The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  “Yah! Expect me to believe that? You won’t want to see me again after all this is over—I’d just remind you of stuff you’ll want to forget!”

  “I’ll never want to forget how we danced to ‘In the Mood.’ ”

  But she still doesn’t believe me. “You revving yourself up to ask for a shag?”

  “No point. You’d never agree.”

  “Well, I suppose it might be a laugh to see what all the fuss is about, but no, I’m not into bonking right now and you look too beat up to get it up anyway. I’d better do some more eggs, but if you toilet them I’ll slap you.”

  She disappears. I go to the bathroom and stare at the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and I look about forty but I’m better. I’ve been yanked away from the black pit by Susanne wiring me the image of the dance, the memory of those precious moments when I was my whole self, infused with life and hope. I know now I want to feel like that again. I want to live. I want to reach that distant shore where the lifeguard stands, sweating blood to reel me in as I flounder past the sharks of depression and despair.

  Trudging back to the kitchen I eat more scrambled eggs but this time I keep them down, and not long afterwards Susanne and I leave for Lambeth where the Cayman accounts are waiting for me on the computer.

  The house is empty, and we move straight to the office. The computer takes a while to get its wits together but eventually it responds to Susanne’s orders and the Cayman accounts start to come up on the screen. I spot the figures in my last statement and call a halt. Even though I’ve had time to adjust to the bad news it’s still a shock to see the account in Elizabeth’s name. Silently Susanne unlocks a file cabinet and produces a bunch of blank bank statements ready for future forgeries.

  “I know now why Elizabeth didn’t want me to have a numbered account,” is the only comment I can make. “It was important for the scam that I could see the account was apparently in my name.” Then suddenly I say: “Show me the other Cayman accounts.”

  Susanne returns to the computer and scrolls back so that I can take a proper look. There’s an account in the name of Elizabeth Delamere, a joint account held with Norah, and an account in the name of Elizabeth Tremayne.

  “What’s this?” I demand. “Part of a new identity?”

  “Maybe, but as far as I know it’s just a bank account title. I’ve seen no other documents in that name.”

  “What’s the point of it?”

  “It’s all to do with GOLD and the payments she gets for being a consultant. Apparently the Betz bloke, who used to be the treasurer, only knew her in her Mayfield identity so the payments used to go to Elizabeth Mayfield. Then after the Betz bloke topped himself the Mayfield identity had to go and she told GOLD’s new treasurer to substitute this new name and bank account when he made her payments.”

  “Why not just use the Delamere name?”

  “Safety precaution. If Asherton ever goes down the tubes she wants no written evidence tying Elizabeth Delamere to GOLD and through GOLD to what’s-his-face Betz.”

  I ask her to print the most recent statements of all the Cayman accounts, and when I’ve pocketed them I say: “Got anything incriminating on Asherton?”

  “You’re joking!”

  “He ought to be nailed.”

  “Forget it! No one would ever testify.”

  “I’d testify if ever I got the chance.”

  Her eyes widen. “What did he do to you?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I don’t remember this—”

  “Elizabeth told you I was in a car crash. I was shut up in my room for two weeks while I recovered.”

  I see the horror in her eyes. “And Elizabeth let it happen?”

  “She said I had to learn the lesson for my own good.”

  “Shit, that’s—” She breaks off, unable to think of the right word.

  But I can. “Evil,” I say, feeling as if I’m speaking an ancient language discarded long ago, and suddenly my anger turns outward at last instead of turning inward to lacerate me with self-hatred. “Someone ought to stop her,” says my voice, “and someone ought to stop him. I don’t want any other kid to go through what I’ve gone through.” In a burst of energy I head for the door. “I’m going to talk to Nicholas Darrow.”

  “No, wait! If you grass to that Darrow thing-y now he’ll want to barge in straight away and phone the police but we’ve got to sort out your money first or it’ll get lost. I need at least three days.”

