this just so I’ll be angry enough to walk away from her and never bother her again.

If that’s what I want to think, then go ahead. But the truth is she just wanted me back so she could be the one that ended it.

I get up and get dressed.

When I get home it’s after midnight.

My Fiancée is sitting on the couch watching Doctor Who and drinking chamomile tea.

There’s Indian in the fridge. She wants me to eat. I haven’t been eating. I’m getting thin.

I don’t want anything. Will she make me toast?

She can make me toast.

I eat my toast then put my head in her lap and have my hundredth break down.

She strokes my hair, watches David Tennant, and drinks her tea.

I think I need to get out of London.

Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Go to the country. Get some air.

I think I want to somewhere else. Somewhere with sand and palm trees.

That might even be a better idea.

Will she come with me?

She can’t. Not for a few weeks. She has wedding stuff to do and work to complete.

We need to postpone the wedding.

No. We’re not postponing again. It’s far enough off that a respectable amount of time will have passed. Unless I want to postpone.

No. I don’t want to postpone. I want to be married now. Let’s get married now. We can go to Las Vegas and get married. We can have the big wedding as planned. I just want that now.

I’m being silly. I’m just upset. It’s going to be like this. Have I called that therapist she told me to call?

No.

Do I want her to call for me?

No. I want her to go to Bermuda or Barbados with me.

Go. She’ll move some things around on her calendar. She’ll meet me in a few weeks. This is more important than Brazilian chicken farmers threatening to strike.

Really? I’m more important than Brazilian chicken farmers?

Yes.

It’s like a miracle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Ana

I have an hour to get ready before the wedding starts.

That’s about forty more minutes than I actually need in a pinch.

My Former Fiancée is ready to murder Margaret.

But as Margaret is fond of saying, she’s the bride.

There is no killing the bride on her wedding day.

It can wait until after the honeymoon.

Margaret’s family. She’s stuck with me to death. My vengeance will be a slow burn.

Gresham finds me.

We have a problem.

No. We can’t have a problem right now. Margaret is on the edge of a nervous breakdown as it is. Does he know she had me and my Former Fiancée locked in an attic room for all afternoon?

He heard something about this. He thought it was an urban legend. Like sasquatch or a chupacabra.

A what?

A chupacabra. A goat sucker.

Has everyone lost their minds?

Possibly. I just need to come with him.

We go to through the kitchen to a small office.

There is a girl of about twelve with Ana in a carrier.

The girl has a plate with a mostly eaten burger and chips in front of her.

Oliver this is Kylie. Kylie is the sister of Renata’s boyfriend.

Hi Kylie. I smile at her. She looks frightened and very young. What’s up?

She can’t take care of the baby anymore. She’s really sorry. But she can’t. It’s really hard to take care of a baby and she doesn’t have any more money for nappies and stuff.

I reach for my wallet. It’s in my room.

Gresham whispers to me that he’s already sent for Uncle Albert who will hopefully have his wallet on him.

I sit down across from Kylie.

Where are Renata and her brother?

Renata took off like a week ago. Said she just couldn’t handle it. She gave her five-hundred pounds, but that’s not really a lot of money it turns out.

It’s not. What about her brother?

He’s all jumped up on meth. Again. He told her that if she could find the rich lady that wanted to buy the baby then she might get some money.

Gresham tries to keep the calm in his voice. Rich lady that wanted to buy the baby? Could she describe the rich lady that wanted to buy the baby? Possibly to a police sketch artist?

Sigrund. I know exactly who she’s talking about. This is what my meddling leads to.

Kylie doesn’t know her name. She was a pretty blond lady. She gave Renata money for the baby. Then Renata gave her some of it and left with the rest.

How did she get here?

She took a bus with the baby. The rich lady left a telephone number. She called the number and the man she spoke to told her where to find the lady. Is she here?

Yes. She’s here.

Good. Because she really would like some money for the baby.

Uncle Albert appears.

We leave the room.

He has plenty of cash. He also has a moral obligation to telephone the authorities. Have anyone of us even thought to see if Ana is in good health?

I go to find Gita.

