We snog for a long time in the hall because we don’t want the evening to end. Neither of us tries to put our feelings into words. No point. Over dinner we’ve worked out our plan of action in detail, so there’s no need to say more about that either, and finally after one last kiss I leave.
I arrive home to find Elizabeth waiting for me, and at once I see she’s in the foulest of tempers.
“You’re going from strength to strength!” she says angrily, coming out of the living-room as I step into the hall. “You stand me up, stand Norah up, stand Serena up—and all to go and moon over a grave! I don’t know how you have the nerve to make such a feeble excuse! What have you really been up to?”
“Nothing! I just felt I needed to go for a drive to get my head together, that’s all. I’ve been upset over the Colin disaster, and—”
“So how’s your head now? You want Asherton to glue it together again?”
I start sweating but say levelly: “I’m okay. Promise. All set for the punters tomorrow.”
“Come here.”
I force myself to step right up to her.
“Kiss me.”
I kiss her. I know what all this is about but I’ve anticipated it. I showered long and hard after the shag.
Drawing back, Elizabeth looks me straight in the eyes and says: “You’ve been with someone,” but I know she has to be bluffing.
I look straight back and say: “No I bloody haven’t!”
“I warn you, Gavin, if you’re lying to me in any way whatsoever—”
“No lies. Honestly. And I’m sorry about today, I really am, but I did write the note explaining and apologising—it wasn’t as if I disappeared without a word—”
I’m cut off. She’s gone back into the living-room and shut the door in my face.
Backing off I run upstairs. Nigel’s home but he’s on his way to his room so we just say hi. Then immediately he’s out of sight the penny drops. I told him earlier that I didn’t want to shag Serena because I had someone else in my sights. No wonder Elizabeth was so sure I’d been with someone! She wasn’t being psychic, just well-informed.
I want to rush up to the attic and bang Nigel’s head against the wall till he confesses, but I manage to calm myself down. I see the best way forward is to say nothing and let Elizabeth think her mole is still unsuspected. I never normally confide in Nigel anyway. I don’t have to change my behaviour towards him.
I get to my room and wonder if it’s been searched but nothing strikes me as suspicious. I pause, thinking. Since I started playing my double-game I’ve never regarded my bedroom as a safe place, so a search would be no big disaster. My safe place is in the attic junk-room where Elizabeth hoards various stuff and I keep the suitcases which I need for our holidays together. Underneath the spot where the suitcases are stacked I’ve taken up a floorboard and hidden the St. Benet’s brochures which I snitched from the church at the start of my fundraising career. I nearly hid them at Austin Friars, but both Tommy and Nigel have the run of that place and they’d have noticed a suspicious floorboard in a flat with no carpets. The attic junk-room at Lambeth seemed the ideal solution, but now I’m not so happy with it. If Elizabeth stays as suspicious as she was tonight she might decide to search my suitcases. I doubt if she’d shift them far enough to see that one of the short boards running into the eaves has less ingrained dirt around it than its neighbour, but the risk is still unacceptable, and since I’m doing no more fundraising I don’t need those brochures anyway. I must get rid of them, and the sooner the better.
But right now I’ve got to wait. I don’t want Nigel to hear me rooting around, and the best thing to do is return home tomorrow after the wake-up session. On Monday morning Nigel goes food-shopping at Sainsbury’s and Elizabeth will either be out or she’ll be busy in the office with Susanne. I can say I’ve forgotten something—the American condoms Iowa Jerry has to have, the leather pouch the Greek geek fancies, another sex-pillow to replace the one that got dumped on by mistake— yeah, I’ll think of something, anything, and then I can nip up to the attic to grab the brochures.
I go to bed and dream of Thursday, which is when the new life will begin—after Susanne’s spent three days channelling the money, and I’ve nicked the Tucker tapes on Wednesday night. But then I wake up and know I’m in trouble. It’s Monday morning and I have to go to work. It’s Monday morning and I have to face the drop-dead frightfulness of my daily life. It’s Monday morning and after hours spent dreaming of heaven I’m right back descending into hell.
