Memoirs of a Gigolo Volume Four
Author: Livia Ellis
Date: 2013-02-01 05:00:00+00:00

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE Prologue

CHAPTER TWO Home

CHAPTER THREE Voyage of the Damned

CHAPTER FOUR Castle on the Sea

CHAPTER FIVE Wold Hall

CHAPTER SIX The Greshams

CHAPTER SEVEN Social Secretary

CHAPTER EIGHT I should have been an archaeologist

CHAPTER NINE The Return of Elon and Renata

CHAPTER TEN How I Find Out My Mother is Terminally Ill

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Long Room

CHAPTER TWELVE Dinner in the Long Room

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Baby Daddy

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Olga the Psychic

CHAPTER FIFTEEN The First Catch

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Bachelorette Number One

Memoirs of a Gigolo

Volume Four

Livia Ellis

Copyright © 2013 Livia Ellis

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1481139398

ISBN-13: 978-1481139397

For my tribe of indy writers.

CHAPTER ONE

Prologue

Prologue

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

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

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

Yes. That one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This beautiful man with so much hurt in his heart.

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

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

Such is my lot in life.

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

Maybe I do.

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

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

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

Would I sleep with him again?

Maybe.

I can’t stress how intimidatingly handsome he is.

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

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

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

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

Unbelievable.

Cow.

Hate her.

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

CHAPTER TWO

Home

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

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

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

The insistent hand which keeps nudging me persists.

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

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

What’s the difference?

Go away. I'm sleeping.

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

I have no response.

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

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

This is how people end up murdered.

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

Shaking me is not working, so she changes tactics.

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

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

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

I'll give her credit. This is working.

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

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

Aston Martin.

I'm awake. Tell me more.

What more? It's a car.

What kind of car?

Aston Martin.

I silently count slowly to ten. Which model?

Silver. With black interior.

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

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

Are we negotiating?

Yes.

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

When?

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

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

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

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

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

No.

I think we’ve reached an accord.

Does that mean we have a deal?

Yes.

Get up. We're burning daylight.

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

It's old.

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

The newest part was built in 1786.

The plumbing is older than both of us combined.

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

There is no central heating.

It's cold.

Very cold.

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

All of the bedrooms are closed up.

There are dustcovers on the furniture.

I have no extra bedding.

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

She can sleep in my room.

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

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

There is no Sky.

There is no internet.

Cellular coverage can be hit or miss.

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

I don't care how miserable she is.

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

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

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

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

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

That I can do. Do we understand each other?

Yes. Is there a stable?

Yes.

Are there horses?

Not anymore. Get packed.

She's already packed.

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

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

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

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

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

She'll help me. She likes gardens.

Liking gardens and gardening are two completely different activities.

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

Is there a dungeon?

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

Is the castle haunted?

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

Am I messing with her?

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

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

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

I'm not convinced.

But... Her enthusiasm is infectious.

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

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

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

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

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

I am reminded she is Russian.

She knows how to dress warmly.

Her father has a house in the country.

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

I'm told to get dressed.

Her stuff is already downstairs in the foyer.

She'll get the car out.

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

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

Not a big pile.

A little one.

But one topped with something that explains so much.

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

Olga rides horses.

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

The freakishly strong thighs are explained.

So are the riding trousers.

And the early start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she runs it into a flower planter.

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

Get out of the car.

Did she break the flowers?

Just get out of the car.

She gets out of the car.

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

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

This is what bothers her. The flowers.

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

Olga is already sitting in the passenger seat.

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

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

Not in the car.

There will be no smoking in the car.

This beautiful car.

My perfect English rose.

I think I'll call her Beth.

No.

Emma.

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

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

I don't care.

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

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

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

I'll get Olga her coffee.

I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

Thanks for getting me out of bed.

The clock on the dash reads 7am.

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

Can she smoke?

No. I kiss her on the cheek again.

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

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

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

I'm the me that I was a year ago.

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

I kiss Olga on the cheek again.

The third time makes her smile.

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

CHAPTER THREE

Voyage of the Damned

The trip to Devon starts off easy.

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

The odometer hasn't even broken a thousand kilometers.

As I fill the tank and text the Gresham’s to warn them I’m coming home, she gets coffee and about four dozen magazines.

Does she want to drive? Practice might help. When we get on the open road we can switch.

No. She hates driving on wrong side of the road. I can drive. She can read Vogue.

Why does she have such a beautiful and expensive car if she hates to drive?

She already told me. It was a birthday present.

I ask her in all truth who did she have to fuck to get a £200,000 car for her birthday and does he like men?

She tells me not to be vulgar.

Her father bought her the car.

She's mad at him.

He thinks a pretty car will make her nice to him again.

A pretty car will not make her nice again.

Getting rid of the stupid whore fifth wife will make her nice again.

If her mother were alive, she'd put bullet between the eyes of the stupid whore fifth wife.

She points at her forehead where the entry wound would be.

I don't doubt this for a moment.

Olga didn't just spring into being. Someone made her the way she is. That someone probably wouldn't think twice about putting a bullet between the eyes of the stupid whore fifth wife.

I hesitate to ask about her father.

The hints that I've gleaned from our hours of conversation have led me to one conclusion.

He is both a criminal and he has something to do with a trucking company.

Or logistics.

I'm not sure.

There was something about a grocery store.

She's purposefully vague, which is fine with me.

But I do have ask just this time.

What exactly is it her father does for a living? And why, if he can afford to buy her £200,000 cars, is she working for The Matchmaker?

Then she launches into the diatribe that will last the better part of the three hour trip to Wold Hall. In summery...

•Vladimir is stupid man.

•He tells her she has no concept of money.

•She tells him yes she has a concept of money.

•He tells her she has no concept of money. She'd starve if she had to support herself.

•She tells him that yes she can so support herself.

•He tells her that unless she can find someone to pay her to spend their money and sleep until noon that she won't last five minutes.

•So she gets a job.

•Working at Chanel.

•But working at Chanel doesn't mean you can afford Chanel.

•The Matchmaker is a friend of her uncle Boris.

•By uncle she doesn't really mean uncle.

•She means someone her father hates with a passion.

•She gets a job with The Matchmaker.

•A good job.

•English men like Russian girls.

•She makes lots of money.

•And she can sleep until noon.

•And it pisses her father off.

•So hah.

I'm not sure how to respond to all of this information.

Part of me wants to know what her father thinks of her career as a high end escort.

The other part of me, the one that knows better than to ask, has fallen asleep.

So I ask. Does her father know what she does for a living?

•Of course he knows.

•What would the fun be in pissing him off if he didn't know?

•She showed him.

•She makes her own money.

•She doesn't need him or his money.

And she's getting upset.

Of course.

Because I just don't know when to shut up sometimes, I ask. Has she considered that perhaps her working for The Matchmaker might hurt her father very much? If I had a little girl I'd be heartbroken if she did the same. Maybe the car was a peace offering?

I don't want to mess with her head.

I don't.

But I like her.

I can see this problem with her father bothers her.

She tells me to shut the fuck up and mind my own business.

I don't say anything when she lights up a Gauloise.

In fact, I help myself.

It's time to get out of the car.

Release the tension.

Fortunately we have reached the turn onto the property of Wold Hall.

I tap on the dashboard.

I want her to stop brooding.

I want her to marvel and be amazed at my home.

And she is.

Wold Hall comes into view as we round the copse of trees that shields it from prying eyes.

The sea stands out stark and deep blue beyond the green fields stretching behind.

The sky is a perfectly clear aquamarine blue.

The gray stone of the manor house does me the favor of looking pristine and stately in the sun.

The fortune I paid to have the exterior cleaned still counts as a complete and total waste of money in my estimation, but the result is impressive.

The round tower, which is the part of the original fortifications, looks imposing and stern.

This is my castle?

This is my castle.

The whole thing?

The whole thing. As far as the eye can see and stretching out to the water.

Who do those cars belong to?

I have no idea.

CHAPTER FOUR

Castle on the Sea

The Gresham’s drive a Land Rover. There is a select of expensive cars parked in front of my castle

I pull the car to a halt at the front.

The drive has a relatively new covering of stone.

From the outside, the stately pile looks impressive.

It's really not hard to believe looking at it, that there was once a time when kings and queens were frequent visitors.

That a staff of dozens of servants was required to keep the place running is not hard to imagine.

Before he died, my grandfather had spoken of how it was the end of an era.

Only Russian gangsters and Saudi princes could afford to be English. The same people that kept on trying to buy my home.

Which makes me wonder who the people are that are standing on my property staring at my home.

I get out of the car and approach the group. There are four of them. They don’t look like tourists. Tourists often ignore the signs at the head of the road letting them know they are driving on to private property. As a rule we don’t chase them off the land. Usually they just want to picnic and if they clean up after themselves, which they always do, we just let them be.

I approach the group.

A woman of more than middle years with a tightly styled poof of gun metal gray hair approaches me just as Olga walks up and takes my hand into hers.

She is Betty Crusher. She offers me her hand.

I take it. Curse my inbred need to be polite.

I must be Prince Ibn Mustafa al-Jawziyyah and Olga must be Princess Fatima. She is delighted to meet us. She hopes our drive from London wasn’t too stressful.

Do I look like a bloody Prince Ibn Mustafa al-Jawziyyah? I’m Lord Harklon.

I’m Lord Harklon? That’s very curious. She was assured that no one would be on site while she showed perspective buyers around the property.

What is she doing on my property?

She is Betty Crusher.

She was hired by my Former Fiancée’s father - The Evil Bastard – to help me sell Wold Hall. As she understands it, either I need to sell or I will lose the property to auction when it’s seized for unpaid taxes. She was left with the impression after her conversation with The Evil Bastard that I had made the smart choice and decided to sell to cover my extensive debts.

I turn to the drive where the sound of an approaching car gets my attention. Not one, but four cars pull to a halt.

She needs to leave along with her group. I’m not selling. I won't sell. I'll burn it to the ground before I sell it. Wold Hall is my home. Before Wold Hall existed, my family still lived on the land. My grandfather told me we'd been on the land since the time our Roman ancestors laid claim to it.

Betty Crusher with her gunmetal gray poof of hair smiles like a gargoyle at me.

She is aware of my financial situation. She is also aware that The Evil Bastard will not rest until Wold Hall is ripped out from under me. Why don’t I just accept my fate and allow her to do her job. Everyone will get what they want in the end.

Which is what?

The Evil Bastard gets his revenge, she gets her commission and I get a tidy enough profit to pay my bills and maybe make some kind of life for myself. I am to be very charming and let her do her job. If I cooperate, show the nice wealthy Kuwaiti couple and their family around, tell them a few stories, promise to leave behind whatever they take a fancy to, she might be able to talk up the price.

Olga lets out a yelp and I realize I’m crushing her fingers.

I smile at Betty Crusher.

Don’t move.

I’m going to go inside and open the door.

I give Olga a tug and we walk up to the main door. I don’t have the key for the door and normally it’s only locked when the Gresham’s aren’t home for the night.

The door is locked.

Of course they’re gone. They would have chased off Betty Crusher. But are they gone for the morning or the weekend? I try to think about where they might be, but I can’t imagine. I wonder if they received the message I sent. Betty Crusher planned out her visit when she knew they would be gone. I find all of this very worrying. How tightly am I being watched by The Evil Bastard?

I take Olga around the side to the glass conservatory.

All the while we are walking she’s cooing and oohing.

This is not how I wanted to give her a tour of my home.

I pull my keys out of my pocket and unlock the conservatory door.

We go through the house which is made dark even in the day because of the general gloom of being a castle and the fact the curtains are drawn in most of the rooms.

I whistle and the sound is rewarded by barking and scrambling. The dogs are home. The Gresham’s wouldn’t have left them for more than a few hours unattended. Betty Crusher knows more than I do about the goings on of my home. But how.

I drag Olga with me into the trophy room.

The massive polar bear my great-grandfather bagged more than a century earlier menaces silently, fangs barred and clawed paws reaching out. If only I have the power to animate the beast and send him after Betty Crusher and her clients.

I leave her at the door as I go to a map case.

From inside I pull out the key to the gun cabinet.

Five English pointers come rushing up to me. They are so very happy to see me! Look at their tails twitch! Look at them! Look at them!

I bend down and give them a bit of love before I move on to the task at hand.

As tempting as it is, I do not take my great-grandfather’s elephant gun.

Instead I take a pump action Remington shot gun and a pocket full of shells.

Oliver…

What?

What am I doing?

Defending my castle.

Am I going to shoot those people?

Tempting darling. Very tempting.

Olga and the dogs follow me as I walk through the house to the main doors. I load the shotgun as we walk. Our footsteps echo in the silence as we cross the flagstones of the great hall.

The entry hall is lit only by the sunlight which manages to creep into the darkness through the mostly shuttered windows. I would have liked to have it opened up so she could see the staircase, the vaulted ceiling, and the fireplaces. There is no more furniture in the entrance. It's stacked up in the ballroom. Along with the components of the extremely expensive heating system, the new plumbing, the restaurant quality kitchen equipment, the double glazed windows, and the rest of the stuff I'd stupidly sunk the bulk of my trust into. I wonder if I can sue my Former Fiancée for half of the cost. I wonder. The remodel was her idea. I was content to leave all as it was. But she wanted the whole thing redone for the wedding.

