“I don’t believe I’m hearing this! Of all the stupid, snotty, sexist garbage I’ve ever heard—”
“At least I’m giving you some down-to-earth realism, unlike your boss who’s been doling out the airy-fairy mysticism like a dud psychic with a crystal ball!”
“I thought you admired Nicholas!”
“Yes, I do, but he’s not perfect and like a lot of clerics he can be ruthless in using people to further his spiritual aims. I can just see him being professionally drawn to Gavin—what a sicko, what a challenge!—and I can just see him thinking too that you’re the ideal person to lure Gavin into the St. Benet’s net—”
“You’re twisting everything—it’s not like that—”
“No? Well, don’t tell me Nick can’t be ruthless where his ministry of healing’s concerned—look how he saddled you with the fundraising! I know you thought it was a call, something which you as a fledgeling Christian could do for God, but ever since you’ve been buck-chasing you’ve been overworking, obsessive and prone to be flaky at home. No, you’ve taken a wrong turn and I’ll tell you why you took it: you wanted to boost your ego and cut a dash in the City again! You started to miss everyone telling you how glamorous and successful you were, so you dived into big-time fundraising which nowadays is just as chic and glitzy as any job in PR or the media—”
“You’re just furious with the fundraising because it led me in the end to Gavin Blake! Look, I’m calling a halt—I’ve had a long hard day which has been very stressful emotionally—”
“I bet! Specially losing out to Moira Slaney!”
“God, what a bloody thing to say!”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?”
“No, it damn well is not! Oh, shut up and leave me alone—stop beating me up like this—”
He walked out.
I burst into tears.
Then I opened another bottle of wine.
XV
Again we struggled to patch up the quarrel but this time the memory of it lay between us like an acrid smell which refused to fade. The following weekend Eric went down to Winchester to see his parents and I didn’t volunteer to go with him. I found his mother heavy-going, and besides, I thought it would help the relationship recover if we spent some time apart. Eric evidently came to the same conclusion because as soon as he had finished a stint of office-work to boost his bank account he travelled to Norway to do some research.
One result of his imaginative verbal assault on me after Richard’s funeral was that I was now determined to prove that fundraising was exactly what God required me to do at this stage of my life and that Nicholas had been a genius to spot my potential talent. Furiously I toiled away to justify us all, but to my dismay I now encountered nothing but setbacks. I heard no more from Moira about the promised donation, no one else was busy writing cheques, and finally I lost a large donation which I had convinced myself was safely in the bag. The donor pleaded the financial climate—sterling falling through the ERM floor, Lamont devaluing the pound, and the mass tumbling of the currencies as the stock market sank fathoms deep in gloom.
I conceded the severity of the financial climate, but I still felt not only infuriated by the donor’s weak-kneed slide out of a commitment but also as crushed as if I’d been rejected by a lover. Fundraising resembles old-fashioned wooing. One courts and flirts and intrigues the potential donor, and a personal relationship is built up which makes it hard for him—in the City it’s usually a man—to backtrack. Eventually, if the courtship reaches its desired climax, the donor yields and reaches for his chequebook with the result that ecstasy is achieved on both sides. To be balked of this ultimate satisfaction was both a professional disappointment and a blow to my self-esteem.
The good news was that I received no further word from Gavin. So much for Eric’s hysterical prediction. Out of respect for Nicholas, who of course hadn’t been ruthless in exploiting me but merely smart enough to pick the best person for the job, I said a quick prayer for Gavin every night. The prayer consisted of the following words addressed silently but briskly to God: “Please help Gavin Blake get a life. Thanks. Amen.” Guiltily aware that this prayer was so minimalist it could scarcely count, I also made an effort to light a candle for Gavin at St. Benet’s every morning before I started work.
