The Heartbreaker

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The Heartbreaker Page 31

by Susan Howatch


  Nicholas, on the other hand, seemed wholly relaxed about the inevitable grandeur to come, but his roots were rather different from mine; he actually owned a small country house, his mother’s family home, which had been let for years to an Anglican religious order. Alice said he wanted to retire there eventually, but I couldn’t quite imagine Nicholas being content to loaf around in the country being uncharismatic.

  We drove on. It was a cool November day with strong gusts of wind and big fleecy clouds which moved at a brisk pace across the sky. Once we left the motorway the Wiltshire countryside was all smooth green hills dotted with sheep and garnished with the occasional clump of trees. It was an ancient landscape. Megalithic stones standing in a nearby field contrasted oddly with the warning notice of the Ministry of Defence that the area beyond the fence was an army shooting range.

  “It’s good to get out of London,” Nicholas commented as we approached our journey’s end. “Despite Lewis’s misgivings I think this trip’s going to be a success.”

  “Is that a psychic prediction?”

  “Let’s hope so!”

  As we laughed we reached a village where the cottages were built of stone and roofed with dark thatch. There was no village green but a stream ran alongside the main street, and beyond the church a signpost marked THE HALL pointed across the bridge into the woods.

  A minute later we saw the house. The car swerved as Nicholas’s hands slipped on the wheel and I gave a gasp of astonishment.

  An enormous Gothic pile, towered, turreted and teased into fantastical shapes, was glowering at us beyond the gates by the lodge. There was even a gatekeeper who sprang out and checked who we were before opening the gates with the flick of a remote control. As I glanced up the drive again I felt that the architectural corpse, mummified for twentieth-century living, looked both utterly surreal and deeply unpleasant. I had never seen anything like it except in horror films, the kind where the heroine runs screaming down the grand staircase only to trip over a severed head in the hall.

  “Roll out your ghost-busting skills, Nicholas!” I said, trying to make a joke of my uneasiness, and he smiled, but as soon as he had parked the car on the gravel sweep in front of the house his mood changed. He said abruptly: “I’m getting very bad vibes.”

  “Because of the architecture?”

  “Because of the symbolism. We both expected a pleasant country house and we’ve been handed a Gothic horror.”

  “Sorry, you’ve lost me. Are you implying—”

  “Something frightful’s going to hit us. Lewis got it right. We should never have come.”

  “But Nicholas, the situation hasn’t changed just because we now find Sir Colin lives in a Gothic mansion! What frightful thing could possibly happen?”

  The front door of the house opened and out walked Gavin.

  VII

  I said: “Oh my God.” I tried closing my eyes and opening them again but Gavin was still there. “Nicholas,” I said weakly, “Nicholas—”

  “Yes. Disaster.”

  “What on earth do we do?”

  “Be normal. Betray nothing.”

  We crawled out of the car just as Gavin surged up to us. He was wearing a mixture of smart casualwear, plenty of blue and palest grey with a subtle dash of creamy white, and looked like a film star taking time out on the set of his latest multi-million-dollar movie. I tried to think of him as my younger brother. Nothing happened.

  “Hi!” he said, smiling radiantly. “Surprise!”

  “Surprise!” I echoed, smiling radiantly back as the chaotic knot began to re-form in my head.

  “Welcome to the modern version of Hellfire Hall! Did you ever see such a perfect location for a horror film?”

  “Can’t wait for the buckets of blood. When did you get down here?”

  “Last night . . . Hi, Nicholas!”

  Nicholas casually gave him a hand to shake before saying: “I thought you didn’t do escort work?”

  “Bloody right I don’t but—hold it, here’s Colin. I’ll have to brief you later . . .”

  A middle-aged man, well over six feet tall and built like an American refrigerator, was now watching us from the vast doorway of his home. His baldness was alleviated by a few strands of greying hair. His plain face was scored by a set of harsh lines which suggested belligerence, cunning and a vile temper when crossed. I immediately took a deep dislike to him.

  “Mr. Darrow,” he said, rudely looking Nicholas up and down, but if he had thought Nicholas was a limp-wristed pushover, he was now disillusioned.

