Love Gods and Lesser Men

By Christina Godley

Elizabeth Poppy Fields is a 25 years old Cambridge Math graduate, working as a Senior Analyst in the Merchant Banking world in London. She does calculus in her head, but when it comes to dating men, shes hopeless. Her beautiful friend, Millie, persuades her to go to a Speed-Dating session, organized by Valentino Detorri.

From then on her life changes. Weird and erotic events happen around her. Valentino whisks her away to the Detorri private island where she meets his crazy and very beautiful family. To call them all bipolar is an understatement. Thinking theyre the Mafia she tries and fails to escape. It gradually dawns on her that they might be Immortals and shes scared for her sanity.

In conclusion, after many mishaps and sensuous experiences, Liz finds happiness with a man who gives her mind-blowing sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524635831

Christina Godley

Christina has a BA (Hons) Eng. Lit. Sheffield University and is an Associate Member of the Legal Institute. She has self-published 4 novels and 2 children’s books with AuthorHouse. She worked in Local Government as a Senior Legal Executive, doing Conveyancing and other Land Law matters. Exchanging her imagination for logic helped pay the mortgage and buy ballet shoes for her daughter. She now does what she loves the most and that is going with the flow.

Book preview

1.

‘We got creamed yesterday Liz…We need you to do a swift Goldilocks, otherwise two of your Interns will get the boot,’ Dave said. ‘Rein them in please.’

I had just visited the gods in the penthouse to discuss how not to lose money. The reference to Goldilocks meant a well-balanced result, i.e. not too hot and not too cold. The Interns had to play it safe after the 2008 disaster, but their enthusiasm took over. And it was not in my book to hold back, when it boiled down to numbers. So I understand their keenness to make money. The older Traders were thrown in at the deep end, so their patience with Interns was limited. I tried the more hands on approach when I could find the time. Their resentment of me was tangible.

As I returned to my office a sudden ominous silence permeated the whole length of the trading floor before the daily panic began. The younger suits always sensed my fear. It was that Romantic time of year again so I was additionally uneasy. I clenched my teeth, inhaled and tried to look calm.

‘Morning, Boss. You look…err…the same,’ Buddy smirked.

‘Morning, Buddy,’ also known as Bum-Head by the older guys. (His real name’s Bruce but he thought Buddy sounded cooler.) He believed that length and gel made his hair look smoother. In fact, this made the mane centre-part and form two hairy buttock-like masses either side of his head. ‘We need to have a discussion later, Buddy.’ One down three to go.

‘Morning Liz, is black the new black this season?’ Maddox grinned.

‘You let the team down yesterday Maddox. You got wacked and didn’t even cover your nut.’ (Slang speak for poor results and commission lost and not for acts of violence against daddy-parts.)

Maddox still lived with his parents and brought a packed-lunch to work every day. Trouble is, he never got chance to eat the dainty-cut sandwiches as Deaf Jeff always scoffed the contents and replaced them with Page 3 from The Sun, making sure he’d cut out the tits. Generally the harmless humour relieved the stress before the 8am kick-off.

And then, as always, in front of me, was the last and biggest pain. Right on cue, Jay the cocky new boy, stepped into my path. The lippy kid, wearing designer clothes and perfect veneers had his eye on my job as soon as he set foot through the door. Jay thought of himself like Jordan Belfort, The Wolf of Wall Street, whereas he was called The Ferret of Fuck Up.

I felt sorry for my pups though. I called them pups not in an unkind way, but because that’s what those three were. It’s not as if they pissed on the carpet, or anything. They were my trainees on leads, denied the ability to run free into oncoming headlights and hungry as hell for titbits. I was totally responsible for their actions, good or bad. The older guys at the far end of the sprawling office had had their moments of glory. Now the old bulls were winding down to retirement in their late forties. The only differences between the old bulls and my pups were that the former had bigger desks, screens and bellies. I glanced at the clock and tripped over Jay’s waste-bin.

Another cock-up regarding leadership.

‘Bitch,’ he muttered and sloped off back to his desk. One of my more polite names.

If the guys had numbers and not names I could work out a perfect equation. The only thing I really enjoyed was Maths. I got banned from using the slot-machines in Bridlington when I was seven because I could work out which winning numbers would come up next. I actually made some friends until the ban, then they all buggered off.

