The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  A Time to Heal

  A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS

  ON THE HEALING MINISTRY

  I’m going to meet Mr. Charisma again. Carta’s issued his invitation to the St. Benet’s Healing Centre where I’m going to be slobbered over by Mr. Charisma and his myrmidons. (I like that word “myrmidons.” Shakespeare uses it, but in which play? Can’t remember.)

  Of course I’m a severe embarrassment to Mr. Charisma and the myrmidons, but they’ve put their heads together and Mr. Charisma’s said: “Here’s this piece of shit, chums. How do we make him smell of roses so nobody can blame us for taking his money?” and some bright myrmidon’s piped up: “We’ll save him for The Bloke! That’ll make everything brilliant!” So they plan to convert me, but think again, you snotty bastards, because I’m going to kick that idea right up your collective arse where it belongs.

  But the hell with them—all that matters is that I’ve achieved my goal of dazzling Carta. Bed in a month, did I say? No, make that two weeks! I’m on a roll here, doing great, and soon life’ll be more terrific than ever . . .

  But meanwhile it’s Monday morning and I’ve got to psych myself up to face my first blow-job.

  I go through my regular meditation routine but all the way through the wake-up shift I’m thinking, thinking, thinking, and the strange thing is it’s not Gavin Blake Superstud powering the thoughts. It’s not Gavin Blake Ordinary Bloke either, the one who drinks lager and says “nah” to Nigel and goes mad on the couch with the zapper. There’s someone else on the scene now, and it’s Gavin Blake Fundraiser Supremo, plotting his dynamic next move.

  I’ve got to wear the right clothes for this slobber-fest at St. Benet’s. That’s important. I may be shit but I’m going to be well-dressed shit. Mr. Charisma will probably offer me his hand again because that’s the Christian thing to do, but there’s no need to make him feel he has to wash it afterwards. He doesn’t really feel friendly towards me, of course. He’s just going through the motions in order to be a good clergyman.

  When the shift finishes I shunt back to Lambeth and pick a charcoal-grey suit ordered for me by an ancient client. It was his old-world, Savile Row wet dream of what every nice young man should wear. For luck I take the white shirt I wore to Richard’s funeral, and I select a tie that’s dark blue with a pale blue stripe: the Oxbridge colours. I’m going to look respectable enough to sell Bibles.

  After the last client of the lunch-time shift has been shoehorned out of the flat, I rest but sleep’s impossible. The truth is I’m nervous about this visit to St. Benet’s. It’s the thought of seeing two clergymen, a doctor and a psychologist all at once—God, it’s like being interviewed for a place in a bloody rehab programme! What are they going to say to me? What am I going to say to them? What can they say to me? What can I say to them?

  I need to figure out the right role, the role through which Gavin Blake Fundraiser Supremo can most effectively display himself. How about “Idealistic Young Executive?” No, that won’t wash, leisure-workers don’t have ideals. But wait a moment, I’ve got it, how about “Post-Yuppie Supporter of the Arts,” a bloke who’s bored with banking and bonking and now only wants to listen to opera in between reading Shakespeare? Yeah, that’ll go down well, that’ll impress the hell out of them, problem solved.

  Somehow I get through the late-shift. One client even asks me if I’m feeling unwell and I have to bust a gut to prove I’m in prime condition for the routine he likes but what a bore all that fake wrestling is! It’s not just physically tiring—it’s mentally exhausting having to dream up an erotic choreography which will ring the client’s macho bells and allow him to kid himself we meet as physical equals. What a fantasist! Silly plonker.

  As soon as the last client leaves I shower and dress at top speed. No time to straighten out the flat. I’ll have to arrive early tomorrow to tidy up. Before I go I have a swig of wine from the bottle in the fridge, but that’s a stupid thing to do because it means I have to wash my mouth out all over again. Mustn’t turn up smelling of booze. Mustn’t let them guess how bloody nervous I am. If Carta wasn’t going to be there I wouldn’t bother to show. I mean, I’ve got better things to do with my time, right? Course I have.

