Authors: Susan Howatch
Tags: #Psychological, #Romance, #Suspense, #General, #Fiction
Heartbreaker (24 page)
However, the good news here is that I can now stop worrying about Gil because I’m sure the worst thing that’s going to happen to him is that he’ll be pressured into celebrating this braindead Satanic rite. That’s humiliating for a clergyman, of course, but it’s not physically painful, and afterwards Asherton’ll shut him up by using the same pressure which he’ll use to get him to perform: he’ll threaten to send Tommy’s edited version of the Tucker tapes to the Bishop of London or whoever’s responsible for Gil. Okay, that’s not exactly a dream scenario, but at least it’s survivable.
Having reached this conclusion I find I’m free to worry about someone else, and my thoughts turn automatically to Colin. I’m not worried about Colin himself. He’s a heavyweight hitter and if he doesn’t like GOLD he’ll slug his way out, but I’m worried about me. Now that Elizabeth knows I’ve been through a bout of economy with the truth—and now that her St. Benet’s paranoia’s in full flow—I’d be dumb to continue to soak clients for the Appeal. Thank God Colin’s donation is the only one in the pipeline at the moment! Maybe I should even turn that off, but no, how can I backtrack on Mr. Moneybags now that I’ve boasted to Carta about the vast amount of cash to come? I’ve just succeeded in proving to her that I’m a man she has to take seriously. I can’t mess everything up by getting cold feet!
But if Elizabeth finds out I’ll not only wind up multiple-fucked, cattle-prodded and pulped at the Pain-Palace but I’ll lose her, she’ll ditch me just as she ditched Jason and Tony, and how would I ever survive if I didn’t have Elizabeth to love me? I’d start doing drugs again, I’d slide right back into the gutter, I’d get AIDS, I’d—
Shit, all this stress is driving me mental.
I decide I need some music to calm me down, but just as I’m reaching for a CD the stress kicks in again as I remember that I’ve got to take Serena out tonight.
I think: if I was living in Carta’s world I could cancel this date with Serena.
But I live in a world where I can’t even choose my girlfriends any more, a world where I’m getting increasingly stressed out and scared shitless, a world where the woman I need to love me now suggests I should stave off retirement in order to make porn movies. How could Elizabeth believe I’d ever want to do that? I want to retire from all this crap as soon as I can! Bloody hell, I’m not in the leisure business because I can’t bear to give it up—I’m just in it so that I can make enough money to be free . . .
But meanwhile I’m not only locked up but Elizabeth’s talking of increasing my jail sentence.
Well, we all get down now and then. That’s natural, isn’t it? But the successes of this world recover from any bout of minor depression pretty damn quickly, which is why by lunch-time I’m pouring out a glass of wine and reminding myself how lucky I am with my six-figure income and my expensive car and my valet and my Armani suits and all my fans who want to crown me Stunner-Stud of the year.
Life’s terrific! I’m fine. One or two problems, sure, but I’ll take care of them, and I’ll soon succeed in talking Elizabeth out of all that pornmovie nonsense.
I have dinner with Serena, and it’s no great hardship to take her along to Austin Friars afterwards for the required shag. The next day’s Sunday and she wants a rerun but I make an excuse to opt out. I say I’m going down to the country to see an old friend, and she’s too naive to realise I don’t have any old friends now. They’re all on another planet with Carta. Don’t have any new friends either, just shag-fodder I don’t want to keep in touch with. I mean, what’s the real reason why I haven’t updated my clunker of a mobile phone? I don’t use it in my work, apart from the occasional calls to the office from my car, and I don’t have a social life. At least, not the kind of social life people on Carta’s planet have.
I think about that planet. Then I decide to take a look at my old patch there. I can’t land on it, but I can glide by in my spaceship. I do this sometimes on a Sunday. Maybe once every four months.