I run into my Former Fiancée as I run around frantically.

She looks truly lovely in the hideous puce dress Margaret has forced her to wear.

Do any of the harpies have their spawn with them?

First of all – do not call her friends the harpies.

Considering what they probably call me that’s being nice.

I do have a point. What is it I’m jabbering about?

Do any of them have their babies with them?

Harriet and Jemima. Why? Do I really want to prove them right by roasting babies and eating them?

As much as I enjoy our normally witty repartee, I actually need her fucking help.

What is the matter?

Ana is here.

How is one of my women showing up at Margaret’s wedding her problem?

Ana – Elon’s baby with Renata.

NOOOOO!!!! Please tell her that Renata is here. Please oh please tell her that Renata is here!

Fortunately no. The tween sister of Renata’s boyfriend is here with the baby.

What?

I bring her up to speed.

That woman has no moral compass. How is it the Renata’s of this world get pregnant when a man blows in their ears and she (who would be a wonderful mother!) is childless? How is this possible?

I need nappies and baby shit. Is she going to help me?

Yes of course. Don’t be daft. Where is the baby?

Kitchen.

She’ll be there in ten minutes.

I get Gita.

Harry goes for her doctor’s bag.

The Former Fiancée is in the kitchen when we arrive. She already has Ana out of the carrier and laid out on a folded tablecloth with her nappy removed and her clothes discarded. She’s cleaning Ana with a linen napkin and warm water from a pail.

She’s fervently scolding the girl who is in tears.

Say what one will about me, but I would have been a good father and my Former Fiancée would have been the best fucking mother in the world.

In this we would have been the perfect couple.

It is hard to watch her care for Ana.

It draws to the surface in me so many memories of what never could be.

Gita assists in the cleanup of the red, raw, and dirty Ana.

Harry arrives with the bag and Mrs. Gresham.

Mrs. Gresham takes Kylie who I believe really did the best she could under the circumstances despite what my Former Fiancée accuses her of doing.

Ana is diapered, put in a clean cotton sleep suit, and fed from a bottle held my Former Fiancée.

This is how she is when Elon appears with Roland and Sigrund.

Elon does not want the baby.

The baby can go back on the bus with the girl to London.

No. Roland takes Ana from my Former Fiancée. This is an opportunity. He believes in Elon. Elon will be a good father. He knows Elon can be a good father.

No. He does not now nor ever want that child. He refuses to take responsibility for it.

Sigrund thinks this is marvelous. Just marvelous. If he doesn’t want Little Sigrund – or Ana if he insists – then she’ll take her! It’ll be so much fun.

No. Not now. Not ever. He’d rather Ana goes back to the meth head and that crackpot Renata rather than turn her over to Sigrund.

Roland offers the baby to Elon. Take her. They can do it together. It’ll be fine.

Fine. If he wants her he can have her. Anyone is better than his mother.

Good! This is good! They can do it. They really can.

There is no they in this. If he wants Ana he can have her. But he wants no part of it.

He does not mean this. Surely he doesn’t.

He absolutely does. He’s had enough of this. Roland can have Ana with his blessing. He’s leaving. He’s gone. Does Roland want the kid or not?

I expect Roland to continue to refuse and to try to convince Elon. But he doesn’t.

Fine. He’ll take her.

Good.

Roland hands the baby back to my Former Fiancée. He picks up a pen and takes a piece of paper from the printer. He writes three lines on the page. He hands it to Uncle Albert. He’s a lawyer, right?

He is indeed. Uncle Albert reads the paper. It’s good enough. Elon just needs to sign it.

Elon takes the pen and signs.

Uncle Albert signs next.

Elon looks around. Are we done?

Roland answers. Yes. We’re done. Just so they understand each other, he never wants to see Elon again. He is to walk away and leave him to raise Ana in peace.

Fine. Whatever. He was getting bored with him anyway. All of that fucking boring normal. He’s boring. Does he know how fucking boring he is?

Roland refuses to respond.

Does he know how fucking boring he is?

Roland is silent.

