The Heartbreaker

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by Susan Howatch


  “But Norah likes young girls!”

  “And Elizabeth likes young men! So what? That wouldn’t stop Norah being in love with Elizabeth and Elizabeth trying to dominate her! And then, my God, there’s the Cobra himself, there’s bloody Asherton. Why do you think he and Elizabeth have been in each other’s pockets all this time? No, sex doesn’t come into it, and no, it’s not just because they feed off each other’s businesses. They’re hooked on the rush they get out of knowing there’s nothing the other won’t do in a world where perviness rules okay and no bloody holds are barred! I’m telling you, she’s got a major screw loose, she’s sicko, and if you weren’t so like a little boy who’s lost his mum and clings to the first stranger who pats his head, you’d know that as well as I do!”

  I know I have to assume an air of total calm. Glancing nonchalantly at my watch I say: “Well, I can’t expect you to understand. You don’t know her like I do.” But my voice comes out more thinly than I intend and I sound strained.

  “You’re wrong,” she says at once. “I know more about that woman than you’ve even begun to imagine.”

  “Then tell me more!”

  “No way! I’m not saying one single thing about her business interests to you!”

  “You mean you’re quite happy to keep your mouth shut for this— quote—psycho?”

  “Well, look at it this way: I’m not the only PA in the world who has to keep her mouth zipped. Think of the people who work at MI5 or GCHQ!”

  I hear what she’s saying about confidentiality, but all my anxiety about Elizabeth’s future business plan for me now flares up. I blurt out: “Has Elizabeth ever mentioned to you that she wants to get me into porn movies—real movies, not just stuff like the Austin Friars edits?”

  Susanne hesitates but decides a possible future project doesn’t require the same discretion as a present going concern. “Yeah,” she says, “and I can see her point of view. You’re getting to be an elderly pretty-boy, but you’d be good for at least another five years as a film stud. They could put make-up over your lines and you could wear a hairpiece if you have a big moult.”

  I say unsteadily: “I’m not doing another five years in the Life. I don’t like being filmed when I fuck anyway, it’s too bloody stressful, almost as stressful as escort work when you’re expected to treat the punters as people instead of meat.” I know Susanne will understand this. That’s why I’m tempted to add impulsively: “I wouldn’t mind retiring now—I haven’t got as much money as I’d planned but I’ve got enough in my Cayman Islands account to buy a boat and get by for a while.”

  An extreme stillness comes over Susanne. She’s been fidgeting with her coffee-mug but now her fingers halt.

  Clearing my throat I say: “Of course you must know about the Cayman Islands accounts. I’ve only got one but Elizabeth’s got several.”

  “Sure,” says Susanne to the coffee-mug. “I log the statements on the computer.”

  I know I’ll get nowhere if I ask a direct question. Instead I just keep talking in a casual voice as if we’re discussing something trivial. “As you open all Elizabeth’s post,” I say, “I expect you’ve wondered why my account statements go to her and not to me.”

  Silence.

  “It’s because when she opened the account for me I was a new taxpayer and she knew the Revenue could take an interest in any mail I got from a tax haven. But as she’d already established her own accounts she reckoned her mail was safe from their snooping. So that’s why my statements go to her and she passes them on to me.”

  More silence.

  I stand up before I can start hyperventilating. “Well,” I say, “I’d better be going before I outstay my welcome, but thanks for the coffee.” Then I sit down again with a thump. From a long way away my voice mutters: “Okay, how’s she screwing me?”

  “I’m not saying a single bloody word! It was one thing to help you out of the stupid mess you got into with those tapes—it didn’t involve her businesses and I could make sure the risk was non-existent, but the Cayman accounts are in a different league. You think I want to wind up in a cage at the Cobra’s?”

  I take another shallow breath. I sort of know what’s happened but I can’t believe it. The knowledge is so terrible that my brain just closes down whenever I try to put the knowledge into words.

  The next moment I’m whispering: “Please tell me. Please,” but Susanne’s one step ahead of me. She must have realised I was going to beg. “There’s another reason why I can’t talk,” she says, but she’s stopped acting tough and her voice is far from unsympathetic. “If I grassed I’d need to be taken care of in a safe place, but you couldn’t take care of me because your Elizabeth fixation means you can’t even take care of yourself. And you don’t know a safe place anyway.”

  At once I answer: “You’re wrong about that. The people at St. Benet’s would help us.”

  “Oh, pull the other one! Pinhead, you’re such a liar—”

  “No, listen, listen, I’m coming clean with you, I swear it! I’ve got a connection with St. Benet’s that Elizabeth knows nothing about—it’s the missing dimension of the story I told you about the tapes—”

  “Shit, I knew you were keeping something back! What the hell have you been getting up to?”

  My nerve fails. I’m exhausted, I’m shocked and I’m almost paralysed with fear. Time to back off before I make some catastrophic mistake— but maybe the mistake’s already been made. If Susanne now goes to Elizabeth and says—

  “Wait a sec,” says Susanne sharply as if sensing I’m about to cut and run, “how about this for an idea? You tell me about St. Benet’s and I’ll tell you about the Cayman accounts. Then we’re safe because if one of us snitches on the other, the other can snitch back, so snitching’s no longer an option.”

