“Never again!” I declare as I tramp into Elizabeth’s presence at last. “Never, never, never again will I spend the weekend with such a drop-dead boring old—”
She blasts the whining aside. “What the hell’s all this about St. Benet’s?”
“Oh God, yes, that really was the cherry on the parfait!”
“Did you really have no idea—no idea at all—that Darrow and the Graham bitch had been invited?”
“Well, of course not! I’d have told you, wouldn’t I?”
“You didn’t tell me something Sir Colin told Asherton—that you met both that bitch AND DARROW at Richard Slaney’s funeral!”
I get such a fright that my stomach seems to do a double somersault.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” shouts Elizabeth in fury.
“It was sheer panic. I thought that if you knew you’d go ballistic, but listen, darling, listen, the meeting was all over in a flash, I swear it! Darrow was hauled away almost at once by Bridget Slaney so I never got to talk to him at all, and Carta got kidnapped a couple of minutes later by some people who worked at Richard’s firm. She used to work there too, so they all knew one another.”
There’s a taut silence while I listen to my heart banging but at last Elizabeth says, still furious: “The worst mistake I’ve made for a long time was to let you go to that funeral!” Then miraculously her mood changes. “All right, pet,” she says in a resigned but not hostile voice. “Get yourself a drink and sit down. I need to know exactly what happened at Sir Colin’s house.”
She believes me. Weak with relief I retrieve a bottle of Slimline tonic from her kitchen and slump down beside her on the sofa to deliver my censored account of the weekend.
“What a way for a gentleman to behave!” says Elizabeth scandalised when I’ve finished. “Imagine Sir Colin trotting out all that stuff about GOLD despite having been told it was confidential! No wonder Asherton felt hurt and betrayed, poor love! And imagine trotting it out to Darrow, of all people! And as for that debate . . . well, words almost fail me, but I’m not surprised it was a disaster. Asherton doesn’t do debates. He tells people what to think and they don’t talk back—well, naturally they don’t, they’re just so relieved to be spared all the worry of thinking for themselves.”
“What’s Asherton going to do?”
“There’s nothing he can do except forget Sir Colin and move on. But the important thing from our point of view is that Sir Colin still doesn’t know of your connection with Asherton and he’s still keen on you.”
“I’m not doing any more escort work with him!”
“It’s never a good idea to have a closed mind, dear, particularly when one’s dealing with a multi-millionaire, but meanwhile we’ve got a far more urgent problem to deal with and that’s this: Asherton thinks you’re playing some kind of double game.”
“Oh God!” I groan, all outraged innocence even though my stomach’s double-somersaulting again. “I knew it! I knew he’d take a swipe at me! It’s all because I witnessed Darrow wiping the floor with him!”
“That may well be true, but he’s certainly come up with a very nasty theory. He thinks you made a play for Carta Graham at the funeral by boasting you could get a multi-millionaire to contribute to her Appeal. He thinks you’re bored with all the gays, and now you’re no more reliable than Jason and Tony were when I had to give them the boot, but I don’t believe that theory and I’ll tell you why: you’re very much cleverer than Jason and Tony, and I just can’t believe you’d be quite such a bloody fool.”
I have to be dead careful. If I keep playing the outraged innocent she could decide a guilty conscience is making me bluster. So what should my primary reaction be here, bearing in mind that Asherton’s spewing venom all over me? Terror, of course. I’d be terrified even though Elizabeth’s signalling that she’s on my side. I wouldn’t trust that signal if I was innocent and I certainly don’t trust it right now when I’m guilty. It could be just a trick to lure me into a confession. Although she denies it she may well believe every word of Asherton’s theory.
Keeping my eyes lowered I try a frightened gulp and fractionally increase my breathing rate. Feels good. I gulp again and it finally dawns on me that I’m not acting. I really am scared shitless.
“Well, pet,” says Elizabeth, voice very dulcet and maternal, “I may not share Asherton’s suspicions, but I do think you might have been telling a fib or two. So why don’t you now tell me just exactly what’s been going on between you and Carta Graham?”