The key for the front door is on the mantle of the great fireplace just where it is supposed to be.

Just as I knew it would, the door needs to be pulled forward just a touch so I can get the key to turn in the lock.

This is my home.

I know these things about the locks.

I know where the keys are hidden.

I suddenly remember where I hid a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover when I was twelve.

I know that the fifth step leading up from the third floor to the servants’ hall creaks.

I will never sell my home.

I don’t care if I have to go Ruby Ridge on these people.

I pull the door open and walk out. The dogs are gathered around me. They know what it means when I have a shotgun. They are practically dancing in anticipation. I send out Rex and Ophelia with a click of my tongue.

The men are in white dishdasha. The women in black hijab. They are talking animatedly with Betty Crusher.

The distinct sound the action of the shotgun makes as I engage the pump is more satisfying at that moment the sound of Olga crying out my name as she orgasms.

Rex and Ophelia are a couple of stars. A bouquet of pheasants take to the air as they crash into the trees.

Before Betty Crusher and her group of a dozen or so eager buyers notice me, I get their attention in a way they will never forget. I fire my shotgun into the air. I have their undivided attention. I fire the second round. A pair of pheasants goes careening to the ground.

Dinner is sorted. I wonder what Olga thinks about having to clean a brace of pheasants. This makes me smile before I turn serious.

Get off my land.

I crack open the shotgun and reload.

My home is not for sale. Not now not ever.

I fire a second time.

Rex and Ophelia return, each with a pheasant placed between their jaws.

The Kuwaitis scramble into their cars like flocks of black and white birds. They fly down the road and off of my land.

Betty Crusher and her sales team are not so easy to dislodge.

Have I lost my mind? She’ll call the police.

There is nothing at all illegal about me pheasant hunting on my private property. She’s trespassing. She’s the one that is behaving outside the law.

Do I have any idea how much money those people have? Would I really have been able to say no if she had come to me with an offer for the amount of money those people were willing to pay?

Wold Hall is not for sale.

She is trespassing.

She can give a message to The Evil Bastard.

I’m not selling.

I’ll burn the place to the ground before I sell it.

Betty Crusher shows no fear as she stands up to me. We shall see.

Olga puts her hand in mine as Betty Crusher and her sales team pile into their cars.

Are they going to call the police?

Probably not.

What if they call the police?

They were trespassing. I’m well within my rights to hunt on my own land.

She likes my castle.

The Evil Bastard will never let me be. He won’t. It is never going to end. It needs to stop, but how?

What can she do? How can she make it better?

I kiss her on the cheek. She can’t. But I appreciate the offer. Does she want a proper tour?

Yes. What do we do with the dead birds?

We make lunch.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wold Hall

The first building constructed on my family land was a Roman villa. The foundations of it which lay to the south east of the castle proper are being excavated and studied by a group of archaeologists.

According to family legend, the family was Roman merchants. According to the archaeologists who spend an inordinate amount of time brushing at the dirt with toothbrushes, they had vast holdings. They like scratching at the dirt and I have to admit I envy them.

If I’d had any sense at the time I was at university, I would have paid more attention in lectures and less time at the pub. I studied Classics for fuck sake. I know things about the Romans in Britain and they’re quite literally buried in my back yard.

My grandfather would have appreciated a scholarly interest in their pursuits especially if it involved our family. It would have been the sort of thing that struck him as a proper occupation for a gentleman. A very sort of Lord Carnarvon gentleman archeologist kind of thing to do.

I look at Olga. Does she think I would look good in a fedora?

A what?

A fedora. A hat. Like Indiana Jones wears.

She casts a critical eye upon me. Yes. I have a hat sort of face. But she doesn’t know Indiana Jones.

What does she mean she doesn’t know Indiana Jones? Who doesn’t know Indiana Jones?

She doesn’t know Indiana Jones.

Unbelievable. I know what we’re doing that evening. We’re watching Indiana Jones. The three movies that matter. Not the fourth. That one just makes me sad.

Can she read Vogue while I’m forcing her to watch a stupid boy movie?

No.

Fine. Big sigh. Will I show her around? Or am I going to accuse her of demanding to be entertained?

I'll show her around.

With the two pheasants in one hand and the shotgun in the other and the dogs dancing around my feet, I return inside with Olga. The gun is returned to the cabinet and the birds are left in the kitchen.

What are her thoughts on plucking feathers?

These are not thoughts she has ever had. Can she keep the feathers for a hat?

In her body beats the heart of a woman with the country in her blood.

Does that mean she can keep the feathers?

She can keep the feathers.

I walk out of the kitchen and she follows. We go through the formal dining room, the library, the map room and finally end up in the games room. I stand in the middle of the games room with its jumble of small tables for card players, the snooker table, the dart board, the skittle alley, the chess board, the backgammon table. All shrouded under dust cloths.

Olga starts pulling cloths off of the furniture. A spindly carved chair parked in front of a patience table is revealed. Perfect for the bored Victorian lady wanting to play a little solitaire. Why do I keep on saying I’m broke? Olga wants to know this as she’s visually tallying up the value of my furniture.

Because I am broke. Just because I have stuff doesn’t mean I have cash to pay the tax bill. Before she even suggests it, I would really rather not resort to selling the furniture unless I have to. But it will come to that before I let Betty Crusher have the place.

I open up a cabinet where the board games are stashed. There they are. A stack of rectangular boxes waiting patiently for someone to come along on a rainy afternoon and put them to use.

Do I want her to call her father and have Betty Crusher’s legs broken?

I look over my shoulder at Olga. I truly don’t know if she’s joking.

If she’d like to break a few legs for me, she can send her father after my Former Fiancée’s father.

She can do that. She pulls a cloth off of an s-curve chair that seats two facing in opposite directions. What is it? She sits down. Is it a chair? It’s a funny sort of chair. Why are the seats like they are?

So that two people, generally a young man and a young woman, could sit next to each other and whisper sweet nothings whilst pretending to be doing something else like reading.

She wants the chair.

She can’t have it.

She wants it.

I ignore her. I find what I’m looking for in the Cluedo box. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I mumble to myself something along the lines of if there were a Lady Harkslon she wouldn’t need a bloody lover.

I fan through the book, stopping when I come across the passages I had carefully annotated and underlined. I must have been grinning like a fool. Olga stopped stroking the wood of the s-chair and joined me.

What is it?

A book. My eyes scan the underlined passages. Is she absolutely certain her body is a temple I cannot enter? Because if she’d be willing to make an exception she very well could make the dreams of a lonely twelve-year old boy come true.

Don’t be gross.

Do I try to explain I mean me and not some actual twelve year old boy? Is it worth the energy? I flip through the book again and a slip of folded writing paper falls out. I know this paper. It’s heavy and creamy. It would have come from my grandfather. I open the note and read.

Dear Ollie – If you’d like to have a chat, just let me know. I know it may not always seem like it, but I am there for you if you need me. Maybe I can clear some things up for you. I’m not unaware that you’re getting older. Things are probably a little confusing and scary right now, but I promise it will pass. Talking might help. Love Dad.

Not granddad. Dad. My father. My distant father who never had a moment to spare for me because his life was devoted to making my selfish mother happy. Not that he wasn’t a selfish prick. They colluded. I wondered if he knew whether or not I existed that summer when I discovered Constance and Oliver. What do I remember of that summer? My mother was absent. They were having problems. He was home. He wanted to take me riding and pretend we had a relationship. I was surly – I was trying to punish my father for a thousand imagined slights – I was twelve. What a little prick I was. The note is proof he knew I was alive. He was paying attention. What would have happened if I had discovered the note? I don’t know. I probably would have been humiliated my father had caught me reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Maybe that conversation would have built a bridge. Who knows?

Olga takes the note from me. I don’t know if she reads it or not, but she has the decency not to say anything. Instead she just holds me tight with those freakishly strong arms of hers. A matching set to her freakishly strong thighs. I don’t know if her silence is intuitive or if she simply doesn’t know what to say to a grown man that is sobbing and rather snotty. I’m uncomfortable that there is a witness to my emotional release. I’d gone years without crying then in the space of six months thrice I’ve lost the proverbial plot. Fortunately Olga is the only witness to my unraveling. The other two times were allowed to occur in the dignity of solitude.

I sit on the ground and wonder why I bother. Why am I fighting for an anachronistic dinosaur of a life that no longer holds any meaning? Betty Crusher, may she rot in whatever hell is populated by those who live off the marrow of others, has a point. If I let her sell the house and the land, I could end up with enough money to live an excellent life. I can sell Wold Hall and I will still be me. Me that doesn’t have to fuck sexually confused singers or piss on fashion designers to make enough money to pay for the taxes on the beast. What was I doing? Why was I doing it? Why keep rising to the challenge of keeping the beast when I find myself on my ass at every turn trying so desperately to hold on to it? Why? I ask Olga to give me an answer and she doesn’t have one.

Olga pets my hair, kisses my cheek, tells me that I am good, that she loves me (yes – she told me that she loves me – I made a choice to ignore this assuming it had something to do with her natural female instinct to comfort a wounded male – at least this is what I sincerely hope), and that she’ll make nice with her father. She promises me she’ll make nice with her father. I have to be patient because she refuses to just give in, but she will make nice with her father. As if this will somehow solve all of my problems.

I will give her credit. She does have a way with me that I don’t wholly understand. My tears are allowed to run their course. I don’t feel less because I’ve had this breakdown, but rather somehow more. Her claims that I’m now able to go and take on the world have a ring of truth to it. That we will do it together smacks of an aggrandized pep-talk only makes me smile. Olga is my cheerleader. I am hurting but I am not hurt. I have been wounded by the beast but not felled. Time for me to get my ass off the ground and come out swinging.

I stand up. The pity party is over. I could give up, but I won’t. I am many things, but I am no quitter.

CHAPTER SIX

The Greshams

As I flick the final cloth over the last remaining piece of furniture in the games room to be shrouded, Mrs. Gresham walks into the room. She’s carrying a shotgun. I’m pleased to know I’m not the only one that will defend my castle with arms.

What am I doing here?

I live here.

Don’t be a turd.

Didn’t they get the message? I texted.

She hasn’t spoken to Mr. Gresham since early that morning. When she saw the car in the drive she thought that vile Betty Crusher had returned.

She had returned. She has already been chased off.

Well done.

Any idea how that woman knows when no one is home?

Not even one. She and Mr. Gresham have searched the property for cameras or anything that looks out of place. Not a thing. That said, she always to go Exeter to visit her mother same time every week whilst Mr. Gresham golfs. Maybe they need to switch that up. Do I have any manners… she looks at Olga and smiles.

Right. Olga. Mrs. Gresham.

Olga sighs, extends a hand, and introduces herself. She works in public relations. Party planning mostly.

Lovely! How lovely! Party planning! What a fun job!

I snort, roll my eyes, mumble about being bored and generally make myself as incorrigible as I can.

Both women give me the stink eye.

Mrs. Gresham sighs. Do I know anything about the dead pheasants in the kitchen?

Lunch.

Am I cooking?

I’m showing Olga around.

Another big sigh. Next time I put dead birds in the kitchen we will be having a conversation. She clicks her tongue and the dogs that have been lounging about in front of the cold fireplace remembering better days, snap to her heels.

She’ll make lunch which will be cottage pie. The pheasants will make a nice dinner. Don’t wander too far. Listen for the gong.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Social Secretary

I take Olga’s hand and we make a complete circuit around the exterior of the house. She’s warm then waspish. Either way it’s directed at me. I didn't mean for my words in the car to bother her, but they have. That coupled with the fact I had to chase Betty Crusher and her team off of my property couldn’t have helped. It’s also very possible my emotional breakdown in the games room hasn’t helped matters. As a whole, the day started well then turned into a pile of shit.

The state of the rose garden is enough to get Olga out of her own head and back into the present. It is decided immediately that it is a good thing I am childless because if the state of the garden is any indication of how I care for precious living things, the poor things would be doomed to a life of neglect and want.

I wanted to get work in the garden done, but I considered taking her riding instead. I hate to see clouds in her eyes. If riding would make her happy, then that's what's really important. The roses can wait.

Or not. The garden is in full bloom and has a sort of feral quality. No one has properly attended to the garden since my grandmother died. My father gave it a good try and I think he made progress before stepping in front of a bus. Hard to say though. What I do know is that I know about as much as he did when it comes to rose gardening. My grandmother was the rose-whisperer.

The autumn is cool, but the summer was warm. The roses are abundant and growing like weeds. The perfume fills the air. Olga gives me a dirty look. If her mother saw this, she'd cry. How could I let the rose garden get in such a state?

Where is the shed? Where are the tools? She'll get to work in the roses. If we work together, we can get the over growth cleared and the bushes trimmed back. Let's do the roses today. It's possible we might actually get through it if there's a proper hedge trimmer. Is there a proper hedge trimmer? Where is the nearest garden center?

In town. I need to go to town. There are things that need to be taken care of. Bills that need to be paid. But we can do these things after lunch. We should get our things from the car and settle in.

We return to the front entrance and to the car.

I leave her riding kit in the entrance and go back to the car. That can go in the mud room off the kitchen when we come back down. I take Olga's Louis Vuitton tote bag and her suitcase.

She takes her magazines.