  But I stick to the plan. Mustn’t wreck my sizzling new relationship with Carta. Off I go along the part of Austin Friars which leads into Throgmorton Avenue, and then I beetle on west, crossing Moorgate and diving into Great Bell Alley. In and out of the backstreets I skim like a mouse in a maze as I take short cut after short cut until I hit Egg Street. The church is ahead of me now. I shudder but whisk up some courage by thinking of Carta waiting for me by the glass doors of the crypt where the Healing Centre’s located. I tell myself she probably feels like Joseph Cotten waiting for Orson Welles in my father’s favourite movie The Third Man. All we need now is some zither music.

  Carta’s waiting, just as she promised. She’s wearing a trouser suit, which is a big mistake because it covers her legs, but I can still see her feet which are slinkily shod in skintight black leather. I try to joke to myself about chiropody but I’m too tense.

  “Hiya, Frosty-Puss!” I say, breezing in as confidently as if I visited healing centres every day. “Lead me to Mr. Charisma and his myrmidons!”

  “His what?”

  “Myrmidons. Shakespeare. Coriolanus, act two, scene five.”

  She looks suspicious, as well she might since I invented the entire reference and even (I discover later) named the wrong play, but she just gives me a tight little smile before saying carefully: “Thanks for coming. Everyone’s here.”

  I’m too stressed out to take much notice of my surroundings, but we’re in a brightly lit reception area, similar to the waiting-room of a doctor’s surgery, and Carta’s leading me over to a door marked CONSULTING ROOM ONE. The door’s ajar. I can hear a voice murmuring beyond, but the sound ceases as Carta pushes open the door.

  I expected a boardroom with everyone sitting at a long table. I pictured them all lolling in their chairs and snottily looking me up and down as I walked in. But the room’s small and the occupants are perching on some old stacking chairs which have been arranged in a ragged circle. There’s a desk but it’s been pushed back against the waist-high bookcase which runs along one wall. Above the bookcase is the global corporate logo of The Bloke: a wooden cross with the metal image of a man fixed to it.

  I nerve myself to face the two clergymen, the doctor and the psychologist who have assembled to look down on me. But simultaneously Carta’s saying in an upbeat voice: “Here’s Gavin!”—and the next moment every single person in that room stands up as if The Bloke himself had walked into their midst.

  “Welcome to St. Benet’s, Gavin,” says Nicholas Darrow, smiling at me.

  Can’t speak. Not sure why. I remember I have to play a role but I can’t recall what it should be. I only know that these people stood up before I’d begun to play any role which would have made me socially acceptable. They stood up before I could open my mouth.

  I’m being introduced but the words don’t register. Each myrmidon offers me its hand to shake. I nod. I suppose I smile a little, the way one does at such times. The familiar reflexes carry me through.

  I’m being offered a glass of wine. Soave or Valpolicella? The Healing Centre’s been sent a case of each as a gift.

  I choose the Soave but I forget to add “please.” I’m still all over the place, trying to slip into a role but no longer sure what the role should be. I don’t think I could carry off “Post-Yuppie Supporter of the Arts” after all. In fact I doubt if I could carry off anything. But I can’t be me. So I’ll just have to hack it as a low-IQ City worker with a speech impediment— a fair enough description of my present performance.

  “Why don’t you take that chair next to Carta?” suggests Mr. Charisma, and Carta gives me an encouraging smile.

  I sink down on the stacking chair with the glass of chilled Soave in my sweating hand. Carta sits down too, slim ankles peeping out of
those stupid trousers, but I can’t think erotic thoughts any more. I can only take a sip of Soave and listen to the thumping of my heart.

  Mr. Charisma, very laid-back and appearing one hundred per cent sincere, starts to thank me on behalf of everyone at St. Benet’s for my hard work which has been so outstandingly successful.

  Gradually I get my act together. I’ve realised the scene’s a little like those Sunday morning drinks parties my parents used to throw in the days before Hugo became ill. A bunch of chums, not many, would turn up at noon and swill for an hour or so while the men chatted about sport and how the socialists were ruining the country, and the women nattered about children and schools and how to teach the au pair to make a decent cup of tea. In other words you talked of things which couldn’t possibly upset people, even though you might be worried sick about your bank balance or your sex life or who was within an inch of a nervous breakdown.