He’s going to Bermuda. If he’s lucky, Marcus hasn’t started having too much fun without him. Give Margaret his regrets. He’ll buy her a car to make up for it.

I don’t chase Elon. I’m not even tempted. I know him like I know myself and this is not the moment to push any agenda he has no interest in being a part of.

When he’s ready to be approached he’ll resurface.

For now we just need to let him go to ground.

Roland takes Ana from my Former Fiancée.

Sigrund offers him a million pounds for her.

Roland says nothing.

He smiles at Ana. He’s her daddy. Yes. That’s right. He’s her daddy. And they’re going to have the most wonderful life together she can possibly imagine. She’s going to be the happiest little girl in the world. He promises her.

I have no doubt that is one promise which will be kept.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The Saudi Princess

I go to New York first.

It is there she picks up my scent.

I think she’s eighteen, but I can’t be certain.

What I do know is that she’s Saudi and she’s gone off the rails.

I buy her drinks. I flirt shamelessly. I make promises of nights of passion that burn her gold ringed ears.

Friends warn me away from her.

They don’t need to.

I’ve had my clock cleaned by the Swedish Princess. I think I might actually be on the path to monogamy. Infidelity is just too much bother.

I go to San Francisco. I visit Elon’s mother and her sixth (seventh?) husband. They have a house on the coast near Carmel.

It’s so blessedly peaceful.

My Fiancée meets me there.

It’s not even for a week, but I’ll take what I can get.

We go over wedding plans.

She leaves.

I head to Los Angeles.

The Saudi Princess is there.

I buy her a few drinks.

She asks me to take her to bed.

I politely refuse. I’m getting married in a couple of months.

Since when did that stop me?

She’s sweet. But I’m going to pass.

I head to Adelaide for a friend’s wedding.

My Fiancée meets me in Sydney.

We have more time together because she can weave work into her schedule.

The Saudi Princess is in Sydney.

She finds me at the bar of our hotel.

This is getting weird. But weirdness that is easily avoided.

My Fiancée arrives only a half-hour late. I introduce the two. I take my future bride to dinner. There are a few awkward questions about the Saudi Princess. It’s going to take a lot of time and a lot of being very good to convince her that I’m a changed man.

When she leaves Australia she wants me to come back to London with her. The Saudi Princess has shaken her. She’s nervous about me.

She has nothing to worry about. I’m going to the Bahamas. What have we decided for the honeymoon?

I’m trying to change the subject.

It’s not a subject. I hardly know the girl. She just keeps showing up wherever I am. So? Honeymoon?

Greece?

I like Greece. I have an idea. How about she just lets me plan the honeymoon? She’s done everything else.

Hmmm…

My darling little control freak. Please let me plan our honeymoon. I promise, if I know nothing, I know how to have a good time. I promise our honeymoon will be phenomenal.

Okay. She’s going to trust me.

She should. I love her.

I make a quick stop in Miami.

The Saudi Princess is there.

What does she want from me?

She wants me to make love to her. She’s in love with me.

This is not happening. I’m getting married in a few weeks. She’s going to need to find someone else to focus on.

Truly I’m flattered. But I’m just going to have to say no.

I pay for our drinks then I leave.

I’m staying in Elon’s apartment which has the sort of view one would think a playboy billionaire would have.

It is midnight when the doorbell rings.

The Saudi Princess has tracked me down.

If it’s going to take me fucking her to get rid of her, then that’s what I’m going to do.

I just want her to be gone.

Based on the pictures, and the angle they’re taken from, whomever is stalking me is on a boat somewhere out on the water.

I’m in the Caymans when the pictures hit the papers in London.

My Fiancée won’t take my calls.

I can explain if she’ll just let me.

She arrives after a hellish forty-eight hours for me.

It’s over. We’re done. This is it. She wanted to tell me in person.

She’s forgiven me so much. Please can she forgive this one more thing?

No. She promised herself after my last tryst with the Swedish Princess that there would be no more forgiving. We’re done. She’s purchased a ticket for me to fly back to London. She needs for me to get my things out of her apartment.

It’s at the airport that I realize we’re done.

My credit cards except for the one my grandmother gave me have all been cancelled.