Dad stopped playing chess and cards with me when I was eight. I always won. (When he suggested Vegas to Mum she hit the roof.) It was the same at school. In the end I didn’t even bother to put my hand up in class. I don’t identify with Cheryl Cole or Kate Middleton. I’m like Raj in The Big Bang Theory who can’t talk to the opposite sex socially, unless alcohol’s involved. Trouble is when I drink I get more uptight and usually tell any approaching male to sod off.

Another annual Valentine’s Day loomed ahead and to doubly compound the dread, I was born on that day. If only I could take time off, curl up with a Dan Brown book, a glass of wine and forget the build up to an almighty anti-climax. Instead, everybody in the office seemed obsessed with Romance. The guys in particular competed for the most expensive restaurant bookings and the greatest number of red roses. Agent Provocateur bags were scattered around the desks. I guess it was the Trader in them. Everything had to be high stakes, like a table at The Ivy or, who had the best looking Doris. Win at all costs. I learned to ignore the sarcastic teasing. It was just banter and meant as a toughening up-exercise. That was until my friend, Millie, suggested I try Speed-Dating a week earlier than the eventful 14th February.

Millie had never been without a man. She’s the sort of girl who entered a room cheek bones first followed by a billowing cloud of blonde hair. Men don’t so much fall over themselves as start a stampede when she’s around. She’s tall, willowy and graceful. I should hate her but I don’t because she’s kind, loyal and wants everyone to be as happy as herself.

‘Look Liz,’ Millie said, ‘I’ll go with you. It’ll be a laugh. If you don’t fancy any of them we’ll sneak out.’

I wondered whether to take Millie along, or not? She was bound to get the pick of the bunch, even though she’s happily married to Felix the wealthy, handsome mountain climber.

2.

I finally found the Sheep in Dip pub where Valentino Dettori had guaranteed a night of romance for sad singletons. From the outside it looked like a time-warped inn from the Industrial Revolution with its crooked chimney stacks and yellow-stained windows. I imagined Bill Sykes and his mad dog stealing in after dark with a bag full of silver candlesticks. I was just about to contact Millie and change the venue when a handsome young man appeared from nowhere and said: ‘Hello love. You here for the mating season?’

‘No. Well, yes. I suppose so.’ He wore a white suit with a black silk shirt and white platform boots. ‘I didn’t know it was a Retro theme,’ I muttered.

‘It’s not love. I dress to suit my mood and tonight I feel like dancing,’ he said, doing the point diagonally-to-the-sky-roll hands-and-click heels routine. ‘Now come inside before you freeze to death. Mr. Right might be in there waiting for you.’

‘Are you Valentino Detorri?’ I asked, taking in the competition and the lack of ambience.

‘Call me Val love. Everybody does,’ he sang, tossing back his black curls and boogieing over to the bar.

I bet.

‘Now if I can ask you to write your first name on this and pay the £5 fee. It’s just to cover the hire of the room,’ he said, handing me a red heart-shaped sticker.

‘What about your profit margin?’ I asked warily, the Trader surfacing in me. (I lived for my job but folks couldn’t understand why I found trigonometry and calculus exciting when my mother was an arty hippy.)

‘Oh. No profit. I do it for love,’ he said, heading for the door to grab the next victim.

On one side of the room stood the girls, chatting nervously and each clutching their free glass of house Red. I use the term: girls, loosely. And by the bar were three men ignoring each other and staring into their drinks; pretending they’d called in for a swift half and eyeing the door. Two of the girls were far too young and trendy to be desperate for a date. Their name tags said: Nadine and Chantelle. Both dressed identically, in silver quilted jackets, short skirts, black tights and Uggs. I guessed they were hairdressers looking at their choppy striped hair and were only in it for a laugh. The three desperate-looking older women obviously didn’t know each other as they all talked at once and gulped down their drinks. Divorcees I supposed. The gloomy nicotine-stained wall-lights served a purpose after all, for women past their prime.