  The St. Benet’s gang too are all bent on saying nothing upsetting while they bust a gut to be friendly, and soon Robin the psychologist’s gushing: “Of course what I’m dying to know is how you approached this project from a psychological point of view. You must have selected your targets with enormous care.”

  “Sure.” I can’t quite figure this bloke out. He’s a stick-thin, camp piece who’s wrapped in a violet shirt and a wedding ring, and he’s got the trick of emphasising certain words as if to brainwash you into believing how sincere he is. He looks gay, but as I know so well appearances can be deceptive. I speculate that he could be a bi who’s decided he’d flourish best in a marriage, but no, if that was the case he’d probably opt to look dead straight, crafting his appearance to kill all bi rumours for the sake of his family. I decide this bloke’s just a straight with a passion for kinky colours and a total indifference about whether or not people think he’s gay. He must be very secure.

  “Perhaps you’d like to tell us a little about your fundraising strategies,” says Mr. Charisma, egging me on, and Carta says admiringly: “I’m longing to hear how you did it!”

  This is the moment to die for. Carta Graham, Golden Girl, is looking at me with genuine interest and respect yet I’m not playing a role. But of course I now have to vault into a role, no choice. If I have to talk about how Gavin Blake Superstud became Gavin Blake Fundraising Supremo, I can’t be Gavin Blake Me telling the truth. That’s because all the sex stuff has to be omitted. I spent a lot of time plotting each physical move which would send each donor to his own private version of gay heaven, and I used all my energy and skill to see the donors were swept through the pearly gates on a tide of orgasmic glory, but of course I could never admit that to a bunch of Christians. It would just reinforce their private opinion that I’m scum.

  In panic I realise everyone’s gazing at me with rapture as they wait for the explanation of my brilliant success. Why didn’t I guess they’d want some details? Maybe I thought they’d be too priggish to want to know. Or maybe I was too busy deciding what to wear and enjoying the thought of being slobbered over by a load of do-gooders.

  “Yeah well,” I mumble, clearing my throat to play for time, but then I’m launching myself into an ultra-cool performance of Gavin Blake Fundraising Supremo. “Some of these blokes I see have a company policy about giving to charity, preferably a City charity, at least once a year,” I say. “So, well, I picked one of those, researched his company, know-what-I-mean, talked to the client, figured out which approach would be best.” In an inspired moment I remember one of my non-sexual ploys. “I mugged up the Appeal literature so that I could answer any questions right off, and then I designed a spiel for each client.”

  “Terrific!” exclaims Carta encouragingly. “I try to do that, but it’s hard to get the spiel right, isn’t it, and one never quite knows how it’s going to go down.”

  I think I’ll be okay if I focus on Carta and pretend the others aren’t there. “Right!” I say warmly. “It’s risky stuff! Well, like I say, I picked a bloke who had a company policy about giving to charity. Then I see blokes who are running for some kind of City office, know-what-I-mean, and they like to look involved with charity stuff, so I picked one of those. And then I see blokes who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it and they don’t even have time to, you know, ferret away trying to find a good cause, so if I name a good cause they’re going to say: ‘Hell, why not?’ and write a cheque because it stops them feeling guilty that normally they never get around to giving much away. So I picked one of these blokes too. And to all the blokes my approach was like: ‘Hey, I’m going to do you a favour—here’s a big opportunity for you!’ because although these blokes hate being pressured for money, they love any opportunity to make themselves look clever, and the fact is they all truly appreciated my tip about St. Benet’s which is a great City cause, very respectable but very cutting-edge. Touches a lot of, you know, like, bases. It’s very today, very now.”

  As I finally dare to glance around the room again I see everyone’s looking deeply impressed—except for the creepy cleric in the corner, what’s-his-face, Lewis Hall, the oldie with the silver hair and black eyes and whiplash-thin mouth. Maybe he’s gay. Repressed, of course. One of those celibate numbers who flagellates himself in secret to relieve the tension. He’s looking at me as if he knows too bloody well I’m being economical with the truth. Shall I test him out, give him a hot look which would make him think all his forbidden fantasies were springing to glorious life? No, better not risk it. It might wreck my new role which I’m playing so cleverly: the leisure-worker with the heart of gold—the one who’s lying in the gutter but looking up at the stars with a sheaf of charity cheques in his hand.