Back into the house, then up the stairs I lead the way. I moved into the master bedroom when my father died. My mother had the nerve to try to argue with me about it after the funeral. I have no idea why she made an issue of my moving into my grandparents’ room. It’s not like my father had moved into the room before he walked in front of a bus. I can’t understand why she had to fight with me about that on that day of all days. I wonder what The Psychiatrist would have to say about that and the fact mother and son haven’t spoken since. Probably a lot. I suspect that sort of complicated grief and family trauma is her bread and butter. I wonder if she’d be willing to trade sexual favors for therapy.

The master bedroom isn't just a room. It's a series of rooms. Apartments. The first room is a reception room. Fireplace, couches, chairs, tables. If I received personal guests, I could do it here. If there was someone to bring me my breakfast, the papers, and the mail, it would be here. If I had a countess with correspondence to attend to, there is a nice desk which looks out over the back gardens as they roll into the cliffs then the sea. The radio was top of the line in 1970. I turn it on. It's still tuned to BBC Radio 4. The Archers Omnibus is underway.

Olga is silent. I don't know if she knows I like quiet when I first come in here after being away, or if she finally just has nothing to say. Either way I don't care.

We walk from the reception room into the office. There is mail stacked on the desk. I look through my bank statements. I've drawn three quarters worth of interest from what remains of my trust. It's been reinvested. I've made about £9,000 combined work and tips. Not bad at all. The Latin Pop Star has been my biggest source of income. I need to do whatever I can do to encourage that particular relationship. I still have a long way to go, but I'm making inroads.

Olga takes the bank statement from me. I'm not broke. Why do I keep saying I'm broke? I have plenty of money.

I don't have plenty of money. Does she have any idea how much it costs me to keep Wold Hall from falling into a heap? Besides, I need to be able to have enough in my primary to draw an income. I don't want to be a prostitute for the rest of my life.

I open a few invitations for weddings and parties that I won't attend. I either don't know these people, don't want to know these people, or have been invited out of courtesy and respect for the memory of my grandparents. I'm kept on everyone's list simply because I might bounce back one day. No one wants to run the risk of having snubbed me only to have me rise again from the ashes.

Most of the parties have passed anyhow. But not all of them.

Olga picks up the save the date cards and invitations as I discard them. Why don't I want to go to weddings and parties?

Because.

She wants to go to weddings and parties. Nobody ever invites her to weddings and parties. She loves weddings and parties. When she gets married she's going to have a huge wedding. We will go together. The decision is made.

No. No decision is made. I'm not going.

Why not?

Because.

Why not?

Because I'm not ready to show my face in public.

Chicken.

I'm not a chicken.

Chicken. Big yellow chicken. Who is Margaret Adair? Who is William McLaren The Younger? Why is he younger?

Margaret is my cousin. William is her fiancé. He's the heir to the Laird of Pengul.

Is he royalty?

Yes. He’ll be a laird one day.

Fancy. Fancy. Why am I not going to my cousins wedding? Don't I like my cousin?

I like my cousin Margaret very much.

Then why am I being so selfish? Not everything is about me. Margaret’s wedding is about Margaret and who she wants to be present to share in her happiness. Not about me and my discomfort. Stop being so egotistical. I annoy her.

I don't want to go. A sigh wheezes out of me. I sound like a petulant child. Everyone will be there. My Uncle Albert. My Aunt Maisie. I groan. Everyone that thinks I'm a profound disappointment. Worse than that – my Former Fiancée will be there. I’m certain of it. She’s Margaret’s friend. Please don't make me go. I’ve already agreed to go to her sister’s wedding. Isn’t that enough?

We're going to the wedding. We’re especially going if that woman who is so determined to make me miserable is going to be there. I’m going to her sister’s wedding. The least she can do is go to my cousin’s wedding. Stop being such a baby. I can drive the car. She'll book a place for us in Glasgow. We'll go up the night before. She's never been to Scotland. She'll call Margaret. Find out about accommodations the night of. She wonders if she'll have time to have a hat made special. She'll sort out the gift. Something special. Maybe something from Fabergé.

I guess I'm going to my cousin Margaret's wedding. Good. I wanted to go. Margaret is one of the few people that hasn't snubbed me. Olga will be my human shield.

Do I have classic morning dress? Or does she need to get an appointment with a tailor?

I have classic morning dress.

She'll sort out my waistcoat and tie. We're not going to be matchy-matchy, which she despises, but we will look like we belong together. She continues to pick up invitations. Her planner is out. She's marking down dates. She's organizing. I'm quizzed about each invitation. Some are discarded. Some are added to the calendar. There is a pattern emerging. Any event that involves the potential to wear expensive clothing and end up in the pages of Hello are picked. I've had enough of being in magazines, but she's too happy for me to tell her no.

I'm being forced out of my seclusion. I honestly can't complain. The only way I'm going to make my way back into polite society is by showing up. These are the things I need to do if I’m going to convince anyone that I’ve changed my stripes.

I kiss Olga on the cheek. Have I told her recently how much I appreciate her?

I haven't. But that's okay. She knows I need her. Am I done with the mail? We need to get to the garden center.

I'm done. There's nothing else that I need to look at.

I leave the office with Olga behind me. We cross the reception room; the theme music for The Archers is playing. We go into the bedroom. There is already wood stacked up next to the fireplace and a fire is built in the hearth, waiting to be lit. Mr. Gresham did get my message. He knows I’m coming. I truly appreciate this. The bed has been made up and a small space heater warms the room. Olga walks to one of the two alcoves and looks out the window at the sea.

Between the two alcoves is the couch she can sleep on. Heavy mahogany leather. I'm fairly certain it was a gift from Queen Victoria.

Did Queen Victoria sleep on it?

I sincerely doubt that Queen Victoria ever slept on a couch.

Then she's not going to sleep on it. We can share the bed. She's going to change into jeans. Where is the bathroom?

I walk to the door to the bathroom. The round tower room is frigid when the massive fire isn't going. But when it is going, and the teacup shaped copper bath is filled with hot water, it's like a steam bath. The fire has been laid in the hearth. Hanging on an arm waiting to be used, is the giant kettle used to boil water for the bath.

Olga nearly screams when she sees the bathtub. She will be taking a bath. A very long, very hot, very perfect bath.

There's no hot water for a bath. Unless she wants to fill the kettle on a hook over the fire and wait for it to boil.

Why is there no hot water? The look she gives me could separate paint.

The hot water boiler was yanked out along with the majority of the plumbing when my Former Fiancée decided we were getting married in Wold Hall.

Why hasn’t it been fixed?

I nearly got it fixed, but I've already sunk enough money into repairs I can't afford just to make the place habitable again. There's cold water and the shower is hot. On the plus side, the roof no longer leaks. That's a bonus.

How much does a plumber cost?

I sigh. It will cost more than her car is worth to get the plumbing up to code. In fact it will cost three times what her car is worth to get the plumbing working properly. The thing that really pisses me off is that everything was more or less working before my Former Fiancée and her army of builders fucking tore it all out. As far as I can foresee, it will not get fixed until I find a wife. But if she'd like to give it a go, there are plenty of pipes and joints down in the ballroom. That’s all been paid for. I’m missing the pound of flesh to prove it. The labour is the truly expensive part of the job. She wouldn’t happen to know any Russian plumbers willing to work off the books?

She very well might she growls at me as she walks into the bedroom. There will be a bath. One of the four nights we are in the castle, there will be a bath. She cannot leave without getting into that bathtub.

I check the kettle. It's full. I'm going to need to thank Mr. Gresham. I know that Olga will have her bath. He's saved me one step. I tell her she can have her bath.

I never know what to do when there is nudity that isn't business related. I don't know how many times and in how many ways I've been intimate with Olga. But her changing out of her riding breeches into her jeans in my bedroom seems somehow different. So I busy myself. I unpack the cash I brought with me in my messenger bag. It goes into my dresser in the cigar box along with the rest of my treasures.

Olga's chin is at my shoulder as she stands behind me.

I snap my cigar box of treasures closed.

Too late.

She already saw it. She kisses me on the cheek. Are those my treasures?

They may be.

Can she see?

Not now.

Maybe some other time?

Maybe some other time.

She thinks Wold Hall is beautiful. She understands why I'm working so hard to hold on to it. Her hands are on my waist. Another kiss on my cheek. She still thinks marrying for money is a bad idea. She kisses my neck. For certain I should marry for love. Those hands slide under my jumper and around to my stomach. Is the money really that important?

Unfortunately, it is.

The sound of the gong ringing through the halls hits my ears like a dull bong. Lunch time. Cottage pie. I practically start jumping up and down.

Olga is relentless. Or not hungry. Or both. We must finish the conversation. If I loved someone, could I still really marry someone else for the money?

My eyelids drop. I need her not to do this. But I don't say this. We're together for the next fifteen days. I don’t know what I was thinking agreeing to this time together before we leave for Japan. What I need is some time to think and reflect. Not concentrated time with a woman actively trying to worm her way into my life.

She knows as well as I do why I have to do what I'm going to do. I don't have the luxury of relying on the power of love to pay for the educations of the children I'm hoping to have. So what do I tell her?

If I loved someone, I'd still do what I had to do. I've already done the noble thing once. I can do it again if I have to.

She kisses me on the cheek. If I say so. Her hands release me. She knows what she needs to get, but we can make a list on the way. That's it. Conversation finished.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I should have been an archaeologist

When I fall into bed, it is with the knowledge I've done a good days work. The rose garden is done. It took both of us and Mrs. Gresham, but we managed. A lot of the work was a bit quick and dirty, but none of my grandmother's prize rose bushes will suffer over the winter from wind rock. Next summer they'll be in full, glorious bloom.

In the shed along with the garden tools, I found a book on rose gardening. There were sticky notes in my father’s handwriting scattered throughout. I knew he’d taken an interest in the garden. I just didn’t realize he had become so keen. Which I would have known if I’d paid more attention during those last few months between my grandfather’s death and his death.

Every lunch, dinner, and tea he badgered me in to in the name of father son relationship building had included a dedicated portion of the conversation to rose gardening. What else did I miss in those final conversations? I want to know, but then again I don’t want to go back through my diaries and read what I wrote because I fear I may not have marked anything down about what he said, but rather concentrated my efforts on my own selfish musings.

Olga turns on one bedside lamp to give us some light. She walks past me, heading to the bathroom, stops, pulls my shoes off, but doesn't scold me. Technically they're not on the bed. I do get a firm look. Shoes don't belong in bedrooms. Does she really need to repeat this?

No.

Start the fire. It's chilly. She goes into the bathroom after pulling some things out of her suitcase.

I lift my head up and watch the bathroom door close. My head falls back against the pillow. I stare at the ceiling for a minute. I find the will to get up and start the fire. It doesn't take much to get the wood burning. When Olga exits the bathroom the fire is blazing.

I'm not certain what I expected, but her pale pink hooded robe hanging open over a white camisole and pants was not it. But again, it's right. It's what she wears for bed when she's alone. I'm not a client. I'm me. I also need to manage my expectations.

It is then that I remember I don't have any condoms. Of course I don't. The last woman I had in my bedroom was my Former Fiancée. We didn't use condoms. It wasn’t even the same bedroom. My old childhood bedroom down the hall and around the corner, up a flight of steps and then a little ways more down the hall. It’s a big place. After my back to back scandals she never came back.

Just so we’re clear, is her body still a temple I’m not allowed to enter?

That would be correct. I watch Olga as she goes to her tote-bag and pulls out a dogeared paperback and her reading glasses.

What is she reading?

Gone With the Wind. Again. Do I know I'm like Scarlet O'Hara? Wold Hall is my Tara?

I laugh. I suppose she's right.

Scarlet O'Hara would have prostituted herself out to save her home too.

She probably would have.

She even married for money rather than love. More than once.

This is also true.

But, in the end, she married her real love. Even though he often pissed her off.

Fact.

Then he left her because her bullshit pissed him off. She looks up at me. Do I know why her bullshit pissed him off so much?

Why doesn't she just tell me.

Because he loved her, could give her anything she ever truly needed or desired, but she wouldn't give him her heart. That's all he wanted. He could have given her everything. He just wanted to know she loved him and not his money. That the money didn't really matter. It's only when it was too late that he realized how much she loved him.

Doesn't she mean it was only when it was too late that she realized how much he loved her?

Isn't that what she said?

No.

Olga shrugs and opens up her book. I think it's possible she's read Gone with the Wind more than once.

I do what I need to do in the bathroom then join her in bed. She's wearing what she normally wears for bed and so am I. With the fire going, the room will get warm. She's propped up with her book on her knees. I put my head on her shoulder. She smells like the remnants of her rose perfume, toothpaste, and face cream. It takes a second for me to realize I can't read a word of her book. It's written in Cyrillic.

Did she know that the Cyrillic alphabet is derived from the Ancient Greek alphabet?

Am I bored? She's not my entertainment committee. Go get a book. Go read my rose book. I seem to like my rose book.

I don't want to read my rose book. Does she want to watch a movie? We could watch a movie. This gets me out of bed.

Can she read her book and pretend to be interested in the movie?

Can she watch the first twenty minutes and then if she really doesn’t like it she can read her book and pretend to be interested in the movie?