I decide a hint of truth’s needed to help my lies along. A full-scale denial would be worse than useless.
“Okay,” I mumble, “I’ll admit it. I flirted with her at the funeral. But I didn’t shag her.”
“Convince me.”
I put on my most serious expression. “There were three reasons why the shag was a non-starter. One: it was Moira Slaney who made the play for me after the funeral and she didn’t give me the chance to chase anyone else. Two: I quickly found out Carta had a fiancé and wasn’t interested in a pre-wedding shaglet. And three: yeah, you’re right, I’m not such a bloody fool as to mess up big-time—and that means, of course, that I never said to Carta I could milk Colin for St. Benet’s. I never even mentioned Colin to her.”
Elizabeth considers this speech calmly before asking: “What happened with Mrs. Slaney?”
Have to lie about Moira now. If I once admit I did shag someone after the funeral, Elizabeth will never believe it wasn’t Carta. “The shag with Moira was a non-starter too,” I say. “I could see she was emotionally up the creek and bound to be more trouble than she was worth.”
“Smart boy! I’m impressed . . . Who’s Carta Graham’s fiancé?”
“That bloke you mentioned the other day when you and Asherton were discussing the Betz fiasco.”
“Eric Tucker? Now, that’s interesting—I wonder if he’s related to Gilbert after all? Since Gilbert was at that funeral along with the Graham bitch—”
“They weren’t together. I never saw Carta with anyone but Darrow.”
“Yes, but if Mrs. Slaney was keeping you so busy—”
“Oh right, yes, I certainly wasn’t watching Carta all the time . . . Could it be important if Eric and Gilbert were related?”
“Well, if Gilbert not only knows Darrow through his job but also has a relation who’s engaged to Darrow’s fundraiser, Asherton might finally be persuaded to abandon his bloody stupid plan to make Gilbert perform for GOLD . . . No, half a mo, I haven’t got that right, have I? Asherton’s mad for revenge. Having been trounced by one priest he’ll be even keener to drag another through the mud, and the more Gilbert’s connected to Darrow, the better Asherton’ll like it. Oh, bugger Asherton! I’m ever so put out with him!”
I detect a ring of truth here, and decide that Elizabeth really is on my side. Better still, I think she’s swallowed my brilliant mix of fact and fiction, but I can’t afford to pat myself on the back just yet. Over-confidence could be fatal.
“There’s one thing I’m still not clear about,” she’s saying, veering away from the subject of Asherton to zero in again on my story. “Did Sir Colin really never mention to you that he was seriously interested in St. Benet’s?”
“Never, but is that so surprising? Why should he think I’d be interested in RCPP’s charitable-giving programme?”
“Because on this occasion you knew the people involved!”
“Yes, I did, but Colin didn’t realise that until he told me Darrow and Carta would be staying at the Hall.”
“When was that?”
“Friday. The evening before they arrived.”
“In that case why on earth didn’t you phone me on Friday night with the news? I didn’t know about Asherton’s dinner-date in advance but I’d have certainly passed on the news about Darrow immediately and then Asherton would have cancelled!”
“Hey, you weren’t the only one to have no access to Asherton’s engagement diary! How was I to know he was
planning to parachute in for dinner? Colin played that card totally squashed to his chest!”
“Yes, but—”
“Okay, I’ll come clean. The reason I didn’t call you on Friday night was because I was hoping you’d never have to know about the St. Benet’s invasion, just as I hoped you’d never have to know I’d met those two at Richard’s funeral. But for God’s sake, Elizabeth, is that so hard to understand? I didn’t want you to go ballistic—I couldn’t face that, sorry, but I just couldn’t. I always so hate the thought of upsetting you, darling—” I allow my voice to sink to a whisper “—I love you so much.” I’m sort of pretending yet not pretending here. I’m hyping it up like an actor, but it’s the truth I’m hyping, and I know I sound one hundred per cent sincere.
“Poor pet!” says Elizabeth indulgently. “What a pickle you got yourself into, didn’t you? Very well, we’ll say no more about it, but in future I must know everything, no matter how panicky you may feel about telling me.”
I promise fervently to keep her fully informed.
