THE APPRENTICE GIGOLO

CHAPTERS 9&10

[designed by Lizzy Ashard]

Copyright © by Christopher Lloyd King, 2025

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage of retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

[Back to the present. Tom continues his therapy and prepares for the forthcoming Cannes Advertising Festival. Can he solve his problems by selling the company?]

PART 2

SURRENDERING ALL NEGATIVE PATTERNS OF THOUGHT AND ACTION 

CHAPTER 9

Tom freewheels to a halt at the intersection of Dean Street and St. Anne’s Court. Swinging his leg over the saddle of his bike, he wheels it through the pedestrianised area to his office.

He has a ninety-nine-year lease on the whole building – four floors of it – bought in the 1970s before the pornographers started gobbling up Soho. An elegant flat-fronted Georgian townhouse on the outside, it has everything a successful production company needs. The basement has a studio with enough space to create small sets, thereby avoiding the cost of dry hiring outside studios. Over the years, it’s paid for itself a hundredfold. The ground floor is given over to cutting rooms and digital compositing suites. The upper two floors house the production offices and the boardroom.

He pushes open the plate glass front door etched with the title Coxcomb Films, an amalgam of Cox and Combes, Poppy’s maiden name. Manoeuvring the bike through the door, he hooks it onto a rack inside reception. The young black lad behind the front desk nods in greeting.

Tom reciprocates, ‘Morning, Thierry. My wife back yet?’

‘Not yet. She’s just texted me. The BBH meeting is overrunning. And her twelve o’clock is stuck in traffic.’

‘Anything in the diary for me?’

He shakes his head. ‘I’d put my feet up if I were you.’

Tom winces. That overfamiliarity again. At Thierry’s job interview, he was struck by the lad’s confidence. The sassy take-me-as-you-find-me attitude was what the company needed. And no doubt about it, Thierry has busted his chops since he joined: first at his desk in the morning and last out at night. And without a whisper of complaint. Which makes a refreshing change. Since starting the company, Tom has lost count of the surly receptionists he’s had to fire.

Carrying his cleats, he climbs the stairs to the production offices on the first floor. Open plan, but Poppy and Tom each have a private space separated by plate-glass. Their shared assistant, Tania – a posh bird hired by Poppy, persuaded by her cut-glass accent and flawless manners, but in Tom’s view beadily ambitious – is intent on her I-Mac screen. She barely acknowledges him as he walks through the open space.

He sits at his desk and stares at nothing. His lycra cycling shirt clings like a second skin; he’ll change when he stops feeling nauseous. Last night was another killer: pacing the floor at three o’clock in a vain attempt to stop the mental helter-skelter.

Breathing deeply, he realises the air in the office is stale – the air-conditioning isn’t working. Again. He stabs the intercom. ‘What’s with the air-conditioning, Thierry? It’s like the black hole of Calcutta up here.’

‘I know. I was on to the engineers first thing this morning. They’re sending someone over.’

‘Third time this month. What's going on?’

‘They’re on to it is all I can say.’

So, this is what I’m reduced to – whingeing about the office air quality; I’ll be replacing the bog rolls next. Thierry’s suggestion strikes home. Why shouldn’t he put his feet up? He’s done his time, built up the business from scratch. On paper, he’s a wealthy man – in property alone. And the turnover – thanks to Poppy – is rising year on year. He has three directors under contract. Two table-top specialists, both of whom earn out their retainers. And Danny Schwartz – wunderkind. Two years out of film school and already catching the eye of the top agency creatives.

In stocking feet, he pads to the bathroom at the rear of the building. His locker contains several changes of clothes. He unlocks the door, debating whether to shower, to wash off the sweat and grime from London traffic. Concludes, he can’t be bothered. Instead, he pulls the lycra over his head and bends over the sink, splashing water over the back of his neck. That’ll have to do.

From the clothes rack in the locker, he chooses a freshly pressed shirt and blue jeans. His hand brushes against his cardcase in one of the jackets. Bingo – just the ticket. Palming it, he carries the change of clothes into one of the cubicles and locks the door behind him.

Two generous bumps later, he strolls back into the office area. The day’s already looking brighter.

Tania’s on the phone. As soon as she spies him, she covers the mouthpiece. ‘Richard Rosenfeld on the line. You want to take it out here?’

‘Patch him through to my office.’

He makes his way to his desk, his brain rapidly processing the implications. Rosenfeld runs a company out of New York. Tom has met him a couple of times. A sharp operator – in five short years, The Shooting Range has grown from a two-man operation to achieve NASDAQ listing. Tom is wary, though. Rosenfeld’s reputation as a voracious expansionist precedes him. ‘You’re early into the office, Richie.’

