The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  The truth was that I was a mere beginner in a situation where an Oxford degree in law did not guarantee enlightenment. I don’t mean to imply that the intellectual side of Christianity is irrational. How can it be when it’s engaged the best minds of Western Europe for hundreds of years? I merely mean to stress that academic prowess doesn’t necessarily produce spiritual wisdom—the ability not just to see the world as it really is but to make sense of it so that one can live in the best possible way.

  “I can’t make sense of this,” I said to Lewis after I had described the row with Eric and given him a bowdlerised account of my meeting with Gavin. “I know I love Eric so why can’t I make a full commitment to him? And I know Gavin Blake’s scum, so why do I have this suicidal urge to swoon into his arms like a pre-feminist airhead?”

  “Personally I’m rather partial to pre-feminist airheads.”

  “Lewis!”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, let me haul myself out of my dotage and address this problem. Can you give me a little more information? How exactly did you meet this man?”

  Knowing I could say anything in a one-to-one conversation with a priest, I escaped with relief from the bonds of confidentiality and told him that I had encountered Gavin through Richard. Lewis and Richard had never met, although Lewis had been introduced to both Moira and Bridget at one of the healing services, and he knew Bridget was being treated for anorexia.

  When I had completed my story, his comment on Richard’s homosexuality was: “The family was obviously dislocated—it was clear there was a hidden dimension somewhere which was causing trouble.”

  “Did Nicholas suspect that Richard was gay?”

  “I don’t know. Nicholas is bound by confidentiality over Bridget Slaney’s case, and it’s not one of the cases where I know all the details— nowadays I no longer attend every case-conference.”

  “But how could Richard’s homosexuality have dislocated the family when he went to such enormous lengths to cover it up?”

  “I’d say that if you consistently lie to those closest to you and invest enormous energy in pretending to be what you’re not, you’re almost begging for dislocated relationships. People, particularly children, pick up falseness on a psychic level and feel not just alienated but frightened and confused. Then even if the unease is never fully brought to consciousness it can manifest itself in ill-health or inappropriate behaviour . . . And talking of dislocated relationships, let’s get back to your most immediate problem—”

  “Gavin?”

  “No, Eric. If your relationship with Eric was right, you wouldn’t feel so threatened by this unfortunate young man.”

  “Unfortunate? That scumbag?”

  Lewis never hesitated. “Carta, I’m sure you want to pursue a Christian course here, so I think the first thing you have to take on board is that it’s not up to you to condemn him.”

  “That’s all very well, but—”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not condoning his abusive behaviour which left you feeling frightened as well as angry. I’m just reminding you that only God knows the full story about why Gavin behaves as he does, and therefore only God is in a position to pass judgement on him as a person.”

  “Okay,” I said, “okay, I take back the scumbag judgement, but—”

  “—but you’re still worried by his behaviour.”

  “Yes, I am! Supposing he now starts to stalk me? Supposing he turns up at my house?”

  “Well, if he does, try not to reward him by giving an emotional reaction—simply be courteous but firm. If, on the other hand, he shows any hint of violence—”

  I shuddered. “I did come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be violent to a friend of Richard’s. But I still feel he’s dangerous to me.”

  “Of course he’s dangerous to you! When people are deeply disturbed, they have a capacity to damage those they interact with. They’re like the typhoid carrier who moves from job to job and leaves a trail of infected people in his wake.”

  “You mean he could make me cheat on Eric, destroy Eric’s trust and wreck the relationship.”

  “I mean he could undermine and perhaps destroy the whole life you’ve worked so hard to build for yourself since Kim died in 1990. But perhaps we shouldn’t be too surprised by this. Is it really such a coincidence that you, a new Christian, should suddenly find yourself under attack from powers who are using this man to spread disintegration and disruption wherever he goes? And you won’t laugh at this suggestion, will you, Carta, because you know how people can be damaged by the powers of darkness, you saw at first hand how your husband was fatally damaged by that evil woman, Mrs. Mayfield—”

  “Don’t talk about her,” I said in a voice I barely recognised as my own, “don’t, don’t, don’t—if I start to think of how she got away scot-free—”

  “Yes, we’ve reached the core of all your difficulties, haven’t we? Mrs. Mayfield destroyed Kim and got away with it—and how can you let go of Kim and move on, you say to yourself, when that woman’s still evading justice for her role in his death?”

  “Well, how can I?” I cried, but then made a huge effort to pull myself together. Levelly I said: “All right, I know I must allow Kim a certain responsibility for the choices he made, getting mixed up with the occult and a fraudulent healer, but the fact remains that if that woman had never crossed his path he’d probably be alive today and receiving real treatment for all his repulsive problems!”

  Lewis only said: “Does Eric understand how strongly you still feel about Mrs. Mayfield’s escape from justice?”

  “We don’t talk about it any more, but I don’t blame him for opting out. He hates to think I’m still bound up with my marriage to Kim.”

  “Do you intend to tell Eric in detail about Gavin?”

  “No. Now that Richard’s dead the confidentiality issue isn’t quite the same as it was, but Eric and I have problems enough at present because I can’t make the commitment and agree to set a wedding date. Why risk making things worse?”