That’s reasonable. But then I have to agree to watch no less than four Keira Knightly movies with her. Only one of them can be a Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

Fine as long as two of them have decent shots of her tits.

Unbelievable. Fine.

My fist thumps the TV and it comes to life. The pictures a bit greenish and I’m dearly tempted to keep the rerun of Father Ted on, but I find the Indiana Jones tape and slip it into the VCR.

Olga makes a big show of closing up her book, marking the page with a finger.

Indiana wins her over in the first twenty minutes. She watches the entire movie with me curled into my side like a shrimp.

She wants to go to Egypt. She wants to see the pyramids. Have I seen the pyramids?

Actually I haven’t. I’ve never been to Egypt. I’d love to go to Egypt. We can go to Egypt.

She does not want to go to some South American jungle. Being an archaeologist seems really interesting.

Unfortunately Indiana Jones is not an accurate depiction of the modern study of archaeology.

That’s disappointing. No bullwhip?

No.

Drinking contests?

Probably on occasion.

Nazis?

I look at her out of the corner of my eye. No Nazis. I should have been an archaeologist. I would have liked that. My grandfather would have approved of such a pursuit. There’s a very Lord Carnarvon air to being a gentleman archaeologist. Or some kind of scholar. I would have been good at that. Reading books and pontificating on lofty matters until I bored everyone ridged.

I give her a nudge and pull her out of bed. The moon is close to full outside so there is a good clear view of the world outside my bedroom window from the castle to the sea.

There. I point to the semi-permanent campground where a bonfire is burning as she looks. Those are archaeologists.

The people camping in the tents?

Yes. They’re excavating a Roman site on the land. No small wonder they’re still there and their money hasn’t run out.

Because it’s expensive to scratch around in the dirt?

Yes. It actually is. My Former Fiancée’s father the Evil Rat Bastard started funding them when their last grant ran out.

It’s as if gears and wheels start creaking and cranking in my mind.

That evil son of a bitch. He’s spying on me.

CHAPTER NINE

The Return of Elon and Renata

Sometime around dawn Olga slips out of bed waking me for a brief moment before I roll over and go back to sleep.

When I finally wake it’s late. I get out of bed. Shower. Don't even think about shaving. Dress. Go wandering. Mrs. Gresham is in the kitchen with tea and the papers. Something that smells like home is in the oven. Am I aware that it's nearly eleven in the morning?

Is it? Olga?

Was up at dawn. Unlike some people. I'm given a look over the paper. If Mrs. Gresham had lasers shooting out of her eyes, she'd burn holes in her glasses looking at me. Country people can't abide late risers. I've had a lifetime of getting up at the crack of dawn. I can sleep in on occasion. Where is Olga? Mr. Gresham drove her to the stables. What a lovely girl. Can we all assume my period of practically criminal indiscretion has passed?

One can only hope. I help myself to tea and make toast.

Are Elon and I squabbling?

Yes. If he calls tell him I don’t want to speak to him every again. Actually tell him… I pause and think for a moment… tell him…

I’m sorry?

No. Not that. I’m not sorry. He was the big jerk.

Sometimes just saying I’m sorry even if you’re not really sorry is a good way to start the conversation.

Why can’t he ever be sorry?

Because he’s Elon. Apologize to him before we get too entrenched in our infantile snit. What are my plans for the day? Subject changed.

I'm going to tackle the kitchen garden. What does she have planned?

She and Olga are going to put up the marmalade. She's been meaning to get to it and Olga is very keen.

Does Olga actually know anything about making marmalade?

No. But there was something about Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, and making jam. Bit literary our Olga. She has me nailed to rights. I am Scarlet O'Hara. Her question is, would that make Olga my Rhett Butler or my Ashley Wilkes? Based on initial impression, Mrs. Gresham thinks Olga would make an excellent Rhett Butler. But then again for Former Fiancée was the one who would have done anything for my love even though I did everything I could to make her hate me.

Thanks.

Is she wrong?

So would this make her Mammy or Prissy?

She swats me with the newspaper. I'm incorrigible. But never mind. Olga is still lovely none the less. She hears we'll be going to Margaret's wedding. Good. It's about time. Turning myself into a recluse isn't helping matters. I've gone from Oliver who can't keep his trousers on to Oliver that has gone into hiding. What am I doing in London anyhow?

Working.

Mrs. Gresham stares at me over the paper. Since when do I work?

I'm working with Olga. Public relations.

Stop bullshitting her. What am I really up to?

If I tell her will she promise not to tell Mr. Gresham? Or Aunt Maisie? Or, god forbid, Uncle Albert?

Do I really need to ask her that?

No. So I tell her. I keep the more sordid details to myself, but she gets the idea.

She nods. How much have I made?

I tell her.

How long do I plan on keeping this up?

Until I find a rich wife.

That's really my plan?

That's really my plan.

Would this have anything to do with the fight with Elon?

It might.

Have I considered calling my Former Fiancée and asking her to please ask her father to back off?

Why? To what end? So she can tell me no? So she can have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve been brought to this?

Does that sound like the sort of thing she would take pleasure from? Think about it. I know her better than that. Her father is that low, but she’s not. How possible is it she’s just washed her hands of me and doesn’t realize the extent her to which her father is persecuting me? Let’s be honest – the man never liked me.

I’ll think about it. I have my public relations job to keep my head above water for the moment.

So Olga is also in public relations? I find the use of air-quotes unnecessary.

Yes. But please don't say anything. Please. I really like Olga. God help me. We get each other.

What about Elon?

Elon’s a big jerk. And he hurt my feelings.

I need to make up with Elon. We’re like brothers and I know it. As for Olga or my career move, she wouldn't dream of saying anything. Olga is lovely. Very kind. She can see the kindness in her eyes. Probably why she's so good at her job. That empathy. I'm clearly as blind as I've always been if I don't see what's obvious. But never mind. Maybe I'll figure it out. Maybe I won't. She's done mothering me. I'm a grown man and not a little boy anymore. I am a ship she set sail on the dark seas of life. But, if I ever need a port in a storm, she's there for me. She loves me and she likes to see me smile. And do use condoms. And no, she won't tell Mr. Gresham or Aunt Maisie or Uncle Albert. The public relations lie will suffice. Do try not to get involved in another scandal.

I’m going to do my best. If it helps, I’ve got Uncle Harvey in on it with me.

She sighs and laughs. How is Harvey?

Sober. More or less. He’s going to be my gentleman’s gentleman. Not that I need a gentleman’s gentleman, but if I can wrangle work for him, then I’m going to do it.

I am making notes of this in my journals?

Extensive.

Good. Maybe I can turn it into a movie script one day. Have I spoken to my mother?

I have not spoken to my mother. Although I hear from Uncle Harvey she’s back from India and living with Aunt Lucy. Which is unnecessary. As much as I loathe her at the moment this is still her home. I wouldn’t kick her out.

It’s a bit remote here. I should really call her.

Has she spoken to my mother?

Of course she’s spoken to my mother. Will I promise that I’ll call my mother before I leave?

No.

Life is short. Didn’t I learn this with my father?

I’m not discussing this with her. Was dad getting into rose gardening before he died?

God yes! He was practically obsessed. Drove my mother crazy.

Not surprising considering his attention was focused on something other than her.

Grow up. Stop being such a little turd.

I’m really getting tired of her telling me to grow up.

Then I best get on with it so she doesn’t have to keep on reminding me. And call my mother.

Fine. I’ll call my mother. What are her thoughts on the archaeologists?

She doesn’t have thoughts on the archaeologists. They stay to their dig site. They’ll probably be gone in a few weeks. They usually pack up their gear around the first of November. Mr. Gresham is the one that deals with them when they want to come back in the spring.

Any chance their spying on us?

Son of a bitch.

My sentiments exactly.

Get rid of them.

I plan on it.

She gets up from the table. Kisses me on the crown of my head. Tells me there's pheasant stew for lunch and possibly dinner. Would I be her petal and pop into town? After I’ve sorted the archaeologists out?

Sure. I need to go anyway.

Mr. Gresham has the Rover. The car, which she assumes is not mine, is in the garage. The key is on the board. I'm handed a list and twenty pounds. Sugar and citrus. Lovely. I'll have marmalade to bring back to London with me. I'll have to keep it in my room, but I'll still have it.

As I walk out of the front door into a day that is crisp with a diamond blue sky I spy a car rolling up the drive. It takes perhaps two seconds for my mind to register what I am seeing. The only person I know of that would be driving up my road in an Audi would be Elon.

And it is. It takes me only a moment more to make out Renata in the passenger seat.

The temptation to return to the house and get my shotgun is almost overwhelming. But I can’t. Because Olga appears along with Mr. Gresham on a pair of familiar thoroughbreds. Legally they’re still mine. At least they are until the Logans, the family who owns the stable where I keep my horses boarded, takes them in lieu of payment.

There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Elon stops his car. Before I have time to think he’s standing in front of me. I have no idea what to say.

It turns out I don’t have to say anything.

Elon hugs me. He tells me he’s sorry. He should have been more understanding. He was a prick. He was a jerk. Whatever I need to do he’s going to support me. He doesn’t have to like it, but he’s there for me. Are we okay?

We’re okay. I’m sorry I left like I did. That was a bit prickish of me.

He lets me go.

We’ll talk later. I have to tell him about the past couple of days.

Olga puts her hand on my arm.

Right. Introductions. Olga. Elon. Renata.

Renata gives Olga a look that I only recognize as dangerous a moment too late.

Renata takes Olga’s offered hand with a smile. That scimitar of a smile. Thin lipped and long across her face. I know that smile. It’s the one Renata uses when she’s busting with meanness that is itching to get out.

Mrs. Gresham comes out of the front door. She stops suddenly the moment she sees Renata. It is entirely possible we men will have to pull a belligerent woman off of Renata.

Wold Hall might be mine, but there is an understanding that Renata is never to visit.

Olga walks past me in the direction of Mrs. Gresham. In the way women do, the two understood each other immediately. It didn’t matter what initial impressions might have been (they were good regardless) the two were one in disliking Renata.

All thoughts of going to town to take care of my outstanding accounts and to buy sugar and oranges are forgotten. Now is as good a time as any to call my mother. I’m in the right mood for it.

CHAPTER TEN

How I Find Out My Mother is Terminally Ill

My mother is dying. Now that I know this the one thousand subtle hints dropped in my lap make perfect sense. Uncle Harvey and Mrs. Gresham were trying to tell me not just to call my mother, but to give her the opportunity to tell me herself she was flying down the slippery slope to her own coffin. It was that or one of the two of them would have to tell me when she was hospitalized.

There is this wondrous thing about looming death. All sins of the past aren’t necessarily forgotten or forgiven, but they are put in their place. In one twenty minute conversation (just that long because that’s all she had the strength to endure before my Aunt Lucy got on the phone) I did as Mrs. Gresham told me to do earlier in the day. I grew up.

What is wrong with my mother? Heart failure. I don’t understand this as well as I wish I did. What I know is that she’s dying and I don’t even have an internet connection so I can Google heart failure. My father knew this. This very possibly had something to do with the paternal push to make amends with me before he stepped in front of a bus. He knew my mother was dying. His father had just died. This was why he kept on talking about us being in it together. I get this now. Hindsight is annoyingly illuminating.

This is a moment in which I take stock of things I do know.

• I will do whatever I need to do to make certain my mother has the best care possible.

• Aunt Lucy is not a wealthy woman but she is a proud one and will not take my money directly so I need to work around this.

• My mother plans on staying with Aunt Lucy in Croydon.

o The negative being it’s Croydon.

o The positives being:

 Aunt Lucy lives near the hospital.

 Aunt Lucy is a nurse.

 It’s Croydon. From the house I’m about forty minutes away in the car.

Who would have ever thought I’d be happy to be near my mother?

As I sit at my grandfather’s desk with the Balmoral blue Queen’s Silver Jubilee telephone with the dial label embossed with acanthus leaves, crown and 1979 in silver, the separate bell set attached to the wall rings. I’m so startled by the sudden sound I pee myself a little. Very little. It’s not like I widdled in my trousers. But still.

Elon reaches around me and grabs the phone.

It’s Uncle Harvey. He’s heard from Aunt Lucy I’ve talked to mum. Am I okay?

That’s rather relative. Why didn’t he tell me?

Because Martina didn’t want anyone to tell me. She wanted to talk to me herself.

What the fuck was she doing in India for the past six months when she should have been home in a proper English hospital getting proper treatment? (I’m yelling and I don’t care. Uncle Harvey is a big man – he can take a few verbal punches)

There is some mumbling and jumbling about holistic bullshit and that sort of yada yada yada. None of it worked. She came home to die. Unless of course she gets a heart transplant. Then she stands a chance.

I don’t want to hear this. What do I need to do to make this happen?

We just have to wait. She’s on every list. She’s still young enough. Prayer?

Fuck prayer. My mother is a dowager countess that has to count for something in this country. That has to bump her up the list. If the Queen needed a heart they’d get her one. We’re not the same as regular people. (The most wrong thing I could EVER say to Uncle Harvey – I girded my loins in preparation for a speech that would surely involve references to the working class, my maternal grandparents, and what it truly meant to be English…)

All people on the waiting lists are treated equally. And before I get my big girl pants in a twist, keep in mind I’m not so far removed from the proletariat as I’d like to imagine I am. My grandfather, a good man he was too, was a butcher that wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and me own grandmother took in ironing to put food on the table. If I want to know what makes me English, that’s what makes me English. So I best get off me high horse your majesty. (Uncle Harvey slips into this cockney taxi driver speak – I love how his accent changes according to the circumstance. I couldn’t do cockney if I wanted. I could maybe do Geordie, but probably not).