I’m prickling all over with sweat as I survive this high-risk interrogation, but I can’t relax yet. “How do we convince Asherton I’m innocent?” I ask nervously.
“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t let him take it out on you and anyway he needs you to train up Gilbert Tucker.”
“God, I wish you could just kiss Asherton goodbye!”
“That makes two of us, pet. Now that Darrow’s found out about GOLD, it’s more important than ever that I stage a strategic withdrawal, but the trouble is I can’t do it while Asherton’s in this humiliated and furious state. It’s too dangerous. If he thinks I’m going cool on him he’s going to get paranoid, and believe me, a paranoid Asherton isn’t on the list of people I’m dying to meet.”
“But isn’t it more dangerous to stay in his orbit than to leave it?”
“Not quite, dear. That’s because Darrow has no evidence that Asherton’s involved in anything illegal. Darrow certainly has the potential to whip up police interest, but we’re still a long way from being obliged to take the next plane to Brazil. In fact the most pressing danger at present actually comes not from Darrow but from Asherton himself, refusing to back down from staging this idiotic romp with Gilbert Tucker.”
Idiotic romp! What a euphemism! Feeling uneasier than ever I say: “I think we should definitely have a holiday in Rio until after the GOLD meeting.”
“And how do you think that would look to Mr. Paranoia? If he pulls off this romp—and I reckon the odds are still just about in his favour— he’ll never forgive me for not having enough faith in him to stay put and he’ll start trying to think of nasty little ways to pay me back. No, we’ve got to hope for the best and carry on as usual—which reminds me, I’ve got some nice news for you. You’ll get your two days off now, just as I promised, and guess who’s got the next two days off as well! Serena! I’ve specially arranged it with Norah to compensate you for working through the weekend!”
I fake delight.
“Oh, and bring me the early morning tea tomorrow, pet, and we’ll pretend it’s Saturday!”
Perking up I thank her profusely for her generosity and then stagger upstairs to savour my survival.
I’m so relieved the interrogation’s over that I binge as soon as I get upstairs to my kitchen. I know the last thing I need is an overdose of calories but I just can’t resist the nervous urge to stuff my face. Unfortunately Nigel then comes downstairs from his attic to welcome me back and finds me throwing up noisily in the bathroom.
“Too much rich food,” I say as he hovers over me in concern, but I know he’ll notice the ransacked interior of the fridge.
The next morning after breakfast in bed with Elizabeth I call Serena and arrange to take her out to dinner. I know I’ve got to do all I can now to make Elizabeth think I’d never dream of dumping my authorised girlfriend. If I did, Elizabeth would think I was still hankering for Carta.
After a quick meal at a Pimlico trat I take Serena to a West End cinema. That avoids the chore of talking to her. I wish I could dump her after the film but I know I have to whisk her over to Austin Friars for a shag. Well, at least she’s not a man. That has to rank as some kind of plus.
The next day I decide to concentrate on the shag so within minutes of hitting Austin Friars at noon we’re screwing our brains out. Lunch gets kind of lost in the shuffle, but later we stop off at a pub for some basic nosh. I know it’s cheap of me not to take her to a decent restaurant, but I can’t face spending a long time talking to her. It makes me think of the vile months I spent working for Norah and meeting all those pathetic needy women who used to upset me so much by reminding me of—but no, it’s better not to think of Mum. Better to say I hate getting involved with women like that because it just reminds me how useless I am, unable to help the poor cows in any way that really matters.
Finally I drop Serena at Norah’s house and the date ends. Thank God. On my way home I halt the car on Horseferry Road and reach for my phone to call Carta. Well, why shouldn’t I have a treat after following orders so obediently for hours and hours? It’s early evening and she should be home from work, so after surveying the numbers engraved on my heart I phone her on her mobile. That should stop Sad Eric picking up the call.
“Yes?” says Carta cautiously a moment later.
“Just checking in,” I say, feeling happier than I’ve felt all day. “How are you doing?”
“Gavin!” She doesn’t sound as if she feels I’m harassing her, and the fact that she’s used my name suggests Sad Eric’s not around. “Has something happened?” she adds tensely, no doubt thinking of the mega-donation.