So off I drive to Surrey where I roam around the woodsy lanes. I used to drive past the house where I grew up but I don’t do that any more. My parents no longer live there. My mother remarried after my father died. I saw his death notice in
The Times
and later the notice of her remarriage. Later still I checked the phone directory. Her new husband wasn’t listed, but even though she’d moved out of the area I knew she’d still make that pilgrimage to Hugo’s grave on the anniversary of his death. I used to have this fantasy that we’d meet in the churchyard, each carrying flowers . . . But of course I’d never go there on that day, never, because I know she wouldn’t want to see me.
Hugo, who lives in the crevice at the back of my mind, now dances out and starts yelling that I should have been the one to die of leukaemia. He does that sometimes. I usually let him spew out the rage and exhaust himself. Then I can stuff him back in the crevice without a fight.
Back in London I keep Hugo in the crevice by watching telly with Nigel. Nigel’s a great telly-companion, never talking too much—except when he tries to tell me his love is totally unconditional and requires no response. (What bullshit!) Anyway he shuts up when I tell him there’s no such thing as unconditional love, and we sit peacefully side by side on the sofa as we watch the drivel the channels put out. I’m in charge of the zapper. I zap and zap but Nigel never complains.
Up I get next morning for a new working week. Off I go across London to the City, park the car—shit, I’ll have to screw for that space soon!—and trail under the arch into Austin Friars. Maybe it’s because I’ve been meeting clergymen recently, but I find myself staring at the Dutch church there as if I’m seeing it for the first time.
Imagine the Dutch, who contrive to keep Amsterdam the sex capital of Europe, not only having time for Christianity but even keeping a church in a foreign city—and in the financial district, where Mammon rules supreme! And suddenly as I remember the stained-glass window in Richard’s church, I’m reminded that The Bloke in fancy dress with the little sheep tucked up on his shoulder doesn’t just exist in a pretty stained-glass picture in a village. He’s commemorated amidst the sex shops of Amsterdam and the money-factories of London. It’s almost as if he’s still out there hacking it amidst all the scum and the filth, but of course that’s just sentimental nonsense. He’s dead. He’s gone. He’s history.
But I keep thinking of that stupid little sheep, prancing down the wrong path and getting hopelessly lost. If The Bloke had been a different kind of shepherd . . . But he wasn’t, was he? That’s the point. He went back. He searched till he’d found the silly animal, and he even carried the little bugger all the way home. Did shepherds still do that kind of heroic number today? No way! Given the current moral climate the shepherd would probably just say to the farmer: “Sorry, mate, I’m missing one, can you write it off as a tax loss?” and the farmer would say with a yawn: “Hell, why not?” and the little sheep would die. No one today would care about something of such minimal value, and The Bloke wasn’t around any more to do the job himself. I mean, if he was around there’d be a sign, a hint that something extraordinary was flitting about, but there’s nothing, is there? Least of all in a quiet backwater like Austin—
My God, look who’s waiting outside my building! She’s togged out in a brown suit, very autumnal, very chic. The blonde hair’s immaculate, the legs are as dazzling as ever, the feet still make me want to tear off her tights and practise chiropody.
“Carta!” I shout—or I try to shout but I’m so amazed I only achieve a croak.
She glides towards me. “I’m here to deliver a message from my boss,” she says smoothly with an austere little smile. “Could you come to a meeting later today at St. Benet’s? We want to talk to you about all this fantastic fundraising you’ve been doing for us, and Nicholas said he did so hope you’d allow him to say thanks in person . . .”
CHAPTER THREE
Carta
Clergy and laity may find themselves caught between conflicting ethical principles, which could involve issues of public interest or private conscience . . . Even after conscientious and prayerful consideration of the ethical issues involved, some dilemmas cannot be resolved easily or wholly satisfactorily.
A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY
I
As soon as I left Gavin at that dreary yoof-boozer on Friday night I hefted my mobile phone out of my briefcase and called Nicholas. “Here’s some news to make your hair stand on end,” I said. “Gavin Blake’s screwing for St. Benet’s. Prostitution’s boosting the Appeal.”
Nicholas said dryly without a second’s hesitation: “Nice to know you’ve already got the headlines written for the tabloids. How soon can you get here?”
