Authors: Susan Howatch
Tags: #Psychological, #Romance, #Suspense, #General, #Fiction
Heartbreaker (53 page)
I sigh, remembering those cosseted days when my clothes were always clean in the closet and nutritious meals were always waiting for me at the right time in the kitchen. I remember too how Nigel nobly let me have charge of the zapper when we watched mindless TV together. I’ll miss him.
But the information he provides is too important not to pass on to the police. Sorry, Nige, I know you’ve got a police phobia, but they’ve got nothing on you this time and you’re not about to be banged up again in the perv-wing of a horror jail. Showing the letter to Susanne I say: “Here’s a witness who heard Elizabeth ordering my murder.”
“You’ll never get that silly little shit to testify!”
“He’ll do it for me if he’s sure the police won’t fit him up for kiddiefiddling.”
“If I had my way I’d see he was fitted up for life!”
“But he put all the paedo stuff aside! He fell in love with me instead!”
“Only because he knew you’d never want to have sex with him.”
I have an uncomfortable feeling this is a shrewd insight, but I don’t pursue it. Instead I write back to Nigel: “Dear old friend, thanks for your letter. Good to know you’re safe. It’s okay, I did realise you told Elizabeth as little as possible and wouldn’t have grassed me up over the brochures. About the job: don’t sell yourself short. You’re a great valet. Go to a top domestic agency. I’ll give you a knock-out reference.
“Now listen, Nige. It’s all very well you saying you love me, but do you love me enough to testify about that phone conversation you overheard? And the answer had better be yes. Think of all those bodies at the Pain-Palace. And remember: I was nearly one of them.
“Please help, mate. I’m counting on you. Love GAVIN.”
Then I pick up the phone.
I’m not so good after Nigel’s reminded me of my old life. To calm myself I play my favourite tenor aria from
The Magic Flute
and yes, it’s still beautiful and yes, one day I’ll enjoy listening to it again, but I can’t enjoy it now, it just splits my head open to reveal the black pit of unwanted memories. To try to get relief from my excruciating tension I avoid the booze but find I can’t stop myself sneaking into the kitchen and cutting my forearm with a paring knife.
Disaster. Susanne catches me with the blood flowing and the knife in my hand. She knows just what it means and she’s furious. “If you ever do that again I’ll walk out!” she shouts, and I’m so rattled I have to throw up my dinner but I do it very quietly and she doesn’t hear.
I make a new effort to hold myself together. As soon as my body can take it I start going to the gym—not my old gym but another one on the northern edge of the Barbican. This improves me physically but mentally I’m still so clobbered that when I’m home I can hardly do anything but watch TV. Dimly I begin to realise that this is what I want—it stops me thinking. I get nervous, thinking of the future. I get sick, thinking of the past. All I’ve got is this weird, idle present, but at least Susanne’s here to share it with me.
Susanne’s got a job manhandling a computer for some outfit in the City and she comes home for lunch to make sure I eat. I can’t even think about getting a job until the trial’s over. I need all my strength to stay in one piece.
In contrast Susanne’s not only got a job but she’s developing a hobby—she’s asked Curvy Alice to teach her how to cook. Susanne approves of both Alice and Nicholas, but she doesn’t like Lewis. Interestingly she doesn’t think he’s a repressed gay, but she says he reminds her of some of the punters she knew—lots of interest in hetero stuff but no real empathy with women.
I’m just thinking I’m doing better, successfully holding myself together as I drift towards Christmas, when the bomb drops. Nicholas stops by one evening and tells me Carta’s getting married in January.
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaim, smiling radiantly as soon as I’m told the news.
But it’s not. I feel churned up. I don’t want her to marry that red-headed tosser. To tell the truth, I don’t want her to marry anyone. I’ve faced up to the fact that she’s not for me but I don’t want anyone else to have her either. I want her to be sacred, precious, set aside like a sort of nun, someone whom I can visit every now and then, someone I can rely on to be constantly there for me at all times.
Of course I can’t disclose any of these headbanger’s thoughts, but I feel sad. Well, more than sad. I feel angry with myself for not being a better man, the kind of man who could hook a golden girl like Carta.
I haven’t seen much of her lately. Not her fault. I still can’t cope with the fact that she got back together with Sad Eric—now Cool Eric, Eric the Winner—and I can cope even less with the prospect of her marrying him. In fact the whole situation makes me want to run around smashing things. But I don’t. I binge and throw up instead.