‘Not in the office. I’m in the car on the way to Kennedy. Heading to Namibia for a scout.’

‘How can I help?’

‘You planning on being in Cannes this year?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Your dance-card full?’

‘Depends. Why?’

‘I’ll get straight to the point. I want to do business with you. You’ve got one of the best reels in the business on both sides of the Atlantic. Maybe we could find something to share – to our mutual advantage. I just wanted to sound you out, see whether you’d be open to a discussion. What do you say?’

If the cocaine hadn’t already done it, the suggestion sends all kinds of possibilities skittering around Tom’s brain. Charlie Dangerfield’s announcement he is quitting the field shocked him but set him thinking. Is it time for him to bow out, too? This call might provide a heaven-sent opportunity. The implications are enormous. For a start, he’ll have to get Poppy onside. She won’t see it the same way. A major part of Coxcomb’s success has come since Tom made her a partner. Will she be willing to give it up? He’s getting ahead of himself. Given Rosenfeld’s track record, mutual advantage won’t come into it; it’ll be entirely Rosenfeld’s. Still, where’s the harm in taking a meeting, see what he’s offering? ‘That’s flattering, Richie. Sure, let’s do it. Check out our diaries nearer the time.’

He replaces the receiver and for the first time in ages feels optimistic. 

CHAPTER 10

Pema Tsering eases herself into her comfortable chair. ‘Tell me about this week; what changes have you noticed?’

Muscle memory of the previous session returns as he sits on the unforgiving client seat. Another forty minutes. Jesus. ‘This week’s been good. Interesting developments at work – the possibility of selling to an American company.’

‘And that’s something you’d welcome?’

‘Would depend on the price. And whether my partner would approve.’

‘Partner?’

‘Partner, and wife. Poppy and I have equal shares.’

‘If I remember the questionnaire correctly, your wife is younger than you.’

‘Twenty-five years.’ He fiddles with his wedding ring, turning it around his finger. ‘She came to work for me after art school. She started as a receptionist. And worked her way up. She developed quite a business head. Which is why I made her my partner.’

‘And then your wife?’

‘Yes.’ It’s a tricky one to answer. Why did they marry? It wasn’t a decision he made actively but rather drifted into, justifying it as his way of reassuring her. Their age difference persuaded him to commit formally to prove she wasn’t a passing fancy, and his wedding vows confirmed he wanted her in his life permanently. Their partnership benefits him – in life and in business. She’s shaken up the selfish habits of thought and behaviour developed over twenty years of bachelorhood. Plus, she’s a killer businesswoman who has rapidly increased the company’s profitability. But it’s hard to tell whether she enjoys similar advantages. He certainly hopes so. As he sees it, his invitation to share equally in the business goes a long way to prove it.

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Together, sixteen years. Married fourteen.’

‘Children?’

‘Nope.’

‘Your choice? Or your wife’s?’

‘Mine, I suppose.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m abroad a good part of the year. I didn’t want any children of mine to grow up without a father. As I had to.’

‘How would you describe your marriage?’

‘We rub along. As well as any couple. We tolerate each other’s irritating habits.’

‘What does she think of your alcohol intake?’

‘That’s why I’m here. She gave me an ultimatum. Either I get sober, or the marriage is over.’

‘Good. I mean, in the sense that you’ve accepted your behaviour must change. Do you continue to enjoy intimate relations?’

That’s out of order. Their sex life is between him and Poppy. His answer provides the minimum information. ‘We sleep in separate bedrooms. My choice – because I’m up in the night, I don’t want to disturb her.’

The truth, which he would never admit – particularly to a female therapist – is that he is sexually inert. He can’t remember his last erection – apart from the occasional “morning glory”. Since they lead separate lives, there’s precious little opportunity for intimacy. It’s been months since he saw her naked. They never touch, never kiss, not even a goodnight peck. And – what’s most puzzling – it doesn’t bother him. It’s too much trouble: all that wooing, soft words, flowers and presents. Strange irony when he considers how rampant they were in the early days. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other – every available opportunity in every imaginable place. There’s that adage: during the first two years of a marriage, if you put a pebble in a bottle each time you make love and take one out each time thereafter, you’ll never empty the bottle. Their marriage proves the point.

‘Your choice, you say? Have you discussed it with your wife?’

‘She knows I don’t sleep well if that’s what you mean.’

He knows he’s skirting the issue and wonders if Pema knows it too.

‘Are you still having the negative thoughts you described last week?’

‘Put it this way, I’m not in the black hole I was then. I still lie awake at night, but now I worry about everyone else’s problems. I have six people working for me. I’m responsible for them, their welfare, and their salaries. In advertising, there’s such a turnover of people. The grass is always greener. So, I must keep everyone interested. I give them big annual bonuses whether or not the company has had a good year. Now, they have huge expectations of me. It’s wearing me down.’