“Give me ten minutes,” I told him, and began to hurry west from the bar in Angel Court.
II
“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Nicholas as soon as I was seated in his study on the ground floor of the Rectory. Lewis had joined us from his bedsit across the hall, and upstairs in the Rector’s flat Alice was probably turning the oven down low, praying dinner wouldn’t be ruined and wondering why she hadn’t married someone who had a normal nine-tofive job.
“But the knock-out news,” I said, bringing my report to a climax, “is that the money so far’s just an appetiser and there’s a huge donation in the pipeline.”
There was an appalled silence before Nicholas said: “A tall story designed to impress you?”
“It impressed me all right, but I don’t think he was storytelling. There’s nothing fictitious about the three donations we’ve already had— or about Moira making good on Richard’s promise.”
“Nicholas,” said Lewis, “we can’t possibly take money derived from prostitution.”
I heard myself say: “I don’t think the situation’s that simple,” and Nicholas added: “Neither do I. Obviously we’re going to have a big problem with the discernment issue.”
I had been around clergymen long enough now to be familiar with their professional language. Nicholas and Lewis, working in the ministry of healing and deliverance, often referred to “discernment,” which was an abbreviation of the phrase “the charism of the discernment of spirits.” What this meant, in everyday language, was the gift of weighing up the evidence correctly when deciding whether a situation was pregnant with good possibilities or weighted with bad ones—or, to call a religious spade a religious spade, whether the situation was from God or not from God. (I was shy of using the word “Devil” even though I knew the word was a valid symbol for the worst kind of evil, something which was very real indeed.)
If a situation was from God the result would be peace, joy, healing, renewal and any number of other life-enhancing benefits. If the situation was not from God, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. This sounds simple but unfortunately the situations requiring “the exercise of the charism of discernment” were usually so complex that trying to work out whether they were inherently good or bad was immensely difficult, capable of flooring even those with long experience in perceiving “the work of the Spirit” (religious shorthand for God’s current activity in the world). I had already figured that “the discernment issue” in Gavin’s case was likely to drive us all nuts, and Nicholas, seemingly in agreement with me, now sidestepped the temptation to debate the matter at that moment. Instead he said: “We have to discuss this with Robin and Val— I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow afternoon.”
I opened my mouth to state the obvious but Lewis beat me to it. “Nicholas, tomorrow’s Saturday and Saturday’s your day off. Take Alice out somewhere, for heaven’s sake, and try to relax for a few hours!”
“But this is an emergency! I’ll make it up to Alice on Sunday, but we’ve got to have this meeting tomorrow.”
Lewis and I looked at each other but realised an argument would be futile.
III
“But I’ve invited Gil Tucker to lunch tomorrow!” Alice exclaimed when she heard the news. “You did say you wanted to see him!”
“Yes, but we’ll have to cancel. Could you call him to fix another date?”
I saw Alice sigh and I sensed her exasperation. Wondering when workaholic Nicholas would be able to fit another date into his overcrowded schedule, I decided it was lucky Gil was in no need of urgent pastoral care.
IV
“I’ve been dynamic and planned a surprise for tomorrow!” said Eric, who was waiting for me when I arrived home. “I thought it would be fun to see some country things like woods and hills and fields, so I’ve made a reservation for lunch at—what’s the matter?”
“I hate to say this, but Nicholas is arranging a big meeting at the Rectory and I have to be there.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I know, I know, but an unexpected dimension’s surfaced in relation to the fundraising, and—”
“What kind of dimension?”
“I can’t say. It’s confidential.”
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“What?”
“Well, I’m taking such a back seat in your life at the moment that you can’t blame me for imagining the worst! What’s Gavin Blake doing these days?”
“Still screwing, no doubt, but he’s not screwing me.”
The phone rang. With relief I pounced on the receiver. “Hullo?”
“Carta, it’s Moira Slaney. Listen, I think I’m going mad and you’re the one person who might keep me sane. Can I drop in and see you tomorrow at around ten?”