Meanwhile Eric had decided to extend his visit to Norway, but we were in touch again by phone and the memory of the row was finally losing its jagged edges. This improvement in my private life was just as well because in my professional life things were going from bad to worse. Another potential donor slithered away, my organiser succumbed to cyber-madness and the Healing Centre’s trustees quashed my brilliant scheme to get Nicholas on morning television’s prime showcase. Then to cap it all Nicholas decided that we still couldn’t approach Moira about Richard’s promised donation because Bridget had had a relapse and was back in hospital. Nicholas thought that the relapse was probably a temporary setback resulting from Richard’s death and that Bridget could be helped again at the Healing Centre later, but I thought Moira might well decide she had had enough of complementary medicine. The entire subject of the Slaney family and the lost donation filled me with gloom.
I did feel better when Eric at last returned from Norway, but soon he allowed the next draft of his book to take him over so completely that I hardly saw him—a state of affairs which made me realise with dread how fragile our reconciliation was. Whipping up my will-power I produced the necessary energy to be endlessly understanding during our occasional meetings, and just as I was about to expire after my umpteenth gala performance as The Great Writer’s Loyal Little Helper, my fortunes suddenly revived.
I received a letter from the chief executive officer of an American investment bank based in the City. It read: “Dear Ms. Graham: We are interested in contributing to the St. Benet’s Appeal as part of our annual donation to charitable causes in and around the City of London. May I invite you to make a presentation to our Charities Committee? If you telephone this office, my secretary would be pleased to set up an appointment. Sincerely . . .”
This is the seductive side of fundraising: the predicted successes may fail to materialise but there’s always the chance of a generous donation floating in from an unexpected source. I had already approached this bank by mailshot and had even found the necessary sympathetic third party to promote our cause with the CEO, but nothing had happened. Yet now the CEO was apparently all benevolence! I decided I should try to thank him in person, and although he was away in America when I gave the presentation to his committee, I was able to ask his PA why her boss had chosen to take an interest in St. Benet’s.
“Ah yes,” she said, “Jerry thought you might want to know that. He said I was to tell you that he was a friend of Richard Slaney’s.”
XVI
I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Richard and felt euphoric. I was sure I had nailed the donation and I thought the amount could be as much as twenty-five thousand pounds, but before I received the letter which confirmed this estimate I was visited by an elderly man who huffed and puffed his way into my office with one of the Appeal brochures tucked under his arm. He was so fat and so bald that I was reminded of the nursery rhyme about Humpty Dumpty.
Having told me his name he explained: “I’m a partner in JQS Global, and we’ve decided we’d like to make a significant donation to your most worthy and interesting good cause . . .” The deep voice with its heavy public-school accent droned richly on. The ideal donor, bursting to write a cheque, had apparently found his way to my office without even receiving so much as a humble mailshot.
“May I ask how you heard about us?” I said, wondering if he was a Christian who had heard of the Appeal through his local church, but he just said simply: “I was a friend of Richard Slaney’s,” and handed me a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds.
XVII
I suppose I knew then. Perhaps I had even known after my chat with that PA. But of course I couldn’t believe it. It was easier t
o say firmly to myself: “God moves in mysterious ways!” and think how rewarding it was to be a successful fundraiser.
When I told Nicholas he said: “That’s certainly a fascinating development—almost miraculous!” No doubt he too knew then but, like me, couldn’t quite bring himself to believe what had happened.
The next day Moira Slaney phoned him to say not only that Bridget would be resuming her visits to the Healing Centre but that Richard’s promised twenty thousand pounds would be in our hands as soon as probate was granted on his estate.
XVIII
I was just sitting at my desk and dreaming of the Queen awarding me an OBE (or would it be a CBE?) for special service to the Church of England, when my secretary Caroline looked up from her task of opening the mail and said: “I don’t believe it.”
I forgot the Queen. “What’s happened?”
“We’ve got another unsolicited donor—and he’s sent thirty thousand pounds!” She ran to me with the letter.
The chairman of one of Britain’s leading building firms had written: “Dear Miss Graham: Please find enclosed a cheque which I trust will assist your cause. Should you wonder how I heard of your Appeal, allow me to tell you that I was a friend of Richard Slaney’s. Yours sincerely . . .”
