Heartbreaker (27 page)
Authors: Susan Howatch
Tags: #Psychological, #Romance, #Suspense, #General, #Fiction
XIV
“My dear Nicholas,” said Lewis, “of course I admire your liberal idealism and your sincere desire to help this dangerous and destructive young man whom you so romantically picture as a victimised traveller. But I’d be failing in my duty to you as your colleague if I didn’t say that I think you’re gravely mistaken. By accepting the donations, you
are
condoning his prostitution. The plain fact of the matter is that none of these donations would exist unless Gavin Blake had been financially rewarded for having sex with the donors. Naturally I share your desire to heal Gavin’s self-esteem and help him build a new life, but believe me, going along with his prostitution by accepting the fruits of it isn’t the way to achieve this worthy aim. So stop trying to play God, Nicholas, with all this addled talk of stepping outside the rules, and leave God in charge here! I assure you he can run things rather better than you can.”
As I fought the urge to grab a banana from the fruit bowl and hit Lewis over the head, Nicholas said levelly: “Fair enough. No one knows better than I do that I can get things wrong, but those are my views and since we’re all currently trying to be as honest as possible, these are the views I must express. However, they could change when I meet Gavin again—in fact all our views should be open to amendment then as he’ll be providing us with a lot of new information.”
Mollified by this good-natured response Lewis had the grace to backtrack a little. “I don’t wish to give the impression I’m completely inflexible,” he said, “but I do feel I’m the only one here who’s looking at the case with his eyes wide open.”
“There’s something else I’d like to say,” I intervened, anxious to move on from Lewis’s traditionalist spiel. “Sorry, Nicholas, but I’ve just got to say this no matter how nutty I sound.” And to the others I announced: “I think Gavin’s Elizabeth is Mrs. Mayfield.”
The meeting roared back to life as everyone rushed to embrace the diversion.
XV
Naturally the verdict on my theory was “not proven,” but there was a lively interest in the possibility that our enemy had resurfaced.
“Wicked old witch!” said Val robustly. “Evil old fraud! But how did she manage to enslave Gavin? I thought she was a middle-aged frump with crinkly grey hair!”
“You think she’s not clever enough to give herself a total makeover? Anyway the grey hair was a wig and the downmarket clothes were just part of the persona she was pushing at the time!”
“But if she’s going for radical change, why keep the name Elizabeth?”
Robin was unimpressed by this objection. “People who move from alias to alias often do keep their first names,” he said. “From a practical point of view it means you never slip up by failing to respond when someone addresses you, and from a psychological point of view, retaining the first name provides a thread of continuity in what may be a very disjointed life.”
“Talking of disjointed lives brings us back to Gavin,” said Nicholas, who had listened without comment as I had aired my obsession. “Perhaps we should now move into the final stage of the meeting and consider how we should handle his visit to the Healing Centre.”
Val said: “What makes you so sure he’ll accept our invitation?”
“Carta will be delivering it.”
“Oh yes?” I said, trying not to sound steamrollered.
“When are we going to schedule the visit?” asked Robin cautiously. “My timetable next week is . . .”
Everyone promptly started clamouring about how busy they were, but Nicholas said the meeting had to be on Monday, while our discussion was still fresh in our minds, and it had to take place after Gavin had finished work at six-thirty.
There then followed a not particularly productive discussion of how Gavin should be questioned about his fundraising, but we soon realised that it would be better to rely on a friendly spontaneity than a detailed plan. At this point, just as we were all about to go cross-eyed with exhaustion, Nicholas called a halt and summarised what had been agreed: we had decided by a majority vote to keep the past donations, although to appease Lewis, Nicholas said we should keep an open mind about the donation in the pipeline until we had talked to Gavin.
Having completed this summary Nicholas closed the meeting by thanking us all for giving up our Saturday afternoon, but just as I was thinking how much I was looking forward to the rest of my weekend he added: “Let’s get together tomorrow, Carta, and plan exactly how you’re going to deliver this invitation to Gavin.”
Telling myself crossly that there was no slave-driver to equal a clergyman once he slipped into a workaholic mode, I agreed to meet him on the following afternoon.
