The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  The final shift of the week’s looming and with it comes the big challenge: for some time now I’ve been psyching myself up to pitch my fundraising spiel to Mr. Moneybags, Sir Colin Broune, in the hope of landing a vast donation to my snow-white Christian cause.

  If there really is a God out there who’s splashing away drunkenly at that messy painting of his, he should bloody well give me a can from his current crate of Australian lager.

  Okay, it’s a risk tapping Colin for money when Asherton wants to recruit him for GOLD, but it’s only a slight risk, like that statistic airlines trot out when they want to convince nervous flyers how unlikely it is they’ll get killed. The low risk is because Asherton’s going for Colin’s private wealth but I’m going for a corporate donation, and Colin can certainly afford to shell out to both of us. And he’ll keep quiet about my fundraising, no problem, I’ve built up a good relationship with him over the last few weeks.

  I still haven’t managed to find out anything about his metaphysical interests, but Elizabeth understands that some clients take longer than others to reveal their private beliefs, and although Asherton’s simmering with impatience he knows that too. When I first started recruiting for GOLD I said to Elizabeth: “Supposing the client doesn’t have any beliefs?” But she said everyone believes in something, everyone has a world-view, and even a determination to believe in nothing is itself a belief which can be just as dogmatic as the beliefs of any religious fundamentalist. And as time passed I found that my clients did all believe in something, even if it was just the mystique of the Dow Jones or the magic of the Footsie or, as in Richard’s case, the power of sailing to soothe the soul. Nobody was wandering around the City of London with their minds as belief-less as a blank slate, and although not all people had beliefs which made them suitable candidates for GOLD, none of them could be instantly disqualified as a metaphysical write-off.

  So I know Colin has to believe in something, and today’s the day I hope to find out what it is. We can hardly discuss a Christian cause without getting kind of metaphysical.

  Picking the right moment with exquisite care I mention casually, after a natter about winter holidays, that if he’s worrying about where to dump his corporate donation this Christmas I know an unusually worthy City cause.

  “I’m not a Christian,” says Colin as soon as he realises I’m talking about a church. “I was trained as a scientist. Religion and science aren’t compatible.”

  Now it just so happens that this is a subject I know something about. After Hugo died I switched to the science subjects at school so that I could read medicine later at uni, and although science bored me rigid I made it bearable by studying the history of science. This I found fascinating. I can’t now remember anything about the science I learned but I can still remember that chunk of history I picked up, and when Colin makes his careless statement that science and religion are incompatible I know I can make him think again. I also realise I’ve finally uncovered the reason why he’s so reluctant to disclose his metaphysical interests: he’s old-fashioned enough to think no decent scientist should have any.

  “Not compatible?” I say politely. “Really? Then why did scientists in the old days see nothing weird about being devout Christians?”

  “Ah, but that was before Darwin! Nobody could believe in God after reading The Origin of Species.”

  “But they did, Colin. A lot of clergymen were delighted with that book and thought it totally compatible with their religious faith. And so did a lot of scientists.”

  “But after Huxley wiped the floor with Wilberforce in that famous debate—”

  “Who said he wiped the floor with him? Did you know there’s no written record of that debate and that directly afterwards no one behaved as if Wilberforce had been used as a floor-cloth? Huxley’s victory may not be quite so conclusive as you think—have you read any history of science, Colin?”

  “I’m a chemist, boy, not a historian, and I didn’t come here to be bloody lectured! Massage my left shoulder again, please.”

  I sweat away, pounding the blubber so that he shivers in ecstasy. Let no one deny I deserve every penny I earn.

  “So what’s all this about St. Benet’s?” says Colin at last, unable to resist his curiosity.

