Robin just says: “I’m sure we all appreciate your offer to be frank. I wonder if I could just ask this: do you take special trouble—professionally, I mean—with someone you’ve marked as a donor?”
At once I see how I can counter-attack. Top leisure-workers don’t discuss their clients. Who do these St. Benet’s people think I am, for God’s sake? Some cheap rent boy smirking in Leicester Square?
“Do you seriously believe,” I say scandalised, “that I’m going to breach my clients’ trust by talking in detail about the exact nature of their transactions with me? Well, forget it! I’ve built my reputation on total discretion. I observe strict protocol here.” I love that word protocol. I’m talking style now, I’m talking class, and the conversation’s soared upmarket. I’m winning.
“Let me reassure you that we don’t need to know the details of the transactions,” says Robin in a mild voice as he cuts the ground from beneath my feet. “We only want to know if the donors get free benefits in return for their generosity.”
“Certainly not!” I say indignantly, but Old Toughie now crashes back into the conversation.
“Mr. Blake,” he says, “are you trying to tell us that these donors received no special sexual favours from you in return for their donations?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I find it implausible. If I were to donate thousands of pounds to a good cause promoted by the person I was paying for sex, I’d certainly expect some gilt on the gingerbread!”
You’ve got to hand it to him. Isn’t he a love? There’s something brilliantly unstuffy about this murderous determination to call a spade a spade, and the nickname “Old Toughie” doesn’t even begin to do him justice. This bloke’s nothing less than an Exocet missile in a clerical collar.
“My clients always get gilt on the gingerbread!” I snarl. “They don’t have to give to the charity of their choice in order to get that—total satisfaction’s always built into the deal!”
Mr. Charisma intervenes. He says calmly: “Let’s get one thing quite clear: we accept and welcome your talent for fundraising, Gavin. Be in no doubt of that. But the problem for us is that your talent for fundraising is set in the context of one of your other talents, and this other talent is a talent you abuse.”
I stare at him. “What other talent?”
“Didn’t you tell me at Richard’s funeral that you had a talent for sex?”
He’s bowled me a googly. I can’t deny I said this (and what a bloody stupid thing it was to say to a clergyman!) but if I admit it, he’ll start to work his way around to saying that my business as a leisure-worker taints the talent for sex which in turn taints the talent for fundraising which in turn taints the donations and makes them unacceptable—and this brutal Christian logic, I now see so clearly, is what this fucking charade’s all about: they praise me to the skies for being so wonderful but then they say up yours, mate, stuff it, it’s dirty money and we’re sending it back to the donors. But that’s not fair, that’s not right, that’s not—
“We want to be fair about this,” says Mr. Charisma calmly, cutting across my agonised thoughts. “We want to get this right. We can’t condone the abuse of a talent. But we want to affirm the talent itself and also affirm you for all your hard work on our behalf.”
I struggle to understand. “You mean—what you’re saying is—”
“What I’m saying is we want to encourage every God-given talent you have and the good results they produce. But you see our dilemma, don’t you? We can’t sanction any fundraising that exploits the donors, but we do admire your imaginative use of your interpersonal skills in working for a good cause—it’s a real challenge for us, I promise you, to work out a way forward here which does you justice without doing violence to what we believe to be right for St. Benet’s.”
I get a grip on my fury and frustration. I get a grip because I can see he really is trying to be fair. The leisure-working’s shit but I’m not necessarily shit too—that’s what he’s saying. If I can convince him there was no exploitation, just me and my talents trying to serve St. Benet’s as honestly as I could despite the dodginess of the context—
I say firmly: “There was no exploitation.” And as I speak I know this is true. “These blokes are tough,” I insist. “They make up their own minds. If I put pressure on them to donate, they’d soon come to resent it and then I’d be minus a client. All I can do is offer them a window of opportunity, but I make sure the view they see through that window is as attractive as I can possibly make it.”
I pause. Mr. Charisma nods. He’s sympathetic, still willing to listen.