“Sure. I’ve got a lunch-time meeting, but—”
“I’ll be gone long before lunch.” She thanked me and rang off.
“Who was that?” demanded Eric.
“Moira, wanting to see me, God knows why, forget her. Look, why are you depressed enough to fantasise about being two-timed? How’s the book?”
Eric abruptly subsided on the sofa beside me. “Beached like a dead whale. I’ve even been thinking of going back to Norway—if I was there, where my characters were messing around in 1940, the book might relaunch.”
“So why don’t you go? Are your cards maxed out?”
“No, but I don’t want to build up a big debt.”
“I could give you a loan—”
“No thanks! Why are you so keen to get rid of me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“You’ve been seeing that hustler again, haven’t you?”
Rejecting the impulse to lie yet exasperated by this paranoid badgering, I said shortly: “Yes, but it was on business. There’s a St. Benet’s connection.”
“Tell me the whole story.”
“I can’t.”
“You don’t trust me to keep my mouth shut? Well, thanks for the overwhelming vote of confidence!”
“Eric, wait—”
“No, I’m not sitting around here watching you being fixated on Gavin Blake! Give me a call sometime when he’s finished trashing you, and maybe—
maybe
—if I’m not too busy with the book, I’ll stop by and sweep up the pieces!”
“Eric!” I shouted, but the door slammed and although I nearly ran after him I thought: no.
The truth was that my view of Gavin had undergone a profound shift and I wasn’t willing to put up with Eric’s uncharacteristically neurotic behaviour any longer. I did feel deeply upset, but most of all I felt angry with him for not giving me support when I needed it.
I started thinking again about Gavin . . .
V
“I decided I just couldn’t talk to Nick about this,” said Moira the next morning as we sat looking out through the huge window of my living-room to the church of St. Giles Cripplegate. I had poured the coffee and set out some biscuits, but I was feeling very uneasy, not just because she was almost vibrating with tension but because I was sure the subject of Gavin was going to surface—although why she should want to confide in me, when we knew each other so imperfectly, I couldn’t imagine.
“. . . and then I realised the person I had to see was you,” she was saying rapidly, well on her way to confirming my worst fears. “After all, you’re the one who knows him.”
Moira was wearing a very smart navy-blue suit and her hair looked as if she had just stepped out of a Knightsbridge salon, but her eyes were bloodshot, hinting at a recent bout of tears or alcohol abuse or both. I noticed that her neck was beginning to assume the crepe-like texture of middle age.
“I’m talking about Gavin Blake,” she added as I kept my face neutral to conceal my knowledge of their affair, and before I could comment she burst out: “I’m mad about him. We’ve been seeing each other, but now I think he’s trying to ditch me and I can’t bear it . . .” She dissolved into tears.
Knowing this extreme frankness to a mere acquaintance could only be the result of emotional agony, I struggled hard to make the right moves. “Moira . . .” I put an arm awkwardly around her shoulders as I knelt beside her chair.
“I’m sorry . . .” The tears had by this time hardened into sobs and she could barely speak.
I had an inspiration. “Let me get you some Kleenex,” I said quickly, remembering my own time of being
in extremis
back in 1990. The St. Benet’s team had passed me God knows how many tissues as I had grappled with the aftermath of my disastrous marriage.
Moira finally managed to mop herself up. Then came the drama of a quick glance in the mirror which revealed the cosmetics disaster, and after I had provided some make-up remover pads for the necessary repairs I asked her if she wanted to switch from coffee to tea. Many were the cups of tea I had drunk at the Rectory in 1990.
“No, for God’s sake keep pouring the coffee,” said Moira, making a brave attempt to sound tough, but the next moment she was giving a dry sob and clenching her fists to maintain her self-control. After I had refilled her coffee cup she said: “Carta, believe it or not, I didn’t come here to sob on your shoulder—I came for information. You’ve been to that flat in Austin Friars, haven’t you? Gavin said you went there to tell him about Richard’s coronary—and he also said he lives there with a woman, but I’ve been wondering if he lives there with another man. I believe him when he says he sells gym equipment to health clubs, but as far as his private life’s concerned—”
“He doesn’t live with another man.”