  I try to get my head round this. I feel it’s probably the solution but I’m in such a state I can’t cope. “Sounds good,” I say, “but I’m knackered. Let me grab some sleep and come back here at nine.”

  She doesn’t argue. It’s probably obvious that I’m past it. And maybe she too wants a breather. “Okay,” she says, “but do me a favour on your way here later and pick up a copy of the Sunday Times. I never miss their business section.”

  We stand in the little hall by the front door like two nerdy teenagers uncertain how to end their first date. Eventually I bend my head to give her a peck on the cheek, but in the end I don’t kiss her. Our faces glide past each other and the next thing I know we’re having a comradely hug. Funny thing is her breasts don’t remind me of bowling balls any more. They remind me of top-quality pillows, the kind you long to bury your face in after a bloody awful day at work.

  I hug her harder than ever. Then I’m outside, groping my way up the steps into the street, and the front door’s closing noiselessly behind me.

  I’m alone in a violently altered landscape.

  The big nightmare’s begun.

  Elizabeth’s waiting up for me when I arrive home. This surprises me because I’m very late. Of course I have a cover story prepared, but I’m in such a state that the last thing I want to do is deliver it. When she calls my name I stop trying to creep noiselessly up the stairs and pause to psych myself up. I’ve already seen that her door’s ajar and there’s a light on in her room, but I was hoping she’d fallen asleep while reading a magazine.

  “Come here, pet,” she orders, and when I trail over the threshold she exclaims benignly: “You’re looking very smart! What have you been doing?”

  “Had a second look at that opera Colin took me to—I couldn’t concentrate the first time around when he was pawing me.”

  “And since when has the Opera House closed down in the early hours of the morning?”

  “Well, I got talking to a very classy American babe, and—”

  “You and your Americans! I suppose I’ll have to allow you one every now and then, but I really do wish you’d grow out of them!”

  By this time she’s smiling at me.
She’s wearing a peach-coloured silk nightdress, smart, with a yellow woolly bed jacket, dire, and she’s propped up on a mound of cream-coloured pillows. Her brass-gold hair, wavy and unfastened, is frothing around her shoulders, and the taut skin of her face is so smooth in the soft light that it’s obvious she’s had the slack hitched up behind her ears. Tonight I’m more aware than I’ve ever been of her altered, mask-like face which makes it easy for her to conceal her secrets.

  “Well, never mind,” she’s saying placidly, “forget the American. Norah’s invited us for Sunday lunch tomorrow—or rather, today—so you’ll be able to see Serena.”

  “I’m not going.” The words escape before I can stop them, but luckily this is no big disaster. Elizabeth knows I hate lunching at Norah’s.

  “But afterwards you and Serena can slip upstairs for a while!”

  Gavin Blake Toy-Boy opens his mouth to say obediently: “Okay, darling, you win!” but someone muscles in ahead of him and shoots straight back: “Shagging that boring chick while you and that dreary old dyke are gossiping in the living-room would be like a teenager trying to grope his first date while his parents were downstairs chatting about the church fete!”

  It’s Gavin Blake Me talking. He’s finally slipped his leash. His resurrection’s so far advanced that he just won’t play dead any more.

  Elizabeth stares at me. A blankness descends on her taut-skinned face and her blue eyes go dead. In my head I hear Susanne saying: “Once the penny drops it’s as if you see the word PSYCHO tattooed on her forehead.”

  Fear finally overwhelms me. It’s Gavin Blake Toy-Boy who stammers: “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that, I take it all back—”

  “You’ve had too much to drink, my lad, that’s your problem! Well, all I can say is you’d better pull yourself together PDQ—and you can start by making no more snotty remarks about Norah!”

  But the next moment Gavin Blake Toy-Boy’s keeling over again, decked by this reckless chancer who just won’t play dead. “You’re still shagging her, aren’t you?” says Mr. Unstoppable acidly.

  In the dead silence which follows, words flash through my head. They are: Elizabeth, just in case you can’t figure it out, love, your correct answer is: “Oh, don’t be so silly!” You’re not seriously angry. You’re just annoyed that I’m behaving like a drunk and making ludicrous accusations.

  I wait. I see her take a sharp, deep breath. Then I hear her demand in fury: “Who says I’m still shagging her?”

  Queasiness hits me but automatically I protect Susanne. “I do,” I say. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about why you palmed me off on Serena and why you’re always seeing Norah. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  More words flash through my head. They are: Elizabeth love, this is where you exclaim: “What utter nonsense!” and pick up your bedside magazine in a huff. You don’t embark on elaborate denials and you don’t attempt to justify shoving me at Serena.

  But again, the correct response isn’t the response that I get.

  “Of course Norah and I are always seeing each other!” Elizabeth says, sounding both hurt and amazed. “We have our business to run! And of course I’ve been keen for you to date an attractive, well-educated, superior girl like Serena! I have your best interests at heart! So how dare you twist these facts into a rabid accusation which is totally and utterly untrue? But I think I see what all this is about—you still feel miffed that we don’t get together more than once a week. Well, I’m flattered— flattered enough to forgive you for your malicious accusation about my relationship with Norah and your nasty attitude to Norah herself. So as a special treat, why don’t you take off those smart clothes of yours and get into bed? But go to the bathroom first, please, to wash out your mouth. I don’t want to be asphyxiated by alcohol fumes.”

