Christmas At Leo's: Memoirs Of A Houseboy

Gillibran Brown

Christmas at Leo’s

Memoirs of a Houseboy

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2014

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Houseboy Works ~ Gillibran Brown

‘Christmas at Leo’s’ does exactly what it says on the cover. It tells the tale of Christmas at Leo’s. In essence, it’s a bridge between the end of ‘Gilliflowers Bonds of Affection’ and pending memoir ‘Revelations.’

Dedicated to houseboy fans everywhere (in double figures at the last count, two does count as a double figure, I believe.) Thank you for your patience.

Table Of Contents:

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Foreword

The Christmas we spent at Leo’s place in 2008 was eventful, though not, you understand, in a Bruce Willis ‘Die Hard’ kind of way. There were no mass explosions, dramatic helicopter crashes or international mastermind terrorist criminals lurking around the Christmas tree. Dick and Shane didn’t don dirty vests and cavort barefoot over broken glass having a motherfucker shoot out with money-grubber baddies. By eventful I mean in a personal sense. There were events, small ones in the great scheme of things, but tough in their own way, for me anyway. So what happened I hear you ask, either that or the paranoid delusions aren’t and people really ARE whispering behind my back.

Excuse me while I have a poke around in my jeans and get something out, and no, it isn’t what you’re thinking. Get your minds out of the gutter. I’m groping in my pocket for my magic glitter. As you may recall from earlier trips down my memory lane, I’m trained and licensed in the art of time travel via the glitter method. This boy doesn’t need a cumbersome Tardis, so take that Dr Who, you sexy time traveller you. Hold tight. Here goes: throws magic dust into the air.

Sprinkle-sprinkle. Glitter-glitter: let us return to December 2008, the morning of the twenty-third to be precise, more or less where Gilliflowers left off. Magic fairy dust, eh! Never leave home without it.

Chapter One - Party Pooper Pepsi

I gazed around the kitchen with sullen hostility. There’s something sordid about the aftermath of a party. All the excitement and glamour has gone, tarnished by the debris of dirty glasses, soiled napkins and used plates. A stale smell of tobacco added another sleazy dimension to the jaded ambience. It had slunk into the kitchen the night before as a succession of smokers huddled outside the back door indulging their filthy habit in the cold garden. I scowled. No doubt there’d be a pile of unsightly dog ends to sweep up outside, despite me supplying lidded ashtrays. As if I didn’t have enough to do inside the house.

Unlocking the back door, I flung it open, letting in a blast of icy air, hoping it would chase the nicotine stink away and brighten my mood. It didn’t.

A thick frost enhanced the garden with a gauzy sparkling overlay. I noted it without pleasure. My humour was too sour to be sweetened by pretty nature.

All I wanted to do was go back to bed and sulk under the covers. It wasn’t an option. I’d had what amounted to a lie in, rising at eight instead of six, as was the norm on a workday. Dick had finished work for the holidays, but Shane was going into his office to tie up a few things before taking his Christmas break. If he had to be up for work, then so did I.

It was too cold to have the door open, so I closed it and opened a top window in the hope it would freshen the air without freezing my balls off at the same time. I began clearing the kitchen table ready for Shane’s breakfast, pondering on the day before.

I’d been fine to begin with. The day itself had gotten off to a good start. I’d woken up feeling motivated. I had everything planned like a military exercise. It was just a question of following my written lists and ticking the boxes as I went along. The main event was an early dinner party for an honoured group of five, followed by more casual drinks and nibbles for other of Dick and Shane’s work staff and acquaintances. Killing two festive obligations on one night so to speak.

The dinner guests were Reny and Angela along with Pamela, Shane’s terrifying personal secretary and the brave soul who had wed her. Julie, Reny and Dick’s secretary, completed the line up. I’ve met her a couple of times and rather like her. With us three the total number to cater for was eight.

Reny’s wife Angela, a woman worthy of her own set of Penny style cheerleader pom-poms and chant (B-I-T-C-H) threw a spanner in the works. She called mid afternoon to say her sister and bro in law had landed earlier than expected for Christmas and could we squeeze them in at the dinner table. It would be a shame to leave them home alone on their first night. She hadn’t seen them in an age and didn’t want to neglect them.