I am duly chastised. What can I do? What does she need? Mum told me she needed nothing. Aunt Lucy told me nothing, nothing at all, not a thing, they were perfectly fine. I don’t believe either of them.

Go visit her. That’s what she really wants.

I plan on it. Is he ready to move into the house?

He’s ready. Been watching Downton Abbey, Upstairs Downstairs, and Wooster and Jeeves.

Wooster and Jeeves? (This actually makes me laugh when I desperately need to laugh)

I’m to call him Wright. He’s typed up a CV. When am I home?

Couple of days. I have to sort a few things out. Will he go visit mum?

He goes to visit every Sunday evening for dinner.

I gesture to Elon as I put my hand over the mouthpiece. Does he have any cash in the London house?

Probably. But never mind. He’ll sort it out with one of his lawyer bitches in London.

I don’t object. I don’t need to be proud at this moment. This is something else. I tell Uncle Harvey to expect an envelope from a courier. It’ll contain cash. Make Aunt Lucy take it. Tell her it’s from me to take care of mum. Can he do that?

He knows how to handle his sisters.

Elon is on his mobile with one of his flying monkeys giving them instructions when I finish the call with Uncle Harvey.

I am so tempted to have Elon erase my burdens. Or, at least have him instruct his trained dogs to just make my troubles disappear. But I don’t. And I won’t say anything ever about the money for my mother. This is his apology. Beyond the hug and the words there would have to be a grand gesture in Elon’s mind for it to count. This is what he learned from his parents. An apology wasn’t words. It was a car.

Neither of us say anything for a long moment.

Do I want him to go and visit mum whilst I’m in Japan?

Would he? Mum likes him. Proof she has terrible taste.

I’m an ass hole. I should have called her sooner. I shouldn’t have let what happened after my father died fester for so long.

I know.

Do I want a few minutes alone?

Would he mind terribly?

Not at all.

That evil bastard reaches around me with one arm and hugs me as I’m sitting in my grandfather’s chair. It’s not like Elon hasn’t seen me crash emotionally, but I’d rather be alone for my second breakdown in a twenty-four hour period.

The door to the office closes behind him. I’m not unaware that Olga, who has without a doubt been lurking around on the other side of the door, switches places with Elon in the room.

Those freakishly strong arms of her hold me yet again. I am well assured that she was in fact eavesdropping and is wholly aware of the situation.

How have I only known her for a few days, but yet it seems like we’ve been together forever? I don’t understand this. I’ve never been like this with anyone before. Not even my princess.

Olga is different. Special. It’s like we’ve jumped from an airplane and she’s the one with the parachute. So I cling to her as if my life depends on the embrace.

She sits on my lap with her arms around my neck and her cheek against my head. Again she promises me that everything will be okay. She’s been thinking about what needs to be done. It’ll all be okay. No more drop cloths on the furniture. No more busted down pipes. It will all be okay. She promises me.

As much as I know I need to rest firmly in reality I know that I can’t. At least not at that moment. At that moment I indulge myself in her vision of a future that seems implausible.

We sit in the green leather wing back chair that was my grandfather’s and his father’s before him – I can’t be certain but it might go another generation or two back (Mr. Gresham would know). Our heads together and arms entwined.

Lovely. I can’t recall ever sitting in such a way with any of the women that have marched through my life like some disorganized passive-aggressive cadet review in Gucci.

The things Olga wants to do:

• Get the plumbing fixed. Ridiculous that water needs to be boiled for her bath.

o I wholly agree. Plumbing first. A steam room would be simply delightful.

o Turkish bath. Absolutely. And a sauna.

o It’s as if she’s reading my mind.

• New windows.

o Possible. Might be a problem. Need to talk to the National Trust people. Should be able to manage as long as we follow their guidelines.

• Hire a proper staff.

o And why not?

• Get the stables up to date with proper heating and such.

o Could we get a few horses?

o Of course. She knows someone that’s very good with horses. She’ll talk to him when the time is right.

• Open up the house. Get the covers off the furniture.

o We couldn’t do it soon enough.

o A party would be nice.

o Yes. A big party.

• What are my thoughts on a swimming pool? Directly out the back. Between the terrace and the sea?

o I love this idea. In fact I think there are plans somewhere for a swimming pool that was going to be installed then that whole nasty business with the Nazis and Hitler put the kibosh on it.

o How annoying.

o Isn’t it just?

• The heating. That should have been on the top of the list. The heating must be seen to.

o Without a moment’s hesitation.

She loves these plans. This sort of nonsensical dreamy talk takes me out of my world filled with tax bills, busted radiators and dying mummy to another world. One in which Olga cuddles me and talks about what the world should be like rather than what it is.

In a practical sense I understand that I have house guests. But in a more practical sense I know that Elon is family, Renata is a pain in my ass, and Mrs. Gresham will keep her on a leash. Elon will also have informed Mrs. Gresham that I have spoken to my mother. No one will bother us until we chose to emerge from my sanctuary.

We are allowed privacy which we use to watch the other two Indiana Jones movies and a few episodes of Young Indiana Jones. Other dreams are woven during this time. A trip to Egypt and a town house in London. I could get lost in this. Snuggling under the covers with the fireplace throwing off heat as Olga fondles me gently to a climax more than once is the perfect way to ignore my troubles.

Unfortunately the dinner gong won’t allow me to continue to live in ignorant bliss.

We’ve hidden ourselves away the whole afternoon. Time to be gracious.

Olga nods. Yes. We have to be polite to our guests. Even if she doesn’t really have a good feeling about that Renata.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Long Room

Wold Hall has a main dining room. It’s called the Long Room. It’s a long rectangle that is notably narrow with French doors the long side. On a rare warm evening, the doors to the Long Room and the doors to the Ball Room can be opened on to the terrace. There is space for a band on the terrace and a room for a dance floor. It all comes together beautifully for a party. The last time the room had been used, was for my parents twenty-fifth anniversary. My grandparents were still alive. We’d just received an injection of cash from the movie studio that had used the grounds and the house for filming one of those embarrassingly inaccurate Regency period dramas. Someone please tell me how many times a Jane Austen novel can be turned into a movie? How many?

Anyhow…

What do we Adairs do when we have a windfall? Do we get the hot water sorted out? Do we modernize the electricity? Heavens No! We throw a party! God I love my family! This is why everyone used to love the Adairs. This is probably why a lot of my foolishness has been readily forgiven. There is an historical expectation that there is always one or two amongst us that is disreputable. We Adairs have a reputation for being a good time.

This is why Uncle Albert is such a crushing bore.

But again, this goes along with tradition. The eldest son and future earl is the fun one. The other sons are the responsible ones. I am still annoyed with my parents that I’m an only child. If only I had a younger brother to drive bananas my life would be fully complete.

The last party we had in the dining room was mum and dad’s anniversary. Twenty-five years. I resented their happiness because I was never really a part of it. They were one of those couples who loved each other best – then there was me. The afterthought. The thing dad needed to produce to make his dad happy and to annoy his brother. The focus of their love was always each other.

I understand that it’s very cool to proclaim to love only your spouse passionately then to write an article or a blog post about the glory of selfishness expounding that the best thing a parent can do for their child is to show them what true love looks like from up-close. Bullshit. The truth is, being a child of one of those couples’ burns. My parents adored each other. Then me. Sort of. I’m pleased they were so close. I want that kind of love with my own wife. But not to the detriment of my child.

I digress into my own childishness again. I really need to get over this. I really do.

The night of their anniversary party was simply grand. Their anniversary had actually passed and by the sort of coincidence they only noticed until it was too late to do anything about it the party had been planned the day of my twenty-fifth birthday. My birthday was always one of those things we as a family kept quiet. Because my mother was three months pregnant with me when they got married. So – as logic would dictate – instead of focusing on not focusing on their anniversary (which was by default far more important than my birthday) my birthday was always quiet.

I seriously need to start working on getting over this.

The doors were open, there was very little breeze, there were fairy lights, music, candles, food, booze, flowers, presents, friends, family, and a general sense of joy. Everyone envied my parents. Such a beautiful couple still so very in love after twenty-five years.

I hum Happy Fucking Birthday to Me as I wander around snatching canapés off of trays and drinking champagne out of a bottle. My girlfriend at the time was an Icelandic model that spent her time either binging or purging. Or snorting lines of coke. Fantastic. I was delighted she was in Bali for work. A sure sign our relationship was over.

Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy were guests. Aunt Lucy looked uncomfortable in mum’s dress. Aunt Lucy was every bit as lovely as mum. Just not as beautiful. Perhaps if she hadn’t spent her girlish years sharing a bedroom with mum who outshone the sun itself, she might have felt more confident. Uncle Harvey looked regal in the purple satin rezhvolke jacket accented perfectly with velvet trim he’d proudly purchased at Oxfam for a pound. I will say that the orange fez with white tassel was a fetching touch.

They brought something for me. Something special. Mrs. Gresham left it in the China Room.

We three go together.

In the moonlit China Room is a woman.

She’s standing at the window looking out in the direction of the terrace. Early thirties. Pretty enough, but no model. Neither tall nor short. A bit chubby in a Renee Zellweger Bridget Jones Diary way, but again my point of reference for what a woman should look like is an Icelandic anorexic with a drug problem. In the real world where real women live, she was truly average. But I didn’t live in that world. My world was made up of models and other assorted beautiful people.

She’s wearing an empire cut gown studded with pearls and elbow length gloves that make her lovelier than she will ever realize.

The gloves, the rounded figure, the dress popular circa 1810 and the hair make me think she’s a ghost. I’ve grown up in Wold Hall. Ghosts are common as leaky roofs in a rainstorm.

Aunt Lucy turns on the light. She’s still there. Not a ghost.

They got me a woman? I smile at the woman who looks embarrassed that she’s been caught alone in the moonlit room while the party was happening elsewhere.

She tries to bolt in the most polite and ladylike way possible.

A vision in Egyptian blue – Uncle Harvey being Uncle Harvey stops her from fleeing – how fetching she is. Someone that has the same sense of style and joie de vivre he has. He finds parties boorish too. All of those people trying so desperately hard to look marvelous and gay when really they would all rather be home with a can of lager and a dish of chips.

The woman smiles. She has a pretty smile. Nice teeth. Expensive orthodontia. Possible rhinoplasty.

I know her. She’s Cousin Margaret’s friend. The one with the laughably thick Scottish accent. The one whose father had a worldwide chicken burger empire. Classy.

She’s very sorry. She resumes edging around the room to the door.

Why is she sorry? What is she doing in here?

Nothing. Nothing at all. Just wandered in when looking for the ladies room. It’s a lovely room. Nice and peaceful. She’s very sorry.

Stay – Uncle Harvey practically grabs her arm and pulls her back before she can make it out the door. We have a surprise.

During this Aunt Lucy has placed her plastic domed Tupperware cake carrier on the table. It’s my granny’s recipe. Just like I like it. With the Smarties crushed up and mixed into the buttercream. Happy Birthday 25 Ollie is written out in bright blue frosting across the top. There are candles already in place. Twenty-five and one to grow on.

The woman stays rather than fight against the pull of Aunt Lucy’s madeira cake with Smarties.

The three sing. I blow out my candles. The only thing we’re missing is orange squash. Finally it really feels like my birthday.

The cake is perfect. Just like I remember it. How many birthdays did I spend with my grandparents or my aunt Lucy and not my parents? Practically all of them I think. In fact, I can’t recall one birthday spent with my parents on my actual birthday. That’s the problem with my birthday falling during the final week in May. It generally meant a choice had to be made between being with me or being in Cannes with all of their fabulous friends for the parties surrounding the film festival. No contest. I have a birthday every year – The Cannes Film Festival comes around well… every year. But surely even a child can understand that the yacht parties are simply unmissable. Those are once in a lifetime. Those memories last forever. Sort of like my anger at all of the missed birthdays.

After twenty minutes, the party is over. Mum’s found us.

Why are we all locked away in the China Room during her anniversary party?

It’s my birthday. There’s cake.

It’s not my birthday. My birthday isn’t for a week.

No really. It’s my birthday. I could show her my passport if she’d like.

It takes her a moment then she realizes I’m right. It’s really my birthday.

Why didn’t I say anything sooner?

What could I have possibly said? And why for that matter? Would it have changed anything? Would her magical twenty-fifth anniversary party suddenly incorporate my birthday? She set the date. Not me. That she’s been planning this party for as long as she has and never realized it was on the same day as my birthday is telling.

Well… Why do I do this? Why do I wait until the very possibly worst moment to try to ruin her party? She was having such a lovely evening and now this.

I haven’t done anything.

Uncle Harvey interjects at this point. Martina – stop being such a spoiled bitch. It’s not like they had the cake brought out and the band play Happy Birthday.

She doesn’t understand why this couldn’t have waited until the next day.

Because today is my birthday. Not tomorrow. Not in two weeks. I’m sorry if I ruined her party.