“No, nothing—I just got through two days off and I’m not due to see Colin again till Friday afternoon. Heard anything from him?”
“Not a tweet. I’m beginning to suspect he has no intention of giving to anyone.”
“Don’t give up hope!”
“Easier said than done! Listen, I’m glad you’ve called. I wanted to say how sorry I was about my mistakes last weekend—not just hitting you and bawling you out, but being so dumb about those cuff links. Giving them away was a great gesture. I really admired it.”
“Ah.” I start to glow.
“I was just wondering,” she adds. “Would you like to come to my office after work one day this week to try to figure out the Colin situation?”
I kill the impulse to shout: “Yes, yes, YES!” and say instead: “I’d really like that, but it’s too risky. I’ve got to keep clear of St. Benet’s now.”
“Maybe we could meet somewhere else. The thing is I don’t just want to talk about Colin. I want to tell you the whole story about what happened to me in 1990.”
My heart sinks. “1990?”
“When my husband died. You see, I think if you knew what happened you’d want to help me, and all I want is proof that your Elizabeth isn’t my Mrs. Mayfield—”
“But I’ve told you she’s not!”
“Yes, but . . . Gavin, all I’m asking you to do is listen!”
“But what good would that do when I know I can’t help? Look, I gotta run—”
“No, wait! There’s something crucial you have to know. Nicholas and Lewis both think you and I have been brought together to help one another. We’re travellers on a journey, they say, and—”
“What? Sorry, the connection’s breaking up, I can’t hear you,” I lie, but she just keeps right on talking.
“—and I can see the journey produces a special kind of friendship— life-saving—” Her voice breaks. She gives a muffled sob.
I’m horrified.
I’m horrified not just because cool, clever Carta’s been talking like a mystical nutter. I’m horrified because she’s revealed herself to be an emotional mess, yet another one of the needy women who churn me up deep down. It just reminds me again of Mum after Hugo died. Mum held herself together while he was dying but afterwards she went to pieces and I couldn’t help her—I wanted to, I tried
to but I was useless, she told me so.
That’s why I can now only get close to strong non-needy women who don’t get emotional. That way I don’t let anyone down, and besides . . . I need all my strength just to survive, don’t I? I’m not in a position to go around helping people. I’m not my brother’s keeper, and I’m sorry but I can’t be my sister’s keeper either.
“Hey, lighten up!” I urge glibly, fighting back the panic. “We’ll meet again soon, I promise—call you later—take care—” I cut the connection and collapse with relief.
But then I start to think. I don’t want to. I want to switch off and drive the rest of the way home on auto-pilot, but I go on sitting in the stationary car while I rerun the conversation. Over and over again I tell myself: I can’t help her. There’s nothing I can do.
Yet there’s someone in my head saying I can. I’m not sure which of my personalities this voice belongs to, but he’s speaking with authority. He’s saying that I’m the one man who has the power to help this very special woman in this particular situation, and I now have the power to prove I’m not just a waste of space when it comes to helping a woman in need. I’m not a waste of space anyway, he says. I’m special, I count, I matter.
I say to him out loud: “I can’t betray Elizabeth.”
But he just tells me that I can at least listen when Carta talks. I can hold out my hand to her, he says, just like she held out her hand to me at St. Benet’s.
I don’t know who the hell I am when I’m talking to myself like this because this character doesn’t chime with any of my familiar roles. In fact he can’t be one of my personalities at all because none of them would behave in this way. So he must be some kind of delusion.
Isn’t it weird the tricks your mind can play when you’re stressed almost out of your skull?
As I arrive home Elizabeth calls out from the living-room, but although my nerves lurch there’s no crisis. She just wants to give me some information about Gil.
“We don’t have as much time to train him as we thought,” she says when I’m sitting down beside her on the sofa. “Asherton phoned to tell me that the date for the GOLD romp’s been set for Saturday week. Apparently the stars are in an interesting conjunction that weekend and he’s determined to cash in on the Zodiac angle.”
The Heartbreaker Page 35