Given the choice, I’d have said no, fuck off! I wasn’t given the choice. Dick took the call and made the decision. The more the merrier. For him, maybe, but not for me, I’d planned a meal for eight and now I had to stretch it to ten. I’m not good at improvising. I had a bit of a fizz and stamp over it, accusing Dick of not taking my feelings into consideration. Shane took me to task for making a fuss, saying all I had to do was set another two places at the table. The meal I’d planned could easily stretch to ten. It was just a question of sharing out a bit of meat and veg. A roast beef dinner was hardly haute cuisine. Cue a mega huff. The houseboy felt obliged to put Master Shane straight about a few things. How dare, how very dare, he minimise my menu and write off my main course as a mere roast beef dinner. Excuse me!

For his information I was serving a prime, PRIME mind you, rib roast coated with herbs and spices. I’d scoured dozens of cookbooks and YouTube vids looking for the perfect recipe and tips on how to cook a hefty piece of cow carcass to perfection. Then there were the starters and puds to faff around with, and setting extra places would spoil my festive table arrangement. Plus, and it was a big plus, I’d only bought eight super expensive luxury Christmas crackers, one for each person. Eight. Not ten. Make a note, Shane, and highlight it. EIGHT!

Dick tried to pour oil, saying he’d nip out and buy another box of crackers. I put a flea in his ear as well. The crackers I’d bought had been ordered online to custom specifications and there was nothing in the shops to match them. I wasn’t having manky mass-produced crackers fucking up my liveried table decorations.

Rolling their eyes in synchronised exasperation the men folk said they would be more than happy to forego a cracker, thus freeing them up for the unexpected guests. As a gesture, it failed to placate this huffy houseboy. It wasn’t fair of Angela to invite uninvited guests at the eleventh hour. Cheeky mare! She was bad enough on her own without towing her fucking relatives along for a free feed and an expensive customised cracker containing one of a selection of tasteful gifts, plus a motto and foil hat.

Shane slapped a gagging order on my gob and a hand on my arse, telling me to stop chuntering and get on with it or so help him he was going to string my balls and hang them on the Christmas tree.

Dinner was scheduled to start at six and be over by seven-thirty, giving me time to clear the dining room and set out a buffet ready for the arrival of more plebeian guests from eight-thirty onwards. The study was designated as a dance hall. Dick and I had already rearranged the furniture and taken up the rugs to give plenty of floor space. I made it look more alluring and atmospheric by turning off the ceiling lights and illuminating the room with a mini set of party disco lights. It looked good. I also set out an eclectic array of CD’s for people to choose from. I did suggest we hire a DJ, but Shane suggested I get a grip on reality. Mean man. He has no sense of occasion.

Angela, Reny and Mr and Mrs Gatecrasher arrived almost fifteen minutes late for dinner, which put my nose even more out of joint. I was nervous enough as it was. Dinner parties are stressful, especially when you don’t know some of the guests particularly well and you’re responsible for the food. More time was lost in a melee of introductions and the handing out of champagne aperitifs in the lounge.

Angela’s sister Cheryl got my back up by referring to me as the ‘butler’ when I offered to take her coat. I smiled at her joke while mentally bludgeoning her to death with one of Dick’s golf clubs. I carefully hung her and her hubby’s coats on the cloakroom floor and booted them around before going into the kitchen to check on the beef. It was out of the oven and resting beneath a canopy of foil. It smelled delicious. The gravy was made and the vegetables were keeping warm. I’d slightly undercooked them so that the keeping warm process wouldn’t reduce them to mush. I’m a much more polished and savvy boy than the one who first landed on the quasi mansion’s doorstep. I couldn’t heat a pan of water without burning it in those days. My idea of culinary sophistication was to tip cold baked beans out of the tin and into a bowl before eating them.

I began to set out plates on which to serve my cold starter of smoked salmon and lobster terrine. I was a bit anxious about it, hoping it was set firm enough. I held my breath as I tipped the terrine out of its container onto a platter to slice. It didn’t dissolve into a pool of creamy sludge. Whew! I heaved a sigh of relief. Then I fretted about whether the side salad I was serving with it was crisp enough. There’s nothing worse than limp lettuce, unless it’s a limp dick. You don’t want either on the side of your plate.

What I really needed, and wanted, was a large glass of Dutch courage to bolster my confidence and help me relax, but it wasn’t an option. I did a few deep-breathing exercises to try and steady my nerves, but they were no substitute for a glass of sparkle or a few wet kisses from my banished lover, the smooth and cool Lady Stella of Artois.

Dick came into the kitchen to get another bottle of champagne out of the fridge. It would be one of many served during the course of the evening along with an array of other wines, beers and spirits. I wouldn’t be able to have so much as a sip of piss poor lager. Umbrage took a fresh hold of me. I watched him peel off the foil and unwind the cage from the bottle before uncorking it with a festive pop.

