Heartbreaker (45 page)

I hug her harder than ever. Then I’m outside, groping my way up the steps into the street, and the front door’s closing noiselessly behind me.

I’m alone in a violently altered landscape.

The big nightmare’s begun.

Elizabeth’s waiting up for me when I arrive home. This surprises me because I’m very late. Of course I have a cover story prepared, but I’m in such a state that the last thing I want to do is deliver it. When she calls my name I stop trying to creep noiselessly up the stairs and pause to psych myself up. I’ve already seen that her door’s ajar and there’s a light on in her room, but I was hoping she’d fallen asleep while reading a magazine.

“Come here, pet,” she orders, and when I trail over the threshold she exclaims benignly: “You’re looking very smart! What have you been doing?”

“Had a second look at that opera Colin took me to—I couldn’t concentrate the first time around when he was pawing me.”

“And since when has the Opera House closed down in the early hours of the morning?”

“Well, I got talking to a very classy American babe, and—”

“You and your Americans! I suppose I’ll have to allow you one every now and then, but I really do wish you’d grow out of them!”

By this time she’s smiling at me. She’s wearing a peach-coloured silk nightdress, smart, with a yellow woolly bed jacket, dire, and she’s propped up on a mound of cream-coloured pillows. Her brass-gold hair, wavy and unfastened, is frothing around her shoulders, and the taut skin of her face is so smooth in the soft light that it’s obvious she’s had the slack hitched up behind her ears. Tonight I’m more aware than I’ve ever been of her altered, mask-like face which makes it easy for her to conceal her secrets.

“Well, never mind,” she’s saying placidly, “forget the American. Norah’s invited us for Sunday lunch tomorrow—or rather, today—so you’ll be able to see Serena.”

“I’m not going.” The words escape before I can stop them, but luckily this is no big disaster. Elizabeth knows I hate lunching at Norah’s.

“But afterwards you and Serena can slip upstairs for a while!”

Gavin Blake Toy-Boy opens his mouth to say obediently: “Okay, darling, you win!” but someone muscles in ahead of him and shoots straight back: “Shagging that boring chick while you and that dreary old dyke are gossiping in the living-room would be like a teenager trying to grope his first date while his parents were downstairs chatting about the church fete!”

It’s Gavin Blake Me talking. He’s finally slipped his leash. His resurrection’s so far advanced that he just won’t play dead any more.

Elizabeth stares at me. A blankness descends on her taut-skinned face and her blue eyes go dead. In my head I hear Susanne saying: “Once the penny drops it’s as if you see the word PSYCHO tattooed on her forehead.”

Fear finally overwhelms me. It’s Gavin Blake Toy-Boy who stammers: “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that, I take it all back—”

“You’ve had too much to drink, my lad, that’s your problem! Well, all I can say is you’d better pull yourself together PDQ—and you can start by making no more snotty remarks about Norah!”

But the next moment Gavin Blake Toy-Boy’s keeling over again, decked by this reckless chancer who just won’t play dead. “You’re still shagging her, aren’t you?” says Mr. Unstoppable acidly.

In the dead silence which follows, words flash through my head. They are: Elizabeth, just in case you can’t figure it out, love, your correct answer is: “Oh, don’t be so silly!” You’re not seriously angry. You’re just annoyed that I’m behaving like a drunk and making ludicrous accusations.

I wait. I see her take a sharp, deep breath. Then I hear her demand in fury: “Who says I’m still shagging her?”

Queasiness hits me but automatically I protect Susanne. “I do,” I say. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about why you palmed me off on Serena and why you’re always seeing Norah. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

More words flash through my head. They are: Elizabeth love, this is where you exclaim: “What utter nonsense!” and pick up your bedside magazine in a huff. You don’t embark on elaborate denials and you don’t attempt to justify shoving me at Serena.

But again, the correct response isn’t the response that I get.

“Of course Norah and I are always seeing each other!” Elizabeth says, sounding both hurt and amazed. “We have our business to run! And of course I’ve been keen for you to date an attractive, well-educated, superior girl like Serena! I have your best interests at heart! So how dare you twist these facts into a rabid accusation which is totally and utterly untrue? But I think I see what all this is about—you still feel miffed that we don’t get together more than once a week. Well, I’m flattered— flattered enough to forgive you for your malicious accusation about my relationship with Norah and your nasty attitude to Norah herself. So as a special treat, why don’t you take off those smart clothes of yours and get into bed? But go to the bathroom first, please, to wash out your mouth. I don’t want to be asphyxiated by alcohol fumes.”