  “Well,” I say as he shivers again with blubbery delight beneath my fingers, “let’s put the religious crap aside for the moment and focus on the hard facts here. I’m tipping you off about this place because the word on the grapevine is that it’s the good cause to be associated with in the City at the moment—a real charity hot ticket. That’s because with one donation you nail a lot of high-profile bases: the medical profession, who have sanctioned the church’s Healing Centre by allowing a doctor to operate a branch of a National Health practice there; the City livery companies, many of which have also given the Centre support and encouragement; the Royal Family—the president of the Appeal’s none other than—”

  “What’s the money going to be used for?”

  I’ve got this down pat. I’ve not only written my own summary of the Appeal brochure but I’ve rewritten it into a spiel designed specifically for Colin and memorised it so that I can spew it out word-perfect, even when I’m stark naked astride him and massaging his shoulders with baby oil. Later I’ll give him a brochure from the stack I swiped from the church so that he has something to jog his memory, but right now the pitch is custom-made.

  I start to spew on cue but Mr. Moneybags, playing the Big Hitter, interrupts me by barking: “What’s in it for you?”

  “Nothing!” I declare as a vision of Golden Girl flashes past my eyes. “Are you implying I’m such a scumbag that I’m incapable of supporting a charity for the best possible reasons?”

  “No, of course not, you silly boy! But I can’t help wondering—”

  “Colin, you’re still not getting it. There’s no question of you doing me a favour by arranging a corporate donation here— I’m the one who’s doing you a favour by tipping you off about this big chance to look good and do good by supporting the hottest charity in the City!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Look, we’re talking complementary medicine here, not alternative medicine, and no one’s suggesting science is in any way compromised. Okay, I know so-called ‘healing’ is a playground for conmen, but that’s what makes St. Benet’s so special! It’s respectable, it’s honest, it’s sanctioned by the Archbishop of Canterbury! And it’s not just run to benefit Christians, it’s run to benefit everyone—without charging fees!”

  “Sounds most unlikely.”

  “That’s because it’s the real thing, uncorrupted and unperverted!”

  “What real thing?”

  “Christianity. Healing’s the kind of thing Mr. Superstar did before the word ‘Christianity’ was invented and the Church clunked into action.”

  “Mr. Superstar, as you call him, was just one of hundreds of Jewish prophets who wandered around Palestine at that particular time!”

  “Yeah, but he’s the only one we still talk about, isn’t he? And why? He never went to college, never took a management course, never did a doctorate, never wrote a book, never made his first million before he was thirty, never got a PR firm to do an image makeover, never even got married and had two-point-three kids. He just dropped out, bummed around, schmoozed with scumbags, spoke his mind and snuffed it horribly soon afterwards. So why are you and I, two non-believers, still talking about him two thousand years on? Because he was a great spiritual leader who changed the world, that’s why—oh, face it, darling, be honest! The Bloke must have had something, and this is the something that’s alive and well today at St. Benet’s. You won’t look stupid if you support this cause, believe me. You’ll look discerning. Wise. Caring . . . which of course, as I know very well, you are.”

  There’s a long pause while Mr. Moneybags reviews my pumped-up performance but in the end he only says gruffly: “I like to hear you call me ‘darling.’ ”

  I can’t believe
I’m hearing this. The one word in my entire speech which is totally phoney turns out to be the one word which rings bells for him.

  “Where you’re concerned I certainly think of myself as caring,” he mutters throatily. “I care for you very much. And I hope you’re starting to care a little for me.”

  This speech is clear-cut evidence that “caring,” in the form of an unwise infatuation with a leisure-worker, can seriously damage your brain cells.

  “Of course I care for you, Colin,” I say, taking advantage of his prone position and averted face to glance at my watch. I’ve made my pitch and now I must move on. How much time do I still have to fill? The doubleslot’s a big yawn when I’m paired with someone who’ll never be up to much in bed, but I’ve been patiently teaching him some basic moves in order to stop myself dying of boredom.

  As I guide him into the first of these moves he’s in bliss. It’s sort of touching to see how little can make this funny old fart happy, and I have one of my moments when I feel I really am performing a valuable public service.

  “Gavin.”

  I refocus. “Yeah?”