  Lewis was silent.

  “Am I wrong?” I demanded.

  “How about asking God instead of me?”

  “Well, since I’m not much good at praying—”

  “Surely a lawyer like you can draft a couple of simple sentences asking for help!”

  I brooded on this challenge for a moment before saying: “I’d like to say to God: ‘Please mete out justice to Mrs. Mayfield and let me know when you’ve done it. Then Kim can rest in peace and I can finally get on with my life with Eric.’ ”

  “How splendidly concise and pertinent! If only all prayers were that good!”

  “But how can God mete out justice to that arch-cow Mayfield?” I exclaimed in despair. “And more important still, how will I ever know he’s done it?”

  But before Lewis could reply we were interrupted. Footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the hall, there was a knock at the door and the next moment the Rector of St. Benet’s was entering the room.

  VII

  “Carta!” exclaimed Nicholas, startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise Lewis had anyone with him.”

  “I dropped in to see Alice. She asked me to visit your study and remind you what she looks like.”

  As Nicholas smiled warily I saw he was having one of his days when he looked younger than forty-nine, a trick he pulled off easily as he was slim and tall and moved with such a peculiarly self-assured grace. His looks varied. Sometimes, when he was tired and not bothering to project the power of his personality, he looked both middle-aged and nondescript, but at other times he could be so arresting that heads would turn as he walked by. He had pale brown hair and pale skin, and his pale grey eyes could look blue whenever he wore blue jeans and a blue clerical shirt (his favourite office uniform). His pallor, which failed to reflect his excellent health, could be judged either striking or creepy, depending on how far he had turned up the wattage of his charisma. He could so easily have been a shady wonder-worker, using his gifts in the wr
ong way, but he was meticulous about operating within orthodox frameworks; he used to say the Church of England kept him honest.

  “Are you all right, Carta?” I suddenly heard him ask.

  “No, but I’ll live. I called in to talk to Lewis about a problem connected with Richard Slaney.”

  Nicholas instantly became alert. “Richard Slaney?”

  “Yes, I’ve got myself mixed up with the prostitute he was seeing.”

  “But how on earth did you meet him?” said Nicholas amazed, in no doubt at all about Gavin’s gender.

  VIII

  “So you did know Richard’s secret!”

  “I heard about the homosexuality,” said Nicholas, avoiding all mention of his source although I thought it had to be Moira. “But nobody mentioned a prostitute.”

  “The information was top secret. He’d been seeing this upmarket hustler called Gavin Blake who operates from a flat in Austin Friars. Gavin’s straight. Richard was hopelessly in love with him. Bad scene.”

  Nicholas sighed. Then he sat down and said: “I’m very sorry indeed to hear that Richard was in such a painful situation.”

  “To make matters worse,” I said acidly, “I’ll tell you that this man Gavin Blake’s behaviour’s outrageous and I loathed him—which means I’m fighting to deny he’s the sexiest piece I’ve seen in a month of Sundays.”

  Both men laughed. “Well done!” exclaimed Lewis, and Nicholas murmured to him: “How many other people do we know who could be so honest with themselves?”

  “Skip the gloss, Darrow!” I snapped. “I’m a basket case!”

  “The odds are it’s Gavin who’s the basket case. This sounds like a man who comes on strong to hide a chronic lack of self-esteem.”

  “You can’t be serious! His ego’s monumental!”

  “Then why’s he renting out his private parts? Would you rent out your private parts to a bunch of wealthy lesbian businesswomen?”

  I recoiled. “Well, no, of course not! I mean, no offence to lesbians, but—”

  Lewis gave a snort of laughter and at once said guiltily: “Sorry, my dear, but I always enjoy seeing liberals flounder in the quicksands of political correctness.”

  “My point, Carta,” said Nicholas, “is that you wouldn’t rent out your private parts to anyone, male or female, and that’s because your self-esteem is such that you feel you deserve more from life than a career as a sexual punchbag. After all, we’re not talking about sex for pleasure here. We’re talking about a hard slog built around physical abuse, and if the sex is contrary to the orientation then we’re talking of emotional abuse too.”

  “Then why’s Gavin doing this?”

  “That’s the big question.” Turning back to the door again he added: “I must go upstairs to Alice, but come and tell me more about Gavin sometime.”

  “I’ve finished talking about him,” I said. “I don’t even want to think about him any more.”

  But I did think about him. As I walked home I thought: what’s he doing at this moment? What kind of home did he go back to? How long’s he been living with this “manager” of his, the woman he was so keen to deny was a pimp? And what does “living with” mean in this context anyway? When he used that phrase did he just mean they shared the house? And if he didn’t mean that—if they’re lovers—how does she cope with him screwing everything in sight?

  The questions slithered around in my mind, coiling and uncoiling themselves like serpents in a pit, and after a while I had the odd feeling he was thinking of me at that moment, just as I was thinking of him— although that was a ridiculous idea since I had no talent for ESP.

  When I arrived home the phone was ringing. “Darling,” Eric said, “I had to call—I didn’t want to go to bed without saying sorry for that stupid quarrel. Look, what exactly happened with that tart you mentioned? You seemed so abnormally upset—”

  “No need to worry, he’s past history.”