I can’t think what to do. I know this is some kind of test and I’ve got to shag her, but at the same time I know I won’t be able to do it. Why? It’s the word PSYCHO tattooed on her forehead. It’s the false responses given as she slithers away from the truth. It’s the horror of knowing something’s wrong with my savings account. It’s the real Gavin Blake coming alive at last and seeing how he’s been manipulated when he was dead.

But if I don’t shag her I’m in big, big trouble. She’ll start to think I’ve had enough. She’ll start to think I’m turning against her. She’ll start to think I’m capable of double-crossing her in the worst possible way.

Feeling as if I’m being split by a meat-cleaver I obey her order to go to the bathroom, but I never get as far as washing out my mouth. As soon as I see the pictures on the walls the queasiness hits me again and I recognise the one way I can control this situation. Grabbing a towel I kneel down by the lavatory and ram a finger down my throat to help the nausea along.

She hears the vomiting and comes to watch.

“Sorry,” I mutter when it’s over. “Feel terrible.”

“All right, get upstairs. I don’t want you near me when you’re like this. Come back tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.”

“Right. Nine. I’ll be here,” I lie, and finally escape upstairs. I pause only to set the alarm on my bedside clock. Then I strip and crash out.

The clock shrills at six and instantly I’m wide awake, every nerve jangling as I remember what’s happened. The Elizabeth crisis is mega but I can’t face it till I find out about the money. Later I’ll shag her, I’ll even inject my equipment if I have to, but right now—

Right now I’m doing a runner.

I don’t shower. I’m afraid the noise of the water in the wastepipe might wake Elizabeth. And I don’t shave either. I’m tired of grooming Gavin Blake Prostitute to be a drop-dead stunner. I want to wear an old sweatshirt and shabby chinos and the beat-up jacket which Elizabeth says should be thrown away.

When I’m dressed I find paper and a pen and write: “Darling—Sorry, but I promised myself I’d drive down to Surrey today to visit Hugo’s grave. I’ve been thinking of him lately. Please tell Norah I appreciate her invitation and I apologise for not accepting it. Sorry about all the crap I talked when I was pissed. Big love, GAVIN.”

I’m just padding through the living-room of my flat when Nigel comes downstairs from the attic.

“Gavin! You okay, mate? I’ve been so worried! When you weren’t back by one last night, Elizabeth woke me up and started interrogating me and—”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing! Well, I did tell her you weren’t eating right, but I felt I had to tell her
something
when she wanted to know what I thought was going on with you—”

“Did you tell her about the tapes?”

“Course not!” Nigel’s shocked. “Gav, I wouldn’t let you down on something like that, I swear it—hey, did you get them back? Did Susanne help you about the safe?”

Again I move to protect Susanne. “Didn’t need to go to her in the end, thank God—I caught Tommy just before he left and said I’d been decked by Colin and didn’t want Elizabeth to know. He gave me the tapes on condition we have a shag when he comes back from Amsterdam.”

“Oh, I’m so glad—I mean, I’m so glad you’ve got the tapes—”

“Forget that, just listen for a moment. You haven’t seen me now, right? I’ve snuck off early but you don’t discover that till later. You know
nothing.
”

“Okay, but what’s going on? Why’s Elizabeth so—”

“I’m having girl trouble. Elizabeth wants me to shag Serena. Serena’s a big yawn. I want to shag a luscious stunner I’ve got my eye on. Elizabeth suspects I’m being a naughty boy, not doing what I’m told, so she’s stomping around playing Mummy. It’ll all blow over, it’s not crucial, just concentrate on knowing nothing.”

I slip away, padding noiselessly down the stairs, and leave my note on the floor of the landing outside Elizabeth’s door. I listen but hear nothing. On the ground floor I glide outside, closing the front door with the smallest possible click.

I’m on my way.

Leaving the house before Elizabeth wakes up means I’m much too early to arrive at Susanne’s flat and I’m not sure what to do. London’s comatose at this hour on a Sunday morning, so in the end I drive to Victoria Station and get a coffee from a vending machine.

