We slogged on. Nicholas, who had kept us on a tight rein during the preliminary discussion, now allowed the conversation to sprawl as if he felt he should give every opportunity for an unexpected insight to surface, but no blinding revelation occurred, and after we had covered the same ground from a variety of different angles, he embarked on the task of establishing a group resolution.
“Let’s go back to the specific issues and see if there’s been any change of mind,” he said. “The questions are: should we return the money already received, and should we refuse to accept any further money? I’d now like to pose a third question as well: what should we do about Gavin himself? Okay, short answers, please. Lewis?”
Lewis said promptly: “Return the money we have. Refuse the money to come. Invite Gavin to the Healing Centre to assure him that although we’re unable to accept the donations we’ve been very impressed by his efforts and we’d like to know him better.”
“Val?”
“We should keep the money we already have,” said Val firmly. “We took it in good faith and we’ve no way of proving the donors acted under duress. But I don’t think we should touch a penny more now we know the donations are being generated by a prostitute in the course of his work. As for Gavin, yes, let’s invite him here, take an interest, affirm him as best we can.”
“Robin?”
“Honestly, Nick, I still think we should keep the money we already have. I admire the consistency of Lewis’s position, but I’m with Val on this one.”
“And any future donations?”
“I can’t make up my mind without first talking to Gavin—so yes, I’m all for inviting him to the Healing Centre. Let’s boost that rock-bottom self-esteem of his by treating him as a friend of Richard’s, someone well worthy of our attention.”
Nicholas turned to me: “Carta?”
“I’m still totally opposed to returning the money we have,” I said strongly. “Sorry, Lewis, but sometimes I think the Church really does get too hung up on sex, and whether Gavin’s achieved his fundraising miracles in bed or out of it just isn’t important as far as I’m concerned.”
“Is it really of no importance to you,” demanded Lewis, “that he may well have consistently taken advantage of unhappy, vulnerable people in order to impress you with his fundraising skills?”
Instantly I knew this was a killer question which pulled the rug from under my feet and put me in the wrong. Yet instantly I also knew that I had to stand by Gavin. I never paused to analyse this decision. I merely knew what I had to do and I did it.
“Listen,” I said. “Gavin’s behaviour’s abominable. His language is filthy. He’s caused me a lot of trouble and aggravation. But let me tell you as your fundraiser that he’s done a terrific thing for us, and it couldn’t have been easy for him. These clients of his aren’t sad-sack losers— they’re big-time businessmen who aren’t going to hand over their money easily, least of all when prompted by someone they pay for sex. I’m convinced that to achieve this level of success Gavin must have targeted the donors with great care, designed a psychologically apt approach for each one of them and then played them along with the maximum of subtlety and skill. He deserves all the praise we can throw at him, and that’s why I say now that affirming him is yet another reason why we should not only keep the past donations but accept the donation in the pipeline as well. Never mind Gavin’s motivation—he’s doing enormous good! Never mind the donors—they’re tough enough to look after themselves! Never mind the tabloids—no one’s going to talk to them! We should stop agonising over the moral issues and instead go down on our knees to thank God for this totally miraculous windfall!”
“And should we invite Gavin to the Healing Centre?” asked Nicholas in a neutral voice but he was smiling at me.
“You bet—and we should tell him we’re damn grateful!” I suddenly felt so exhausted that I leaned forward over the table and buried my face in my forearms.
“Well, that was certainly spoken from the heart!” said Lewis in his kindest voice, and Robin and Val also murmured words of encouragement.
Hauling myself upright again I said: “Nicholas is waiting to outdo me. Go on, Nicholas, for God’s sake get us sorted before we all start climbing the walls . . .”
XIII
“What we’re all united on,” said Nicholas, “is the need to invite Gavin to the Healing Centre. I certainly believe we should do this, and I also believe our attempts to affirm him as a person when he comes here would be much more effective if we didn’t return the money we’ve already received. What’s done is done, and I don’t think we can undo it without causing more problems than we solve. As for the donation in the pipeline, there’s no doubt that if we refuse it we’d be in a position to give ourselves a moral pat on the back, but are we really in business simply to bestow moral pats? I seem to remember Jesus made some stringent comments on those who played religion strictly by the book and were over-preoccupied with saving themselves from some dire fate . . .
“I think this is one of those cases where we have to acknowledge the conventional rules and then summon the courage to step outside them. My father used to say that only by wholeheartedly embracing the monastic framework could a monk know when it was safe to step outside that framework in order to serve God in a situation where an orthodox response seemed inadequate. I believe we’re in a similar situation now.
“It’s Gavin who’s at the heart of this discussion, isn’t it? Not the money. Not St. Benet’s. But Gavin. He’s tugging at our sleeves like a little child who wants to be noticed, and bearing in mind our call to serve others we have to ask: how can we best help him? How can we best respond to his persistent tugs at our sleeves?