  “If I promise to give the St. Benet’s Appeal very serious consideration, will you come to the opera with me?”

  I’ve been expecting this response and I’ve already decided it’s worth giving in to him in order to nail the money. “Well,” I say graciously, although I can’t stop my heart sinking at the thought of escort work, “if this is something you really, really want to do—”

  He swears it is. “I don’t mind what I pay,” he adds. “Money’s not important. The important thing is for us to have the chance of extending our friendship beyond the four walls of this room.”

  Poor sod. As I said, some clients practically beg to have their hearts broken, but what can I do? I’m not being paid to say: “Get a life!” or: “Get therapy!” and I never promise them love or a relationship. So if their hearts get ripped I’m not responsible, am I? I’m not my brother’s keeper, for God’s sake! And these blokes aren’t my brothers anyway. They’re just strangers who bring their bodies in for servicing.

  “I’ll talk to Elizabeth,” I say. “I’ll make it clear I’d like to go to the opera with you.”

  Now that he’s got my consent Colin allows himself to get grumpy. “Can’t think why you let that woman interfere so much in your life! Why can’t you look after your business interests yourself?”

  “They’re too complicated.”

  “Then why have such a complicated life? Why not let me make it simpler? I could set you up in your own flat and make sure you find a decent job!”

  I want to run for cover but I take care to look overwhelmed by his generosity. “That’s really good of you, Colin, but I couldn’t possibly live off you like that! It’s a question of principle.”

  “Principle?” He levers himself up onto one elbow and stares at me. “You lead this deeply immoral life, seeing God knows how many men every week, and you talk to me about principles? I’m offering you love and a decent life. Are you seriously trying to tell me that the life you currently lead is morally preferable?”

  I’m winded by this ethics fanatic who’s just stepped out of the closet. “Colin, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Everyone should seek to lead a moral life in order to help their fellow men and contribute to social stability! The desire to live morally isn’t confined to the major religions, you know!”

  “Of course not!”

  “And I’m not one of those scientists who think asking metaphysical questions is a waste of time—it’s religion that’s the waste of time, but so long as one’s not in the laboratory one can and should ask oneself questions about the value and meaning of life!”

  “Absolutely!”

  “And please note that I’m not talking about religion! I’m talking about having an inquiring mind and a passion for truth!”

  “Right!” Funny how these violently anti-religious people can’t call their religious interests religious. They remind me of gays too terrified of being ridiculed to do anything but call themselves straight.

  But I’ve certainly hit the jackpot with Colin today—I’ve made a successful pitch for St. Benet’s and I’ve uncovered the information Asherton wants. It doesn’t matter that Colin, with his high view of morality, is obviously unsuited to GOLD. All that matters is that I’ve done my job, and now all I’ve got to worry about is how to jack up the amount when he begins to talk about the donation. Of course he’s bound to try to get away with giving next to nothing . . .

  As soon as Colin leaves I prepare for my dynamite date with Golden Girl. Thank God I wore one of my Armani suits to work today! (Colin likes me to start my striptease sleaze dressed to kill.) In no time flat I’m telling myself I’m looking great, but I must stop the confidence-boosting routine and hit that wine bar before Carta does. I don’t want her snaffled by some City hit-and-run villain on the make.

  One-for-the-Money is part of a chain of wine bars designed for the under-thirties, which means it’s large and lavish with a ballsy buzz. I shagged the owner of the chain for a while earlier in the year and he told the manager at the branch near Austin Friars that Mr. Gavin Blake was always to get the red-carpet treatment whenever he showed up. So tonight I say to the boss-man: “Hey Darren! I got lucky with a blonde class-act—how about a corner table upstairs?” because I know he keeps the upstairs corners free till seven for favoured customers. He sends a waitperson off to check there’s a RESERVED sign on the best table, and I loaf around waiting, eyeing the female legs crossed at various angles as their owners chatter on barstools or chirp on chairs.