XVI
I was far from happy about adopting the role of the siren who would lure Gavin to St. Benet’s, and as I automatically started to review the meeting, it occurred to me that no one had asked if I found Gavin a threat to my peace of mind. I supposed they were all confident that I could deal with him as efficiently as I dealt with everyone else, but I knew their confidence was unjustified. It was the sheer irrationality of the sexual attraction which was so deeply threatening to me. Reason, logic, rational analysis—these were my survivor skills, giving me control over my life, and after my disastrous marriage I was frightened of losing that control.
On an impulse I avoided returning home directly and hurried instead to Eric’s studio. I wanted to blot out Gavin by saying to Eric: “I love you, I need you, I’m sorry everything’s been such a mess,” but when I rang his doorbell no one answered. My spirits rose as I assumed he was waiting for me at home, but when I reached my house I found only a letter. He had written: “Darling, I decided I had to make that second research trip to Norway right now to try to break my worsening case of writer’s block. I’m sorry for not giving you more warning of this, but to be honest I feel that our meetings have become such a minefield that it seemed best just to take off for the airport and hope that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Why do smart women so often get mixed up with absolute bastards? I know I used to be a bastard too in my gigolo days before we met, but at least I got my act together and grew up. However, maybe you have a psychological need to minister to men who have cosmic problems. Is it just a coincidence, I ask myself, that you allowed Gavin Blake to slither into your life so soon after your father died and you could no longer slave away trying to solve his gambling addiction? Okay, I’ll stop there. Let me know when you finally ditch that hustler. All my love, ERIC.”
I sank down on the stairs.
Eventually I was able to wipe my eyes, clamber up to the living-room and pour myself some scotch. In despair I wanted to grab a transatlantic flight—nail a high-powered job in New York—start out all over again— but even while I was thinking these frantic thoughts I knew I would solve nothing by physically removing myself from this mess in London. I would merely take my problems with me and wind up despising myself for running away.
Dredging up all my will-power, I began to plan my crucial meeting with Gavin on Monday morning.
XVII
In the moment before he saw me Gavin appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes downcast, his face empty of expression as he wandered away from the Dutch church which stood in Austin Friars. Without the gloss of his professional persona he seemed younger, almost like a hard-working student focusing dutifully on his approaching exams, and suddenly, in a moment of revelation, the scales fell from my eyes so that for the first time I saw him as vulnerable. The voices of the Rectory meeting echoed in my head and I thought: yes, this is the beaten-up traveller who’s been left for dead in the dark, and what he needs now isn’t rejection but a lifeline.
The next moment he saw me and instantly slipped behind the mask of hypersexuality.
“Carta!” he breathed, all smoochy innuendo, but I was determined not to be alienated.
Calmly I said: “Hi. Look, hold the stud-act for a moment, could you? I’m here to deliver a message from my boss . . .” And using a friendly, courteous tone of voice—a tone I had practised beforehand—I issued the invitation which Nicholas had drafted on my return to the Rectory on Sunday. This speech too I had rehearsed. I was surprised to find that even though I had taken such care to prepare for the meeting I was very nervous. I did not want to let down either St. Benet’s or Gavin himself.
But the speech made its mark. Astonishment flickered in Gavin’s eyes but this was followed closely by delight. Then came other emotions not so easy to identify. Alarm, perhaps? Suspicion? I was unable to decide and Gavin was not about to enlighten me.
Smoothly he said: “Churches aren’t my scene, Gorgeous, but if you’re going to be there I’ll turn up.”
At once I knew he needed reassurance and encouragement. “I’m going to be there. Definitely.”
“Phwoar! Then nothing could keep me away!”
“Everyone’ll be so glad to see you—they think you’ve done something really amazing!”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Nicholas and I. Lewis, the retired priest who assists at the church. Robin, the Healing Centre’s psychologist. Val, the doctor who works with Nicholas.”
“All these people think I’ve done something really amazing?”
“Absolutely! We can’t wait to offer you a glass of wine and say congratulations!”
“Sounds like you’ve all gone mental. What time’s this rave?”
“Six-forty-five. I’ll wait in the main reception area of the Healing Centre—just come down the steps from the churchyard and you’ll see me beyond the glass doors.”
He sighed in the manner of a rock star anxious to avoid his adoring fans but knowing it would be good PR to appear gracious. “Okay,” he said. “No problem. But now if you’ll excuse me, sweetie, I gotta run—a top-of-the-market leisure-worker like me never keeps a client waiting!” And with a ravishing smile he blew me a kiss before disappearing into the house.