Sitting on a platform bench I sip from my Styrofoam cup and decide there’s a certain ruthless inevitability about my disintegrating life, as if someone’s methodically smashing it up with a hammer. I feel I’m being steered through a series of interlocking situations which are all leading to one
Götterdämmerung
-type conclusion—but no, “steered” isn’t the word that describes what’s happening to me, it’s too gentle. I feel as if I’ve been lassoed and now I’m being dragged along the ground in a cloud of dust— but no, that’s not right either. It conveys the idea of being captured but not the idea of being rescued. Someone’s lassoed me, but with a lifebelt attached to a rope—yes, that’s it. I was drowning in the sea but now the lifebelt’s plopped over my head, the rope’s snapped tight and a lifeguard on the distant beach is tugging me through the shark-infested waters to safety.

The rescuer’s got to be The Bloke. He’s not a shepherd any more. Shepherds are passé. He’s a lifeguard like in
Baywatch.
Cool. Okay, haul away, mate, and give my love to Mary Magdalene, patron saint of prostitutes, who of course is standing by looking just like Pamela Anderson. Phwoar!
Ultra
-cool.

Thinking of Pammy’s cleavage reminds me of Susanne. What was it she said in her kitchen? “If you weren’t so like a little boy who’s lost his mum and clings to the first stranger who pats his head . . .” That was a terrible thing to say, and so was that other remark of hers: “You couldn’t take care of me because your Elizabeth fixation means you can’t even take care of yourself.” Bloody cow, insulting me like that! How could she have said such shitty things about me? How could she?

Because they’re true, is the answer. And they’re truths I have to face to survive.

So this is what it’s like to follow Nigel’s advice and come out of denial! I’m sitting unshaven, unwashed and dressed like a Welfare creep in Victoria Station and realising in despair that I may be too bloody vulnerable to reach the shore where my new life’s waiting to begin. The Bloke may be reeling me in but supposing Jaws closes in for the big chomp? Disasters do happen. It’s that kind of world, and there’s nothing I can do except wait in a stupor of dread.

But then I remember something Gil Tucker said at the end of that row I engineered. I can’t recall the clerical language he used but he definitely argued that you’ve got to be active, not passive, when dealing with the world’s messes. So I can’t just cling to the lifebelt and freeze at the thought of being chewed up. I’ve got to swim as hard as possible to relieve the strain on the lifeline, I’ve got to do all I can to help the lifeguard, I’ve got to
work
at being rescued.

I’m still thinking of the lifeguard when he beams me a telepathic message. He says: “Forget Jaws. Concentrate on me.” Which is sensible advice because you function a lot better when you’re not scared shitless.

I feel I ought to say something now he’s made direct contact, but what words can I use? Can’t connect with all that religious stuff. But if I think of him as a bloke only a little older than I am but a billion times more streetwise . . . “Hey man,” I say in my head, “I know you’re the boss, I know you can make everything pan out, I’m sorry for all the bad stuff I’ve done, I want to start over, save me from the psychos, help me get out of this jam in one piece, you’re a superstar and I know you can do it. Thanks, mate. Cheers.” And The Bloke says: “Hang in there, chum. We’ll get the sickos sorted. And whatever you do, don’t lose hope.”

So I sit there, clutching on to hope with both hands. But at last I stand up. It’s time to be active. It’s time to work at my own rescue. It’s time to start swimming in the shark-infested sea.

Having bought the
Sunday Times
for Susanne I drive to Norah’s house five minutes away.

“Trouble with Elizabeth,” I say to Susanne as soon as I cross her threshold, and I tell her about the scene after my return home. Susanne’s wearing a magenta-coloured wrap with matching high-heeled slippers, and she looks pasty-faced, hungover and cross.

“God, that’s all we need—you going nuts!” she says. “Listen, pinhead. Unless you brush up your talent as a liar we’ll both be up shit creek. What’s Elizabeth going to think now you’re suddenly convinced she’s shagging Norah? She’ll figure that either Serena’s been gossiping or I have, and let me tell you, you’d better bloody well pin it on Serena!”

“I protected you. I said—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s too early for all this, my brain’s not working yet.” Grabbing the
Times
from my arms she tramps off to her bedroom. “Why don’t you have a shower?” she adds, confirming my suspicions that I reek.