I’ve been cut off at the knees.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Future Talk

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Not twenty minutes later, Cousin Margaret marries William and she has her moment free of any drama that she did not directly create.

The reception is well attended enough for Olga and me to blend in with my family. We’re surrounded by people that love us.

The conversation is easy, the banter comfortable, and the friendship flowing.

Margaret did well with the seating chart.

She could have put us near my ex, her father, or any one of her friends and made the night a misery.

But she didn’t.

When the dancing starts I alternate between the ladies that love me while studiously avoiding those that despise me.

I feel like me again at last.

My self-imposed exile is over.

I’m sat next to mum who sits both stunned and silent as I whisper to her from behind my program what has transpired while she was having the finishing touches done to her make-up.

Olga insists we should take the baby. She firmly believes we should raise Ana.

Ana has already fully, completely, and totally bonded with her daddy Roland. There will be no separating them.

I’m also not even remotely ready for a baby.

But…

We’re shushed. It is church after all.

At the reception I sit at the same table with Roland and Ana.

He touches her constantly.

The nanny that is minding Harriet and Jemima’s spawn offers to take Ana.

Jemima, Harriet, and my Former Fiancée try to convince Roland that truly it will be fine. The nanny is excellent. Imported from Ireland and everything.

He breaks their hearts when he tells them that he’s so much in love with Ana already that he can’t bear to be parted from her.

The three just sigh.

I snort a little. There might be eye rolling.

Jemima and Harriet understand totally. They were exactly the same with their spawn. They give him their numbers. They will get together when they’re all back in London. They know the best places to go for everything.

I just tune out the baby talk.

I understand why Elon walked away from all of this.

I think he’s wrong.

But I get it.

Elon has never expressed an interest in having a child or being a father. The precise opposite in fact.

This is going to be one of those aspects of my life in which there is a Chinese wall firmly in place separating two facets of my life.

The first moment it’s within the bounds of decency for him to slip away, he’s gone.

I take Olga’s hand and lead her to the dance floor.

Elizabeth has the Rat Bastard completely wrapped around her finger.

Avan turns my Former Fiancée around on the floor.

Darling.

Hmmm? Olga looks up at me.

She has the most beautiful eyes.

She smiles at me.

And a lovely smile.

She kisses my cheek.

When I’m done with Parvati will she marry me?

Yes. She’ll wait for me.

I want her to be the mother of my children. I want a handful of beautiful daughters that look just like her.

Do I? What about Parvati?

She has no interest in children. Maybe it’ll happen. Maybe it won’t. But I need to know one thing. If I do have a child with Parvati, will she be good to it?

What kind of person do I think she is?

I need to know. I don’t want that kind of conflict.

She’ll be very good. She promises.

I believe her. In her heart Olga is a good person.

If we can wait a few years then we can get started when we get married.

She could live with that.

Could she really?

Yes. She could. She’s been talking to my mother. Maybe waiting until she’s a little older isn’t such a bad idea.

It’s not. Then we can have a wonderful life together.

We can, can’t we?

Yes. I kiss her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mistress Jennifer

Mistress Jennifer

My first session with Mistress Jennifer is far beyond what I imagined it might be.

What does one expect when one goes to a dominatrix?

I thought she was going to spank me.

I really did.

I thought that would be it.

Just a bit of whack whack whack.

But that isn’t what happened.

She blindfolded me.

Then she held my hands in her own.

That was it for a long time.

She told me I could trust her.

That she wasn’t just saying that.

She believed that I had very few people that I could trust.

She assured me that I could trust her.

She had one question for me.

What was my truth?

I don’t know what my truth is.

I don’t know what she means.

What truth?

I have a thousand truths and a thousand lies.

She places her finger on my lips to stop me from talking.

I wasn’t to answer her.

She wanted me to think about it.

She wanted me to reach down in my soul and find my truth.

While I sit there silently blindfolded, she massaged my hands.

I had no idea how much my fingers ached.

There is this place at the base of my thumb that is tense all of the time and I didn’t even know it.