She sagged with relief. “Thank God. I didn’t want to doubt him, but since he’s bisexual—”
“He’s not bisexual. He’s straight.” I was beginning to feel capable of strangling Gavin with my bare hands.
Moira stared at me. “Then what was he doing with Richard?”
“Having gay sex.” I took a deep breath as I realised I could no longer avoid the big dénouement. “Look, Gavin doesn’t sell equipment to health clubs. He doesn’t live at the Austin Friars flat either. That’s just where he works. He lives in Lambeth with a woman called Elizabeth who’s his manager.”
“Manager? But what does she manage? And what does he do at Austin Friars?”
“Has sex with gays for money.”
There was a terrible pause before she stammered: “Do you mean— are you saying he’s a—” She broke off and looked away as her mouth started to tremble.
“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing she would never forgive me for being the bearer of such humiliating news, “but if you came here for vital information, information which will help you make the right decision about what to do next, then I’d be doing you no favours if I lied. Please forgive me if I’ve mishandled this—”
“God, what a bloody fool you must think I am!” She began to grope her way across the room to the door.
“No, I do understand, I promise! He’s so attractive—”
“And I’m so pathetic. I despise myself.” She was moving rapidly down the stairs to the front door.
Realising there was nothing more I could do for her I waited until she had left the house. Then I immediately called Nicholas.
VI
“I’ll leave straight away,” said Nicholas.
“But how will you explain—”
“I’ll say I’ve been meaning to call on her for some time—which is true.”
“I don’t want her to think I’ve betrayed her confidence—”
“Leave that to me. You’ve done the right thing,” he said, and was gone.
I hung up feeling more furious than ever with Gavin, but beyond the fury was fear as I saw how easy it would be to be trashed by him. Of course Nicholas had been right to be sceptical when I had declared after the funeral that I no longer found Gavin attractive. I had realised as soon as I’d seen him at the yoof-boozer that the logic-defying sexual frisson was still there, still waiting for the chance to boot me disastrously off-course.
Forcing myself to set aside the memory of Moira’s agony, I began to review the cool, balanced comments I intended to make about Gavin at the Rectory meeting.
VII
The major players in the St. Benet’s team were due to discuss the case over lunch, but it was one-thirty before Nicholas surfaced at the Rectory after his visit to Moira. Alice had just taken the decision not to delay lunch any longer, and when we all heard the welcome sound of the front door opening she was removing a casserole from the oven.
“Moira’s all right,” said Nicholas to me as I hurried out to the hall to intercept him. “Your name never came up because as soon as she saw me she broke down and told me about Gavin. Her best friend’s with her now, but I’ll phone her this evening to make sure she’s not alone . . . Is everyone here?”
“Champing at the bit.”
Switching from one crisis to the next with an ease born of long practice, he led the way into the main kitchen on the ground floor where his colleagues were already sitting around the large table. As this was to be a business meeting we were not in the Rector’s flat, and as soon as Nicholas had taken over the task of dishing out the casserole Alice slipped away upstairs.
“Lewis,” said Nicholas, sitting down in his chair at last, “would you say grace, please?”
Instantly we were immersed in the familiar, soothing routine: the grace, recalling us to the presence of God; the communal meal, emphasising the Christian tradition of hospitality; the sense of shared goals and ideals which reminded us we were working together not primarily for ourselves but for the God who had called us all, in our different ways, into the Church’s traditional ministry of healing. After the distress of the scene with Moira, I finally started to feel more centred.
“Here’s what I plan to do,” said Nicholas once Lewis had completed the grace. “I’m now going to summarise the problem we have at the moment with our fundraising. Then we’ll keep silent till the end of this main course while we all think carefully about the complex issues involved. And finally I’ll say a prayer for God’s guidance and we’ll start the discussion. Any questions? Okay, here we go . . .”