  “Three days! But can’t you just—”

  “I want to play safe and switch the money through different accounts to avoid suspicion. I’ll set up a new account in your name and Elizabeth’s and transfer the money into that—I don’t think the bank will query a joint account as she’s already got one with Norah. Then I’ll set up two more Cayman accounts, one in your name only, one in mine, for the next round of transfers, and finally I’ll switch the money in both those new accounts to our own high-street bank accounts in London. It’s just too risky to cut corners and try to do it all at once.”

  I can see the sense of this. I calm down.

  “There are other things to take care of too,” she’s adding. “For instance, I’ll need those three days to sort out my stuff. And you need to talk to the Darrow thing-y to make sure he can give us a safe place to hole up in, but don’t go into detail about Asherton and Elizabeth—save all that for later. Just say you want out of the Life and I’m coming with you.”

  I nod but I’m barely listening. I’m thinking what I need to do before we make our break for freedom, and the next moment I announce: “I’m going to save Gil Tucker.”

  “Oh my God! Haven’t we got enough on our plates without you messing around with the Gilbert? What’s he to you anyway—just another punter! I mean, it’s not as if he’s your brother, is it?”

  “Yes, it is. Before I leave this house for good,” I say firmly, “I’m making another raid on Tommy’s flat to nick the Tucker tapes.” And before she can argue I tell her what Asherton has in store for Gil at the next meeting of GOLD.

  When I stop speaking Susanne just says: “Asherton’s lost it.”

  “That’s what Elizabeth thinks. She wants to distance herself now from Asherton, and she’s going to do it by saying my movie career leaves her no time for GOLD.”

  “Clever old bitch! It’ll break her heart to kiss GOLD goodbye, but of course if Asherton’s gone mega-nuts she’s got no choice.”

  I’m still focused on Gil Tucker. “I’ve thought of tipping off the Vice about this coming GOLD event,” I say, “but—”

  “Good idea. Once you’re at St. Benet’s you won’t have to worry about being suspected of grassing.”

  “Yes, but the trouble is a police raid would boot Gil out of the frying pan into the fire—he’d be eaten alive by the media, and those tapes would be used as evidence of how he got hijacked. He’ll only be completely saved if I nick the tapes to make sure there’s no comeback and then tell him to avoid Asherton like the plague.”

  “But the nicking’s so dangerous! It was one thing to break into that flat when Tommy was away but it’ll be quite another to break in when he’s at home!”

  “I’ll do it when he’s asleep.”

  “Supposing he wakes up?”

  “No problem. I’m younger and fitter than he is. I’d knock him out and lock him up.”

  “God, men are so boring when they do the macho number—”

  “Okay, okay, I know you think I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag, I know you think I’m just shit and of course you’re right, I am, but if I can save Gil Tucker I’ll be better than shit, I’ll—”

  “STOP!” she shrieks, making me jump. She’s furious, livid. I’ve done her head in by bleating on about Gil—or so I think, but I’m wrong. She walks right up to me, grabs me by the shoulders and starts shaking them. She looks about to kill me. She’s literally panting with rage. “Never,” she yells, “never again tell me you’re shit! You’re
a total screw-up and you can be bloody dumb but you’re not shit. Say that again and I’ll pull out so much of your hair you’ll need a wig!”

  “Okay, okay—” I’m shattered but I’ve grasped that she’s paying me a compliment so I don’t bother to shrug myself loose. I just slide my arms around her waist and give her a hug, my chest meshing with the silicone hills, and although I have an erection she doesn’t slap my face, she just turns aside, switches off the computer and says abruptly. “We’d better get out of here before Elizabeth comes home.”

  We leave.

  We don’t want to risk returning to Pimlico while there’s a chance Elizabeth’s still at Norah’s house, so to pass the time we drive across the river, dump the car and go into St. James’s Park. It’s not warm enough to lie on the grass but we sit on a bench by the lake and after a while I drum up the courage to hold her hand. She doesn’t pull it away. She just says: “If you’re thinking you can treat me like all the other girls, forget it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh puh-leeze! You know bloody well you treat Norah’s current crop as if they were all inflatable dolls—shit, if they weren’t such a bunch of silly cows they’d be lining up to kick you in the balls, but no such luck, everyone’s panting so hard to get done by you that they never even get a foot in the nearest pair of Doc Martens. And Elizabeth says you graze— graze, for God’s sake!—in Covent Garden on American girls. Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Okay, I can see that after doing gays all week you need some kind of compensation, but bullshitting around in an Armani suit isn’t compensation, it’s crap. Real compensation would be trying to have a relationship which lasts longer than a weekend, but you can’t do relationships, can you, and that’s what you’re trying to cover up with all this multi-shagging rubbish . . . I don’t count the Elizabeth relationship, of course. That’s just some kind of weird kiddie-crush.”

