“But of course!” exclaims Asherton pityingly. “Let’s face it, my friend! Certain groups in the human race are little better than animals, and the idea that each individual is someone special is merely sentimental clap-trap put out by soft-hearted idealists!”
Nicholas doesn’t bother to reply. He just looks up the table to his host, but Colin’s already leaning forward to complete the demolition job.
“And I’m sure all of us around this table,” he says flatly, “will recognise that last sentence as the philosophy which led the Germans to Auschwitz. Thank you, gentlemen. As we hardly need to vote on who won that debate, may I now invite the ladies to retire to the drawing-room?”
In a silence louder than a thunderclap, the three women slowly stand up and walk away.
Immediately Asherton excuses himself and leaves. I’m just thankful he’s not staying at the Hall, but Colin didn’t invite him, did he? I think he sussed Asherton right from the start and fingered Nicholas to fillet him. No flies on this captain of industry when he’s dealing with villains who pitch assaults on his wealth.
“I’m so glad we had the chance to talk,” he says poker-faced to Asherton as Old Toffee-Nose the butler prepares to spirit the guest away.
Asherton oozes gratitude for the hospitality, purrs goodbye to one and all, and glides off without looking back. I’m still worrying about the fact that I’ve witnessed his humiliation when Colin says: “Nicholas, can I now ask you to speak for five minutes about your ministry?”
How ruthless can you get? Not content with delegating the job of cobra-gutting to Nicholas, Colin expects the poor bloke to do a fundraising number—and without any help from his fundraiser, now shut away in the drawing-room like a second-class citizen! Not surprisingly Nicholas’s spiel’s more than a little ragged, and he barely mentions either the Appeal or his plans for the future. Talk about underplaying a hand! I wonder if I should do another pitch to Colin later tonight, but I decide it’s probably best to leave the subject of the Appeal well alone.
That’s because my relationship with Colin isn’t exactly all sweetness and light at the moment. The trouble is I’ve been so bored with the escort work that I’ve been what he calls “impertinent.” He even said I was asking to be “disciplined.” Shit, that’s all I need—a hulking great client lumbering out of the S&M closet! I’ll have to remind him my menu doesn’t include him beating me up—and let’s hope there are no handcuffs in his objets d’art collection.
I now find I have to have a big hit of port in order to face the fun and games in the bedroom. Of course I want to think about what Nicholas said—about the words which seemed to drill holes in my head so that the truth could roar straight into my mind like a white-hot lava flow—but I don’t dare. That’s because if I start rerunning the debate I may not be able to get through the rest of the evening. I might vomit when Colin starts slobbering over me. I might seize up in the wrong place if he wants to practise his buggery-for-beginners lesson. I might do a runner, get sacked like Jason and Tony, never see Elizabeth again . . .
So I mustn’t think of Nicholas.
I have to split that scene off now, cut it loose, stay totally focused on my job in order to survive . . .
As soon as we’re alone in his room Colin demands: “Does Darrow know the truth about how you earn your living?”
I’ve been in such a sweat about the sex that I failed to anticipate this question, but I see now that for Colin this is the big issue. A gay relationship can be discreetly indulged, he thinks, provided nothing’s done to scare the servants, but no one under any circumstances must know he pays. People would pity him. All that money and no one’ll do him for free! Sad, they’d think, sad. I can almost smell Colin’s blood curdling as he recoils from such a humiliating vision.
I say firmly: “Colin, I always practise total discretion. No one here knows about the money.”
He believes me. Or does he? “I know the subject of prostitution did come up naturally,” he says, “but nevertheless I was wondering . . . well, what do you think of Darrow? He’s attractive, isn’t he?” And he stares, challenging me to deny I’m nuts about Nicholas.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Colin!” I exclaim. “That man’s so straight he’d make the Leaning Tower of Pisa look horizontal!”
“You might still find him attractive!”
“Why would I waste my time?”