I eyed the door longingly and saw Val leaning against it with the key in his hand and chatting to two more female hopefuls. The house Red certainly was potent and I started to get very hot. When my nipples began to tingle I took off my coat. I can honestly say I’ve never tasted anything like it. Not a hint of blackberry or barrel. It had a strange locker-room smell of fungus and old leather. No grape had ever grown to match that particular bouquet.

I ordered another glass from Bernie the barman. He informed me the wine had been specially brewed by Val’s family and was a limited edition vintage. I fiddled with my mobile, wishing Millie would arrive. Looking at the business card Val had given me, it read: Enjoy Your Night of Romance with VD. I smiled broadly. Val was either from another planet or a wind-up merchant. Either way he was really funny. The comb-over man opposite looked up from his drink and flashed back a grin. I panicked. Fighting to control a strong urge to phone my ex, Rob, who suddenly didn’t seem so bad compared to what was on offer.

I was the one who dumped him. Such an easy going nature had attracted me at first, until we moved in together. His carefree manner and love of art, soothed. It was not to be. Rob was a lazy slob who didn’t shower, shave, or shag, regularly and left his clothes strewn around the flat. His trainers smelled like Stinky Bishop. And much later, after watching a hot love scene in a movie, it slowly dawned on me that Rob’s side to side hip jerking wasn’t the norn and thrusting back and forth seemed to be far more satisfying.

So this is it, I thought, as I looked around the gloomy time-warp. I am destined to become a twenty five year old trainee pick-pocket, reduced to hanging out with toothless, smelly Victorian thieves whose highest ambition is to become Fagan’s fag.

‘There she is,’ Millie said, just in time to stop me bolting.

‘You mean the girl with the glossy black bob?’ Val asked, pointing in my direction.

Bless him.

‘Yes. The curvy little brunette,’ Millie added, a little louder.

She always did this as her confidence booster opening for best friend. It also appeared that Val was in on the deal.

‘I bet she’s a hot kisser,’ he said in a louder voice and handed Millie a sticker.

‘And the Senior Analyst at Bliss, Stein & Lewis,’ Millie added for effect.

My fifteen seconds of fame, where most of the men looked in my direction, were over as Millie glided into the room. It was like a Spaghetti Western where furtive glances and utter silence ensued, apart from a solitary high-pitched trumpet. Drinks were downed and conversations on football ended. In Clint Eastwood mode, eyes were narrowed and breath held.

‘Hello you,’ she said, cheeks glowing from the cold and totally unaware of the attention. ‘Sorry I’m late. Can’t see much talent around Hon.’

‘None at all, except Valentino and I guess he’s gay. Can we go?’

‘It’s not that bad. Is it? Hang on. Look out - the Cavalry’s arrived,’ she said, smiling.

As if by magic, good looking males emerged from the edge of darkness and jostled each other to get nearer to Millie. I knew it had been a mistake for her to join me. But then again, there were plenty of them to go round. And at the end of the night Millie always went home to Felix.

‘You’re not actually going in there?’ I whispered to Millie, pointing to the delegated room.

‘Course not. Val said that if I buy a ticket it would encourage others to do the same.’

As I looked at the newly arrived smartly dressed men, I notice they were all joining the queue for red-stickers.

‘I see… You’re the Judas Goat then,’ I chuckled.

‘Cheeky. Yes I suppose I am. Now let’s have some fun…This wine tastes funny. Is it corked?’

‘More like malt vinegar but it sure warms the nether regions,’ I said, feeling decidedly tipsy and taking off my jacket. Believe me, I never sit in a public place wearing only a silk camisole top and skirt. But it was as hot as hell in there and I began to unwind. As I took another sip of the concoction the lower half of my face went numb and when I peered down my nose I could see my lips. I wondered if Angelina Jolie has this problem all the time.

‘Ladies and gentlemen may I have your attention please,’ Val shouted above the din. ‘Thank you… In a few minutes the fun will begin after you’ve ordered your meal from either Bernie or, Sandra. There’s scampi and chips or, burger and chips. I suggest you do a quick pit stop, refill your glasses and take them into the Love Lounge.’

I headed for the loos feeling decidedly unbalanced. Strange erotic images flashed through my brain. I touched up my lipstick and splashed cold water on my wrists. Inside one of the cubicles I heard a low groan. Then a woman called out: ‘Oh. God. No.’