To my horror I now find I’m missing the Life. Of course I never tell anyone this. But I feel so powerless now, whereas in the Life I had power by the cartload—the power to make a lot of money, the power to control those poor sods who paid me, the power to walk into glitzy shops and buy top-of-the-range clothes. I miss all the boosts to my self-esteem too—the boost of hearing my clients gasp that I’m drop-dead sexy, the boost of being told I’m bloody good at what I do, the thrill of hearing Elizabeth croon that I’m wonderful, adorable, the apple of her eye. Okay, I know this is all pathetic, but the trouble is I haven’t yet figured out a substitute for this crap and meanwhile I’m feeling I’m nothing any more, just a sad-sack loser who does little else but watch TV because he’s so shit-scared of falling apart.
I know I ought to talk to someone about this, but I’m too frightened of how the conversation might go. Supposing prostitution’s all I’m good for? Supposing I have to go back to it to earn a living but can’t hack it and go nuts? Supposing—
“How are you doing now?” says Nicholas when I’ve finished lying about Carta, and I know he’s giving me the opportunity to talk if I want to. But I can’t.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Brilliant. Better every day.”
But I’m not. I’m getting worse. Eventually Susanne catches me vomiting and I swear I won’t do it again but she says I’ve got to see Dr. Val. Val says it might possibly help if I have a chat with Robin, but I say no, no, I’m fine, and everyone backs off again.
“I’ll be better after the trial,” I insist to Susanne. “After the trial I’ll finally be able to relax and then everything will be terrific, just as it should be.”
Susanne says nothing.
I start to panic. Supposing she leaves me? How would I survive? Even as I pine for Carta, I know I can’t live without Susanne, the girl who tells me I’m not shit—although by this time she must be thinking I am.
In a frenzy of insecurity I start to worry about sex. Am I shagging her too often? Is she secretly thinking oh God, not another fuck? Is she longing to be shot of me altogether?
In agony I mutter: “This okay for you?”
“What?”
“Me wanting sex.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Because if I’m being a pain—”
“I’d say so.”
“You really don’t mind?”
“Oh, stop twittering and start shagging!”
This is hardly rapture, but on the other hand Susanne isn’t the rapturous type. I decide she’s not on the point of walking out but she needs to be encouraged to stay, so the next morning I sneak off to Hatton Garden, where all the jewellers hang out, and buy her a gold ring with a diamond attached.
“What’s this for?” she says suspiciously.
“Just saying thanks for putting up with me when I’m such a nerd. Thought a diamond might compensate.”
“You mean it’s real?” She takes the ring from the finger of her right hand where she rammed it a moment ago, and stares reverently at the stone. “Or have you gone back to your lie-a-minute routine?”
I show her the receipt. She nearly passes out when she sees the price.
“That’s ever so nice,” she says dazed. “I’ve never had such a present. Ta.” Then she pulls herself together. “But don’t do it again till you’re earning,” she says sternly. “We need to be able to afford the right property when the time comes to buy a home.”
I note the “we” with enormous relief. I’m safe for a while yet, but at that point I start to worry in earnest about how the hell I’m going to earn a living, and half an hour later I’m throwing up again.
God, what a mess I am! Maybe it’s time to ask the St. Benet’s people for help, but no I can’t, I can’t—if they take me apart how do I know they can put me back together again? And I’ve got to be in one piece for that trial.
In despair I finally ask The Bloke for help. I hate asking him for another favour when he’s already saved my life, but if he could only ease the stress somehow I’d be so grateful . . . I ask for a little extra piece of hope to take the edge off the intolerable despair.
Susanne has a brilliant idea. She looks up from studying the property pages in the
Sunday Times
and says: “I don’t think we should wait till spring before buying our home. The housing market might start to recover and right now there are real bargains to be had in Docklands at rock-bottom prices.” So we drive east out of the City to Docklands to take a look.
It’s still little more than a giant building site, abandoned when the recession hit, but some of the blocks of flats on the river are finished and the views are stunning. Then Susanne reveals she has a bigger vision than a mere flat on the river. “There are new houses,” she says, “just off the river on one of the old docks, and each house comes with a mooring space. You could have your boat.”
I’m electrified. I’ve been handed a dream which could come true. I feel as if I’m standing in a desert after the rains have arrived for the first time in years, and I know the tap marked HOPE has been turned all the way on.
I’m going to survive, I know I am. I mustn’t give up, mustn’t despair. Everything’ll be okay in the end, everything’s going to work out . . .
No one’s keen on my plan to move out of the Rectory in the new year, but Nicholas promises he does understand that working on the house will be more fun for me than watching daytime TV, and I can hardly wait now to get my own place.