The rush from the sexual charge which then slugged me kicked to pieces any notion I had been harbouring that my new understanding of Gavin as vulnerable would defuse the chemistry between us. I had been congratulating myself on behaving impeccably while giving reassurance to a damaged man, but now I felt I’d just been giving the maximum encouragement to a wrecker whom I still—
still,
despite all my determination to play my cards right for St. Benet’s—found much too attractive.
Just how on earth was I going to get a grip on this situation?
Maybe a head transplant wasn’t such a bad idea after all . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
Gavin
The healing ministry is available for everyone; there is no place for discrimination of any kind. The common humanity and uniqueness of each individual must be respected and valued.
A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY
I’m going to meet Mr. Charisma again. Carta’s issued his invitation to the St. Benet’s Healing Centre where I’m going to be slobbered over by Mr. Charisma and his myrmidons. (I like that word “myrmidons.” Shakespeare uses it, but in which play? Can’t remember.)
Of course I’m a severe embarrassment to Mr. Charisma and the myrmidons, but they’ve put their heads together and Mr. Charisma’s said: “Here’s this piece of shit, chums. How do we make him smell of roses so nobody can blame us for taking his money?” and some bright myrmidon’s piped up: “We’ll save him for The Bloke! That’ll make everything brilliant!” So they plan to convert me, but think again, you snotty bastards, because I’m going to kick that idea right up your collective arse where it belongs.
But the hell with them—all that matters is that I’ve achieved my goal of dazzling Carta. Bed in a month, did I say? No, make that two weeks! I’m on a roll here, doing great, and soon life’ll be more terrific than ever . . .
But meanwhile it’s Monday morning and I’ve got to psych myself up to face my first blow-job.
I go through my regular meditation routine but all the way through the wake-up shift I’m thinking, thinking, thinking, and the strange thing is it’s not Gavin Blake Superstud powering the thoughts. It’s not Gavin Blake Ordinary Bloke either, the one who drinks lager and says “nah” to Nigel and goes mad on the couch with the zapper. There’s someone else on the scene now, and it’s Gavin Blake Fundraiser Supremo, plotting his dynamic next move.
I’ve got to wear the right clothes for this slobber-fest at St. Benet’s. That’s important. I may be shit but I’m going to be well-dressed shit. Mr. Charisma will probably offer me his hand again because that’s the Christian thing to do, but there’s no need to make him feel he has to wash it afterwards. He doesn’t really feel friendly towards me, of course. He’s just going through the motions in order to be a good clergyman.
When the shift finishes I shunt back to Lambeth and pick a charcoal-grey suit ordered for me by an ancient client. It was his old-world, Savile Row wet dream of what every nice young man should wear. For luck I take the white shirt I wore to Richard’s funeral, and I select a tie that’s dark blue with a pale blue stripe: the Oxbridge colours. I’m going to look respectable enough to sell Bibles.
After the last client of the lunch-time shift has been shoehorned out of the flat, I rest but sleep’s impossible. The truth is I’m nervous about this visit to St. Benet’s. It’s the thought of seeing two clergymen, a doctor and a psychologist all at once—God, it’s like being interviewed for a place in a bloody rehab programme! What are they going to say to me? What am I going to say to them? What
can
they say to me? What
can
I say to them?
I need to figure out the right role, the role through which Gavin Blake Fundraiser Supremo can most effectively display himself. How about “Idealistic Young Executive?” No, that won’t wash, leisure-workers don’t have ideals. But wait a moment, I’ve got it, how about “Post-Yuppie Supporter of the Arts,” a bloke who’s bored with banking and bonking and now only wants to listen to opera in between reading Shakespeare? Yeah, that’ll go down well, that’ll impress the hell out of them, problem solved.
Somehow I get through the late-shift. One client even asks me if I’m feeling unwell and I have to bust a gut to prove I’m in prime condition for the routine he likes but what a bore all that fake wrestling is! It’s not just physically tiring—it’s mentally exhausting having to dream up an erotic choreography which will ring the client’s macho bells and allow him to kid himself we meet as physical equals. What a fantasist! Silly plonker.
As soon as the last client leaves I shower and dress at top speed. No time to straighten out the flat. I’ll have to arrive early tomorrow to tidy up. Before I go I have a swig of wine from the bottle in the fridge, but that’s a stupid thing to do because it means I have to wash my mouth out all over again. Mustn’t turn up smelling of booze. Mustn’t let them guess how bloody nervous I am. If Carta wasn’t going to be there I wouldn’t bother to show. I mean, I’ve got better things to do with my time, right? Course I have.