I didn’t ruin her party. Just… Just finish up and get back out before anyone knows I’m missing.

She leaves. Uncle Harvey, Aunt Lucy, and the woman in the blue dress leave a minute later.

I turn the light off. There is enough ambient light coming in from the moon and the party lights. I take another slice of my cake and go to the window. That cake is perfect. I couldn’t have asked for more. Except for my parents to have remembered it was my birthday.

The door opens and my father enters.

He turns on the light.

I tell him to turn it off.

He turns off the light.

What would I tell him if I could go back in time? Three years to the day you’re going to step in front of a bus on your way to meet me for dinner. I’m going to think you forgot which is odd because you never forget and you were never late after we started to make peace. Then I’ll get a call telling me you’re dead. What would I tell him? Stay home on my twenty-eighth birthday. We’ll do it another day.

He’s sorry. He forgot too. Mum’s pretty upset.

Because I’ve ruined her party? Uncle Harvey and Aunt Lucy have done nothing wrong. We very quietly slipped away and had some cake. This is not a crime.

She’s upset because she didn’t realize it was my birthday.

This has nothing to do with me. I have done nothing. What does he want?

I really should have said something. I’m not the only person out in that room that probably realizes it’s my birthday and there has been no mention of it.

So I’m making them look bad? (this makes me laugh loudly) Here’s a revelation for them. There isn’t a person out in that room that knows our family well that isn’t aware of the fact they are terrible parents.

Is that really what I think?

How about he have a good long think about it while the two of them are enjoying their three months in the rented villa in Tuscany for what is being called the ultimate second honeymoon. I’m going to give him something to ponder before the conversation ends. This is the first time since I was born that we’ve been together on my birthday.

That can’t be right.

Prove me wrong.

He can’t.

I know.

I really do hate them don’t I? It’s not just teenage angst anymore, is it?

Yes. I really do hate them. Couple of fucking spoiled children. The only reason I’m there is because it was easier to come then to not come. I’d much rather be in Bali with my girlfriend (lie).

He’s sorry. Why don’t I come with them to Tuscany?

Why would I want to do that?

Family trip.

Is he joking? I’m twenty-four – correction, twenty-five years old. Since when am I included on their holidays?

He’s trying. I need to meet him part of the way.

Actually I don’t.

It’s not too late.

It’s been too late for a long time. This is not what I wanted. Not even a little. I’m sorry Aunt Lucy brought a cake for me. I wish she hadn’t. I’m sorry mum’s unhappy. Again, not what I wanted. My life is infinitely easier when I’m being ignored rather than a source of distress. Proof I’ve grown up. I no longer enjoy causing trouble to get their attention. What does he want me to do to make the situation better?

Just come out. Enjoy the rest of the evening. Think about joining them in Tuscany…

Has he mentioned my joining them in Tuscany to mum?

No. But we should do something as a family. She’ll see that he’s right.

I’m sure she will. Have a conversation with her. If she comes to me and tells me nothing would make her happier than me joining them in Tuscany, then I’ll actually consider it. I’m going to have some more cake. I’ll be out in a few minutes. I need a minute for myself.

It’s almost time for the toast.

Yes. (I pat my jacket pocket where the speech he wrote for me is tucked away) I am all ready. Unless he’d rather someone else entreat the guests to raise a glass to the happiest couple in all of England.

He did put that in the speech didn’t he?

Yes.

Would I rather someone else gives the toast?

I really could care less. If it fits in with their deluded fantasy to have me toast to their love and joy, then I’ll do it.

He’s sorry.

Okay. I forgive him? Is that what he wants to hear?

Promise him we’ll have dinner when he gets back from Tuscany.

Sure. We can have dinner when he gets back from Tuscany. He’s got my number. He can call me.

He hugs me. I want to feel some emotional breakthrough, but I only feel uncomfortable. I wonder if he’s having some kind of mid-life crises. Is this what happens when one turns fifty? Do we take stock of our lives and realize how profound our failures are? That there is a point of no return with some relationships. Sort of like that moment when we know we won’t be an Olympic athlete or win an Oscar?

I don’t know what is going on with him, but I’m certain that he will not pursue that dinner date. I’d actually go to Tuscany with them if mum agreed to it just to see what happened. My guess based on past experience – we’d last a day before a falling out.

I’m left alone in the China Room. Not a minute later, the door opens again. If it’s mum coming to ask me to go to Tuscany I might actually cry. But it’s not. It’s the Scottish woman in the Jane Austin dress.

She’s really sorry. She forgot her bag. She didn’t want to come in while I was talking with my father. She’s very sorry. She hopes I still have a very happy birthday.

I watch her as she edges around the room. Twice she thumps a leg in the moonlit room. She apologizes to me each time. She’s so very sorry. She just can’t seem to find her bag.

It’s on the window ledge in front of me. I hold it up.

She takes the bag from me. Gives it a tug, but I don’t let it go. She’s very sorry.

I hold the bag and refuse to let it go. Why is she sorry?

She won’t look at me. I don’t know if I intimidate her or she’s embarrassed for me. I’d be embarrassed for me if I had to witness the scene with my mother and I wasn’t part of the family.

I like her dress.

Really? It seemed like a good idea when she picked it out. She figured castle. Party. Maybe she’s read too many Jane Austen novels.

I like her dress. It’s pretty.

She’s not my type. Not even a little. She knows this. I’m me. I’m Ollie Adair. But there is something wholesome and comforting about this girl in her anachronistic dress. She is what most of the women I know are not. She’s kind. She says sorry. She eats cake.

I’m the worst thing that could happen to her. I’m not kind. I’m spoiled and selfish. I’m emotionally immature and angry.

So what do I do? I kiss this rather average woman in the moonlight. It’s like magic. I will her to fall in love with me, but I’m the one that falls. We neck in the moonlight until right before midnight when I’m required to give my toast. She smudges her lipstick off my cheek, fixes my tie. Thanks me for the kiss. It was sweet. I’m sweet.

No one ever tells me I’m sweet.

How many people get to see this side of me?

Not to brag, but I don’t exactly have a problem attracting female attention.

Of this she has no doubt. The vulnerable side. That’s sweet. When my guard is down. When I’m not working really hard to prove to the world I just don’t care about a thing.

Am I that transparent?

Only for a very brief moment and she was the only witness. My secret is safe with her.

I kiss her again. I take her hand. We return to the terrace together. She disappears into the crowd.

I give my toast.

My father makes a speech. It’s not the original speech I had to listen to him rehearse and provide a critique for. Although he still expounds on the pure loveliness of my mother in such a way I half expect a trio of angry Greek goddesses to arrive on the spot and demand reparations for being so insulted by comparison to a mere mortal woman, there is a footnote. Mention is made of it being my twenty-fifth birthday.

I appreciate the gesture. Truthfully would have been better just letting it be. It’s only a small percentage of the people at the party that know it’s my birthday before he makes the announcement. Only a small percentage of the people think he and my mother and a couple of ass-holes for planning their anniversary party on my birthday. After he makes the announcement everyone at the party thinks there is something a bit wrong with what they’ve done. There’s no room on the dessert table next to the enormous wedding cake they have for themselves. This is their party and their party alone.

I’m grateful for the gloved hand on my arm that seems to know during dad’s speech that I would rather not be standing alone even though this is what I want the world to think.

The awkward eternity of dad’s speech ends with a lot of very polite clapping.

To everyone’s relief, the music starts again.

We dance. We talk. I ask her if she wants to go to my bedroom and see my wooden sailboats.

She laughs at me. Sailboats? Really?

I kiss her on the cheek. I whisper in her ear. Does she want to come upstairs with me or not?

I take her to bed that night.

She’s shy which I found odd and sweet. She insists we keep the lights off.

More than once she mentions the fact she’s eight years older than me and she feels a bit like she’s robbing the cradle. But I am absolutely adorable. And if she’s going to have a one night stand, it might as well be with someone she’d never sleep with otherwise.

In the morning when I wake she’s gone.

I double check with Margaret who I find in the China Room along with ten other guests having breakfast that her Scottish friend is the chicken burger princess.

Chicken burger princess? I did not sleep with her friend, did I?

I might have.

I’m incorrigible.

My new friend walks into the China Room. She looks at me. The soft brown hair I enjoyed releasing from the pins hangs around her shoulders and the calf-brown eyes give me a look I’ve never seen on a woman’s face the morning after a night of my superior loving. That what the hell was I thinking? look.

Margaret rolls her eyes and sighs.

She sits. The only open seat in the room is by me.

I kiss her cheek. I take her hand under the table. I have no idea what I’m doing. This woman is not my type at all. Besides the fact she’s eight years older than me, she’s so normal. She’s wearing a sweater set and pearls and a kick pleat skirt. Do women dress like this anymore? Or is this another assumption like the one that put her in the Regency era empire cut gown for the party? Has she been reading too much Evelyn Waugh? She is not my type on any level. But she was so sweet and kind when I needed it that I find her oddly irresistible at that moment.

Apple blushes appear on her cheeks. She’s adorable in her own way.

After breakfast how would she like to go and see my sailboat?

She laughs loudly. Then she leans over and whispers in my ear. Are we talking about a real sailboat, one of my model sailboats, or is that a euphemism for my penis?

That would be a euphemism for my penis. I don’t own a real sailboat and she’s already seen my model sailboats.

We slip away after breakfast and spend the morning in my bed. After lunch we show our faces. Horses scare her, so we go walking along the cliffs that afternoon.

That evening as the guests are assembling for cocktail hour mum asks me if I’m going to Tuscany with her and dad. I laugh at her. She’s not serious, is she? Did dad put her up to this? I know perfectly well neither of them wants me around.

We spend a second night together then a third. When the weekend is over, I drive her home to Inverness. The ten hour drive takes four days as we meander from place to place. As much as an arrogant self-absorbed little prick can, I fall in love with her in those days.

Her father despises me instantly. A fact that will never change. He thinks the only thing that interests me about his only child is his money. They almost fall out over me. She doesn’t need his money. She does very well running the North American division of his vast chicken burger empire. If he wants to fire her, he can. She could get another job probably working for a competitor. Eventually he accepts that I’m not going anywhere so he’d better learn to stomach me if not like me.

She takes two weeks off for a long overdue holiday. We go to the British Virgin Islands where her father has an estate. I know I have fallen in to the best thing that will ever happen to me when she gives me a sailboat as a belated birthday present.

My grandparents are thrilled. They couldn’t be more delighted. We can’t get married soon enough. In fact, why do we have to wait? There is no reason we can’t get married sooner rather than later. She is charming, kind and warm. Just what I need to balance me out. She’ll make an excellent countess. We are absolutely perfectly suited. Not since my great-grandfather married an American heiress have we had a new injection of cash into the family coffers. It’s long overdue.

My parents aren’t allowed to have an opinion.

I enjoy life when she’s at work. She travels extensively. Being the crown princess of a chicken burger empire is hard work. I’m technically in a relationship but I’m wholly on my own in London to do whatever the hell I want to do when she’s gone. And I do whatever the hell I want to do. With a variety of people. Openly. Without apology.

She has an apartment in London which I move into without a moment’s hesitation.

My father starts badgering me into joining him for dinners, lunches, and teas. I go because it’s easier than coming up with fresh excuses to avoid him.

Our first Christmas together we get engaged. Everyone knew it was coming so it’s just a formality, but a nice one. She wears my great-grandmother’s (the American heiress) diamond engagement ring.

The wedding is planned for the following summer.

She goes to Beijing to oversee the expansion of the chicken burger empire. I have absolutely no interest in joining her, but I visit often enough to keep her happy.

The wedding is called off when my grandmother dies suddenly of a stroke.

It’s back on again after a few months.

Then my grandfather dies because he really can’t cope without my grandmother. No one says this, but we all know it.

I meet a princess during all of this. A beautiful Swedish princess with hair like gold. She’s neither kind nor warm. In fact, she’s a touch mean. She makes me work like a bitch for her love. But I love her. I love her so much I would do anything to be with her. The only problem is that she’s married.

Someone rats us out. Not that we were being particularly stealthy. But still… I’m ready to break off my engagement with my fiancée. I’m bored being with a woman that works all the bloody time, bitches about her weight incessantly, and hates going to clubs. I only need for my princess to tell her husband that she’s leaving him. But she doesn’t. Instead she tells me that it’s over. Did I honestly think it was going to last?

My fiancée doesn’t want to discuss it. She just doesn’t want to know. She just wants me to grow up and start acting like a man and not a spoiled boy. I’ve lost my grandmother and my grandfather. The tabloids smash her for being a doormat. They’re kind of right.

We agree that the wedding should go forward for September as planned.

We move the venue from Scotland to England.

We’ll get married at Wold hall.

She orders a complete overhaul of the place. The workmen have eight months. They practically gut the wiring and the plumbing in a day in order to put it back together again over a period of no less than four months according to their estimates. The place was being held together by little more than bits of wire and duct tape as it was. We suddenly are left without hotwater or heating. The Greshams, the only permanent employees remaining on the estate, move into the garden house and I take up permanent residence in London.

My fiancée returns to work.

This is good. I’m heartbroken. I need some time for myself. I travel. Wherever I go there is the same Saudi Princess that had dogged my steps in London for a year.