‘Are you okay in there?’ I asked.

‘What? Yes. I’m fine. Oh. Oh. Oh.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Oh. God! Oh. God! No. Please. I’m alright.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why don’t you just shut up and leave me alone… Jesus! I need some privacy…Ahh!’

‘Whatever,’ I muttered, wondering if she had a man in there. ‘I’m going now,’ I said in between her groans.

‘Thank God. Oh. Boy. Oh. Boy Oh. Boy…Arrrg!’

After a few more minutes the door opened and a dishevelled woman stumbled out. It was one of the middle-aged chatty divorcees. Freida her name tag read. Her face and chest were bright red - and she heaved a huge sigh.

‘Whatever’s in that wine they should bottle it. Ha. Ha. Ten years of shitty marriage, two kids and I’ve never had a do like that.’

Now usually I would run a mile. Girl talk was not one of my fortes. But for some strange reason all defences were down. Everybody out there was having a ball. Inhibitions had flown out the door.

‘I know what you mean. I’ve not had sex for six months,’ I complained. I couldn’t believe what I’d told a complete stranger. It just burst out. ‘And by the way, you seriously should rethink the blue glitter eye shadow. It only emphasises the wrinkles on your eye-lids. A smoky grey or matt brown would look much better…I mean…Oh. Sorry. I don’t know where that came from,’ I apologized. ‘Err, nice to meet you,’ I gabbled and ran back to Millie.

At the bar I saw Millie embracing a guy who appeared to be eating her.

‘Millie? What are you doing?’ I asked in alarm. She groaned and waved with her free hand. ‘Hello? I’m back,’ I said, panicking.

‘For Heaven’s sake Liz! Buzz off will you? Go enjoy yourself.’

‘What about poor Felix?’

Millie came up for air again. I noticed the guy was good looking when he reclaimed his tongue.

‘Poor Felix? You’re right. Poor fucking Felix! He’s a total and utter arsehole! Wake up Liz! Our house is on the market. He’s lost his job. Spent all our savings and he’s probable drowning his sorrows with a slut who has her fanny wrapped round a pole. Okay?’

‘But he can’t. I mean you can’t…’ I trailed off, totally deflated.

‘When are you going to stop doing this? I can’t take it anymore…What is it with your quest for perfection?! It does not exist! What do you know with your shiny hair and your orderly life - and a fucking brain the size of a planet? And my boss is the devil incarnate who pinches all my ideas…You don’t really understand anything about real life! Do you?’

‘But I thought…’

‘Well you thought wrong…Look, I’ll call you tomorrow….I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s got into me. Bye,’ she said, kissing me on the cheek and hurriedly left the pub with Nagini.

Val clapped his hands three times and the crowd was almost quiet, apart from the odd grunt. Leading the way into the scented-candle lit room, he directed the ladies to a line of tables.

‘Now, he said, ‘ladies please…be seated. Gentlemen you have three minutes with each lady opposite, during which you must tell her three things you like. You have to go first. Then, ladies, you in turn must tell the gent opposite three things you like. When I bang the gong three times the gents move to their right. Obviously the chap at the back will have to run down to the front table - and so on. Did you all get that? Thought not! I’ll start again.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘Men must speak first. Think of three things you like then tell the lady. Okay? Let the mayhem begin.’

Val sauntered over to the top table and banged the gong. Still reeling from Millie’s diatribe, I saw, with regret, my first suitor was the smiley comb-over man.

‘I like football. I like fishing. I like pie and mash,’ he said, chewing on a chip.

‘You can’t just come out with it like that,’ I whispered.

‘Why can’t I?’ he asked, looking hurt while eating his scampi.

‘What Val means is: think of something the lady might like to share with you.’

‘That’s not what he said.’

‘Use your initiative.’

‘Bugger it!’ he said, scraping back his chair. ‘I’m no good at chatting up. Never was. Never will be.’

‘Look Sydney, I whispered, reading his sticker, ‘see the lady next to me on my left? Her name’s Frieda. She’s just told that man she likes: walking in the rain; picnics and films. Do you like any of those things?’

‘Yes. I like action films.’