  In glides Carta, looking very wary. I’d forgotten she’s a little older than I am and might well think this hyper-today swill-joint’s beneath her, but after I escort her upstairs to the special table she soon starts to unwind.

  A fawning waitperson takes her order for a couple of glasses of champagne.

  “Shall we get down to business?” she says, cutting short the small-talk about City watering holes after we’ve had our first swig from the glasses. She’s sitting slightly sideways in order to cross her legs, and her ankles are so exquisite that I’d like to slip a gold anklet around each one—after kissing each toe and running my tongue along the sole of each slim little foot. I’m not normally into feet but for the first time I can see the attractions of a career as a chiropodist.

  “Gavin, are you listening? I’m saying I want the truth here! Have you been fundraising for St. Benet’s?”

  I snap to attention. “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Prove it. Name the three recent donors who all claimed to be friends of Richard’s.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I never reveal the names of my clients. Let me tell you the exact sums instead.” I reel off the figures and add smoothly to seal my triumph: “Oh, and don’t let’s forget Moira! She’s promised you she’ll come across with the twenty thousand, hasn’t she?”

  Carta looks gobsmacked but finally manages to say in an awed voice: “So it’s true. You really have been raking in thousands and thousands of pounds for us.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This is my golden moment and I’m savouring it. I’ve sweated and slaved and shagged for this moment when Carta has no choice but to look at me with respect. I’m no longer a slimeball. I’m a successful fundraiser. I count. I matter.

  Carta’s certainly looking at me now with respect but she’s still shattered. In an urgent, earnest voice she asks: “But why did you do it? I mean, I accept that you wanted to impress me but that can’t be the whole answer—why should you go to such enormous trouble when all that’s at stake is a bout of recreational sex with a woman who’s never given you the green light?”

  I take another swig of the Froggy-Fizz. As a matter of fact I’m not a big champagne fan, and after the kind of day I’ve just had I’d have preferred to down a lager, but I don’t want her to think I’m yobbish. “Well, to be honest,” I say, looking her straight in the eyes, “I thought I owed you somet
hing. I’ve been bloody offensive, I know, coming on too strong and making a nuisance of myself, so I wanted to show you I do have my acceptable side. I thought if I did that we might manage to be friends. Platonic friends, I mean. Obviously. Of course I realise Eric’s got the prior claim.”

  She looks at me and I look at her and she goes on looking at me and I go on looking at her. I’d like to say this is a romantic gazing on both sides, but it’s not. It’s the intent stare of two streetwise people locked in a verbal wrestling match.

  At last she says: “There could be some grain of truth in all that, but the ending was pure fantasy. Try again.”

  “Forget it, sweetie, just unscramble your brains and beam in on this: the money I’ve sent your way so far is just an appetiser and I’ve got one hell of a main course now cooking in the oven!”

  Her eyes widen. “But in that case I’ve just got to understand your motivation!” she cries. “Don’t you see? How do I know you won’t turn around and sell your story to the tabloids?”

  “Wow, brilliant—what a fundraising coup! Can’t you just see the headlines? ‘CHURCH BOOSTED BY SIN: “I SHAG FOR GOD,” SAYS CITY SUPERSTUD’!”

  “Gavin!”

  “Oh come on, Frosty-Puss, don’t be so dumb! I don’t want that kind of publicity any more than you do—I’d never work in this town again!”

  She sees the logic of this but she’s still worried. “All right,” she says, getting her act together, “I do trust you not to sabotage us, but I’ve just got to have a conference about this with Nicholas. Don’t get angry—I think what you’ve done’s terrific, but every fundraiser should consult the boss if the situation’s in any way unusual.”

  I nod gravely, thinking how attractive she is when she’s earnest. I like her nose. It’s dead straight, perfectly shaped. And her mouth isn’t just a hole designed for oral sex. It’s delicate, the upper lip narrow, the lower lip fuller, more curvy. Her teeth are very clean, very even. I like her teeth. I’d like to run my tongue over them and—