Can’t eat breakfast. At least I do, to stop Nigel telling Elizabeth about my poor appetite, but I throw the meal up, deliberately, five minutes later. Off I go to Austin Friars but by the time I reach the flat I’m good for nothing. I can’t meditate, can’t focus, can’t get my act together. All the stress has done my head in. I sit on a stool, elbows on the kitchen counter, and shudder. Huge tears splash down my cheeks. I start to sob. Can’t stop, not for a full thirty seconds. Then because I’m scared shitless and don’t know what else to do I call Susanne.
“Right,” she says at once when I blurt out I can’t go on—and all my life I’ll remember how she was there for me when the crunch finally came. “It’s okay, I’ve been where you are now and I understand. Now listen. Don’t answer the doorbell. You’re stuck in traffic and you’re not there.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can but I’m not dressed yet so you’ll have to hang on for at least another three quarters of an hour. Can you do that?”
I say I can.
“When I arrive I’ll give three short buzzes and three long ones so you’ll know it’s me. Okay? We’ll work our way round this, Gavin, try not to worry, all it needs is extra planning.” She hangs up.
The doorbell rings seconds later but I don’t answer it. Covering my face with my hands I feel as if the sharks have scented blood in the water and are closing in to tear me apart.
By the time she arrives I’m red-eyed but tearless. I’ve drunk a couple of glasses of wine to calm me down. Three or four glasses, in fact. I feel muzzy but not wuzzy. I could be worse.
She’s got to be smelling the alcohol on my breath but all she says is: “Somebody ought to abolish the Tube. It’s not even fit for animals.”
The buzzer blares again as she speaks. It’s been blaring and blaring. Clients are always instructed that if there’s no response when they first ring they’re to wait five minutes before ringing again. That covers a situation where the schedule backs up, but normally this never happens because I never overrun. Clients come up by the lift, go down by the stairs and never meet, least of all on the landing outside my front door. I mean, I’m a top-class professional, right? I never mess my clients around or put them in awkward social situations or—
“Gavin!”
“Sorry, yes, I’m listening . . .” I tune back into the scene to find Susanne’s put some coffee on and we’re sitting side by side at the kitchen counter. “Okay, this is what happens,” she’s saying briskly. “We have to accelerate the plan we made—do it all today. It’ll be riskier but there are advantages—less time for anything to go wrong, for instance, less time having to play-act for Elizabeth.”
I nod. She puts her hand over mine and lets it rest there as she adds: “The first thing we’ve got to do is stop Elizabeth finding out you can’t work, but I can fix that. The early-shift clients will be leaving messages on the answerphone, but Elizabeth never goes into the office before I arrive and today she won’t even be there at eleven because she’s arranged to meet someone in Battersea at ten-thirty. So I can call all the clients scheduled for today and arrange refunds to keep them quiet.”
I manage to whisper: “What about my money?”
“The Caymans are several hours behind us so I can’t do anything till the afternoon, but that’s okay, Elizabeth’s got a two o’clock meeting with the escort agency accountant, so the coast’ll be clear. I’ll set up a joint account in your name and
Elizabeth’s, just as I planned, and transfer the money to it. Then I’ll wait a couple of hours and transfer the lot to your account in London—and you’d better not go back on your promise to give me ten per cent! But if we’re going for speed it’s best to keep the deal simple. One new account to bring you onto the scene. One transfer to the UK—and on second thoughts, maybe I should leave a bit of money in the new Cayman account to avoid suspicion. Maybe I should leave some money in the old account too.”
“Just do whatever you think’s best. If only it wasn’t all so risky—”
“Maybe it’s not so risky as it seems—I bet those Cayman banks are used to pushing money around all over the place with the minimum of questions asked! But I’ll try and work late tonight in case the bank does a check-up.”
“God! Supposing Elizabeth’s in the room when they phone?”
“Look, that’s my problem and if it happens I’ll deal with it somehow. What you’ve got to do is forget all that and concentrate on holing up here for the rest of the day without freaking out—by which I mean that if you get drunk tossing off all the clients’ booze I’ll bloody kill you.”