  “Sir Colin? How do you do,” Nicholas said effortlessly, quite unintimidated. “May I introduce my colleague, Carta Graham?”

  A fleshy paw was shoved at me. I slipped my hand into it and had my bones crunched.

  “Come in,” said Sir Colin, still not bothering to waste energy on a smile, and as soon as he turned to lead the way across the threshold Gavin gave me a sultry look as he allowed his arm to brush against mine. To my horror I realised he was not only deep in denial again but still fixated on playing the stud. That mystical clasp of the hands might never have happened, and as the weekend’s gruesome potential for disaster flashed before my eyes I had to fight the urge to slug him in what he coyly referred to as his “equipment.”

  Or at least that was what I told myself as the physical contact seared my arm like a burn.

  “As it was Gavin who aroused my interest in your cause,” Sir Colin was saying to Nicholas, “I thought it would be appropriate if he joined us this weekend. I understand he met you at the funeral of Richard Slaney.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Sir Colin said no more on that subject but suggested that Nicholas should give his car keys to a hovering flunkey (footman?) who had been told to retrieve the luggage. A much grander person (definitely the butler) was lurking in the triple-height hall to show us to our rooms.

  Up the grand staircase we toiled and down a picture-studded gallery we trailed. Acres of soft rich carpet ensured our footfalls were noiseless, and yards of dark oak-panelled walls enhanced the atmosphere of somnolent gloom. Eventually the butler stopped and opened a door. “This is your room, sir. The lady’s room is at the end of the passage.”

  Nicholas thanked him and added to me: “I’ll call for you in ten minutes.”

  The butler moved on. Following him to the end of the corridor I found myself in a large round room set in one of the many turrets. Beyond the four-poster bed there were views across a striking garden, beautiful even in November, to the woods which surrounded the village.

  My suitcase arrived within moments of the butler’s departure, and Nicholas soon followed.

  “Time for an emergency conference,” he said as I let him in. “Can we or can’t we believe that the discreet Sir Colin Broune’s deliberately flaunting his male prostitute?”

  “We can’t. He’s either gone fruity-loops or—”

  “—or he has no idea we know Gavin’s a prostitute.”

  “Sane but ignorant?”

  “That’s the most likely explanation, but it needn’t be the right one. Okay, while we’re waiting for Gavin’s briefing, let’s just do a reality check to try to get our heads round this mess. We know for a fact that Gavin tipped off Sir Colin about St. Benet’s, and we know for a fact that Sir Colin’s Gavin’s client, but that’s about all we do know. We’ve been assuming Sir Colin’s more than capable of making his own independent decision about whether to support us, but if he’s infatuated with Gavin— infatuated enough to invite him to be present this weekend—that may not be the case at all.”

  “You’re saying the prostitution could be crucial here.”

  “Well, what do you think? What are the odds that Sir Colin’s said to Gavin: ‘I’ll give to your cause but I want you for a weekend in the country’? Gavin doesn’t do escort work and doesn’t work on weekends, so it’s a safe bet he’s here to provide the sweetener that’ll open the chequebook. That means that if we accept the resulting donati
on—”

  “—we’d be not only accepting the fruits of prostitution but condoning Gavin’s lifestyle—”

  “—and that’s something which we can’t and mustn’t do. It was different with the other three donors, when we took the money in good faith, but this time we’re hopelessly compromised.”

  “Nicholas, I agree with every word you’ve said, but how on earth do we get out of this disaster?”

  We had been standing by the window during this fraught conversation but now, as if to reflect the fact that we were mentally shifting gears, we both sat down on the wide window seat and racked our brains for inspiration.

  “I could make a secret call to Lewis,” I said at last, “and get him to phone you here with news of an emergency which requires your immediate return.”

  “No, I can’t lie my way out of a tight corner. We’ve somehow got to survive the weekend here without nailing the donation.”