He smiled. You all right, hun? Do you want me to help with anything?

I opened a bottle of my own, popping the cork on some grapes of wrath. You can tell that lot in there to park their arses at the table instead of standing around talking and quaffing champagne. I’m on a fucking schedule here. We’ll have the commoners arriving before the royals have finished stuffing their faces at this rate. Don’t blame me if there’s a revolution and heads roll under the blade of Madame Guillotine.

Oh, Gilliflower, he gave me one of his soft, sad looks, don’t start winding up.

I’m not. I clattered the knife I’d used to slice the salmon terrine into the sink.

There’s nothing to fret about, honey. You’ve got everything in hand. I’m proud of you. You’ve worked so hard. It doesn’t matter if timings go awry. It’s all par for the course at Christmas and entirely forgivable. Try and enjoy yourself.

I scowled. Enjoy what? Slogging my guts out all night while watching you lot guzzling champagne and getting merry.

Hosting is part of your job. He put the bottle of champagne down on the counter and came over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. No tantrums tonight. Promise me.

Dick, please? I gave him my best appealing look. All I’m asking for is a small concession, even if it’s just a glass of champagne with dinner tonight, and one on Christmas Day.

How many times and in how many ways do you have to be told no? He tightened his grip on my shoulders, giving me a little shake. What did I say on the subject, Gilli, not a month since. It’s Latin now, a dead language. Don’t speak it, or I’ll be angry and you won’t like me when I’m angry.

I don’t like you now.

I know, hun. He kissed the top of my head. You’d like to punch my face in, and I get that, I do, but it doesn’t change a thing. Be a good boy tonight. Show us how mature you can be when you put your mind to it.

Stuff maturity. I pulled away from him. It’s overrated. You and Shane are pains in the testicles about me drinking. I’m sick of it. I take enough medication for Christ’s sake. One glass of champagne isn’t going to make my brain flip, and even if it does, it isn’t the end of the fucking world. I get over it, you know, I get over it.

I don’t care what you’re sick of. For your information, Shane and I are sick of hearing you complain about it. Shut up and put up or I’ll take you upstairs and give you a physical reminder of my authority. Is that what you want, is it what you need?

I shook my head. It was going to be a tough enough night without being disciplined.

Then stop whining. I’ve never known a boy like you for whining. He gave my arse a light slap. Come on, my sexy northerner, man up. Let’s get this show on the road. I’ll go herd everyone into the dining room and then I’ll help you serve the first course.

He picked up the bottle of champagne. I watched him walk across the kitchen, little bubbles of discontent fizzling in my gut. He reached the door and I spoke his name. Dick?

What is it, pet? He turned round.

Don’t talk to me tonight, okay.

He gave me a look so cold it almost left frost on his brows. When he spoke it was in his best cut glass accent. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I trust my amnesia will inspire a more graceful mood in you.

He walked out of the room. I felt like slamming the kitchen door after him, but I didn’t dare, not with guests in the house. Opening the back door, I stepped out into the winter night, standing for a few moments in the hope the freezing air would cool the heat of temper.

It was a beautiful clear evening. Stars studded the heavens and there was already a shimmer of frost on the ground. I sucked in a good gulp of fresh air and slowly let it out again, muttering a small call to arms before going back inside. Get on with it, Gillibran Brown, just get the fuck on with it. It’s work.

I slapped a pleasant look on my mush and got on with it. Dick helped me serve the starters. To my relief the terrine was a success, receiving a general round of compliments, including one from Shane, who accompanied it with a warm look of approval. In other circumstances, it would have made me feel ten feet tall.

When the first course had been consumed Dick insisted on helping me clear away the dirty plates and cutlery. Following me into the kitchen, he put down his stack and turned to me with a smile. Well done, Gilli.

I glanced at him, I suppose it did taste nice. I’ll use the recipe again.

I’m not talking about the terrine, though it was delicious. I’m talking about your attitude. Keep it up.

I don’t have a lot of choice, do I, Dick?

No, sweetheart, you don’t, none at all. He leaned to kiss me on the cheek. Now, what needs doing, what can I help with?

You can carve the meat. I glared at him. I don’t trust myself with a knife at the moment.

Fair enough. He gave me a sweet little wink, which I coldly ignored. Snatching up a tureen of creamed potatoes I marched out of the kitchen.