“What happens after I’ve holed up here all day?”
“Go home and pretend everything’s normal. You wouldn’t normally spend time with Elizabeth on a Monday evening, would you? Okay, so just say hi to her and then go upstairs, have dinner, chat to Nigel—only for God’s sake watch what you say. I know you and Nigel are good mates but he’s dependent on Elizabeth for a job and you can bet Asherton’s got him on film doing something horrible. He’s not to be trusted.”
I tell her my own suspicions about Nigel, and she’s alarmed. “Shit, the last thing we need is him playing supergrass!”
I remember Nigel saying he loves me but I don’t repeat this to Susanne. She’d just laugh. Instead I say: “He wouldn’t want to harm me. But he’s just no good at standing up to Elizabeth.”
“Little rat! Make sure he’s in his room before you start packing!”
“Talking of packing—”
“It’s essentials only for both of us. I’m going to have to leave most of my stuff behind.”
“What about the cat?”
“I’ll pop her in a cattery this evening. Best if she’s out of the way for a couple of days . . . Are you still planning to nick the Tucker tapes?”
I feel shivery but say I am. “I’ll wait till one in the morning to make sure Tommy’s asleep.”
“Okay, I’ll expect you around one-thirty—call me as soon as you’re driving away and I’ll be waiting for you down the street from Norah’s— I’ll be sheltering in the newsagent’s doorway. Then we’ll go to St. Benet’s, and let’s hope they can deal.”
“Should I call Nicholas to warn him?”
“Better not. If he doesn’t know anything, he can’t cause complications.”
The coffee finishes percolating and Susanne pours each of us a mug. No milk. We’re into serious caffeine-toking here.
We go over the plan again, and by the time the coffee’s finished we’re wired.
“One thing more,” I say as she prepares to leave. “Wipe Gil’s name from the client files before you leave tonight.”
“That Gilbert’s going to wind up the luckiest gay in London by the time you’ve finished with him.”
We embrace for a long moment by the front door.
“Think of ‘In the Mood,’ ” she says after I’ve given her a final kiss, “and remember we’ve got a lot of dancing still to do.”
She leaves. In the kitchen I pour away the rest of the wine in the bottle I opened earlier, and switch to orange juice.
I’ve recovered my nerve.
Between shifts I stay in the flat. I haven’t forgotten that I need to get rid of the St. Benet’s brochures, but they don’t seem so dangerous now I know I’ll be leaving that house for good tonight. I’ll collect them this evening when I bring down my suitcase from the junk-room.
The day drags on while I watch daytime TV like a zombie. For lunch I eat some biscuits and drink some milk. Must take in some kind of fuel.
Finally, at six-thirty, I leave. It’s such a relief to escape from that place. It’s such a relief to know I’ll never have to go there again.
When I arrive home I stop at the office and Susanne gives me a lacklustre “hi” as if nothing’s happened between us. Elizabeth’s there too, and when she turns her back on Susanne to look at me, Susanne gives me the thumbs-up sign to let me know the plan’s on track.
“Hullo, pet,” says Elizabeth casually. “Everything all right?”
“Fine. Sorry about yesterday. I feel really bad about that now.”
“So you should!” But she’s smiling at me. “By the way, Nigel won’t be in tonight. There’s a party down at the pub for one of his friends and I said he could take the evening off on condition he left a nice cold supper for you.”
“Okay.” I will myself to linger in order to appear normal. “How was your day?”
“Oh, busy, busy, busy . . . And I’m going out to dinner with Eva tonight—do you remember my friend Eva who had that very high-class business for Arabs near the Edgware Road a couple of years ago?”
“The silver-blonde with the accent?”
“That’s the one. Well, she’s off Arabs now, says the next big trend’s Russians . . . You’re looking a little peaky, pet! Perhaps I should take you on a mini-break before Christmas so that you can have some nice sea air.”
I smile at her. “Bournemouth?”