“Lewis made a valid point earlier when he said we must beware of becoming co-dependents, enabling Gavin to continue his life as a prostitute by acting as if we go along with what he does. We must leave him in no doubt that we can’t condone his exploitation of homosexuals and his abuse of his own body, but we can and must encourage him by recognising the efforts he’s made for a good cause, and that’s why, like Carta, I think we should also accept the donation in the pipeline. But after that we should end the moral ambiguity of the situation by suggesting he stops tapping his clients for donations and embarks on some orthodox fundraising for us instead—he could work part-time, join the volunteers. By inviting him to do that we build up his self-esteem and give him a prepaid ticket into the world of Richard Slaney, but we’ll never get that far if we reject any of the donations, because Gavin’s ego is too fragile to allow him to bear the rejections without running away. So we’ve got to accept the donations in order to reach him—we’ve got to step outside our conventional ethical framework and be unorthodox, because only by moving away from the well-lit highway are we ever going to rescue this beaten-up traveller who’s been left for dead in the dark.”
He stopped speaking.
My voice said: “I’d cheer but I’m so banjaxed that only a squeak would come out.”
“That’s a powerful image, Nick,” said Robin, and Val said: “You’ve got it right.”
“Okay, Lewis,” said Nicholas wryly without waiting for further comments. “You can fire both barrels now.”
Without hesitation Lewis launched himself into the attack.
XIV
“My dear Nicholas,” said Lewis, “of course I admire your liberal idealism and your sincere desire to help this dangerous and destructive young man whom you so romantically picture as a victimised traveller. But I’d be failing in my duty to you as your colleague if I didn’t say that I think you’re gravely mistaken. By accepting the donations, you are condoning his prostitution. The plain fact of the matter is that none of these donations would exist unless Gavin Blake had been financially rewarded for having sex with the donors. Naturally I share your desire to heal Gavin’s self-esteem and help him build a new life, but believe me, going along with his prostitution by accepting the fruits of it isn’t the way to achieve this worthy ai
m. So stop trying to play God, Nicholas, with all this addled talk of stepping outside the rules, and leave God in charge here! I assure you he can run things rather better than you can.”
As I fought the urge to grab a banana from the fruit bowl and hit Lewis over the head, Nicholas said levelly: “Fair enough. No one knows better than I do that I can get things wrong, but those are my views and since we’re all currently trying to be as honest as possible, these are the views I must express. However, they could change when I meet Gavin again—in fact all our views should be open to amendment then as he’ll be providing us with a lot of new information.”
Mollified by this good-natured response Lewis had the grace to backtrack a little. “I don’t wish to give the impression I’m completely inflexible,” he said, “but I do feel I’m the only one here who’s looking at the case with his eyes wide open.”
“There’s something else I’d like to say,” I intervened, anxious to move on from Lewis’s traditionalist spiel. “Sorry, Nicholas, but I’ve just got to say this no matter how nutty I sound.” And to the others I announced: “I think Gavin’s Elizabeth is Mrs. Mayfield.”
The meeting roared back to life as everyone rushed to embrace the diversion.
XV
Naturally the verdict on my theory was “not proven,” but there was a lively interest in the possibility that our enemy had resurfaced.
“Wicked old witch!” said Val robustly. “Evil old fraud! But how did she manage to enslave Gavin? I thought she was a middle-aged frump with crinkly grey hair!”
“You think she’s not clever enough to give herself a total makeover? Anyway the grey hair was a wig and the downmarket clothes were just part of the persona she was pushing at the time!”
“But if she’s going for radical change, why keep the name Elizabeth?”
Robin was unimpressed by this objection. “People who move from alias to alias often do keep their first names,” he said. “From a practical point of view it means you never slip up by failing to respond when someone addresses you, and from a psychological point of view, retaining the first name provides a thread of continuity in what may be a very disjointed life.”
“Talking of disjointed lives brings us back to Gavin,” said Nicholas, who had listened without comment as I had aired my obsession. “Perhaps we should now move into the final stage of the meeting and consider how we should handle his visit to the Healing Centre.”
Val said: “What makes you so sure he’ll accept our invitation?”
“Carta will be delivering it.”
“Oh yes?” I said, trying not to sound steamrollered.
“When are we going to schedule the visit?” asked Robin cautiously. “My timetable next week is . . .”
Everyone promptly started clamouring about how busy they were, but Nicholas said the meeting had to be on Monday, while our discussion was still fresh in our minds, and it had to take place after Gavin had finished work at six-thirty.
There then followed a not particularly productive discussion of how Gavin should be questioned about his fundraising, but we soon realised that it would be better to rely on a friendly spontaneity than a detailed plan. At this point, just as we were all about to go cross-eyed with exhaustion, Nicholas called a halt and summarised what had been agreed: we had decided by a majority vote to keep the past donations, although to appease Lewis, Nicholas said we should keep an open mind about the donation in the pipeline until we had talked to Gavin.
Having completed this summary Nicholas closed the meeting by thanking us all for giving up our Saturday afternoon, but just as I was thinking how much I was looking forward to the rest of my weekend he added: “Let’s get together tomorrow, Carta, and plan exactly how you’re going to deliver this invitation to Gavin.”
Telling myself crossly that there was no slave-driver to equal a clergyman once he slipped into a workaholic mode, I agreed to meet him on the following afternoon.