  Another twinge of inspiration flared. “Hang on,” I said, “you’re making the assumption that the donation’s now inevitable, but that still needn’t be true. Supposing Sir Colin actually has no intention of giving to St. Benet’s. Supposing he’s just been stringing Gavin along in order to get him to do the escort work he never normally undertakes. If Sir Colin has no intention of giving, we’re off the hook.”

  “No, we’re not. I’m still left condoning a wrong relationship which is being played out under my nose.”

  “But don’t you see? If you’re not profiting from the situation, the weekend becomes viable! Where’s the Church law that forbids Christians to follow Jesus’s example of mingling with prostitutes and other lowlife?”

  Nicholas mulled this over. “Okay, but I still ought to be upfront with Sir Colin. I have to say right from the start that I can’t take his money.”

  “But he may not offer us any! Look, Nicholas. If you go downstairs now and say to Sir Colin: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t take your money because of its association with your prostitute,’ I think that would be pretty damn crude and unkind. We’d do much better to wait until he actually offers the money because (a) it may never happen, and (b) at least the truth would then be a required response and not just an unsolicited verbal mugging.”

  Nicholas was silent, thinking.

  I pushed on. “It’s unlikely anyway that Sir Colin will make a decision about the donation this weekend,” I said. “Remember that we’ve been invited here only to allow him to explore the option. Of course if he admits the prostitution you’ll have to make your position clear, but I’m certain that’ll never happen—he won’t even admit the homosexual relationship! Gavin will have a cover story to explain how they know each other.”

  “But what do I do when Sir Colin asks about the Appeal?”

  “Tell him about it. Why not? Downplay the financial angle, of course, but talk up the ministry of healing and all the good work done at the Healing Centre.”

  Nicholas made up his mind. “Fair enough,” he said, “we’ll tough it out, but Carta, can I now give you some advice about how to survive this weekend? One: do your best to have no time alone with Gavin, who’s clearly back in denial and panting for a sexathon. Two: if a tête-à-tête proves unavoidable, make sure you’re nowhere near a bedroom. And three: lock your door tonight and wedge it shut. The keys on this floor could be interchangeable.”

  “Message received and understood!”

  “Sorry to play the Victorian paterfamilias—”

  “Relax! You’re well within your rights as my boss to give me advice on how to avoid wrecking myself, and I promise not to behave like an airhead.”

  Brave words. But what was the reality beneath the tough talk? I tried to think of Lewis’s image of the high wire, but the conversation seemed remote and I was unable to connect with it on an emotional level.

  With growing uneasiness I followed Nicholas downstairs.

  VIII

  The butler, on the look-out for us in the hall, led the way into a reception room where a fire flickered beneath a marble chimneypiece. Sir Colin was just asking what we wanted to drink when he received word that a call he had been expecting had come through; excusing himself, he left the room, and the butler followed him after distributing some champagne.

  “Thank God!” exclaimed Gavin as soon as the three of us were alone together. “Now I can talk! Listen, I sell gym equipment to health clubs— remember, Carta? That was my line at Richard’s funeral and that’s the line I told Colin I’d take this weekend. Colin doesn’t know you know I’m a leisure-worker. He’s going to present me as his second cousin’s son who’s interested in a new sales career in one of the divisions of RCPP. He thinks I met you both—both, Carta—for the first time at Richard’s funeral, and he thinks you believe the flat in Austin Friars is my home.”

  Confronted by so many lies stacked up like a house of cards it was hard to know what to say which wasn’t judgemental, but I tried quoting: “ ‘O, what a tangled web we weave!’ ” and made sure my smile was chilly.

  However, Nicholas was not prepared to accept this multiple deception with any kind of smile, and despite all the talk of affirming Gavin he now had no hesitation in being critical.

  “I dislike lies, Gavin,” he said strongly, “and I’ll go along with these only because I’ve no wish to be unkind to our host by exposing the deception. And while we’re on the subject of deception, why didn’t you tell Carta you’d be here? You did us no favours by failing to let us know.”

  Gavin took a gulp of champagne and tried to be truculent. “What does it matter to you,” he said, “whether I’m here or not?”

  “Think about it. You’re an intelligent man. Just think.”