‘Do you like kids?’

‘Don’t know. Suppose so.’

‘Give her a chance. If you fancy her, say you like kids. Okay?’

BONG! BONG! BONG!

Following a quick reshuffle I watched Sydney tell Frieda that he liked kids, picnics and pie and mash. After that I lost the will to live. Only the flowing wine saved the night. I sprang back as a slick man sidled up and tried to reach across the table for my hand.

‘I like long slow wet kisses that last for half an hour. (Almost aka Bull Durham.) ‘I like Jordan’s tits. I like having my balls squeezed.’

‘I like doing long division in my head. Cleaning the house from top to bottom when I can’t sleep - and being celibate,’ I replied, draining my glass.

‘Fucking hell! You’re a lesbian.’

I nodded. He stood up long before the gong sounded and waited for Frieda. ‘She’s one too.’

Unfortunately, when the next man spoke I was too far gone to pretend anymore. I remembered he was softly spoken, with a nice face and wanted to please.

‘I like women…I mean I fancy them and all that, but I really like women. I like my mother, my sisters and my aunties. They say I’m a good catch…I’m single, solvent and a pushover for a box of tissues and P.S. I Love You. I like walking in the mountains and shiny hair…on women, of course.’

He’d obviously heard Val’s comment.

‘Thanks, Steve. That was very sweet,’ I slurred. ‘Try four down and one across. She likes walking in the mountains and has shiny hair…I’m sorry I can’t do this anymore… It’s not you. You’re lovely. You see, I can hear three conversations at once and it’s not natural…In spite of being very drunk I’m still totally wired and could times 57 x 93 in my head - and I don’t know what I like. Honestly. I can’t think of one single thing at this very moment that I really like…And before I enter another relationship I really, really need to find out…You understand. Don’t you? Sorry Steve. You’re a really nice guy and deserve to be loved…Good luck and all that crap.’

BONG! BONG! BONG!

After that pathetic confession to a total and utterly nice stranger, everything became a blur until Val called: Time! The good looking guys left early. Couples were smooching and groping along to #I Will Always Love You#. I looked around and saw that Val and I were the last two remaining singletons.

‘Well me duck, I think that went very well - considering,’ he beamed.

An hour later the pub had finally gone quiet. I hung around because my legs had turned to jelly and I didn’t care. I noticed Val has cleared away the tables and candles without as much as a scraped chair. Trying to stand up, I lurched forward and headed for the door.

‘Hang on Liz. Don’t leave yet. I’ve got a bottle of Claret here under the counter,’ Val coaxed. ‘One more for the road?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Then I really must get a taxi. I’ve not been this drunk since my Eighteenth when I jumped into the river…And I can’t swim,’ I declared in all seriousness.

Behind the bar, Bernie and Sandra shuffled around wearily, clearing glasses.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ Val told me. ‘They’re glad of my custom…Be able to redecorate in a few months…Bernie…I’ll lock up when I leave. Okay old son?’

Bernie nodded tiredly and draped the damp tea towels over the bar.

‘So?’ I asked, ‘Why have you dropped the accent and started talking in a deeper voice?’

‘You don’t miss a trick. Do you? I’m gay on straight nights and I’m straight on gay nights – unless it’s for female gay nights and I don’t get pestered at all - if you get my meaning? Keeps things simple…Don’t want to confuse the punters…Like tomorrow night I’ve got a male gay speed-dating venue. My voice will be even deeper and I’ll bring along two gorgeous girls for company. You don’t know how many times I get my arse pinched in these sessions. It bloody hurts I can tell you.’

‘They’ll see you as a challenge, looking the way you do…Is Valentino Dettori your real name?’

‘Yes. My Mother’s choice of names for the birth certificate…The whore that she is,’ he spat.

‘Is she Italian then?’

‘She thinks she is. She’s a Greek Cypriot really but lives the Dolce Vita in Milano now and has conveniently forgotten her roots…My Granddad’s Greek through and through,’ he chuckled. ‘You’d like him. All the ladies do.’

‘So I’ll take it you’re not from the North then? Your Derbyshire accent’s perfect.’

‘I did that for your benefit. To make you feel at home.’

‘How did you know