But I stick to the plan. Mustn’t wreck my sizzling new relationship with Carta. Off I go along the part of Austin Friars which leads into Throgmorton Avenue, and then I beetle on west, crossing Moorgate and diving into Great Bell Alley. In and out of the backstreets I skim like a mouse in a maze as I take short cut after short cut until I hit Egg Street. The church is ahead of me now. I shudder but whisk up some courage by thinking of Carta waiting for me by the glass doors of the crypt where the Healing Centre’s located. I tell myself she probably feels like Joseph Cotten waiting for Orson Welles in my father’s favourite movie
The
Third Man.
All we need now is some zither music.
Carta’s waiting, just as she promised. She’s wearing a trouser suit, which is a big mistake because it covers her legs, but I can still see her feet which are slinkily shod in skintight black leather. I try to joke to myself about chiropody but I’m too tense.
“Hiya, Frosty-Puss!” I say, breezing in as confidently as if I visited healing centres every day. “Lead me to Mr. Charisma and his myrmidons!”
“His
what
?”
“Myrmidons. Shakespeare.
Coriolanus,
act two, scene five.”
She looks suspicious, as well she might since I invented the entire reference and even (I discover later) named the wrong play, but she just gives me a tight little smile before saying carefully: “Thanks for coming. Everyone’s here.”
I’m too stressed out to take much notice of my surroundings, but we’re in a brightly lit reception area, similar to the waiting-room of a doctor’s surgery, and Carta’s leading me over to a door marked CONSULTING ROOM ONE. The door’s ajar. I can hear a voice murmuring beyond, but the sound ceases as Carta pushes open the door.
I expected a boardroom with everyone sitting at a long table. I pictured them all lolling in their chairs and snottily looking me up and down as I walked in. But the room’s small and the occupants are perching on some old stacking chairs which have been arranged in a ragged circle. There’s a desk but it’s been pushed back against the waist-high bookcase which runs along one wall. Above the bookcase is the global corporate logo of The Bloke: a wooden cross with the metal image of a man fixed to it.
I nerve myself to face the two clergymen, the doctor and the psychologist who have assembled to look down on me. But simultaneously Carta’s saying in an upbeat voice: “Here’s Gavin!”—and the next moment every single person in that room stands up as if The Bloke himself had walked into their midst.
“Welcome to St. Benet’s, Gavin,” says Nicholas Darrow, smiling at me.
Can’t speak. Not sure why. I remember I have to play a role but I can’t recall what it should be. I only know that these people stood up before I’d begun to play any role which would have made me socially acceptable. They stood up before I could open my mouth.
I’m being introduced but the words don’t register. Each myrmidon offers me its hand to shake. I nod. I suppose I smile a little, the way one does at such times. The familiar reflexes carry me through.
I’m being offered a glass of wine. Soave or Valpolicella? The Healing Centre’s been sent a case of each as a gift.
I choose the Soave but I forget to add “please.” I’m still all over the place, trying to slip into a role but no longer sure what the role should be. I don’t think I could carry off “Post-Yuppie Supporter of the Arts” after all. In fact I doubt if I could carry off anything. But I can’t be me. So I’ll just have to hack it as a low-IQ City worker with a speech impediment— a fair enough description of my present performance.
“Why don’t you take that chair next to Carta?” suggests Mr. Charisma, and Carta gives me an encouraging smile.
I sink down on the stacking chair with the glass of chilled Soave in my sweating hand. Carta sits down too, slim ankles peeping out of those stupid trousers, but I can’t think erotic thoughts any more. I can only take a sip of Soave and listen to the thumping of my heart.
Mr. Charisma, very laid-back and appearing one hundred per cent sincere, starts to thank me on behalf of everyone at St. Benet’s for my hard work which has been so outstandingly successful.
Gradually I get my act together. I’ve realised the scene’s a little like those Sunday morning drinks parties my parents used to throw in the days before Hugo became ill. A bunch of chums, not many, would turn up at noon and swill for an hour or so while the men chatted about sport and how the socialists were ruining the country, and the women nattered about children and schools and how to teach the au pair to make a decent cup of tea. In other words you talked of things which couldn’t possibly upset people, even though you might be worried sick about your bank balance or your sex life or who was within an inch of a nervous breakdown.
