The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  “But we can’t go around offending potential donors by refusing their invitations!” I cried. “We just can’t!”

  “Hold it,” said Nicholas soothingly. “Let’s get this quite straight. I don’t think that accepting the invitation does involve me in Sir Colin’s private life except in a purely formal sense, and I certainly don’t believe it would involve me in that private life’s seamy side. A lot of tycoons do business by entertaining people at their country houses, and the private life on display there is inevitably acceptable because anything else might wreck the business under discussion.”

  “Everything I’ve heard about Sir Colin supports this,” I added before Lewis could speak. “The word is that he lived for many years with a man who recently died, but Sir Colin has the reputation of being very discreet about his private life. He’ll never even mention Gavin to us, I’m sure of that.”

  “So he’s recently been bereaved?” said Nicholas interested. “Maybe what we’re seeing here is an unhappy man, very lonely, missing his partner and looking for love in entirely the wrong place. From a pastoral point of view—”

  Lewis made another strong intervention. “Nicholas you mustn’t get pastorally involved with this man—or if you do, you can’t take his money. Get back on course and face the fact that this donor is one of Gavin’s clients and that you’re up to your neck in a situation riddled with moral ambiguity!”

  “Can I just make a practical point?” I said, trying to extricate us from the metaphysical mire by beaming in on the big issue. “As Gavin’s not going to be present when we meet Sir Colin, does it really matter whether the meeting takes place in the country or the City? Surely all that matters is that Gavin’s not there.”

  “I agree,” said Nicholas abruptly. “We should accept the invitation to Wiltshire and we should explore what’s on offer—and we can go forward secure in the knowledge that Gavin will be both absent and unmentioned.”

  The conversation closed.

  II

  I had been relieved to hear from Gavin because it had worried me when he had stayed out of touch even though I had given him all my phone numbers. What an irony that I should now be keen to hear from him! But something had happened to our relationship during that fraught meeting at the Healing Centre. It was as if, for a few disorientating seconds, someone had switched off the sexual current which flared between us so that we saw each other in a radically altered light. When he had reached out trustingly during that pathetic final monologue I had clasped his hand without a second thought and known myself to be linked with him in some way impossible to describe. But I had said nothing about my feelings afterwards. I was embarrassed because they seemed to fall so far short of the professional detachment achieved by my colleagues, who were ruthless in their analysis of him after he had fled.

  “A nasty piece of work,” said Val as we held the post-mortem on the meeting. “Very manipulative, a skilled liar and totally untrustworthy. Of course he got under our skin when he reworked the parable of the talents, but how do we know a single word of that story about his mother was true?”

  “I hate to say this,” remarked Robin to Nicholas, “but Val’s right to be sceptical. That’s a very disturbed young man, and I don’t think he can be reached simply by offering him a part-time job—or indeed by any conventional method of befriending. He needs psychiatric help.”

  Neutrally Nicholas said: “A hysteric personality, do you think? Someone with a borderline personality disorder?”

  “Not necessarily. I was wondering if he’d ever had an untreated breakdown or endured some serious trauma.”

  “The death of the brother?”

  “I was thinking more of rape or some other form of assault. The shock can result in manifestations of inappropriate behaviour coupled with dissociation and denial . . . What was your own opinion, Nick?”

  “Well, obviously he’s a manipulative liar but then his lifestyle hardly encourages him to be anything else. And obviously he’s profoundly disturbed, but then one would hardly expect him to be otherwise. But I believed the story about his mother.”

  “Why?” I said, believing it too but needing to have a solid reason for doing so.

  “He was astonished by the effect that the story had on us. I concede he probably came across the parable of the talents during his education, but I don’t think he was consciously adapting it.”

  “So is the parable a sign?” I said rapidly. “Does it mean the situation’s from God and not from . . . well, not from something that’s not God?”

  Nicholas smiled at me and said: “Possibly. But we must still be cautious.”

  There was a pause while we all came to realise that one of us had so far said nothing.

  “Lewis?” said Nicholas at last.

  “Oh, the situation’s quite obviously from God,” said Lewis gloomily, “and we must do our very best for Gavin no matter what the cost to ourselves.”

  III

  As we all boggled at him, Lewis laughed and added: “I’m still not saying we should take unacceptable risks. I’m just saying that we shouldn’t spare ourselves in doing what we can to help this boy—and he’s a lost boy if ever there was one. Forget personality disorders, post-traumatic shock and all that modern guff! He’s lost, that’s all that needs to be said, and what he needs is the chance to come home—to come home, as the mystics would say, to his true self. And yes, of course the story about his mother was true, and yes, of course it was extraordinary that in his grossly disabled spiritual state he should borrow a narrative framework from Our Lord Jesus Christ, and yes, of course it was a sign from God that we’re to do our best to release the boy from his prison! Although having said all that, I’d like to add that for me the most extraordinary part of the entire extraordinary interview wasn’t the story about his mother. It was the moment when he held out his hand to Carta.”

  “Surely that was just a sex play to win her sympathy?” said Val unimpressed.