London’s about to close down for the Christmas/New Year skive-off, but Susanne says we’ll make an offer on the house now in case the builders hike their prices on January the first. I leave the negotiating to her and she drives a hard bargain with the terrified estate agent. The house has four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living-dining-room, a back garden the size of a tablecloth, and the mooring space. I stand on the edge of the dock and gaze at the water and dream till I’m dizzy.
Then I have to come down to earth and make decisions about Christmas. I’m tempted to accept the invitation from the Darrows to Christmas dinner, but in the end I turn it down. Can’t face all the food. Too afraid of bingeing. I also feel that memories of past Christmas dinners at Elizabeth’s favourite hotel in Bournemouth can only be blotted out by watching mindless TV non-stop.
So Susanne stocks up with chilled food from Marks and Spencer, I stock up with some videos of recent movies, and we prepare to spend the holiday on our own.
But next Christmas, of course, it’ll be different. Next Christmas I’ll be normal—I’ll have “come home to my true self,” as Nicholas puts it. Next Christmas will be after the trial, and after the trial my new life will finally begin . . .
Or will I freak out tomorrow and fuck up my life all over again?
No, don’t think of that, don’t think of it, don’t think,
don’t think,
DON’T THINK—
CHAPTER THREE
Carta
Everyone knows the harsh reality of suffering . . . It is that part of the human condition, as philosophers might say, which unites everyone in knowledge and understanding, sympathy and commitment . . .
A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY
Words like “healthy” and “healing” are always limited by their contexts. For example, healing may refer to the mending of a physical wound or of a relationship. Something is healthy if it is functioning as intended. A healing is the removal of an obstacle to health.
Mud and Stars
A REPORT OF A WORKING PARTY CONSISTING
MAINLY OF DOCTORS, NURSES AND CLERGY
I
By the time Christmas arrived I was so worried about Gavin that I found it hard to concentrate on the tasks of sending cards and buying presents. After he had turned down the invitation to Nicholas’s birthday party on Christmas Eve, I said urgently to Lewis: “You and Nicholas have got to do something about Gavin! You must help him—you absolutely must!”
“But Carta, he has to want us to help him. Until that moment comes all we can do is be there for him and give him every possible support— which naturally includes prayer.”
“Yes, yes, yes, but isn’t there something active we can do?”
“Prayer is not a passive activity.”
I wanted to shriek with frustration.
Since prayer was something I found difficult I decided I should focus instead on supporting Gavin by being friendly and encouraging. This was harder than it might seem because he was living as a recluse, and although I had made several suggestions that we should meet, he had turned the invitations down. I had concluded that Susanne was being jealous, determined to cut me out of his life.
However, Christmas afforded a new opportunity to be friendly. Since I now knew who “Beatrice” was I bought him the latest paperback edition, complete with scholarly introduction, of Dante’s
Divine Comedy,
and in order to enter fully into the spirit of Christmas I even bought a Santa Claus coffee-mug for that impossible cow Susanne. Armed with the two gifts I arrived at the Rectory flat after work on Christmas Eve, but Susanne opened the door and I was not asked to come in. Even though Gavin had turned down the invitation to the party that evening, I thought he would at least be prepared to see me for five minutes if I arrived with gifts.
“Sorry,” said Susanne flatly. “He’s resting.” As an afterthought she added: “Thanks for the prezzies but we haven’t got you anything because we weren’t expecting anything.”
I opened my mouth to say that didn’t matter, but the door was already closing noisily in my face.
I retired fuming to Wallside.
II
“I was talking to Lewis about Gavin’s current predicament,” remarked Eric as, still fuming, I changed into a smart outfit for the buffet supper which was to mark Nicholas’s fiftieth birthday. “As Lewis sees it, Gavin’s undergoing such an enormous and stressful change after giving up prostitution that he’s got no energy left over for socialising—all his strength goes into beating back the new dangers. Lewis reminded me of the story about the man who had a demon cast out only to find that seven new demons had jumped in to fill the empty space.”
“Sounds familiar. Who was the storyteller?”
“Jesus Christ.”
I uttered a gargling sound to indicate self-disgust. “God, I must do some serious studying—what a rotten Christian I am—”
“You know something? You seem to think that if you say that often enough it lets you off the hook of trying to be better informed!”
“Rubbish! I just feel that no matter how hard I study I’ll still be spiritually stupid—I’ll never be a whizz at prayer, never do anything fantastic in church, never be a spiritual genius—” I decided I had chosen the wrong dress to wear. In exasperation I peeled it off and flung open the wardrobe doors again.