The beef was tender and tasty enough, though not quite as juicy as it should have been, because of being kept warm a good bit longer than I’d planned. Angela made a remark about preferring beef to be a bit pink in the middle. I took it as criticism, snapping a response. It would have been pink if she had bothered to turn up on time. It caused an awkward moment at the table and earned me one of Shane’s gelid looks. It more than cancelled out the warm look of earlier. Talk about a brief summer. The houseboy had fucked up again.

Cheryl jumped to her sister’s defence, saying it was her fault they’d been late, as she couldn’t decide what to wear. She sought to mollify me by saying she also found it galling when guests were late for a carefully planned dinner. She hoped I could forgive her.

Taking a deep breath I said, no, I can’t. I don’t like you or your sister, and if your husband ever manages to wriggle out from under your thumb and speak on his own behalf I don’t think I’ll like him either. So why don’t you all frig off home. (Lie Detector says NO.) Okay, I admit that was a fib. I thought it, but what I actually said was a salving, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I get a bit nervous when things slip away from me."

Angela sniped a comment about me being a nervous wreck seeing as I was always rude. Reny put a hand on her arm and hushed her. Cheryl patronised me by saying I’d done remarkably well for one so young. She then stole a quick glance at Dick and Shane before slyly asking. How old are you, Gilli?

I detest being asked my age. It makes me feel anxious and threatened, as if I’m being judged, and worse, as if Dick and Shane are being judged for having a relationship with me. May to December style relationships are always subject to scrutiny and gossip. There’s a salacious aspect to the interest. What people really want to know is if the younger partner was of legal age when the relationship began and if there any hints of paedophilia involved. What Cheryl was hoping for was a confession that I dressed up as a schoolboy in the bedroom to titillate the perverted fantasies of two older men. She didn’t get one, because I don’t, not even when Dick begs me to.

It was Dick who saved me from replying. Picking up the champagne bottle he refilled Cheryl’s glass. Come on, Cheryl. I’m sure Angela will have told you how old Gilli is, or rather how disgracefully young he is. So what. I’m almost ten years younger than Shane. No one seems to comment on that.

Yes, but at least… she trailed off.

Dick moved in smoothly, at least nothing, Cheryl. Gilli is younger than us. It’s no big deal. Get over it.

She pulled a face and he grinned. Picking up his own glass he raised it, wishing everyone at the table a Happy Christmas. He then moved the conversation away from age and onto more general seasonal topics.

Of course I knew what Cheryl had been about to say, and so did everyone else at the table. Dick being younger than Shane is immaterial because Shane is, if not from the same class exactly, at least from a place acceptably close to the grand manor house and not from a common housing estate on the far side of the social divide. What Shane lacked by way of lordly lineage, he more than made up for in terms of material assets. Money more than cancelled out an age gap.

The rest of the meal went off without event. I smiled and made polite small talk as and when the need arose. I topped up glasses, offered second helpings, served dessert and coffee and generally did what a houseboy is expected to do. I even managed to be gracious when I won a cracker pull and ended up with a pair of sturdy silver plated golf tees. I was gutted. I’d been hoping for the pewter key ring, a cat with green enamel eyes, or the little penknife with the mother of pearl handle. Dick had been true to his word and foregone a cracker, but still ended up with a prize that suited him down to the ground. He was cock a hoop when I handed over the tees. Bad Daddy.

Once dinner was done and everyone had moved back into the lounge there was no time for me to muse or think. I was kept busy clearing the dining room of its dinner debris and preparing it for the cold buffet. I had another fretting session. Was there enough food? Was the seafood platter fresh enough? I’d prepared it the night before. What if some of the prawns had gone bad and everyone who ate them went down with a fatal strain of salmonella? I’d get arrested for mass manslaughter. I’d be known as the gay prawn poisoner and never allowed to work with food again, especially gay crustaceans.

Dick told me to keep calm. He helped by stacking the dishwasher and having a quick tidy around the kitchen so it was at least presentable for any wallflowers that needed to escape from more crowded areas.

Guests began to arrive in trickles. By nine-thirty we had a full house and the party was in the swing. Now I had time to think. It wasn’t good. People were drinking and having fun, laughing, joking, talking and getting merrier and louder, while I swigged from a can of Pepsi and wandered around bearing sober witness to their good time. It was a cold example of what Christmas was going to be like for me this year, and thereafter. I’d resented my enforced sobriety right from day one, but never more so than at that moment. I recognised the care and concern that had prompted the rule. I still hated it with a passion.