  I opened my mouth and shut it again. At that point I was so worried that my sexual attraction to Gavin was clouding my judgement that I decided any comment could only be a mistake.

  “I think the handclasp was an instinctive gesture made when he realised he was skirting a psychological abyss,” Robin was saying, “and we probably shouldn’t read too much into it. Gavin’s denial was crumbling and he got frightened—which reminds me, Lewis, I did think you went too far at the end. Gavin had resurrected his defences to protect himself, and you shouldn’t have tried to tear them down again.”

  “Nonsense!” said Lewis robustly. “I was throwing him a lifeline, expressing care and concern!”

  I was unable to stop myself asking: “But will he be all right?”

  “I don’t think you need worry, Carta,” said Robin, adopting his most soothing professional manner. “The odds are that Gavin managed to slip back into denial after he left the Healing Centre, and this’ll protect him from the truths he can’t face—and shouldn’t face without psychiatric help.”

  Lewis made no comment on this but said to Nicholas: “I’ll put Gavin on the prayer list straight away. I’ve been praying for him myself, but I haven’t yet put his name before the group.”

  “So what happens next?” I said confused. “What should my next move be?”

  “You wait,” said Nicholas promptly. “You’ve given him your numbers. He’ll be in touch.”

  Robin agreed. “He won’t be able to resist another trip into the world of Richard Slaney,” he said, “particularly now he knows he’ll be treated with respect here.”

  “Poor bastard!” said Val impulsively. “I didn’t mean to be too hard on him, but he’s such a walking disaster—look how he keeps stirring us up!”

  Nobody argued with her.

  Nicholas urged us all to pray for Gavin, and the post-mortem on the interview finally closed.

  IV

  There had been another notable conclusion which had emerged from the post-mortem: we were now all certain that the donat
ion in the pipeline should be accepted.

  “Here’s someone with a very fragile personality,” had been the comment from Robin, “someone who needs every possible affirmation and support. We can’t refuse the donation now.”

  “Much as I disliked Gavin,” Val had said, “I think we have to give him whatever support we can,” and Lewis had added: “Accepting this future donation is certainly risky but I feel we have to do it.”

  After marvelling that we were now of one mind on this subject despite the variety of opinions about Gavin himself, I decided to linger at the Rectory after the post-mortem in order to have a private word with Lewis. I wanted to talk to him about the handclasp. I also knew it was time to admit I needed help with the chaotic knot which Gavin constantly created and re-created in my head.

  “You seem to be advancing in your quest to see Gavin as a multidimensional person instead of a two-dimensional stereotype,” commented Lewis after I had uttered the magic words “I can’t cope” and spewed out the muddle I was in. “Your ability to see him as vulnerable when you met in Austin Friars this morning was definitely a big step forward, particularly since that took place before the meeting which exposed his vulnerability.”

  “But the problem is I can’t seem to shake off my vulnerability! I keep thinking I’ll toughen up but I don’t.”

  “Maybe you’re trying to toughen up in the wrong way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before I try to answer that, let’s just do a survey of the invisible landscape here so that we can work out what’s going on between the two of you on the psychical and spiritual level. I think Nicholas’s original idea has been proved right and that you and Gavin are currently travelling together on a journey. We can’t tell yet what this is ultimately going to mean for you, but if things go right the journey should lead to healing, redemption and renewal.”

  “And if it goes wrong?”

  “Then we’re talking of damage, disintegration, even destruction . . . But better not dwell on that. Be like a tightrope walker and don’t look down.”

  “So what did the handclasp mean in this context?”

  “It meant you’re both up there on the high wire, each with the potential to save the other from the long drop. Gavin wobbled, reached out to you—and you were there, no question about it, no hesitation.”

  “But what about my relationship with Eric?” I burst out. “Gavin’s creating havoc in my personal life!”

  “Maybe the relationship with Eric needed a shake-up.”

  “But—”

  “I suspect the relationship with Gavin and the relationship with Eric aren’t mutually exclusive. It just seems as if they are because Eric’s been behaving foolishly and you’ve been unsettled by Gavin’s sex appeal.”

  “Unsettled?”

  “All right, how about sandbagged? Carta, the challenge—and this is where we get to the problem of how you toughen yourself up—the challenge is to think of Gavin in a radically different way. Think of him as an abused child who wants desperately to be loved. If you have sex with him you merely join the list of his abusers and wind up abused in your turn when he discards you, so try thinking of yourself as his older sister, fed up with his outrageous behaviour but knowing you’ve got to be there for him. The fact is that what Gavin requires of you up there on the high wire is neither sex nor romance nor even a sentimental affection, but a clear-eyed, no-nonsense sisterly love that he can trust.”

  “And Eric?”

  “Oh, Eric requires everything but a sisterly love! You see? The two relationships aren’t designed to impinge on each other. Now listen carefully, Carta. I know you’ve taken in what I’ve just said. But I also know that within minutes of leaving this room, you’re going to look back on my advice and think: dear old Lewis, how kind he was, but of course his older-sister line had no relation to reality, he’s forgotten what it’s like to be in the grip of a powerful sexual attraction—”

  “Lewis, I’d never think—”

  “Yes, you would, but listen. The notion that strong sexual attraction can’t possibly be withstood is one of the most fashionable fairy tales of our present culture. The reality is we can say no as well as yes—God gives us free will, not biological slavery.”