“No problem!” Eric was saying, his amusement making me feel more exasperated than ever. “I enjoy you pretending to be a dumb blonde—it revives my macho side!”
“Since when has it needed reviving? Damn it, what am I going to wear for this party?”
“The sexy ice-blue number with the cleavage.”
“My push-up bra shrank in the wash . . . Oh, how I wish Gavin was going to be there in his best Armani suit!”
“What’s wrong with me in my best Top Shop number?”
“Nothing, you fruity-loop! All I meant was—”
“Wait a minute, I never finished that story about the seven demons and its relevance to Gavin’s current situation. What the story’s doing, you see, is stating in old-fashioned religious language a well-known psychological truth: if you cure an addict of one addiction, he’ll immediately get addicted to something else unless you get at the root of why he needed to get addicted to anything in the first place.”
I forgot the rival merits of Top Shop and Armani. “You can’t be saying Gavin’s addicted to prostitution!”
“No, just the money and the big high from all the endorphins generated as the result of over-exercising. (That’s sex to you and me, sweet pea.)”
“My goodness, I’d never have guessed!” I said sweetly. “Thanks for explaining!”
“Well, as you’re so keen to play the dumb blonde—”
“Ugh! I feel a scream coming on—”
“Okay, here’s the bottom line: the cash and the buzz create a powerful anaesthetic for Gavin, and once there’s no more prostitution there’s no more anaesthetic either—which means—”
“—there’s a big hole in his life—”
“—and nature abhors a vacuum. Ideally his true self should now take charge and push him towards a better life, but since this true self is probably still as damaged as ever, another distorted way of life and another anaesthetic may well take him over. He could start to hit the bottle or do drugs—or he might even be tempted to go back to prostitution. The real problem hasn’t been solved, you see. The damage which has caused all this mess and pain hasn’t been healed.”
“He’s got to get into therapy!”
“Maybe. But don’t forget that when I was washed up as a toy-boy Gil saved me not with psychotherapy but just by being there, caring for me without being sentimental and allowing me to recover my self-respect.”
I thought about this for a long moment before saying, “In that case I wish I could see how to play the Gil-role here.”
“Maybe you just have to keep travelling on the journey so that Gavin can know where the path is. Then perhaps one day you’ll find he’s travelling alongside you again after his detour in the dark wood.”
“You mean I’m to be a sort of ambulating streetlamp?”
“Well, I agree it’s not the last word in glamour, but—”
“Even a small torch can be life-saving.” I retrieved the black dress which I had jammed back in the wardrobe. “I think I’m going to wear this after all . . . Or shall I?”
“Why not just go in your underwear and say you’re practising for your honeymoon? Incidentally, talking of the honeymoon, did that travel agent call you back yet?”
The conversation veered abruptly from Gavin’s trauma to our own. Getting married this time around, I had decided, was nothing less than an endurance test designed to drive even the sanest couple up the wall.
III
The problem was that this second wedding of mine was much more like a normal wedding than the first one had been. Kim had had no family, and my own family, for various reasons which had seemed sensible at the time, had not been invited. We had had no one to please but ourselves and had kept the event as brief as possible. This time around, both sets of families were not only attending the ceremony but were ruthlessly giving us advice on everything from the guest list to the choice of hymns. I had now reached the stage where I wanted a quick ceremony at St. Benet’s with a couple of witnesses in the dead of night followed by a long honeymoon on the other side of the world.
However, Christmas is no time for feuding, and early on Christmas Day Eric and I drove down to Winchester to spend two days at his parents’ house. Fortunately Gil was also going to be there; his Guild church was closed over the holiday. Indispensable at family gatherings, he soothed his tiresome mother, played with his young nephews and niece, and even managed to talk to his boring brother Athel, the oldest of the three sons, about the pros and cons of the single currency. He could also chat to his formidably intellectual father about early English history, discuss Tuscan recipes with Athel’s dreary wife, neutralise any outrageous remark which Eric made out of sheer nervous tension, and clear up any wreckage which resulted when the children got into fights.
“You’re amazing, Gil!” I said to this paragon at the end of the afternoon on Christmas Day when I entered the kitchen to help myself to some more coffee and found him vigorously cleaning the stove. Everyone else had either passed out after eating too much or was watching television in a stupefied silence. “A real Christian role model!”
He gave a brief smile but said nothing, and once I had refilled my coffee-cup I looked back at him. He was cleaning the stove as if his life depended on it.
Suddenly I found myself saying: “Is anything wrong?”