XVI
I was far from happy about adopting the role of the siren who would lure Gavin to St. Benet’s, and as I automatically started to review the meeting, it occurred to me that no one had asked if I found Gavin a threat to my peace of mind. I supposed they were all confident that I could deal with him as efficiently as I dealt with everyone else, but I knew their confidence was unjustified. It was the sheer irrationality of the sexual attraction which was so deeply threatening to me. Reason, logic, rational analysis—these were my survivor skills, giving me control over my life, and after my disastrous marriage I was frightened of losing that control.
On an impulse I avoided returning home directly and hurried instead to Eric’s studio. I wanted to blot out Gavin by saying to Eric: “I love you, I need you, I’m sorry everything’s been such a mess,” but when I rang his doorbell no one answered. My spirits rose as I assumed he was waiting for me at home, but when I reached my house I found only a letter. He had written: “Darling, I decided I had to make that second research trip to Norway right now to try to break my worsening case of writer’s block. I’m sorry for not giving you more warning of this, but to be honest I feel that our meetings have become such a minefield that it seemed best just to take off for the airport and hope that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Why do smart women so often get mixed up with absolute bastards? I know I used to be a bastard too in my gigolo days before we met, but at least I got my act together and grew up. However, maybe you have a psychological need to minister to men who have cosmic problems. Is it just a coincidence, I ask myself, that you allowed Gavin Blake to slither into your life so soon after your father died and you could no longer slave away trying to solve his gambling addiction? Okay, I’ll stop there. Let me know when you finally ditch that hustler. All my love, ERIC.”
I sank down on the stairs.
Eventually I was able to wipe my eyes, clamber up to the living-room and pour myself some scotch. In despair I wanted to grab a transatlantic flight—nail a high-powered job in New York—start out all over again— but even while I was thinking these frantic thoughts I knew I would solve nothing by physically removing myself from this mess in London. I would merely take my problems with me and wind up despising myself for running away.
Dredging up all my will-power, I began to plan my crucial meeting with Gavin on Monday morning.
XVII
In the moment before he saw me Gavin appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes downcast, his face empty of expression as he wandered away from the Dutch church which stood in Austin Friars. Without the gloss of his professional persona he seemed younger, almost like a hard-working student focusing dutifully on his approaching exams, and suddenly, in a moment of revelation, the scales fell from my eyes so that for the first time I saw him as vulnerable. The voices of the Rectory meeting echoed in my head and I thought: yes, this is the beaten-up traveller who’s been left for dead in the dark, and what he needs now isn’t rejection but a lifeline.
The next moment he saw me and instantly slipped behind the mask of hypersexuality.
“Carta!” he breathed, all smoochy innuendo, but I was determined not to be alienated.
Calmly I said: “Hi. Look, hold the stud-act for a moment, could you? I’m here to deliver a message from my boss . . .” And using a friendly, courteous tone of voice—a tone I had practised beforehand—I issued the invitation which Nicholas had drafted on my return to the Rectory on Sunday. This speech too I had rehearsed. I was surprised to find that even though I had taken such care to prepare for the meeting I was very nervous. I did not want to let down either St. Benet’s or Gavin himself.
But the speech made its mark. Astonishment flickered in Gavin’s eyes but this was followed closely by delight. Then came other emotions not so easy to identify. Alarm, perhaps? Suspicion? I was unable to decide and Gavin was not about to enlighten me.
Smoothly he said: “Churches aren’t my scene, Gorgeous, but if you’re going to be there I’ll turn up.”
At once I knew he needed reassurance and enc
ouragement. “I’m going to be there. Definitely.”
“Phwoar! Then nothing could keep me away!”
“Everyone’ll be so glad to see you—they think you’ve done something really amazing!”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Nicholas and I. Lewis, the retired priest who assists at the church. Robin, the Healing Centre’s psychologist. Val, the doctor who works with Nicholas.”
“All these people think I’ve done something really amazing?”
“Absolutely! We can’t wait to offer you a glass of wine and say congratulations!”
“Sounds like you’ve all gone mental. What time’s this rave?”
“Six-forty-five. I’ll wait in the main reception area of the Healing Centre—just come down the steps from the churchyard and you’ll see me beyond the glass doors.”
He sighed in the manner of a rock star anxious to avoid his adoring fans but knowing it would be good PR to appear gracious. “Okay,” he said. “No problem. But now if you’ll excuse me, sweetie, I gotta run—a top-of-the-market leisure-worker like me never keeps a client waiting!” And with a ravishing smile he blew me a kiss before disappearing into the house.
The rush from the sexual charge which then slugged me kicked to pieces any notion I had been harbouring that my new understanding of Gavin as vulnerable would defuse the chemistry between us. I had been congratulating myself on behaving impeccably while giving reassurance to a damaged man, but now I felt I’d just been giving the maximum encouragement to a wrecker whom I still—still, despite all my determination to play my cards right for St. Benet’s—found much too attractive.
Just how on earth was I going to get a grip on this situation?
Maybe a head transplant wasn’t such a bad idea after all . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
Gavin
The healing ministry is available for everyone; there is no place for discrimination of any kind. The common humanity and uniqueness of each individual must be respected and valued.
The Heartbreaker Page 25