  “I don’t want to talk about—”

  “Okay, forget her, just listen while I tell you something else: the reason you’re no good at real relationships is because you think you’re shit. That’s why I scragged you back at the house when you moaned how shitty you were. You’ve got to get some self-respect so that you stop living in terror of women telling you you’re shit and trashing you before you can trash them—no, don’t tell me I’m just a stupid ex-tom who doesn’t know what she’s talking about! I’ve had therapy! And I read all the psychology articles in Cosmo!”

  We’re still holding hands. Looking down at our intertwined fingers I say: “But you’re talking to me now as if I’m shit.”

  “It’s your shitty behaviour I’m talking about, pinhead! But you don’t have to behave shittily.”

  “You mean I’m okay but—”

  “—but you shouldn’t go around smashing people up. Even that airhead Serena deserves better.”

  “Well, I never mean to break hearts, but the girls do sort of ask for it—”

  “God, I thought only rapists came out with that line! Maybe you’re shit after all.”

  “No, no, no, I didn’t mean—”

  “Okay, so when you and your Armani suit light up like a thousand-watt bulb, the girls are going to pant for it. But ‘it’ shouldn’t mean having their hearts smashed, and having sex shouldn’t mean leaving behind a trail of bloody corpses!”

  “I do always try to be kind—”

  “—as the euthanasia freak says before he murders his next wrinkly! Oh, stop making stupid remarks and just think for a moment, would you? Just try to imagine what it feels like to get trashed by someone you care about!”

  But I only say: “I don’t have to imagine. I know.”

  I fully expect Susanne to make some cutting remark about Elizabeth in response to this statement but she doesn’t. She just holds my hand more tightly than ever.

  We go on sitting on the bench and watching all the families go by as they enjoy their Sunday afternoon in the park. It’s amazing to be reminded that there are normal people out there, people who don’t sell themselves for money, people who only know about psychos from reading the newspapers.

  “I like this place,” I say to Susanne. “It’s as if we’re normal here.” And I watch the nearest normal family drifting by. There’s a small child, sex male, who wants to feed the ducks. There’s a baby, sex indeterminate, in a buggy. The adults have that vague look which comes from being pleasantly relaxed, and the little boy’s beaming, blissfully unaware of how horrific life can be. I think: I was like that once, long ago.

  But I don’t want to think of the past, particularly since in the present Susanne and I have been holding hands for so long that they’ve practically fused. Dimly I realise that despite all the horrors I’m feeling good.

  Eventually we return to Pimlico. No sign of Elizabeth’s car outside Norah’s house. With elaborate care we sneak separately down the basement steps and sag against each other with relief when we’re reunited in the hall.

  I kiss her on the cheek and she doesn’t seem to mind. But then the cat arrives, yowling for food, so I’m put on hold while Susanne goes off to open a tin. This is what family life must be like when the baby demands attention. It’s all normal, normal, normal . . . I think: my life’s going to be normal one day. I’m going to be so normal that no one’ll look at me twice as I walk around St. James’s Park on a Sunday afternoon with my wife and kids. I’ll have a house with a dock for the boat. I’ll do gardening and DIY. I’ll—

  “Okay, that takes care of the cat,” says Susanne. “What shall we do next?”

  I wait for her to add: “And don’t even think of shagging,” but she doesn’t. This should be an electrifying go-ahead signal, but I’m so worried she might dismiss my behaviour as mere grazing that I can’t think how to steam forward. Supposing I’ve misread her and she slaps my face? Supposing deep down she thinks I’m shit after all? At least I’m not wearing an Armani suit and lighting up like a thousand-watt bulb, but if I don’t play the stud, how do I operate?