“Just my whole life. But never mind, we all go through bad times.”
I was shattered. In a very discreet, very private way I hero-worshipped Gil. I thought he was the ideal gay priest and I admired him so much for having the courage to stand up for his convictions. I knew very well that clergymen were not plaster-cast saints but ordinary people with their own problems, but it was still a shock to be told his life had taken a wrong turn.
Uncertainly I said: “Is there anything I can do?”
“You can pour me some of that coffee.”
I found a clean mug and as I filled it he said:
“It’s all my own fault, a self-inflicted mess.”
“How do you mean?”
“Not sure I can talk about it. I don’t think I have the right to ask you not to tell Eric.”
“Gil, I’m a lawyer. A confidence is a confidence. If you don’t want me to tell anyone, even Eric, then of course I won’t.”
We sat down at the kitchen table with our coffee. I was so disturbed, wondering what he was going to disclose, that I barely heard his indistinct opening sentence.
“I made a fool of myself with the wrong man,” he said. “I was in debt before I met him, and he was the kind of man . . . the kind of man you want to spend money on. But even now the affair’s over I’m so far in debt that I’m going to have to ask Dad to bail me out—not the best of situations, but my credit’s exhausted, I’ve been borrowing from church funds and unless I get two thousand pounds in double-quick time I’m going to be in serious trouble.”
Without hesitation I said: “No need for your father to know. I’ll put up the money.”
“My dear Carta, I didn’t mean—you mustn’t think—”
“No, I did realise you weren’t fishing.”
“But—”
“Listen, I’m going to be your sister-in-law. I’ve money to spare. I’d be happy to help. What’s the problem?”
He was unable to speak. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table he shaded his eyes with his hands.
I remembered how inadequate I had felt trying to help Moira in her fraught emotional situation. I felt equally inadequate now. Awkwardly I asked: “Have you talked to your spiritual director yet?”
“I sacked him when I chucked celibacy. Maybe I should now sack myself by chucking the priesthood.”
“Gil!” I was horrified.
“I feel such a failure, such a sham—”
“But you mustn’t feel that way, you mustn’t!” Reaching across the table I grabbed his hands as he let them fall from his face. “The fact that you’ve had a disaster doesn’t mean you’re not still a good priest!” I said rapidly. “And if you leave the priesthood you’ll be compounding the disaster, it’ll be a victory for the powers of darkness—oh God, how melodramatic that sounds, how hard it is to find the right words to express such a crucial reality—”
“No, the words are right but I’m beyond responding to them. I can’t go on, I’m finished.”
“You must talk to Nicholas. He likes you, he respects you, I know he’d want to help—”
“If he knew what I’d done he’d never respect me again.”
“Okay, don’t tell him, but at least get him to recommend a spiritual director! Why don’t you go and see that marvellous nun of his?”
“She’s a Roman Catholic. She’d be anti-gay. She’d just push the celibate line at me.”
“Nicholas wouldn’t think so highly of her if she were that inflexible! Gil, you can’t drop out without at least trying to get help! Please—do it for my sake if not for your own!”
He swallowed, and when I saw the tears in his eyes I realised he needed privacy. “Let me just get my chequebook,” I said. “At least I can solve your financial problems even if I can’t sort out your spiritual ones.” And I went upstairs to my room.
When I returned he was still slumped at the table in front of his mug of coffee, and as I sat down again opposite him he said in despair: “I can’t accept a loan from you, I really can’t. It’ll allow me to straighten out the church funds, but I’ve got so many other debts—it would take forever to pay you back—”
“I don’t give loans. That’s the quickest way to ruin a relationship. This’ll be an extra Christmas gift.” I wrote a cheque for the amount he had mentioned, handed it to him and said firmly: “Happy Christmas, Gil.”
He tried to speak but it was too difficult. He had to wait a moment and try again. “The words ‘thank you’ have never seemed so inadequate.”
“But they’re all that needs to be said.” In an effort to divert him from the cheque I asked: “How did you meet this guy who proved to be such bad news?”
“Through a mutual friend.” The cheque was still trembling between his fingers but as I watched he folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “The trouble was,” he said, “he wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill hunk with no table manners. He was an absolute stunner—so sexy, so handsome, so smart, so amusing—but he was also a five-star heartbreaker incapable of loving me in any way that could have made a real relationship possible. God, how I despise myself for being pathetic enough to fall for him! I’ve never felt so horribly humiliated.”
And as I heard this uncanny echo of Richard Slaney’s suffering I knew exactly who the heartbreaker was and why Gil’s debts had spiralled out of control.