The St. Benet’s gang too are all bent on saying nothing upsetting while they bust a gut to be friendly, and soon Robin the psychologist’s gushing: “Of course what I’m dying to know is how you approached this project from a
psychological
point of view. You must have selected your targets with
enormous
care.”
“Sure.” I can’t quite figure this bloke out. He’s a stick-thin, camp piece who’s wrapped in a violet shirt and a wedding ring, and he’s got the trick of emphasising certain words as if to brainwash you into believing how sincere he is. He looks gay, but as I know so well appearances can be deceptive. I speculate that he could be a bi who’s decided he’d flourish best in a marriage, but no, if that was the case he’d probably opt to look dead straight, crafting his appearance to kill all bi rumours for the sake of his family. I decide this bloke’s just a straight with a passion for kinky colours and a total indifference about whether or not people think he’s gay. He must be very secure.
“Perhaps you’d like to tell us a little about your fundraising strategies,” says Mr. Charisma, egging me on, and Carta says admiringly: “I’m longing to hear how you did it!”
This is the moment to die for. Carta Graham, Golden Girl, is looking at me with genuine interest and respect
yet I’m not playing a role.
But of course I now have to vault into a role, no choice. If I have to talk about how Gavin Blake Superstud became Gavin Blake Fundraising Supremo, I can’t be Gavin Blake Me telling the truth. That’s because all the sex stuff has to be omitted. I spent a lot of time plotting each physical move which would send each donor to his own private version of gay heaven, and I used all my energy and skill to see the donors were swept through the pearly gates on a tide of orgasmic glory, but of course I could never admit that to a bunch of Christians. It would just reinforce their private opinion that I’m scum.
In panic I realise everyone’s gazing at me with rapture as they wait for the explanation of my brilliant success. Why didn’t I guess they’d want some details? Maybe I thought they’d be too priggish to want to know. Or maybe I was too busy deciding what to wear and enjoying the thought of being slobbered over by a load of do-gooders.
“Yeah well,” I mumble, clearing my throat to play for time, but then I’m launching myself into an ultra-cool performance of Gavin Blake Fundraising Supremo. “Some of these blokes I see have a company policy about giving to charity, preferably a City charity, at least once a year,” I say. “So, well, I picked one of those, researched his company, know-what-I-mean, talked to the client, figured out which approach would be best.” In an inspired moment I remember one of my non-sexual ploys. “I mugged up the Appeal literature so that I could answer any questions right off, and then I designed a spiel for each client.”
“Terrific!” exclaims Carta encouragingly. “I try to do that, but it’s hard to get the spiel right, isn’t it, and one never quite knows how it’s going to go down.”
I think I’ll be okay if I focus on Carta and pretend the others aren’t there. “Right!” I say warmly. “It’s risky stuff! Well, like I say, I picked a bloke who had a company policy about giving to charity. Then I see blokes who are running for some kind of City office, know-what-I-mean, and they like to look involved with charity stuff, so I picked one of those. And then I see blokes who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it and they don’t even have time to, you know, ferret away trying to find a good cause, so if I name a good cause they’re going to say: ‘Hell, why not?’ and write a cheque because it stops them feeling guilty that normally they never get around to giving much away. So I picked one of these blokes too. And to all the blokes my approach was like: ‘Hey, I’m going to do you a favour—here’s a big opportunity for you!’ because although these blokes hate being pressured for money, they love any opportunity to make themselves look clever, and the fact is they all truly appreciated my tip about St. Benet’s which is a great City cause, very respectable but very cutting-edge. Touches a lot of, you know, like, bases. It’s very today, very now.”
As I finally dare to glance around the room again I see everyone’s looking deeply impressed—except for the creepy cleric in the corner, what’s-his-face, Lewis Hall, the oldie with the silver hair and black eyes and whiplash-thin mouth. Maybe
he’s
gay. Repressed, of course. One of those celibate numbers who flagellates himself in secret to relieve the tension. He’s looking at me as if he knows too bloody well I’m being economical with the truth. Shall I test him out, give him a hot look which would make him think all his forbidden fantasies were springing to glorious life? No, better not risk it. It might wreck my new role which I’m playing so cleverly: the leisure-worker with the heart of gold—the one who’s lying in the gutter but looking up at the stars with a sheaf of charity cheques in his hand.