  “I’d sort of like to get sort of closer, know-what-I-mean?” I mumble. “But of course it all depends on what you want.”

  “Yeah. Got a condom?”

  I always carry condoms. That way I never have to pass up an opportunity to graze.

  “Okay,” says Susanne when I give a dazed nod. “Here’s the deal: I don’t want any kind of ‘performance’—what Elizabeth calls ‘choreography.’ I don’t want anything fancy—no bloody frills. I want minimal foreplay, in for ten minutes max, then out with no fuss. Whether you climax is your business and whether I climax is mine. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “And no bloody drivel about how marvellous it all is, because I can spot your lies a mile off. In fact don’t talk at all.”

  “Can I grunt occasionally?”

  “Only if you have to. No fake ecstasy.”

  “But supposing I genuinely—”

  “Look, do you want to shag me or don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then for God’s sake get a move on!”

  “Right . . . Do you have a timer I could set for ten minutes? I’m afraid I might overrun.”

  “Oh no you’re not! All prostitutes have a timer built into their brains when it comes to doing sex!”

  “But we’re not being prostitutes now, are we?” I say. “This is you and me being friends.”

  Susanne slumps down on the sofa and quietly sheds a tear.

  It’s her legacy from the Life. I understand that straight away and straight away I say urgently: “You don’t have to do this. It’s okay. We’ll still be friends.”

  She wipes her eyes. “I haven’t done it since my last punter.”

  My mouth drops open. “You mean you’ve been all this time—”

  “I vowed I’d never do it again unless I really wanted to.”

  “That’s wonderful! I wish I had that much control over my life!”

  “It’s been
lonely,” she says, wiping her eyes again, “but there are worse things than being alone.”

  “You bet. Pervs. Uglies. Punters with bad breath—”

  “Anyway I’m not alone because I’ve got my cat. I don’t mind if I never do it again with anyone, and I’d rather top myself than go back to the Life.”

  “I think you’re brilliant, getting free of it all—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of doing it with you if it wasn’t for that dance. But don’t expect anything much because I’ll be useless.”

  Firmly I say: “Even if you just act like a sack of potatoes I’ll still think you’re the best dancing partner in the world and we’ll still be friends.”

  “Screw-up!” she says, smiling at me through her tears, and that turns out to be the last word spoken in that flat for some time.

  After the allotted ten minutes I ask: “Okay if I go on a bit?” and she says: “I don’t mind.” After a further five I ask: “Okay if I come now?” and she says: “Might as well.”

  Later when I return from the bathroom she says: “I feel bloody sore, worse than a virgin of sixty who’s done it for the first time. Did I feel like a load of old leather?” But I don’t answer her with words. I just slide back into bed and hold her in my arms and kiss her as I’d kiss the best girl in the world, and she kisses me back and snuggles closer to me than ever and I know we’re both happy.

  Well, in one way it was just a run-of-the-mill shag, which is why I’m not wasting time going into porno-detail, but in another way, the way that mattered, it was a very special shag because we were being ourselves, both accepting each other as we were. Also—and I know this sounds pathetic but it’s true—I was proud she’d decided I was good enough to do it with, even though she was so choosy. I felt afterwards too that I could look after her in bed even though she might have to look after me out of it. The real me needs a bit of looking after, I can see that now. Deep down I’m all dreams and unpractical ideas, which is why I’m comfiest with a tough, streetwise woman who can keep me organised.

  After the shag Susanne keeps me organised by telling me I’ve got to eat some more, and she fixes what she calls a “fry-tartar,” a jumbo omelette stuffed with onions, peppers, tomatoes and potatoes. We have to have eggs again because she’s run out of everything else, but the frittata’s so good I don’t care. We drink Italian wine with it and the cat goes in and out through the cat-flap, just as it would in a normal home. I feel so happy being normal, but of course the rest of my life’s not normal yet, not by a long chalk, and eventually I have to go.