“No, Bournemouth’s no fun in winter except at Christmas. Perhaps Brighton. Brighton’s always fun.”
“Let’s make it soon,” I say, giving her a kiss before adding: “Remember me to Eva.”
She says she will and we part very fondly, but as I force myself to dawdle up the stairs it’s hard to repress the biggest possible shudder.
Nigel’s already left for the pub. Good news. Tommy’s car’s absent from its parking slot and that probably means he’s gone early to Austin Friars to pick up the tapes and check the equipment. Too bad he couldn’t have gone later, after Elizabeth’s departure. Then I’d have had the perfect opportunity to nick the Tucker tapes—but no, I’m wrong, Tommy might notice they were missing if I nicked them earlier than planned. The retrieval has to wait till he’s asleep.
On an impulse I pad down to the first-floor landing and glance into the hall below. Susanne and Elizabeth are still in the office, but Elizabeth’s telling her not to work late. Shit! If the Cayman bank phones while Elizabeth’s still here . . . Closing my mind against this nightmare I make a mental note to check the fax machine and answerphone later in the evening.
After picking at the cold salmon salad Nigel’s left for me I go to my bedroom to start selecting clothes. I decide to restrict myself to one suit—a conventional number, not some fuck-me designer two-piece— and a few items of casual gear. I thought I’d be upset when the time came to abandon my wardrobe, but when I look at the clothes I’ve used for my hustler’s life I just want to puke. I mind more about leaving my books, and even more than that I mind leaving my CDs. I decide to take three of each with me. But which three? The problem absorbs me while I wait for Elizabeth to leave for her date with vice-queen Eva who got on the wrong side of the law two years ago but is now out of jail and beavering away to start up a call-girl racket that’ll service the new Russian mafia. Elizabeth doesn’t like Russians. She says she can never forget the Cuban Missile Crisis. Must be weird to be able to remember that kind of stuff.
She goes at quarter to eight. I shelter behind a curtain as I watch her drive away, but she doesn’t look up. That’s the last I’ll see of Elizabeth in our present life, although I hope that one day in my new life I’ll see her again—in the dock of a criminal court. But I probably won’t. There’ll be no evidence and she’ll slither away again, doing her disappearing act.
I feel so churned up by these thoughts that I have to lose the few shreds of salmon salad which I’ve allowed into my stomach,
but even after that the mental pain’s so excruciating that I still feel out of control. So I go to the kitchen, find a steak-knife and cut myself on the forearm. Now I feel better. I’m conscious of an exquisite relief as I watch the blood trickle over the skin. I’m in control again. The pain of thinking how Elizabeth’s trashed me is still there but I can feel other pain, such as the soreness of my throat after the vomiting and the rawness of my forearm after the cut, and the physical pain eclipses the mental agony.
My mobile rings. I’ve brought it in from the car, just as I do every night to outplay the Lambeth thieves, and it’s lying on a table in the living-room.
“Check the office while she’s out,” says Susanne the moment I take the call. “Check the fax and the answerphone. We need to know if the transfer hasn’t gone through.”
“Right. Shall I call you if everything’s okay?”
“No, only if there’s a hitch, and if I don’t answer keep trying. Remember, I’ve got to take the cat to the cattery.”
She ends the call and I set down the mobile by the regular phone, the one that I’d never use for private calls because I’m sure Tommy’s bugged it for Elizabeth. I discussed this communication hazard with Susanne earlier and made sure she had my mobile number.
Leaving my section of the house I retrieve the vital number sequence from the porno-pic in Elizabeth’s bathroom and head downstairs to raid the safe for the basement keys. On my way I check the office but the machines are clear. So far so good.
Leaving the office I move into the living-room and remove the cheapo pastiche of an oil painting which conceals Elizabeth’s safe.
As soon as the safe door swings open, my brain zips into top gear. I’ve been so wrapped up in my puking and cutting that I’ve failed to anticipate this dazzling window of opportunity, but now I see that this is when I finally uncover Elizabeth’s secrets. Brilliant.
The Heartbreaker Page 44