  “Well sure, I do realise—”

  “Now we’ve reached the heart of what I want to say about toughening up. I’m not suggesting you should repress your feelings. I’m suggesting you should sublimate them. That’s crucially different. If you repress them by pretending they’re not there, they won’t go away—they’ll merely control you unconsciously before breaking out later just as violently, if not more violently, than before. And I suspect this is where you’ve been going wrong in trying to toughen up. You’ve been opting for repression instead of sublimation.”

  “Okay,” I said cautiously. “Okay . . . But what does sublimation involve?”

  “You don’t try and blot the feelings out. You face them and you use the energy they generate in a productive and meaningful way. Sublimation, unlike repression, means you’re the one in charge.”

  “Examples?”

  “Well, suppose you really were an acrobat up there on the high wire with Gavin. You notice he’s looking supremely attractive and the next moment you’re so overcome that all your energy has to be spent on keeping your balance. You try not to look at him, but the more you try the worse you wobble and finally you fall.”

  “Repression.”

  “Exactly. But now listen to this. Once again you’re up there on the high wire with Gavin. Once again you notice that he’s looking supremely attractive, but because you know he’s very sick you’re also aware he’s in great danger. Suddenly he starts to wobble and at once all your energy is channelled into saving him. Part of that energy would automatically be used to make sure you kept your own balance, but you wouldn’t be thinking of yourself. You’d shut right down on the self-centredness in order to keep him alive, and the sexual attraction at that moment would be irrelevant, set aside as non-essential for survival.”

  There was a silence as I recognised this sublimation script, but finally I puffed out my cheeks as if I’d just climbed a steep flight of stairs and said: “That reminds me of the moment when Gavin and I clasped hands. All I could think of was helping him get through that meeting without breaking down—I didn’t think of myself, only of him, and sex definitely wasn’t on the agenda at all.”

  “I rest my case . . . And now a final word about Eric. Maybe that brother of his could help him be wiser here. Eric always listens to Gilbert, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but Gil’s been so busy with his AIDS ministry that they haven’t met for ages.”

  After a pause Lewis said: “Gilbert should take care he doesn’t suffer burn-out.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s all right,” I said automatically. “He’s not the kind of clergyman who breaks down.” And I began to worry again about Eric in Norway . . .

  V

  After talking to Lewis I did feel better, and although I still found it hard to visualise how I could keep pushing the right sublimation button, I knew he had given me a useful idea to explore. I was not in the least bothered by the fact that he had broken so many of the rules of modern spiritual direction, the rules which required today’s spiritual director to be more of a non-directing “soul-friend” than an authoritarian adviser. The last thing I ever seemed to want was a non-directive “soul-friend” shyly fostering insights. I always wanted a clerical buccaneer who would take charge and tell me what to do, and although I did realise that Lewis was able enough to adopt other styles with other people, I found this thought unsettled me. It made me wonder if his decision to serve up the style I preferred was because he felt I was too spiritually stupid to respond to a more sophisticated approach, and this suspicion made me feel more spiritually stupid than ever.

  My conversation with Lewis concluded the important discussions resulting from Gavin’s visit to the Healing Centre. There followed an interval of s
everal days during which Gavin remained out of sight, but eventually he phoned to identify my new hot prospect, Sir Colin Broune, as his client, and the coming weekend in Wiltshire took on an entirely different dimension.

  I did wonder whether to call Eric to keep him abreast of the news.

  But in the end, unable to face another row, I did nothing.

  VI

  My ploughed-up private life explains why I was not only willing and able to work through the weekend but was actually looking forward to the visit to Sir Colin’s country house near Devizes. Despite Gavin’s participation, I knew it would be a mistake to regard the donation as in the bag and I was stimulated by the challenge Sir Colin represented. I had already worked out that it was Nicholas who would have to take the fundraising lead; after further research I had pegged Sir Colin as a man who was not just indifferent to women but averse to them, and who would always prefer to do business with his own sex. His big interest outside his work was music, but neither Nicholas nor I were experts in this field.

  “The topic that we all have in common is the City,” Nicholas had said when we brainstormed our approach to this big fish. “You can talk money and business to him and I can talk the livery companies, the Lord Mayor and the Corporation hierarchy. Is he interested in cars? I wouldn’t mind chatting about his latest Rolls.”

  Although Nicholas had a private income and could well have afforded a smart car he always chose to avoid extravagance and demanded no more of a car than that it should get him from A to B without a fuss. On the journey down to Wiltshire that Saturday he drove his white Peugeot which contained no tape deck, no phone and, most amazing of all, no radio. This should have made the journey restful, but I could have used some soothing music. I had never before spent a weekend in a grand country house, and my working-class Glaswegian roots were twitching.