“Okay, so this is where the talent for sex comes in,” I say, skating in a muck sweat across the thin moral ice. “Okay, so a lot of people would think a talent for sex is a pretty paltry kind of talent whether it’s being abused or not. And okay, so leisure-working’s not the ideal context for that talent to be exercised. But it was the only talent and the only context I had when I started fundraising, and you can only work with what you have.” A memory hits me and I grab it. It’s as if someone’s thrown me a lifeline.
“My mother raised money for a cancer charity after my brother died,” I say rapidly, and there’s no role-playing now, I’ve no energy to spare, it’s all focused on putting across this deep truth and saving the donations. “My father said to her: ‘How do you know you’ve got any talent for fundraising?’ and she said: ‘I don’t. But I know I’ve got a talent for being sociable.’ And she organised coffee mornings and drinks parties and bridge drives—all very ordinary stuff, but she planned every detail so carefully that each event was a big success and the money came flowing in . . . Yet a talent for being sociable’s not much, is it? And the context she had to work in was very ordinary—I mean, she didn’t have a career or an upper-crust social life. It was so easy for my father to look down on her longing to raise money, but in the end she reached the target she’d set herself and the cancer charity wrote a special letter to say how grateful they were. So even a paltry talent in a non-ideal context can be a force for the good, can’t it? And why should a non-ideal context mean you can’t offer up the paltry talent, specially if the paltry talent’s all you’ve got to offer? Surely a good intention’s got to be worth something! That’s only right! That’s only fair!”
I stop. No one says a word. They just look. Mr. Charisma’s eyes are luminous. Dr. Val’s high-gloss lush-lips are slightly parted as if she’s caught her breath at the sight of something startling. Mr. Pass-for-Gay Robin takes off his glasses as if he no longer trusts them and gazes at me wide-eyed. And Carta? Carta’s smiling at me as if I’m truly special. Obviously I’ve hit some kind of jackpot but the stupid thing is I’m not sure how I’ve done it. Could it really just be by talking about Mum? I was hoping for at best a grudgingly conceded victory. I never visualised a knock-out triumph.
“That’s a splendid story!” exclaims Mr. Charisma at last, but the word “story” rings alarm bells in my head. Frantically I protest: “It was all true!”
“Yes, I know. It’s hard not to recognise the ring of truth when it arrives with a deafening peal of bells. Now listen, Gavin, I want to make you an offer which I hope you’ll consider very seriously. How would you like to work part-time for us at the Healing Centre?”
I nearly plummet right off my chair.
“The thing is,” Mr. Charisma’s saying as I take time out to marvel that I’m still upright, “we’d like you to go on fundraising for us. Of course we’d have to change the context where you do the work, but that wouldn’t be a problem if you came here as one of our volunteer helpers.”
At first all I can think is: he’s joking. Then I realise no one’s laughing. Wondering if I’m going mental I manage to mutter something which reveals total non-comprehension.
“We have a number of volunteers like Carta who work here, offering their special talents to St. Benet’s,” explains Mr. Charisma placidly. “Now, we can’t use your
talent for sex—” He slips me a smile “—but we can certainly use your talent for fundraising. Think what you have to offer! A willingness to work hard and take trouble, an ability to be good with people, clever at sussing them out and winning their liking, a tenacity which enables you to keep going when the going gets tough—all admirable qualities! So if you could spare us a few hours a week we’d be more than happy to have you on board.”
I swallow, clear my throat. Words eventually come out of my mouth. I say: “You don’t really want me here. You couldn’t. You just want to— quote—‘save’ me to make yourself look good, but what makes you think I want to be ‘saved,’ Mr. Taking-one-hell-of-a-lot-for-granted Darrow?”