  I can’t think what to do. I know this is some kind of test and I’ve got to shag her, but at the same time I know I won’t be able to do it. Why? It’s the word PSYCHO tattooed on her forehead. It’s the false responses given as she slithers away from the truth. It’s the horror of knowing something’s wrong with my savings account. It’s the real Gavin Blake coming alive at last and seeing how he’s been manipulated when he was dead.

  But if I don’t shag her I’m in big, big trouble. She’ll start to think I’ve had enough. She’ll start to think I’m turning against her. She’ll start to think I’m capable of double-crossing her in the worst possible way.

  Feeling as if I’m being split by a meat-cleaver I obey her order to go to the bathroom, but I never get as far as washing out my mouth. As soon as I see the pictures on the walls the queasiness hits me again and I recognise the one way I can control this situation. Grabbing a towel I kneel down by the lavatory and ram a finger down my throat to help the nausea along.

  She hears the vomiting and comes to watch.

  “Sorry,” I mutter when it’s over. “Feel terrible.”

  “All right, get upstairs. I don’t want you near me when you’re like this. Come back tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Right. Nine. I’ll be here,” I lie, and finally escape upstairs. I pause only to set the alarm on my bedside clock. Then I strip and crash out.

  The clock shrills at six and instantly I’m wide awake, every nerve jangling as I remember what’s happened. The Elizabeth crisis is mega but I can’t face it till I find out about the money. Later I’ll shag her, I’ll even inject my equipment if I have to, but right now—

  Right now I’m doing a runner.

  I don’t shower. I’m afraid the noise of the water in the wastepipe might wake Elizabeth. And I don’t shave either. I’m tired of grooming Gavin Blake Prostitute to be a drop-dead stunner. I want to wear an old sweatshirt and shabby chinos and the beat-up jacket which Elizabeth says should be thrown away.

  When I’m dressed I find paper and a pen and write: “Darling—Sorry, but I promised myself I’d drive down to Surrey today to visit Hugo’s grave. I’ve been thinking of him lately. Please tell Norah I appreciate her invitation and I apologise for not accepting it. Sorry about all the crap I talked when I was pissed. Big love, GAVIN.”

  I’m just padding through the living-room of my flat when Nigel comes downstairs from the attic.

  “Gavin! You okay, mate? I’ve been so worried! When you weren’t back by one last night, Elizabeth woke me up and started interrogating me and—”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing! Well, I did tell her you weren’t eating right, but I felt I had to tell her something when she wanted to know what I thought was going on with you—”

  “Did you tell her about the tapes?”

  “Course not!” Nigel’s shocked. “Gav, I wouldn’t let you down on something like that, I swear it—hey, did you get them back? Did Susanne help you about the safe?”

  Again I move to protect Susanne. “Didn’t need to go to her in the end, thank God—I caught Tommy just before he left and said I’d been decked by Colin and didn’t want Elizabeth to know. He gave me the tapes on condition we have a shag when he comes back from Amsterdam.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad—I mean, I’m so glad you’ve got the tapes—”

  “Forget that, just listen for a moment. You haven’t seen me now, right? I’ve snuck off early but you don’t discover that till later. You know nothing.”

  “Okay, but what’s going on? Why’s Elizabeth so—”

  “I’m having girl trouble. Elizabeth wants me to shag Serena. Serena’s a big yawn. I want to shag a luscious stunner I’ve got my eye on. Elizabeth suspects I’m being a naughty boy, not doing what I’m told, so she’s stomping around playing Mummy. It’ll all blow over, it’s not crucial, just concentrate on knowing nothing.”

  I slip away, padding noiselessly down the stairs, and leave my note on the floor of the landing outside Elizabeth’s door. I listen but hear nothing. On the ground floor I glide outside, closing the front door with the smallest possible click.

  I’m on my way.
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br />   Leaving the house before Elizabeth wakes up means I’m much too early to arrive at Susanne’s flat and I’m not sure what to do. London’s comatose at this hour on a Sunday morning, so in the end I drive to Victoria Station and get a coffee from a vending machine.

  Sitting on a platform bench I sip from my Styrofoam cup and decide there’s a certain ruthless inevitability about my disintegrating life, as if someone’s methodically smashing it up with a hammer. I feel I’m being steered through a series of interlocking situations which are all leading to one Götterdämmerung-type conclusion—but no, “steered” isn’t the word that describes what’s happening to me, it’s too gentle. I feel as if I’ve been lassoed and now I’m being dragged along the ground in a cloud of dust— but no, that’s not right either. It conveys the idea of being captured but not the idea of being rescued. Someone’s lassoed me, but with a lifebelt attached to a rope—yes, that’s it. I was drowning in the sea but now the lifebelt’s plopped over my head, the rope’s snapped tight and a lifeguard on the distant beach is tugging me through the shark-infested waters to safety.

 

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