She massages each of my fingers as I sit there blindfolded trying to figure out what my truth is.

Something happens as she presses her thumbs into my palm.

I break along one of my many mental cracks.

I start sobbing behind my mask.

I don’t know what my truth is.

I just don’t know.

I don’t know what any truth is.

Everybody has always told me what my truth is.

I’ve never known my own truth.

How am I supposed to know what my truth is when everyone has always told me what my truth should be and every time I’ve ever had my own truth they’ve told me it was wrong?

Big sobs come out of me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never cried like this before. I feel broken.

Mistress Jennifer releases my hands.

Those cool palms touch my cheeks.

She thinks this might be the first time I’ve ever been wholly honest with myself in my life.

She hugs me as I cry.

It all just comes out. I’ve been bad to so many people.

She thinks I’ve treated myself worst of all.

She takes my blindfold off and replaces it with a cold damp cloth.

She wants me to do something. She wants me to stand in my truth.

I still don’t know what my truth is.

This is the beautiful thing. I have no truth. It’s time for me to create my truth.

How do I create my truth?

How does a baby learn to walk?

One step at a time?

Exactly. It is time for me to be truthful with the people I have most wronged including myself.

Should I apologize?

If that is what my truth is telling me to do then that is what I should do.

Should I make amends?

Not if my purpose is to please the other person. I am to make amends only if it helps me to live more fully in my truth.

Does that mean I have to be honest with everyone all of the time?

No. The only people who are wholly honest with everyone all of the time usually end up in a shallow grave with a bullet in the back of their head. The person I need to be wholly honest with is myself. For the moment that is enough of a chasm to leap.

I still don’t know what my truth is.

Rome wasn’t built in a day. I will not be healed in one session.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Living My Truth

It’s seven in the morning when I pull myself out of bed.

Olga groans a bit and mumbles.

I’m going for a run.

Why?

Because I’ve been eating and drinking constantly and I need to move my body. Does she want to come with me?

No. The duvet goes over her head.

I leave the room.

I consider my next move very carefully.

I know I could be making a terrible mistake.

Or I could be just living in my truth.

I nearly go for a run.

Instead I go to my former fiancée’s room.

She’s bleary eyed and groggy when she answers the door.

What do I want?

Does she have company?

No. Ariel – unlike some men she knows – is really a gentleman.

Sure he is. He’s a real peach. I need her to let me in.

She steps to the side and closes the door behind me.

What do I want?

I owe her one.

I owe her many. What do I want?

This is tricky. So I just stare at her while I try to find the right words.

Okay – here’s the deal. I know perfectly well that the only thing she wanted from me for a long time was my sperm. I have a feeling that she’s been very strategically getting my trousers off of me the past few times we’ve been together.

Maybe I’m not as stupid as I seem to be. Okay. She’ll admit it. There might have been a small amount of premeditation. In her defense I did take four years of her fertility.

Fine. She can have it. But no strings attached and I don’t want anyone to know. Especially her child.

It’s her turn to stare silently while trying to find the right words.

No strings attached?

Not one.

If I get her pregnant I’m just going to walk away and be done with her forever?

I’ll pretend I never met her.

Her child is hers. We’re clear?

Crystal. This is precisely what I want.

Just so we’re clear, I’ll walk away and never look back?

Yes.

I’m not going to show up in ten years and want to be a father to HER child?

Nope. Look not to be indelicate, but the clock is ticking and Olga knows I usually only run for about an hour.

That’s what I told her?

Yes. I know she wants a baby. I know she has other options. But … I am awfully cute. Think of what an adorable baby we’d make.

This makes her laugh. She has often thought of what an adorable baby we would make.

So?

Okay. Just so we’re clear, is this a one off, or can she have a number of tries during her next few cycles?

I’m willing to commit to three.

Including this one or in addition?

I love that she thinks ahead. Four including this one.

Good. She’s just going to nip into the bathroom.

This feels right.

I’m doing the right thing.

We both know I’m not what she wanted for a long time.

This is what she wants.

I saw it when she held Ana.

I can give her this.

Then we’re even and I can get on with my life.

This is my truth.