  “He?”

  “We’re talking of a rent boy who’s been exploiting one of my friends, but I shan’t be seeing him again, I promise you . . .”

  I sincerely hoped that this wasn’t a prime example of wishful thinking.

  But it was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gavin

  What makes the simple act of shaming or blaming people complicated is the knowledge that they each had a specific history, and the more we know about it the easier it becomes to understand why they did what they did.

  Godless Morality

  RICHARD HOLLOWAY

  I’ve got Ms. Shaggable on the hook! Frosty-Puss is becoming Hotsy-Puss. At Richard’s flat I had her steaming so hard that she pretended to drop her bag so that we could be on all fours together scooping up the chick-knacks, but I kept my hands off her because I want to make her boil, not just steam. So I put on a Caring-Nineties-New-Man act, earnestly apologising for my pushy pre-fuck pitch—and okay, maybe I had been coming on a shade too strong, but she’s still dead keen, that’s obvious, so dead keen that she discloses she lives in the City. I always knew I could cut out that bloke of hers with one hand tied behind my back! If he’s a typical writer and soaks up the booze he’ll have trouble getting the equipment to work, and the odds are he has no idea how to turn in a grade-A performance anyway. Elizabeth says it’s sad how so few men do.

  After I slip Ms. Shaggable into a cab I sink into my XJ-S and breathe: “Phwoar!” Then I check my face in the mirror. I look good. Everything’s looking good. Even my boring H-reg XJ-S looks good, though it’s much too has-been for me. The client only sent it my way because he’d hoped to make twenty-five grand selling it at auction and the highest offer he’d received was fifteen-five. So he turned it over to me instead and wrote the whole fiasco off as a tax loss. Thanks to the recession, the luxury car scene’s collapsed, and sometimes I long to go out and pick up a Lotus, my dream machine, for peanuts, but even peanuts cost something and I want to put away as much money as possible in my Cayman Islands bank account.

  Angling the jaded Jag out of that tight parking space near Richard’s flat I head south towards my home.

  Home is one of a row of large double-fronted Victorian houses on a main road south of the river and less than half a mile from Lambeth Bridge, which is one of the gateways to that glitzy postal district SW1. But our postal district is SW11, and when Elizabeth bought her house years ago the borough of Lambeth was pretty slummy. Even now it’s not exactly SW1, but she’s seen the value of the house shoot up during the property boom of the late eighties.

  The front garden’s been paved to provide three parking spaces, one for my XJ-S, one for her Toyota and one for Tommy’s cheapo rattle-bag. The house is divided into three too. There’s a basement flat for Tommy, who’s Elizabeth’s minder, and above this are four floors: raised ground, first, second and third. The main part of the house above Tommy’s flat isn’t formally divided up but in practice it operates as two duplexes. Elizabeth has the raised ground and first floors while Nigel and I share the second and third.

  Nigel’s my valet and Elizabeth’s housekeeper. He’s in charge of all the domestic arrangements and makes sure I’m properly fed, watered and housed, with clean clothes always in the closet. He doesn’t cook for Elizabeth, but he shops for her and makes sure the cleaning-dodo doesn’t OD on endless cups of tea. Although he and I share the upper floors, he’s under strict instructions not to get under my feet, so when he’s not busy doing his job he keeps to his room at the top of the house. When he first came I hated him, didn’t want him around, thought he was disgusting, but Elizabeth insisted that I’d reached the stage where I needed to have my domestic life taken care of, and she pointed out that Nigel was willing to work for a pittance as he knew he’d have trouble finding a job elsewhere.

  Nigel’s a sex-offender. I’ve never asked him for the full story, don’t want to know. All I do know is that he used to be a dresser in the theatre but was nabbed by the police after a production involving child actors. When he came out of jail
he spent some time hustling in Leicester Square and got picked up, poor sod, by a couple of the Big Boys from Asherton’s Pain-Palace, but luckily Asherton discovered he could cook so Nigel escaped from the dungeon to the kitchen. In the end Asherton traded him to Elizabeth in exchange for a black pre-op transsexual who had tried to find work at Norah’s escort agency and was willing to do anything for money. Norah, who’s Elizabeth’s business partner, doesn’t employ trannies, either transsexuals or transvestites. “It’s a question of class, my dear!” she flutes, as if her idea of heaven is to run a brothel staffed by princesses of the blood royal. Silly cow! I often wonder how Elizabeth stands her, but they’ve been friends for years.

  Elizabeth used to run the escort agency at one time, but she’s always liked to keep several irons in the fire and when her psychic healing business took off in the eighties she delegated the running of the agency to Norah, her second-in-command. Elizabeth’s still got her stake in the company, of course, and after the collapse of her psychic healing business in 1990 she took a hand in running the agency again, although since my career reached the stratosphere she’s gone back to delegating everything to Norah. Norah lives across the river in Pimlico, the shadow side of mega-rich Belgravia. She’s a lesbian who likes to dress in pink, and her two chihuahuas have jewelled collars. Disgusting.