‘How will you continue if you don’t sell your company?’

‘Honestly, I’m not sure. Loads more sleepless nights, that’s for sure.’

Pema reaches into her desk drawer, takes out a paperback book and hands it to him.

‘This is by a professor at the University of Massachusetts. He runs a clinic dealing with stress-related illnesses, including substance and alcohol abuse. He offers therapies that many practitioners, including me, find beneficial. It’s based on Tibetan Buddhist meditation. If it strikes a chord, I’ll introduce you to my father, Dorjee. He runs courses in meditation. It would help calm those nocturnal self-destructive thoughts.’

He has an innate scepticism of all matters spiritual and other-worldly, so his immediate response is to return it. However, some instinct persuades him to open it at random. Words referring to emotional scarring from previous experience leap out. They chime with him immediately. Whatever the emotional damage from the past, the container of the emotions remains intact. There might be a scar on his wrist, but his arm is still there; the blood still runs through his veins; the nerves still send signals to his fingers. ‘Thank you. It will be my bedtime reading.’

Head down to shield his eyes from the driving rain, he freewheels down Richmond Hill. The shower started as he crossed Putney Bridge and became progressively heavier. Setting off from home in Primrose Hill, there were clouds but nothing to speak of.

‘Forecast’s not looking great,’ Poppy warned as he wheeled his bike down the path. ‘You sure it’s a good idea?’

‘What’s the worst that can happen – I get wet? This is the new me – healthy body, healthy mind. Don’t worry, I’ll be back for supper. I’ll cook. What do you fancy?’

‘We can decide when you get back. Be safe.’

She ruffled his hair, pulling him closer for a kiss. The spontaneity of the gesture surprised him; it was just like old times. It’d been only a couple of days since his last Pema session, but he already sensed Poppy’s attitude to him softening. Not to the extent of welcoming him back into her bed, but certainly less impatient, less reproving. It was a clear case of cause and effect; his behaviour change was supported by her positive reinforcement. He’d managed to cut down his alcohol intake. No booze at lunchtime and no heavy evening sessions. After work, he’d been rushing home to cook supper for Poppy and share a bottle of wine with her. Just the one.

It’s the first time in ages he’s using his bike for a purpose other than commuting and it feels great to have the road running beneath his wheels. Before the booze took hold, he loved to ride for pleasure. The circuit looping through Richmond Park and back home to Primrose Hill has always been a favourite. Long enough at seventy kilometres to stretch the muscles and get the blood running, but short enough at three hours not to fill the whole day. It always refreshed him. However bad he was feeling – and some days he wanted to die – the ride was the perfect hangover cure.

Winter has taken its toll on the Richmond Hill road surface. A deep pothole catches him out. The impact twists the handlebars in his hands and, struggling to maintain my balance, he swerves, narrowly missing a passing black cab. Clearly no friend to cyclists, the cabbie leans on his horn.

It’s a relief to leave the main road and enter the park. The traffic is lighter – there’s less danger of being clipped by motorists. He keeps a steady pace, the repetitive action of the turning wheels releasing his mind and allowing his thoughts to wander. Intrigued by Pema’s recommendation, he has already dipped into the Kabat-Zinn book. It immediately struck a chord. No mumbo-jumbo, no beads or chanting, just sound common sense, a practical guide to calming the mind.

Last night, after supper, he left Poppy poring over the company accounts and sneaked off to the spare bedroom. With the book propped in front of him, he tried the basic technique of concentrating on his breathing. After a frustrating hour or so, struggling to stop his attention from spinning away from his primary purpose, he decided there was no way he could do it by himself; he needed a teacher, someone to guide him through the technique. He decided to ask Pema to make the introduction to her father.

Baby steps in his recovery and he’s aware it will take some time. Yet he’s already starting to feel less doom-laden. His default misery switch has been switched off.

The rain eases as he passes the sign to the White Lodge Royal Ballet School. Students in uniform raincoats are cycling away from the school. He slows, his attention drawn to a solitary girl ahead of the rest. Bareheaded and with her hair pulled back in the classic dancer’s bun, she’s completely absorbed by the music in her headphones. For some reason, the phrase “a cat who walks by herself” pops into his head. Then, as he looks more closely, he recognises the trigger. The girl is exactly as he remembers Agnès Toussaint: the same honey-coloured skin, delicate facial bone structure and strong nose.

During the intervening fifty years, his memories of Aix-en-Provence have faded like silver oxide leaching from an old collodion plate. So much so that the events seem to have happened to someone else. Now, confronted by the ghost of Agnès Toussaint, he’s immediately pitched back to 1968.