Colin says with a roughness which makes me freeze: “Can’t you see that I was asking myself why you supported St. Benet’s and the obvious answer was that you were in love with someone there?”
I keep my nerve. “I support St. Benet’s because I admire their approach to illness. When my brother was dying I didn’t notice the medical profession making much effort to treat his mind and spirit as well as his body.”
Colin at once backs down. “My darling, I’m sorry, I’d forgotten Hugo,” he says, and his remorse seems genuine, but a second later he’s trying to ambush me again. “What were you and Asherton talking about on the way into dinner?”
This jolts me but instantly I groan: “Oh God, can’t you guess? He wanted my phone number!”
“I thought as much!” Colin takes a moment to curse Asherton before demanding: “What did you say?”
“I said: ‘Excuse me, sir, but that’s currently privileged information.’ And I thought: you creep, get lost!”
Colin laughs and grabs me. But before the inevitable slobbery smooch arrives he mumbles in a voice thick with emotion: “What about Darrow’s comment that prostitutes despise their clients? Is it true?”
I don’t just give him a quick “no.” Instead I say seriously: “Maybe a low-grade rent boy would despise his clients because the odds are his clients would be scum. But as an upmarket leisure-worker I respect my clients because I know they’re all successful men.”
“So you respect me?”
“Course I do! You’re big and strong and tough and I think you’re terrific!”
He believes me.
Silly old sod.
Pathetic.1
Luckily the sex doesn’t require all my professional skills, which is just as well since the port has left me several grunts short of a porno-symphony. Colin’s had far more to drink than I have and he’s far older, so all he’s capable of is some semi-conscious kissing and pretend-biting. He doesn’t require me to do anything but fake rapture. Then he’s out for the count. Removing the condoms I crawl out of bed and use his bathroom as I shower off the saliva.
Back in my own room at last, I find that the relief of being alone hits me with such a wallop that I have to lie down for five minutes to recover. Again I want to think, to review the debate, but my brain’s past it. I get to the en-suite bathroom to use my toothbrush and mouthwash and then take another shower, a longer one. I’m starting to feel sick, not as the result of the alcohol—I’m still outside the hangover zone—but as the result of all that slimy rich food. Just thinking of the food revolts me so much that I return to the bathroom to make myself throw up.
That’s better. I finally feel in control.
I knock back a glass of water and pass out.
I wake at six and at once my rested brain starts to work at the double. I review the debate. I think of Nicholas. Huge emotions stir in me and have to be slapped down. Can’t deny they’re there, but at the same time I have to ensure they don’t seize control and wreck me. What I must concentrate on is this: before breakfast I have the chance to see Nicholas without Colin lumbering around, and whatever happens I must grab this chance because there’s something I have to do.
Retrieving Richard’s cuff links which I wore last night I slot them carefully back into their little Tiffany box, but before I close the lid I gaze at them for a long moment. I’m thinking how I never appreciated Richard’s love when he was alive. I wrote it off as just a typical client infatuation, but I know better now. He might have started out by being infatuated with Gavin Blake Superstud, but in the end on that boat it was me he cared about, the
me Carta likes, the me Nicholas always addresses.
“Love is the great reality,” Nicholas said, telling the truth right up to the end, the truth which blew Asherton away. And now I can see that when I meet Nicholas this morning I have to stand in that truth, I have to be Gavin Blake Me, no one else. Then by some mysterious process which I still don’t understand, he’ll accept me as I am and I won’t be shit any more and I won’t be junk either. I’ll count, I’ll matter, I’ll be special.
When I’m dressed I slip the little box into my pocket and pad downstairs to wait in the room nearest the front door. The time’s twenty to eight.
Five minutes later I hear Nicholas and Carta come downstairs. They’re going to church. Last night they asked Mr. Local Parson the time of the early Communion service.
Having given my friends a head start I follow them to the village, sit in the churchyard and breathe loads of clean country air as I savour being alone. I figure that’s my way of being spiritual on a Sunday morning.