I replenished bowls with crisps and nuts and topped up plates with what was left of the canapés and finger foods I’d prepared. I sliced up strawberry and vanilla cheesecakes and opened a large box of Thornton’s continental chocolates for the sweet toothed. I filled up the portable party fridge with more beers and white wine, and then I escaped. There was no need for me to be there. Folks knew where the food and drinks were and could help themselves. I snaffled a fresh can of Pepsi and slipped upstairs to the master bedroom.

Closing the door, I switched on the telly, kicked off my shoes and settled down on the bed to watch a festive film. A compilation of Christmas pop songs was playing downstairs in the study. I could hear Dana singing a lament about it being a cold, cold Christmas, and she wasn’t talking weather. I knew how the poor cow felt. I wasn’t looking forward to it either. Reaching for the remote I bumped up the volume on the TV to try and muffle the party sounds.

My absence didn’t go unnoticed for long. Less than thirty minutes after my bold bolt for freedom the quasi mansion’s chief guard tracked me down. Striding into the room Shane closed the door behind him and walked over to the bed. Picking up the remote he aimed it at the telly and turned it off.

Downstairs. He tossed the remote back on the bed.

Drawing up my legs I wrapped my arms around them, hugging my knees. Why? I’ve done my job. I’m not needed. I’m bored down there.

This isn’t about doing your job. It’s about doing as you’re told and facing up to your situation instead of avoiding it. Get it into your stubborn, thick skull. You are not playing the persecuted hermit all over Christmas and casting a pall over everyone in the process.

I doubt anyone noticed I’d gone.

I noticed. Grasping hold of my arm, he hoisted me off the bed and onto my feet. My eyes watered as he landed a powerful slap to the seat of my trousers. Releasing his grip on me he pointed at my discarded shoes.

Put them on and get downstairs. Stay in sight for the rest of the evening. If I catch you slinking away again I’ll bring you up here, but it won’t be for a break. It will be for a good hiding, understand?

He sounded and looked serious. His voice and face were as hard as iron. His hand struck my bottom again, making me squawk.

DO you understand me, boy?

Yes, Daddy. I understand. Shoving on my shoes I scurried to the bedroom door and opened it, hurrying out of the room. Thankfully the bathroom was vacant. I went in, closing and locking the door behind me, leaning against it. He could be such a bastard. It wouldn’t have hurt anything to let me stay out of the way. I adjusted the crotch of my trousers feeling angry at the involuntary arousal I was experiencing, a primitive subordinate reaction to pack authority. It was a cold fact. He turned me on, even when I didn’t like him, even when he scared the shit out of me, maybe even especially then.

I didn’t dare linger. Grabbing a handful of toilet tissue I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, flushed the tissue and opened the door, stepping out onto the landing, my stomach lurching as I saw Shane who had just come out of the bedroom.

He looked grim and I hastened to offer an excuse for still being upstairs. I needed the toilet. Pissing is still permissible isn’t it, or shall I insert a catheter and strap a bag to my leg?

He stabbed a finger towards the stairs.

There was a hubbub of noise coming from below. People’s voices were raised in animated conversation in the lounge, while music poured from the study. I couldn’t face going into either room. I looked at Shane, lifting my chin. I’m going in the kitchen to make tea, okay?

He nodded and I edged past him, running down the stairs, conscious of the prickling hot spots his hand had left on my backside. He had slapped full force, intent on showing me he wasn’t messing around.

The kitchen was occupied. There was a foursome at the table in the breakfast nook, three males and one female. I didn’t know them. Two of the males were engaged in a geeky conversation about Dr Who, while the other male and female were engaged in a bout of mutual tonsil washing. What they really needed was a room, but I wasn’t about to offer them one of ours. I had enough housework to do without washing sheets shagged on by strangers.

I couldn’t be arsed making tea. I cracked open yet another can of cola and stood sipping it, trying not to stare at the couple eating each other’s faces. Somehow it was more graphic than watching muff munching porn. The human face has around thirty-four muscles in it and a passionate kiss uses every single one of them. That being the case, the kissing couple were having one hell of a workout. If they weren’t careful they’d end up with pecs bulging out from under their cheekbones.

Matt, Cheryl’s bland husband came into the kitchen looking for some ice for his whisky and ginger. The ice bucket in the dining room was empty. I got him some from the freezer. He thanked me. He hadn’t spoken much during dinner, but alcohol seemed to have loosened his tongue and made him more inclined to converse. To my surprise he offered an apology for having gatecrashed the evening.

"I was embarrassed to be honest, especially when I saw