I let her catch me. The surest way for a woman to get bored with me is to let her have me.

Not even a night of infidelity. Just a few hours. I’ve had enough. I’m ready to settle down into my boring life and get married. I’ve had a taste of real love and I know we don’t have that. But we have comfort and familiarity. We’re friends. We’ll make a good team. She’ll be an excellent mother. Kind, warm, and loving. She will be good to me. I’ll be good to her. I can’t promise I’ll be faithful, but I’ll be good.

I don’t know there are cameras aimed at me and the Saudi Princess until I return to London.

This is the bridge too far.

She’s a good person. For three years she’s put up with my shit. My constant infidelities. My lies. My broken promises. Three years she’s wasted on me. All she wanted was to get married and have children. She loved me from the first moment she saw me. Why couldn’t I just give her a little back? Why couldn’t I have just given her a couple of years of just being with her?

I am a changed man one mistake too late.

She ends it with me.

I don’t know if this is such a terrible thing.

Then her father goes after me with a sort of preternatural fervor that would make a grand inquisitor proud. She moves to Beijing to oversee the expansion of the chicken burger empire.

I have nothing. I personally own nothing.

He can’t touch me. He can sling all the lawyers he wants to at me. He can try to get me to pay for the canceled wedding. He’ll walk away with handfuls of dust.

My father inherited everything when my grandfather died. The only thing I own is my sailboat which is waiting for me back in Tortola.

As much of an arse it is, we’re going to finish the repairs on Wold Hall. Truthfully it had to be done and my Former Fiancée’s father paid for the miles of pipes and wires being stored in the ballroom. We might get lucky. There have been a few film crews sniffing around. We might be able to rent the place out again for some nice coinage.

Then my father dies. I have something my Former Fiancée’s father can go after. Wold Hall.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dinner in the Long Room

It is on this night that I have returned home with Olga, Elon and Renata have appeared, and I’ve discovered my mother is dying, that something special happens.

We come down for dinner and are told by Mrs. Gresham who is in a smart dress and pearls under her pinny to go put on proper dinner clothes. We’re dining in the Long Room. She’s made roast lamb. Just like I like it with the little potatoes.

We’re dining in the Long Room?

Yes. We’re dining in the Long Room. She’s already put out the good china and crystal. Mr. Gresham’s lit the fire and the candles. It’s been too long since there have been guests. I’ve never had guests in the house since I’ve become earl. My first dinner party should at least be on the good plates.

Olga loves this idea. She loves this. She knew she was right to bring a cocktail dress. She kisses Mrs. Gresham on the cheek then runs off.

Mrs. Gresham avoids my smirking stare. She’s up to something.

She is not.

She is so. What is she up to?

Nothing. Just making Olga feel welcome.

Any particular reason why?

Do we need a reason to make our lovely guest feel welcome?

She’s up to something.

Not at all. Suit and tie. Elon’s already digging through dad’s old things and she gave Renata one of my mother’s dresses. Not that she isn’t refusing to wear it. But none the less, she has something proper if she chooses to be anything other than a pain in the ass.

I return to my rooms, change into the suit and tie Olga has set out for me in less than five minutes, then watch her as she transforms herself into a vision of loveliness.

We walk together holding hands through the house to the Long Room. Mr. Gresham is there in suit and tie with Elon who is pouring drinks. Renata enters carrying a bread basket which is placed on the table with a petulant thump, followed by a laden down Mrs. Gresham.

Olga asks if she can help.

Mrs. Gresham glares at Renata for a moment then smiles at Olga. That would be very kind.

Renata is wearing the same frumpy gypsy skirt and tie-dye tank with thread bare sweater she showed up in earlier.

Lovely to see she made such an effort.

Why should she act like a pretentious twat to impress the pole dancer?

Olga is not a pole dancer. Please try to act like she has manners.

She looks like a pole dancer. Where did I meet her anyway?

I don’t have a quick enough answer.

Didn’t I meet her at my new job? Mr. Gresham hands me a drink. Mrs. Gresham told him I’d found a job. Well done.

You met her at your new job? Renata is beside herself with laughter.

Elon takes her by the elbow.

He needs a smoke. Now.

He drags the howling Renata out on to the terrace.

I swallow down the good scotch in a gulp. Mr. Gresham refills my glass. Olga is a lovely girl.

Olga and Mrs. Gresham return with the first course.

I get to sit at the head of the table in the Long Room for the first time. It feels good. I toast my guests. I thank them for their company. I thank Mrs. Gresham for preparing dinner for us. Renata mumbles something about it being odd that the cook is sitting down to dinner with her betters. We all ignore this except for Olga who doesn’t know yet not to pay attention to Renata.

We eat.

Renata continues to poke and prod at Olga.

Olga continues to engage Mr. Gresham in stories about his childhood at Wold Hall, what it was like years ago, and in speculation about what it must have been like when his father and his grandfather before him was the butler. How grand it all must have been. And the parties.

He has albums of pictures she can look at. In fact there are trunks of the old livery up in the attic. They could go upstairs and have a poke around.

She’d like this very much.

Renata finds all of this very boring. She wants to know all about my new job.

Mr. Gresham would also like to know all about my new job.

Olga is smoother and more practiced at answering the potentially awkward questions. So she does.

Renata is like a grand inquisitor. She’s relentless.

Then comes the question.

Are you a whore?

Olga is speechless. I’m speechless. Mr. Gresham looks confused. Mrs. Gresham is appalled. Only Elon has the capacity to say a word. That word being SILENCE.

Renata is relentless. What is the problem? It’s a legitimate question. She has no problem with prostitution. In fact she thinks it’s marvelous Olga makes men pay cash to fuck her. If only she had so much business savvy.

Olga looks as if she’s been slapped.

Elon deals with Renata. He is the only one that I have ever met that can get through to her when she’s being purposefully malicious and painfully ignorant.

Renata refuses to hear.

She cannot understand what the problem is.

She attempts to engage Olga as if the two will join up together in solidarity.

Is Olga a whore or not?

There is a lot of dancing about the real nature of what it is Olga and I do for money.

She’d just like a straight answer.

If she is a whore then why is she so ashamed of being a whore that she refuses to admit she’s a whore?

If one is going to be a whore one should not be ashamed of making that choice.

Unless of course she’s being forced by a pimp.

Is that the problem?

Does Olga have a pimp?

Renata is suddenly all doe eyed and round mouthed.

Oh dear – is Olga the victim of a white slaver? Is she being held captive by a pimp? Should someone call Amnesty International? Or Unicef?

Unicef is for children. This is the only thing I seem able to say.

So what is it? Renata persists. Because if Olga is ashamed of being a whore…

Then it comes. Olga’s arm snakes out and her hand smacks Renata across the face with enough force to knock her off her chair.

Renata laughs as she holds pulls herself up off of the ground.

She knew it! She totally knew Olga was a whore. Had to be. All Russian girls living in London are prostitutes.

Renata should consider herself very lucky that she’s pregnant. This is Olga’s response.

Renata is silent. There is no immediate and clever retort.

If she weren’t pregnant she’d be getting her ass beat.

Elon chuckles. He told Renata she was looking chubby.

She’s not chubby!

Then shit really gets real.

Renata screams at Olga. Feral shouts that are practically indecipherable. What comes through is worrying until I do some mental maths.

She’s pregnant.

How the fuck does Olga know?

She’s psychic. She always knows when a woman is pregnant. It’s her gift.

Bullshit. How does she know?

She’s psychic.

I silently recalculate. Not my baby. Not physically possible. I’m in the clear without a doubt.

Mr. Gresham turns to the outraged Renata. He raises a hand. She is to be silent. Immediately.

She starts chirping with outrage. She stands up to Mr. Gresham. He really needs to learn his place. After all, he’s just a servant.

Mr. Gresham looks at me.

I blink, my mouth moves, I’m quite literally speechless.

Olga walks out of the room followed by the Greshams.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Baby Daddy

Renata looks as close to humbled as I’ve ever seen her.

The three of us are alone in the dining room.

I’m absolutely certain I am not the father of her child. There is a question mark hanging in the air of whether or not I am the father of my princess’s child, but I strongly suspect I’ll never know the answer to that question. I’m not even certain I want to know. I probably don’t.

So… I smile as I look at Renata. Who’s the baby daddy?

She looks at me, bats her eyelashes, produces a few tears, then tells me I’m the father of her child.

I laugh. How did I know this was coming? How did I know?

I’m not the father.

Yes – I am.

She’s crying big tears and it somehow makes her look vulnerable – I’m momentarily transported back to our days as undergraduates living in Dublin. It was that vulnerability that kept sucking me back in.

(n.b. My desire to rescue her from her life has all sorts of implications relating to my own issues with my family that were eventually resolved through many sessions of therapy. For four years we were part of a group of English students that were drawn together by virtue of the fact we were all strangers in a land that wasn’t always friendly to us by virtue of the fact we were English. She was my girlfriend for three of those years and one beyond. Talk about the voyage of the damned.)

For the first time since I met Renata during orientation week, I pull back. This is not my problem. My problem is upstairs in my bedroom either slashing the cushions with a knife or crying. Neither is good. So my attention is focused on dealing with what I shall now refer to forever as the Renata Problem.

I am not the father of the child. I can’t be.

But I am.

To put it as bluntly as I can, I put it as bluntly as I can. I have not ejaculated into her vagina in no less than a year. There is no physical way I am the father of her child. Unless she raped me in my sleep, then I’m in the clear.

How soon I forget.

What have I forgotten? I have forgotten nothing.

That night the three of us went clubbing? Ended up back at Elon’s?

OHHHH – Yeah. Of course.

So. (the smile through the tears was annoying smug) I’m the father of her child.

Not. I hadn’t forgotten. As being blunt is the only way to go at that moment, I’m blunt. I had her up the arse.

But…

Yes – butt. I laugh at my own joke. I’m not the father and she isn’t going to convince me that I am. If she wants we can DNA test.

Elon interjects at this moment. Why are we even discussing the fetus as if this is inevitable? He’s very confused. Why hasn’t she gotten an abortion yet? Clearly she is incapable of raising a child. Anyone as dysfunctional as she is cannot raise a child. It’s not like it’ll be the first time she’s had an abortion.

I snort as I laugh. Just so we’re clear, I’m not paying for this one. She can get it through the NHS.

Elon will pay for it. Problem solved.

Problem not solved. It’s too late to have an abortion.

I raise a hand. We need to back this train up. How could she assume I was the father of her child if she is already far enough along for it to be too late to have an abortion? Because that night at the club was just a couple of months ago. Unless the law has changed she has twenty-four weeks.

About that…

Never mind. I just don’t want to know. Who is the father? Really. No bullshitting. How many names are on the list? Should I fetch a pen and paper?

Elon tells me to leave. I’m no longer needed for the conversation to continue.

I couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Olga the Psychic

At the door to my rooms, I pause, place my ear to the door and hear nothing. No crockery slamming against the walls. No screaming. Just silence.

I tiptoe inside, slowly close and lock the door behind me. Olga is in the bedroom in her hoodie robe and pajamas, propped up in bed, with her book opened on her bent knees.

Am I the father of that child?

No.

Am I absolutely certain?

Yes. Physically impossible. How the hell did she know Renata was pregnant?

She’s psychic.

I stop midway from pulling my jumper off over my head. Psychic.

Yes. She’s psychic. All of the women in her family have the eye. She always knows when a woman is pregnant. Renata is going to have a girl. She’ll stake her reputation on it.

Her reputation as a psychic?

Yes.

Because she’s a psychic.

Yes. Am I really going to leave my dirty clothes on the floor?

I’ll tidy up in the morning. What does my future hold?

That all depends on whether or not I pick my dirty clothes up from the floor.

I pick my clothes up from the floor and dump them on a chair.

Happy?

Yes.

Am I going to have a happy ending? I could use some good news. It’s been a rough day.

She smiles at me and again I have this feeling everything wouldn’t dare to be anything but okay with her around. Of course there will be a happy ending.

If she’s so psychic how could she not know I wasn’t the father of Renata’s child?

Renata’s energy is toxic. It’s hard to look at her. She really should not have a child.

No shit.

She reaches over and pulls me to her. I’m given a hug. Warm, strong arms, hold me and make me feel safe and wanted.

Then her hands start moving over my body. The underwear I’d come to bed in is discarded like a greasy chip wrapper. I try to get inside her pajamas, but I’m stopped at the boobs. I can touch the boobs. Nothing else. There are kisses which evolve from sweet to passionate.

I feel my body and soul gently curving around Olga’s little finger. How well she knows me already. That little finger she so completely wrapped me around starts inching and moving.

I wish I could pay attention to her technique when her mouth starts working me. She does this thing… It’s sort of a suck, twirl, push/pull, throb, flutter. I need to learn this. But I can’t pay attention. That’s the beauty of the technique. It fully pulls your mind away from any other thoughts than this wonderful thing is being done to me by this beautiful woman.

Add to that the probing finger and I have found heaven. Sexual Heaven.

Again – I would pay for this. But I don’t have to. If I were willing to give up everything that mattered to me, I’d never have to pay for it. Tempting.

I’m not dumb. I get it. Olga is in to me. I’m in to her. If I had the freedom to just fall into that swimming pool of emotions with her, I probably would.