At eight-twenty-five the door of the church opens and people begin to trickle away. There are three old biddies, one old tosser and the St. Benet’s Two. Mr. Local Parson’s reluctant to let them go but at last he retreats into the church and it’s time for me to step out from the tomb-stones like an updated version of Magwitch in Great Expectations.
“Hi,” I say.
They’re both surprised but in no way hostile. Nicholas even smiles, and when I see that smile I know I won’t be able to deliver the speech I planned. In fact the huge emotions I’m experiencing again mean that I can’t say anything at all. I can only pull out the Tiffany box and offer it to him.
“This is for me?” says Nicholas startled.
I nod, watching the box as it passes into his hands.
He opens the lid. The silver links glitter. They’re so beautiful that my throat aches to look at them.
“Good God!” says Carta staggered. “Those are Richard’s, aren’t they? The ones Moira gave you after the funeral!”
I hear her but she’s in another dimension. All I can see is the silver, ravishing, radiant—and now redeemed.
“Don’t you want them any more?” says Carta baffled. “In that case why don’t you sell them and give the money to a good cause?”
She doesn’t understand. But Nicholas says firmly to her: “Good causes are always with us, and Gavin can give to one whenever he pleases. But this is a special gift for a special occasion, and it’s a gift which he’s perfectly entitled to make if he chooses. Thank you, Gavin.”
I find I have to sit down. Sinking onto the bench nearby I cover my face with my hands.
“Carta,” says Nicholas, “give us a moment, would you?” and he sits down at my side. He doesn’t touch me. He simply waits. The box is still in his right hand, still open. The outline of the cuff links are just a blur now but I can see the silver shining.
At last I’m able to say: “I’m sorry I made Richard so unhappy.” That sentence is true, all of it. I try another. “It’s not right that I should have those cuff links.” That sentence is true too. I’m exhausted already by all this truth-telling, but I’m winning. I’m doing wonderfully well. “Moira would never have given them to me anyway,” I say in a new burst of confidence, “if she’d realised I was a—”
And then the silence falls, smothering me.
I think: I can’t say it. I can’t.
But I know I must. Right now this minute with this man I have to stand in the truth.
I try again. “Moira would never have given them to me,” I say, “if she’d realised I was a—”
I break off but this time I’m sweating, even gasping with the effort to complete the sentence. And I do complete it. I win the fight, I say the word, and of course it’s PROSTITUTE.
No big deal, right? Wrong. To hear other people say the word isn’t so bad—I can block that out. To think the word to myself in a fit of depression isn’t so bad either—it winds up as just a memory which can be wiped. But to speak the word, to name the slime—and to someone respected and admired—no, that’s pulling the plaster off an open wound and shoving salt in the gash.
Uttering those three syllables takes all my strength and I slump back on the bench, but Nicholas doesn’t go away. He still doesn’t touch me and I still can’t look at him but he’s still there.
Then he says: “That was brave.”
I have to scrub my eyes with my hand, but the wound’s closing over and I know now that if I look at him I’ll see no contempt. In a rush I say: “I don’t just want you to have the cuff links to make good what I did by taking them. I want you to have them because you beat that bastard last night.”
“He was rather more than just someone you’d met once at the opera, wasn’t he? I saw your face when you walked into that room and found him there.”
I manage to nod.
“He’s your manager’s friend who runs the ‘private club’ you mentioned.”
I nod again. “I’ve known him for years,” I say, the words cascading out of my mouth. “He’s so bloody powerful and everyone’s so bloody terrified of him that he does what he likes, but you beat him, you did it, you won—and I want to say thanks not just for that but for everything else, for treating me like a real person, for respecting me, for practising what you preach. I shan’t see you again because it’s too dangerous, but I want you to know I’ll never forget how you touched my life, never as long as I live.”