  I saw how Gavin was affirmed by the word “intelligent” even as his behaviour was condemned, but before I could find the words which would place me in the same frame, Gavin said rapidly: “Okay, I’m sorry, but I thought that if I told you I was coming you’d cancel and that might affect the donation.”

  At once Nicholas said: “Why exactly are you here? Your manager never normally insists on weekend escort work, does she?”

  “Colin’s paying a lot of money.”

  “No doubt, but since I’m sure he’s not the first millionaire who’s been prepared to shell out for weekend escort duty, I still want to know why he’s the one who gets what he wants. Come on, Gavin! After landing us in all these lies, don’t you think you owe us a slice of truth?”

  Gavin hesitated but only for a second. “A friend of my manager’s wants Colin to join a private club which needs a financial boost. So when Colin invites me here Elizabeth says he has to be humoured.”

  “What’s this club called?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Who’s your manager’s friend?”

  “Some suit or other. Hey, don’t mention this to Colin whatever you do! He may not know about the club yet and if he finds out ahead of time Elizabeth’ll know I’ve grassed and then I’ll be in deep shit.”

  Nicholas suddenly gave him a warm smile. “You remind me of a character in a John le Carré novel,” he said. “One of those spies who gets himself tied up in such a knot that he can’t work out how to come in from the cold.”

  I saw Gavin smile back, basking in the sympathy Nicholas was projecting, but all he said was: “My dad liked John le Carré’s books.”

  At that point Sir Colin returned to the room and we were obliged to sink into half an hour’s small-talk before lunch, but my thoughts were skimming round and round in my brain like racing greyhounds. I was thinking: so Elizabeth’s using Gavin to hook for a private club. And Kim was lured into a secret, pseudo-religious society by Mrs. Mayfield, although that particular group wasn’t just for gays. If I could somehow prove the organisations were one and the same . . . but how could I, when I had never known the name of Kim’s corrupt society which had peddled a perverted form of Gnosticism?

  Pushing aside my obsession with the past, I willed myself to focus on the present.

  IX

&nbs
p; I thought Sir Colin might ask Nicholas questions about St. Benet’s during lunch, but he merely talked at mind-numbing length about the recession, the ERM disaster and the impact on the City of the latest bombing strikes by the IRA. By the time lunch ended I was exhausted by the effort of being a good listener, and glancing at Gavin, who had long since sunk into a bored silence, I saw he was obviously wishing he was back in London.

  “Now!” said Sir Colin as we drank our coffee in yet another vast reception room. “I thought I’d give you a tour of the estate in my new four-wheel-drive Mercedes—a marvellous car, drives straight up a cliff without pausing for breath and I shouldn’t be surprised if it swims too, although I confess I’ve never used it to ford a river. We’ll be back in time for tea, of course—can’t miss tea, can we?—and then I’m sure you’d like time to relax in your rooms before dinner. I’ve invited a few people to join us tonight, not many, can’t bear big dinner parties so there’ll only be nine of us altogether. The local parson’s coming, plus one of the local doctors—oh, and their wives, of course. Didn’t want Carta to be all alone when we gentlemen get to the port! There’s also another person who’ll be joining us, but he’s not a local man. The fact is, Nicholas, I want the doctor and the parson to hear you talk of your ministry so that they can give me their professional opinions afterwards. Hope you’ve no objection.”

  “None at all,” responded Nicholas courteously as my heart sank at the prospect of trial by jury.

  “Colin,” drawled Gavin, rousing himself from his stupor of boredom, “did you just imply the ladies wouldn’t be drinking port with us? For God’s sake, which end of the century are you living in?”

  “It’s all right, Gavin,” I said quickly. “This is Colin’s house and he’s entitled to make the rules.”

  “Gavin,” said Sir Colin, “you’re behaving like some immature rebel student. Stop it.”

  “Sure—on condition I skip the port-drinking tonight and keep the ladies company, like a eunuch in the Ottoman Empire!”

  I immediately laughed in the hope of easing the tension. “You’d make a rotten eunuch, Gavin!” I said lightly, but my heart sank when he gave me his hottest smile.

 

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