Hand up – I’m vulnerable. Very little would offer me as much comfort as having a loving girlfriend at this moment. Especially one that really knows how to give a blow.

I let my body sink into the pillows as Olga draws all my cares out of my body with that beautiful mouth of hers.

When I’m done and in a state of absolute carefree bliss, she leans over me and brushes her fingers through my hair.

Did I like that?

Absolutely I liked that.

Good. She likes to see me smile.

My whole body is smiling.

Good. She needs me to do something for her now.

Anything.

I’m to get rid of Renata in the morning. That or I need to take her to the train station so she can leave. Either way, the choice is mine. (Her fingertips are stroking my stomach at this moment – I’m not dumb, I know I’m being played and I don’t care.) But she’s not spending another night with that woman’s toxic energy polluting up her chi.

Whatever she wants she can have. I’ll give her the moon. I’ll get rid of Renata. With pleasure. It’s time to draw a line under that relationship once and for all. Renata and her unborn child will never be my problem. I have enough problems. None of which really matter as I slip into a deep endorphin induced sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The First Catch

I don’t know what happened during the night between Elon and Renata and I don’t want to know. There are some things best left a mystery. I’ve fought with Renata. I’ve been the focal point around which the concentrated power of Renata’s craziness has coalesced. I don’t envy Elon. What I do know is that Olga woke me before dawn so she could get to the horses and instructed me to dispatch Renata before she returned for lunch.

Breakfast for me was in the China Room with Elon. Mrs. Gresham had kindly set everything out including the carafe of coffee and hot water for tea. I have a feeling Olga might be behind using the China Room. It seems like the sort of thing she’d find fancy. Do I tell her that women would have taken their breakfast in their rooms? Probably not. Let her enjoy it while it lasts.

Renata slept in the room the two of them shared the previous night. He’s pretty sure he’s the father of her fetus. Not baby, child, or bundle of joy. The fetus. She could technically still have an abortion, but she’s past the fourteen week mark and refuses. At least refused. He’s pretty well certain he’s talked her into it. Even she isn’t too dim to see what a mistake it would be for her to bring a child into the world.

This is all good. This is all very good. I tell him about the archaeologists.

Bastards. But who can blame them considering what it takes to get funding? Not that he’s defending them, but it makes sense they’d be that desperate.

Will he go and poke around?

Sounds like his sort of treachery.

The door to the breakfast room opens and Renata enters. She’s wearing some sort of hippy turban like she’s been scalped rather than has a chunk removed.

Did I kick that vicious bitch out yet? Because she is just not having it. In case I missed the point, I’m done with Olga. There is to be no more Olga. She’s considering suing for assault. Now what are we going to do about the baby? Should we all move in together? It could be like some wacky sit-com.

Elon literally smacks his fist against his forehead before getting up and just walking out of the room.

What’s his problem?

Did she or did she not tell Elon that she would have an abortion?

She would have told him the moon sparkled because it was diamond encrusted to get him to leave her alone so she could get some sleep. She has no intention of having an abortion. We’re going to raise the baby together. It’ll be fun.

No. No it will not be fun. Nothing could be less fun. I’m going to get married.

Doubtful.

Not doubtful. I’m not going to raise her child for her.

Pay attention. We three will do it together.

Under no circumstance would I raise a child with her and Elon. Wolves would be better parents than the two of them.

I take the coffee out of her hand. No caffeine. No booze. No cigarettes.

Those are myths.

I smack my fist against my forehead. Have an abortion. Please. For all our sakes. Do not bring a child into this world.

No.

I give up before I get drawn in. I will not get involved in this.

I’m already involved.

Nope. Not even a little. She needs to get her stuff packed so I can drive her into town to the train station. She’s going back to London that morning.

No she isn’t. She was planning on staying for the week.

I need her to listen to me very carefully. We are no longer friends. She has come to my home uninvited after having been previously warned she’s not welcome at Wold Hall. In the process of trespassing she has insulted my friend Olga and the Greshams and me in the process. She is not welcome under my roof.

Why am I being such a little bitch?

She’s not welcome in my home or in my life anymore. I’ve had enough. I don’t have time for her tempest of attention seeking anymore. I’ve outgrown it. She needs to make her exit.

Get over myself. I’m not serious.

Yes. I am quite serious.

The usual string of threats come. Honestly, Renata has threatened to kill herself so many times there are moments I just wish she’d make a botched attempt of it so she can truly know whether or not she does want to live. I’m not very Christian about things like the soul. Sometimes there are people in the world that find it too hard to endure. Renata might be one of those people. Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to let her dismiss the life she finds too hard to live at times.

Regardless, I’m not walking through that door again. I will not be drawn into her never ending loop of self-destruction. I’m done. I’m out. She needs to get her stuff. She’s leaving.

Can’t we talk about this?

No. We’re done. My life is going in a new direction and there is no room for her in it.

Because whoring is my new life?

No. I don’t know what that life is, but it doesn’t include her.

Then I do something I rarely do. I go to the wall and tug on the bell pull for the kitchen.

A few minutes later Mrs. Gresham walks in wiping her hands on a towel.

Are we okay? She looks genuinely concerned. No one uses the bells in the house anymore. Not since my grandmother died and the last of the staff slowly drifted away.

Renata is leaving. Would she mind terribly going and fetching her bag? I’m not leaving her unsupervised.

Not a problem at all.

I watch Renata knowing better than to leave her alone in my home, especially in a room lined with shelves of filled china cabinets containing the family dishes.

How well do I know Renata? Well enough to know that when she goes for a meander around the room, she’s really aiming for the china cabinets. What could be more tempting to a psychopath than a room full of breakables when she’s angry? Probably not much.

Before she has a chance to do anything I march her to the main hall. She’s yelling at me the entire time, but I truly don’t recall a word of what she said. Sort of like when a song is playing on repeat over and over again and you simply don’t hear the words anymore.

Mrs. Gresham meets us at the door as Mr. Gresham drives up in Olga’s car.

The three of us angle Renata into the car like a small pack of Collies moving a lone sheep.

She’s worryingly subdued as I drive her directly into Exeter. Better train service to London and less chance she’ll follow me home again.

I buy her ticket and wait with her.

Part of me fears she’s finally broken. Then I remind myself she’s not my problem.

Before she gets on the train, she tells me that we should have gotten married.

I asked. She declined.

We were children.

Twenty-two isn’t exactly children. Besides. Turning me down was the best thing she could have done for me. So thanks for that. (Where would my life be right now if we had gotten married and had that child? I’d have a six year old dogging my steps. That would be nice. I would have to live with Renata. Or not – how realistic is it Renata would have taken off years earlier? Probably pretty high.)

We could still get married. Pass off Elon’s kid as mine.

No thanks.

Olga’s a bitch.

I check my watch. One minute. If we were in Germany where the trains run on time I’d feel relief. As it is, I nearly despair.

Olga is a prostitute.

So am I.

The train pulls in pretty much on time. I stick Renata on it and wait until it’s gone. I don’t know that I’ll never see her again, but I know that I’m done.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bachelorette Number One

When I return from ensuring Renata has been removed from my property, Olga is riding a tall bay shire along the lane. She waves at me and follows me to the drive.

I slide out of the car as she dismounts.

Did I get rid of that vicious bitch?

Yes. Vicious bitch has been dispatched. Where is Elon?

Antagonizing the archaeologists. He keeps touching their stuff. It’s driving them bananas. It was ever so much fun. She's in love. With Elon. He’s her new boyfriend.

Elon is gay.

She’s knows he was my gay boyfriend. Now he’s her gay boyfriend. Maybe we can share him sometime soon. She’d like that. She’s never done that when it wasn’t work related.

He was not my gay boyfriend. I’m not going back to that place with Elon again. If she wants an off the clock three-way find someone else. Just not Elon.

She rolls her eyes. Whatever.

I scratch old Daisy on the nose. I thought she’d been turned into glue or dog food long ago.

How can I say such awful things? Daisy is the new love of her life.

Daisy nuzzles Olga.

Daisy is so sweet and gentle. She's such a big, sweet, baby. They've had a wonderful morning together. They understand each other. Horses understand everything.

I'm getting a picture of young Olga. Tall. Too tall. Taller than all the boys. Sort of a gangly girl that hadn't quite grown into her body. Would rather spend her time with horses than people. Horses don't call her beanpole or promise her that one day when her skin clears up that she'll be a great beauty. Her father's constant string of women are more competition for his affection than she can manage. So she has her horses.

I smile at her. I'm pleased she had a good morning. And best of all... I kiss her cheek - she didn't wake me. At least not for long. I kiss her cheek again. I need to get to the garden. Does she want a ride back from the stable? When does she bring Daisy back?

She bought Daisy. It's all been sorted. Mr. Gresham will let Daisy stay in the stables when she's visiting. If she calls before we leave London, he'll go and pick her up. Poor baby Daisy. Nobody wanted her. But Olga will take care of her.

She bought Daisy.

Of course, she bought Daisy. How could she not buy Daisy? They've bonded.

She bought Daisy.

Why do I keep saying that? It's not like she bought a car or a yacht.

How much?

It's her money. She can spend it however she wants. But she did have to borrow some of my cash. She'll pay me back.

With interest?

She kisses me on the cheek. Of course, with interest. Did I buy oranges and sugar?

Yes.

Good. I don't get a kiss on the cheek. I get one very firm, open mouthed kiss, that contains a fair amount of tongue. Another first. A real kiss in broad daylight for no other reason or purpose than she wanted to kiss me.

She lets me go. She's going to sort out Daisy in the stable, shower, and make marmalade. She's going to learn. Very exciting. She’ll be just like Princess Kitty in Anna Karenina.

I’ve met a few princesses in my time. I’m pretty sure none of them have ever made marmalade. But I don’t mention this. She’s too happy. I wonder what it’s like in her head. Is the world brighter and more joyful? Does she ever think on an existential level about the fact she fucks for a living? Do still waters run deep in Olga? Or is she precisely as she appears to be?

She slides back up on Daisy. I watch the two until they disappear around the corner.

My mobile vibrates in my trousers. I can't believe I have reception. I pull it out and look at the display. The Matchmaker. I debate whether or not to answer. Then I do. The more I can work, the sooner I can retire.

There are never any pleasantries when we're on the phone.

Is Olga with me? She heard a rumor the two of us left together.

Olga is with me. Does she need to talk to her?

Yes. But that's not why she's calling me. She thinks she may have found a wife for me. In fact, this is very promising. Very promising indeed.

I don't want to know this. Not now. Not here.

The woman is the daughter of the man who is very big in oil and gas. Very big. In fact bigger than I can even imagine. He and his wife are looking for a husband for their oldest daughter. The tricky bit is the two younger sisters, twins, have both fallen in love with very acceptable men that get the family stamp of approval. The older girl.... The Matchmaker pauses.

What? Fat? Ugly? Stupid? Fat, ugly, and stupid? How bad is it?

Do I know what a rani is?

Only in the derogatory sense.

That's the sense she means.

So she's a princess. And not a sweet princess, but an evil, demanding, bitchy one? Just the kind of girl that would marry someone because they could make her a countess.

That is what I asked for.

Details please.

The Matchmaker has never met her personally, but her mother says she's a pure delight.

She must be a monster.

Do I care?

I truly wish I did.

I've been invited to meet the mother and some of the women of the family.

When?

Thursday afternoon. Her office.

I wasn’t planning on returning to London before Friday.

Do I want to marry the daughter of a billionaire or not?

Point made. Thursday afternoon in her office. I’ll be there.

Dress like an English lord.

By virtue of the fact I am an English lord, everything I wear is what an English lord would wear.

Stop being a smart ass. It's my least attractive trait. Dress appropriately.

Top hat? Morning dress?

Silence is her answer.

I'll wear a suit and tie.

Fine. What is happening with Olga? Tell her the truth. Are we dating? Fucking? What? Because she needs to know this.

How is it any of her business?

She cares about us. She knows we hit it off, but isn’t it a bit soon for dirty weekends in the countryside?

We're just friends. Olga understands the situation. Please don't say anything to her about The Rani.

Her lips are sealed. How is Olga enjoying country living?

She just bought a horse.

A horse?

A fucking horse.

Well... Horses are nice. If you like things like nature and fresh air. Sounds like we’re having a nice time.

Considering I found out my mother is dying from heart disease, absolutely riffing.

I didn’t know my mother had heart disease?

I take it she knew this?

It was in her file.

I need to have a look at this file.

She’s so very very sorry. Is there anything she can do?

Get me work.

This she can do. In fact, she’s worked it out with the Manager that I’ll be making a brief detour on my way back from Japan in addition to the stop on the way there.

Interesting. Details?

We’ll discuss it when I’m in her office. Not over the phone.

I heard all about Uncle Boris.

The Matchmaker laughs. He's not really Olga's uncle.

I got that. Friend of hers?

The Matchmaker’s brother.

All in the family.

Yes. He's also Olga's father's former business partner.

I take it the split wasn't amicable.

Not even a little. She stayed well out of it. Like Switzerland.

What exactly does Olga's father do?

A little of this. A little of that. Mostly transportation.

Like Jimmy Hoffa? He was in transportation too.

Something like that. Probably best not to ask too many questions.

Can I ask her something personal?

I can always ask.

Did she fuck Bill Clinton?

He was a stallion.