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      Life & Death in an American Harem

      By

      L. M. Ollie

      Published in eBook format by Taheke Press

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      Author’s Note:

      Although this book is a work of fiction, much of the content is based on actual events as told to the author by the real “Lilly” shortly before she committed suicide. Names, characters and places have all been changed.

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

      mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without

      permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who

      may quote short excerpts in a review.

      eBook published in 2013

      ISBN-13: 978-0-473-25984-6

      Copyright © 2013 by L. M. Ollie

      Email : [email protected]

      L.M. Ollie has asserted her right under the Copyright Designs and

      Patents Act to be identified as the author of this work

      Also by the same Author

      Thirteen at Dinner

      A play about King Richard the Third of England 1452-1485

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18356-1

      On the Trail of King Richard III

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18310-3

      Reputed to be the most concise and historically accurate rendering of the life and times of King Richard III set within the confines of an intelligently written, exciting and frequently amusing storyline.

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book One – Richard

      ISBN 978-0-473-18463-6

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Two - Yusuf

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18464-3

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Three - Mikail

      ISBN: 978-0-473-18462-9

      Creatures of the Chase

      Book Four - Sarah

      LIFE AND DEATH IN AN AMERICAN HAREM

      By

      L. M. Ollie

      “Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly;

      ‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you may spy.

      The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

      And I have many curious things to show when you are there.”

      “Oh no, no,” said the little fly; “to ask me is in vain,

      For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

      Mary Howitt (1799-1888)

      The Spider and the Fly

      THE BROWNSTONE APARTMENTS

      BOSTON - 1979

      My name is Elizabeth Lambert and I’m a whore despite the fact that I know I’d get in trouble for saying that; but it’s true and it has been true now for nearly ten years. I’ll be twenty-six come summer so I thought it was about time I started to write some things down like I promised myself I would. It’s such a good story. I hope you like it.

      The lord Capritzo, for that is what I must call him, he would be furious if he heard me ever called myself a whore. Brownstone girls aren’t whores, sluts, harlots, hookers, hustlers, ladies of the night, loose women, prostitutes, streetwalkers, strumpets, tarts, trollops, women of easy virtue, women of ill repute. Who knew there were so many words for the same thing?

      What we are, and the lord Capritzo is really tough on this, is courtesans and being a Brownstone girl is something very, very special. We were told often enough, so it must be true.

      I was born in Huntsville, Ontario; that’s in Canada right next door to Algonquin Park. My Mother was a drunk and my Dad was the most useless, broken-down man you would ever want to meet. But I guess he couldn’t have been too broken-down because I was the fifth kid born and there were five more after me, so … Dad was a pig and Mum was a glutton for punishment so I guess you could say that they were made for each other or maybe they just deserved each other. Who knows? Who cares?

      It’s sort of a joke in Northern Ontario. In the summer they fish and make love, in the winter they don’t fish. It was sure true of Mum and Dad because all us kids were born in late August or early September. I’ll let you do the arithmetic on that.

      I love the expression “dirt poor” because it seems to convey so much don’t you think? Sure as heck we were dirt poor. My sister Debbie got out as soon as she was able. She got a job at the bank in town and had a little place of her own. It wasn’t much but she did a great job fixing it up and decorating it. Sometimes I would stay there overnight when I couldn’t stand being near my parents any longer. Debbie always understood of course.

      At home I had to share my bed with two of my younger sisters – Vickie and Carol. Sometimes I would crawl into bed dead tired from the day only to encounter both of them wide awake, fuelled by an excess of junk food. It was all I could do to prevent myself from strangling them both. How sad is that?

      My best friend was Susan Warwick. Susan was an American from Concord, Massachusetts. Every summer Susan’s parents would rent a huge cottage on the lake just outside of town. Mister and Mrs Warwick were really nice people. They were generous too and super rich. Susan had only one sister, Barbara but she never came North with her parents because she had a job in Boston. I didn’t know what sort of job it was but I would eventually find out. What a surprise that was!

      Susan and I first met when we were both nine years old. There was a summer-school program going on in the park that year and we both signed up not knowing each other then but we became great friends straight off. Funny when you think of it because we were so different. Susan had long black hair; lots of it and I was a strawberry blonde, with freckles and a sort of pushed up nose. Susan was, well I guess you could say she was a little chubby while I was rake thin but I would be wouldn’t I because there was never any food in my house.

      I guess that’s why I liked going over to Susan’s place so much because there was sure a lot to eat there. Mrs Warwick even made her own bread. More than once Susan and I would demolish a whole loaf straight out of the oven. It was heaven and the best part was that Mrs Warwick didn’t mind one bit. She liked me maybe because I was polite and helpful; always minding my ps and qs so I would be invited back.

      It was always hard to say goodbye at the end of summer. I hated it, blubbering like a baby every time; Susan too. We missed each other terribly but we wrote letters back and forth and at Christmas Susan would telephone. Not at my place, we didn’t have a phone but our neighbor did. It was always great to hear her voice, and her laughter.

      By the time we were thirteen the main topic of conversation was boys and, well ... sex. Susan’s mother had given her a book. It was full of words like love, respect, unwanted pregnancies and VD. What we really wanted was a “how to” book but of course there was no such animal then and even if there were, I doubt

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