XIX
At quarter to twelve I left the office and walked the short distance to my house on Wallside. I still had Gavin’s number, scrawled on the back of the card he had given me. I had consigned it to the kitchen drawer where I stashed recent newspaper cuttings, business cards from plumbers, Barbican estate circulars and other scraps of transient information which I would junk when the drawer became full.
Sitting down at the kitchen counter with my cordless phone I waited until five minutes to noon exactly. Then I called the number of the flat in Austin Friars.
He picked up on the second ring.
“You’re beginning to interest me,” I said. “You’re beginning to make me think you might just possibly be worth knowing. If you’re free tonight after work, why don’t I buy you a glass of champagne?”
CHAPTER TWO
Gavin
In particular, people with “borderline” or antisocial personality disorders, or addictive or impulsive traits . . . [have] a fragmented sense of self and lack of empathy for others, and an egocentric need to gratify their desires or to discharge inner tension . . .
A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY
The iceberg finally melts. My brand-new career as an undercover fundraiser has ensured I’m no longer filth trading on a connection with Richard Slaney. I’m Richard’s white-knight friend who works for a Christian cause. Eat your heart out, Eric Tucker! I’m on the kind of roll where over-the-hill podgy heaps don’t stand a chance.
“Name the place!” I say to the melting Ms. Catriona Graham when she offers to buy me a glass of champagne.
“The Lord Mayor’s Cat between Cornhill and Lombard Street,” she answers, trying to sound businesslike, but her voice can best be described as dulcet. I like that word. It conjures up images of sexy sirens sipping brandy alexanders in between crooning dirtily into snow-white phones.
“The Lord Mayor’s Cat?” I say amused. “That eighties dump past its sell-by date? I’ll meet you at One-for-the-Money in Angel Court at six-forty-five!” And I blow a kiss into the receiver before hanging up.
I feel like a superstud. Dammit, I am a superstud! But no, I’m better than a superstud because I’ve got brains as well as balls—and now, thanks to my brilliant battle plan, I’ve also got Golden Girl undulating on the hook.
But even as I’m freaking out on this genuine non-chemical ecstasy, the phone rings again. This is tricky. Can’t ignore it—she’d only call again later.
Gingerly I pick up the receiver. “Yep?”
“Darling,” she says, “it’s me. I’m calling about next weekend, just as I said I would. Do you know yet whether you’ll be free? I could do either Saturday or Sunday . . .” Moira falters, voice wobbling.
Hell. “Sweetie, I’d love to see you, but this weekend’s no good.”
“Well, couldn’t we at least talk on the phone?”
“Uh . . . It’s kind of complicated because the woman I live with’s so jealous.”
“You’re sure it’s not a man?”
“You’re doing my head in! You think I don’t know the difference?”
“Oh Gavin darling, please don’t joke about this! Listen, I’m not asking you to ditch her, but—”
But that’s the long-term aim, of course, the plan that’s been evolving in Moira’s head ever since the funeral and that chic fuck which should have been a one-off. I should never have agreed to meet her at Richard’s flat for a second round, I know that now—well, I knew it at the time, but the trouble was that after I decided to play the white-knight fundraiser it seemed to me I had a kind of moral duty to stay close to Moira to see that she made good on Richard’s promise to give twenty thousand quid to St. Benet’s. I mean, I extended the fucklet for the very best of motives, I really did. I just didn’t foresee Moira diving so deeply into a lifestyle where toyboy-on-toast is always dish-of-the-day on the weekend menu.
“I’ll call you next week,” I lie firmly, but to my horror I hear a muffled sob. Shit! How could she play her cards so wrong? I thought she was smart and sophisticated, well able to handle a shag-snack on a no-fuss, no-mess basis, but here she is, behaving like a needy housewife who can’t get enough of the window-cleaner.
“Gotta go, Gorgeous—talk t’ya later,” I mutter at top speed, and hang up just as the buzzer blares. High noon at Austin Friars and never a dull moment.
I sprint to the entryphone to admit Iowa Jerry. I’ve got two American clients at the moment who are called Jerry so I tag them by their home states in order to avoid the leisure-worker’s nightmare, the unprofessional mix-up. They both have short hair, nice suits and capped teeth, but it’s vital to distinguish these two blokes from each other because they like totally different bedroom routines.