Mr. Charisma nods gravely as if he knows he sometimes takes one hell of a lot for granted and isn’t this an aggravating fault to have, he knows he really should be able to do better. Then having somehow permeated the air with an apology without even opening his mouth, he says with a kind of knock-out seriousness: “I’m not sure how you’re using that word ‘saved,’ but I’ll say this: I don’t like seeing people’s talents blighted. I don’t like seeing people fail to realise their potential. And yes, I do want these people to be saved—saved from frustration and despair—but I wouldn’t use the word ‘save’ here. I’d say I want them to be liberated to become the people God designed them to be. I’d say I want them to be empowered to achieve fulfilment and a lasting happiness.”
Panic nibbles the pit of my stomach. In a fuck-you voice I insist obstinately: “I’m liberated and empowered already, thanks very much! And anyway as far as your job offer goes, my manager wouldn’t let me work for anyone but her, she’d forbid it right away.”
Oh my God, I’ve blown it. I tell him I don’t need liberation and a second later I’m admitting my manager calls the shots. And now that silence is back again, the terrible silence which I know I’ve just got to break.
In a rush I say: “My manager’s wonderful to me, wonderful, and that’s why I always choose—choose—to do what she wants. Okay, I’m not doing what she wants right now, she wouldn’t want me to be here, but I made an exception tonight to my rule about always choosing to do what she wants. I came here because Carta asked me. I came here because she and I were both friends of Richard Slaney. And that means something. That’s special. That’s real.” Suddenly I find myself thrusting my right hand sideways towards Carta. I don’t look at her. I just stretch out my hand and she takes it in hers, she never hesitates, because she knows that what I’m saying is true.
I know now why that silence was so unbearable. It’s the silence of truth, the silence people keep when they’ve no option but to listen to lies. I lied earlier when I described my job in upbeat euphemisms, and the silence dropped on me like a lead weight. I lied just now about being liberated, and back came the silence to crush me to pulp. But when I told the truth about my mother Nicholas Darrow had plenty to say, and when I told the truth about how important Richard’s friendship was to me, Carta grasped my hand without hesitation.
I see now that these people are all focused on the truth of my situation, and when I lie they react like musicians with perfect pitch who are forced to listen to someone singing flat. These people see my life as it really is, while I . . . well, I never quite face it, do I? And why the fuck should I, I’d like to know? Their truth doesn’t have to be my truth! God, how do I get out of this, how do I retreat with dignity, it’s role-playing time again, got to be, can’t retreat with dignity while I’m being Gavin Blake Me, the stupid plonker who’s finally fucked up this scene, so—
“What you all fail to understand,” drawls Gavin Blake Superstud as Carta’s hand and mine slip apart, “is that I’ve got a great life and the last thing I want is to be ‘liberated’ from it! I make loadsa money. I’ve got a nice home, a fantastic car, sharp clothes in the closet—shit, I’ve even got a valet who cooks for me and does my chores! I’m proud of what I do, I tell you! I’ve got everything I could possibly want!”
In the crippling silence which follows, someone stands up. It’s Mr. Exocet-Missile. I might have known that in the end he’d be the one to blast me to pieces. Of course he hates me, despises me, thinks I’m the lowest of the low.
He walks across the room and plants himself on a spot twelve inches from my shoes. Then he stoops over, puts his hand gently on my shoulder and says in such a kind voice that my head swims: “But Gavin, where’s your freedom to be yourself?”
I’m slaughtered.
I do a runner, bolting from the room and blundering up the steps towards the churchyard, but before I can reach the top Carta calls my name.
I stop. I wouldn’t have stopped for anyone else, but I stop for her and she joins me. She’s breathing quickly but otherwise she’s cool. She offers me her business card for the first time, and as I take it I see her mobile phone number’s printed below the number of her office. I look at the numbers dumbly but I know this is all to do with the way we clasped hands after I mentioned Richard, all to do with me talking about my mum, all to do with truth and me being me and getting treated as a real person instead of a load of shit.
Carta’s saying: “You ought to have all my numbers so that we can keep in touch about the donation in the pipeline.”
I’m confused. All the numbers? There are only two: the office and the mobile. Then I turn over the card and see the handwritten number she’s scrawled on the back. “Home” she’s written after it. So I’ve scored—but not in any way that’s remotely familiar. I’ve won a gesture of trust and I mustn’t abuse it. That means any call I make has to be strictly business, but since I’ve decided not to go through with my plan to soak Colin there won’t be any business to call about. Unless . . .