  “That’s great psychology!” Camp-stick Robin’s saying with enthusiasm. “Well done!” And the doctor next to him says brightly: “You’ve tackled this like a real professional—have you done any fundraising before?” The doctor’s called Val and she’s a jolly-hockey-sticks type, plain but fun. No wedding ring. Could she be gay? Nah. Too nice, too normal. Impossible to think of her itching to finger-creep someone like bloody awful Norah.

  “No, I’m a novice here,” I tell her modestly, awash with relief that everyone’s much too Christian even to think of the sex details, let alone ask about them. “But I admit I’ve found fundraising rewarding. It’s been sort of, you know, a challenge, know-what-I-mean, something worthwhile.”

  “I think you’ve shown a real talent!” says my loyal and extra-special friend Carta. “In fact I think you’re much more talented at fundraising than I am. I’m just a hard worker with good connections.”

  I give her my best shy smile. “Suppose that depends how you define talent,” I murmur, but the next moment the smile’s wiped off my face as the old cleric in the corner jumps into the conversation.

  “A talent’s a gift from God,” he announces, and his voice startles me because it’s so like my father’s. As the old boy said nothing when we were introduced this is the first time I’ve heard him speak. “A talent,” he adds, “enables us to work hard at a task and not only enjoy it but find it uniquely fulfilling.” And he gives me a look as if his favourite hobby’s blasting through bullshit.

  But Mr. Charisma spins the conversation into a different channel, like a sailor tacking to avoid a buoy in the water. “Talking of your talent, Gavin,” he says, “can you tell us more about the donation in the pipeline?”

  My heart sinks. I really have decided that it’s just too dangerous to milk Colin. Best to switch off this line of enquiry and let everyone down gently later.

  “I’d rather not go into detail right at this moment,” I say glibly. “Don’t want to jinx the project by talking too much about it! Specially as negotiations are at such an early stage.” The words are out of my mouth before I realise I’ve slipped up. I’ve almost invited them to ask what the word “negotiations” means in this context, but even as I hope feverishly that everyone will be too Christian to push me further, the old bloke in the corner dives back into the conversati
on with the impact of a ton of bricks landing on glass.

  “I’d like to hear a little more about these negotiations you’re conducting,” he says in his old-fashioned public-school voice. “I think there’s a dimension to all this you haven’t mentioned, Mr. Blake.”

  I’m aware of Carta freezing as Mr. Charisma shifts slightly in his chair. I glance at Robin but he’s just looking blandly attentive. I glance at Val but she’s busy adjusting one of her earrings. Shit! They’re all hanging tough. Forget that delusion about Christians being pure-minded pushovers—it’s showdown time at St. Benet’s for leisure-workers and no one’s riding to my rescue. What the triple-fuck do I say next?

  “It’s okay,” says Carta rapidly in a low voice. “But we’ve got to know about the bad stuff as well as the good stuff in order to figure out how we can best help.”

  Only one answer’s possible. “What bad stuff?”

  “We’re talking about the way you earn your living, Mr. Blake,” says the Reverend Lewis Hall, sex-fixated old creep.

  “Oh that!” I say airily. “You mean my business as a leisure-worker, performing a much-needed and much-appreciated service to stressed-out high flyers.”

  There’s an absolute silence.

  I can’t explain just how terrible that silence is. I only know I can’t stand it. I want them to go back to talking about my talent as a fundraiser and saying how amazing I am.

  At last I realise everyone’s looking at Robin. This is where the psychologist has to be wheeled on to handle me with kid gloves. Shit, how humiliating. Sod these people, sod them—

  “It’s often difficult to talk about sex, isn’t it?” Robin’s stopped putting words in italics. His voice sounds smoother, quieter, far more subtly sympathetic. “I expect even leisure-workers find it difficult sometimes.”

  Screw him. “I’ll talk about any kind of sex you like!” I slam back. “It doesn’t bother me one fucking bit!” But no one gasps at my language. No one squirms.