Iowa Jerry’s a big bore at the moment because he thinks that the donation to St. Benet’s by his firm’s charity committee means I should be giving him a freebie. I’m currently stringing him along by saying it’ll take a while to work a freebie into my schedule, but the bloody thing is I know I’ve got to give him what he wants in order to shut him up. So far he’s mellow. He’s taken on board the fact that my fundraising has to be top secret—obviously no Christian cause would want to be openly associated with a leisure-worker—and he even enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger business of making sure Richard’s name got mentioned. (My signal to Golden Girl.) But if I refuse him the freebie he could get stroppy and complain to Elizabeth, and then I’d be well and truly up shit creek.
While Iowa Jerry’s being winched up to my flat the phone goes again. Normally with a client almost on my doorstep I’d ignore the bell, but my life’s so complicated at present that I find I have a nervous urge to find out who’s calling. Leaving the front door open for Jerry I sprint back to the phone.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Mr. Cool, it’s Serena! When do we get to meet up for some more r-&-r?”
Oh my God, it’s Norah’s slag, the one I’m shagging to make Elizabeth think my weekend sex life’s in perfect order! “Serena sweetie, can’t talk now, gotta go, big love—” I slam down the receiver, hoick the cord from the jack and turn to greet my client.
“Jerry!”
“Gavin baby . . .”
The lunch-time shift grinds remorselessly into gear.
By three o’clock I’m exhausted, a state of affairs which makes me worry that I might be getting too stressed out. That’s definitely not what I need in order to perform well. I need a well-regulated life, just as an athlete does, and a nice home where I can find security, peace and a woman who tells me I’m wonderful. I’m a very straightforward bloke really, that’s the truth of it, and I’m not cut out for a life in which my stomach
muscles go into spasm every time the phone rings, a life where I’m some kind of double agent, a life where one false move could send me on another trip to Asherton’s Pain-Palace . . .
But it’s best not to think of Asherton.
After my last lunch-time client plods off I’m so knackered I barely have the energy to change the fitted sheet. But I do. I’m not having a nap on soiled cotton polyester. And I wash my mouth out before I collapse. I’m always washing my mouth out to get rid of the taste of condoms and the tang of sweaty skin. Gays hate using condoms for oral numbers, and so many clients try to tell me there’s no risk of AIDS in this kind of sex, but the truth is there is a risk, it’s very small but it does exist and I’m taking absolutely no chances. Sorry, guys, but if you want someone who’ll risk all for love, you’ve come to the wrong person.
But my chief worry is that scientists will discover HIV’s present in sweat. Dr. Filth says it’s impossible to catch HIV from sweat, but what does that wanker really know, especially if the virus is clever at mutating?
The trouble is my clients usually like to be kissed somewhere along the line, and it’s difficult to plan satisfactory choreography without any mouth-to-skin contact. And the skin’s usually got sweat on it. Naturally I don’t do mouth-to-mouth, and that’s not just because HIV is blood-borne and my clients are at an age when their gums bleed easily into their saliva—which could then infect any nick in my own mouth, even a nick so tiny that I’m unaware of it. I also don’t do mouth-to-mouth because of all the other stuff you can catch. The other stuff might not be life-threatening but it could still put a dent in my career—even the humble head cold can represent a financial loss, and whenever I get a bug I run straight to the doctor to get it nailed right away.
The last time I did this the doctor hit me with such a shot of antibiotics that I passed out (maybe there was more than antibiotics in the syringe) and when I came to he had his fist . . . no, let’s forget that, it’s too shitty to think about. Where does Elizabeth dredge up all these bloody people from? But it’s wonderful the talent she has for spotting bargains in the human basement. Dr. Filth, for instance, has good qualifications, but Elizabeth knows too much about him—which is why Dr. Filth only charges rock-bottom prices for my regular check-ups and makes sure my blood samples are tested in the best labs.
The Heartbreaker Page 17