“Keep me posted,” says Carta with an edgy little smile, but she hides her nervousness by adding warmly: “Thanks for coming—you were a big help to me.”
“I was?”
“Yes, I needed you to confirm your clients were tough guys who made their own decisions . . . And of course we all loved the story about your mother. It was like one of those parables, I forget which one, I’m not very good on the Bible yet, but it was definitely theological.” Turning away she says over her shoulder: “Thanks again for making the effort to come here. We all really appreciated it.”
She click-clacks back down the steps and I stagger on up into the churchyard.
Then I hit Egg Street and start running to the car park near Austin Friars.
Falling into the car I jam a CD into the slot and Verdi’s music begins to pour out, big, brash, lush and plush, a lavish wall of sound. I turn up the volume until it’s head-splitting, chopping up all unwanted thoughts about the kind of life I lead and flattening the memory of how I so totally lost the plot at the end of my gala performance for the rehab crew. But the memory doesn’t stay flat. It springs up again. Why did I make such a bloody pathetic balls-up? Because I was brain-damaged after being clobbered by that job offer, that’s why. I still can’t believe the offer was made. The Rector of St. Benet’s offered me a job! Maybe I should have accepted. Would I have worked alongside Carta? God! No, wake up, you dork, and stop fantasising. If I chose to work openly for St. Benet’s I’d have a death wish.
I tell myself I wish I’d never gone to the meeting but that’s a lie. It was good to be thanked and praised and offered a job. And something happened between me and Carta, though I’m still not sure what it was. We held hands but it had nothing to do with sex. Weird. Almost pervy. Shit, my head’s totally done in, that bunch have punched my lights out and it’s a wonder I can even remember what happened . . .
But I’m remembering. I’m remembering Nicholas. Can’t call him Mr. Charisma any more as if he were a client who could be nicknamed and treated as meat. This is Mr. Darrow who offered me a job, and when we met at Richard’s funeral he said I could call him Nicholas or Nick. Carta calls him Nicholas so I shall too.
I go on remembering. I remember that throughout the interview no one used the P-word to describe
my profession. That was a mark of respect, wasn’t it? And they didn’t sneer when they said “leisure-worker” either.
Elizabeth says there’s never any need to mention the P-word because it’s only used by narrow-minded people who can’t accept that leisure-workers perform such a useful social service. The word “sex-worker” is misleading too, conjuring up images of drugged-up trash in massage parlours. It’s just not good enough for the kind of top-quality service I provide.
Elizabeth’s a great one for using alternative vocabulary. It’s not just the P-word which is taboo. “Evil,” “decadent” and “degrading” become “naughty,” “pervy” and “avant-garde.” Perversions are called “specialities” and given bright little names like “water sports.” She does use the conventional four-letter words but only when conducting business. Once she’s in a domestic setting the euphemisms rule supreme.
“I like to leave professional language at the office door,” she said to me once, although thank God she’s never attempted to impose this preference on me. I need to use four-letter words to relieve the tension of my daily life, and I’d burst a blood vessel if I always had to talk like a Victorian maiden—or like a classic shady lady hooked on a dream of naff respectability.
“Professional language!” In the office, where sex is treated as a commodity, Elizabeth says “fucking” as easily as some people say “marketing” or “sales.” The one four-letter word she never utters is “love.” “You do love me, don’t you?” I said to her recently and she answered at once: “Of course I do, pet,” but the word “love” never passed her lips, and sometimes I think that if she really loved me she wouldn’t want me to work in the leisure industry. But on the other hand, it’s all I’m good for and she did spot my talent for it, so . . .
So I mustn’t be too demanding. Instead of nagging her about love I should try remembering that she’s the one who “liberated” and “empowered” me, converting a dead-eyed wreck into a mega-success.
The Heartbreaker Page 27