Speaking clearly to make sure I understand and remember, Nicholas leans forward and says: “If the danger escalates to unacceptable levels, you can always get help from St. Benet’s. We’ve had plenty of experience in dealing with people who want to escape from evil cults.” And when he sees I’ve taken this on board he adds: “How far are you involved with the Guild of Light and Darkness?”
“I’m not a member and I don’t go to meetings. I’m just involved in the recruiting process.”
“Is the club for gays only?”
“No, my manager’s part-owner of an escort agency, and there’s a girl there who trawls for straights just like I trawl for gays.”
“Any women members?”
“A few, I think, but I don’t know how they get recruited. Maybe the woman who runs the escort agency has some kind of grapevine that identifies possible members—or maybe they just get introduced by the hetero membership. The truth is I don’t know much about GOLD because it’s top secret.”
“Gold? Ah, GOLD, yes, the acronym . . . How far is your manager connected with it? Can you tell me a little more about her?”
“I can’t tell you more about anything. If they find out I’ve grassed—” A shudder hits me.
“I understand, but now listen carefully, Gavin. GOLD may be a legal organisation but that doesn’t mean its activities stay within the law. Because these cults need an escalating level of thrills to keep their members satisfied, people like Asherton nearly always wind up going too far, so don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s beyond the law, and don’t make the mistake of thinking you’ve no option but to play along with him. When you’re caught in a trap it’s easy to be paralysed by your powerlessness, but traps can be sprung and the victims can walk free.”
Of course he doesn’t know I can’t live without Elizabeth. In the end I just say: “Maybe life in the trap’s all I’m good for.”
“Are you sorry for the life you’ve led since you fell into the trap? And would you truly want to do better if you were set free?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Then you qualify for a fresh start.”
After a pause I say: “That’s the line The Bloke took, isn’t it?”
“That’s the line The Bloke took, yes.”
After another pause I say: “In the church at Compton Beeches, there’s a stained-glass window of The Bloke doing the shepherd number.”
“I noticed. Lots of sheep looking as if their fleeces had been shampooed and blow-dried ready for an upmarket agricultural show . . . except for th
e sheep he was carrying back on his shoulder. That little sheep was in poor shape.”
“But it was coming home.”
“Yes,” says Nicholas, “it was coming home.”
I scrub my eyes again with the back of my hand and stand up. “Better get back,” I mutter. “You go ahead. I don’t want Colin to know I’ve been talking to you.”
“Remember: you’ll always be welcome at St. Benet’s and you can always turn to us for help.” And he moves away at last to the churchyard gate where Carta’s waiting.
I feel as if I’ve been stretched on Asherton’s rack at the Pain-Palace, but by a huge effort of will I get a grip on all the searing emotions and survive the rest of the morning. Colin gives us a tour of the garden after we’ve lolled around reading the Sunday papers. It’s low-key activity and my stress levels get a chance to dip.
The party breaks up after a traditional Sunday lunch with other local guests, but when everyone’s gone, even Nicholas and Carta, Colin refuses to tell me whether he plans to make the donation. Sod him! I can’t wait to get away now but Colin’s booked me till six so that I can bring his weekend to a mouthwatering climax.
I try to be Gavin Blake Superstud, but it’s not so easy away from Austin Friars. At the flat I have my routine to help me slide into the right personality, but here I’m adrift, desperately trying to programme my brain so that my body can deliver the goods.
“What’s the matter, Gavin?”
I say I’m fine, and kill the urge to bolt.
Then I slither into position to be screwed.
I travel back to London feeling like used toilet paper, but by the time I reach the suburbs I’ve practised a dozen possible versions of my opening dialogue with Elizabeth. I haven’t called her. That might look panicky, suggesting I was hellbent on smoothing over the mess for any number of guilty reasons. Let Asherton be the one who sounds off to her about the St. Benet’s Two. It’s much safer if I just play the pretty-boy in a sulk, unable to think of anything except how much I hate escort work.
The Heartbreaker Page 34