The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  “Sir Colin Broune will see you at five o’clock today at his office at number sixty-three, Old Jewry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The sentence was repeated with a robotic precision which left no room for argument. I agreed to present myself, hung up and raced over to the Healing Centre.

  “He must be thinking again of a donation,” I said feverishly after grabbing Nicholas between appointments, “and we can take the money now, can’t we? I mean, at this stage we know Gavin can’t be pressuring him.”

  “Right!” Nicholas was as enthralled as I was, but he added: “I’m surprised he asked to see you and not me. Remember how he prefers to deal with men if he has the choice?”

  “Maybe he’s mellowed!” I was enraptured by the possibility that Sir Colin might end my anxiety about the final stretch of the Appeal, and in fact I even wondered if he would donate the whole fifty thousand pounds outstanding. “In your dreams!” I muttered to myself as I returned to the office, but the vision of a monster cheque refused to go away.

  Having arrived at RCPP’s towering headquarters at two minutes before five I was directed to a lift which rocketed me straight to the top floor. Here I spent a restful ten minutes while I watched the acid-voiced contralto toying with her latest computer behind a wraparound desk suitable for controlling the universe.

  At last I was escorted to the chairman’s office, the ultimate corporate status symbol. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the dense architectural jungle of the City where modern skyscrapers crowded around the elderly fortress of the Bank of England. Classical paintings, all no doubt of breathtaking value, clung glumly to the walls. An oak desk, huge, plain and square like its owner, stood marooned amidst an ocean of pale gold carpet. The top of the desk was bare, signalling that the chairman was so perfectly in control of his empire that clutter was something which could only happen in the offices of other people, far away on a distant floor.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Graham,” said Gavin’s former client, drawing a veil over the memory of that weekend at his country house when we had addressed each other informally.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Colin,” I said, taking care to look respectful but not intimidated.

  He mangled my hand and invited me to sit down but I was not offered any refreshment. Nor did he indulge in small-talk. When we were seated, I in a wing chair uncomfortable for anyone under six feet tall, he in a swivel chair which plainly hoped to be a throne when it grew up, he simply said: “The events of the trial reminded me of that famous saying attributed to Edmund Burke: ‘All that is required for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ I did nothing after that weekend house party, even though I realised Asherton was pushing views that should be opposed by all right-thinking men no matter whether they believe in God or not. But in the weeks since the trial I’ve been thinking about what I can do to put right my omission.”

  He paused. I thought: my God, this is it, he’s going to give.

  “While meditating on the situation,” pursued Sir Colin, “it occurred to me that at the trial Gavin Blake showed a great deal of courage. It also occurred to me that in the end it was the people of St. Benet’s who helped him, while I merely washed my hands and moved on. There’s a message for me there, I feel, Miss Graham, and I trust I’m not so deficient in honesty that I’m unable to read it.”

  As he opened a drawer of his desk and took out an envelope, my heart banged so loudly that I was sure he must have heard it. The numbers five and zero were trying to mate in my brain, a triumph of hope over cynicism.

  “You were a personal friend of Gavin’s, I remember,” he said abruptly. “You met him through Richard Slaney, who was one of your fellow partners at Curtis, Towers.”

  I somehow achieved a nod.

  “That’s why I asked to see you and not Darrow. As a personal friend of Gavin’s you will, I hope, agree to deliver this letter to him—and don’t put it in the post, it’s too important, I want to make sure it’s delivered into his hands. If you could do this for me, Miss Graham, at the earliest opportunity, I’d be extremely grateful.”

  The golden rule for all fundraisers is never offend a millionaire, not even when all you want to do is fling back your head and scream with disappointment.

  “Yes, of course, Sir Colin,” I said smoothly. “I’ll go to his house as soon as I can.”

  That closed the interview. Not only was there no stunning donation but there was not even a morale-boosting token gift. I was merely a convenient minion selected to deliver his special mail. Perhaps I could get a job as a post-person when I finally flaked out of fundraising.

  Poker-faced I offered my hand for re-mangling and abandoned him to his empty desktop.

  IV

  It was on the evening after my interview with Sir Colin that Lewis rang to say Gavin had asked to see me, and when I mentioned Sir Colin’s letter Lewis suggested we should go together to the house in Docklands.

  “If the letter were to upset Gavin it might be better if I was there,” he said, and we agreed to make the journey on the following afternoon.

  I had not been to Gavin’s home before. It was one of twelve houses in a terrace which faced a narrow strip of water, and a few boats were already bobbing at their moorings. The area was bleak, but I could see the gulls wheeling over the nearby river, and not far away loomed the massive tower of Canary Wharf, symbolising the regeneration and transformation of this eastern swathe of the capital.

  “It’s London,” I commented wryly, “but not as we know it,” and before Lewis could reply, Susanne was opening the front door.

  “He’s only just got himself out of bed,” she said without wasting time on preliminaries. “You’ll have to wait.” I was reminded of Sir Colin’s contemptuous indifference to small-talk.

  The house was larger than it looked from the outside, and the living-room with its dining-area, open-plan kitchen and view over the water had the potential to be attractive. The furniture looked as if it had been ordered from a Habitat catalogue: modern lines, primary colours, each piece simple and functional. A number of plants added splashes of greenery to the windowsills.

  We sat down at the dining-table. Lewis had told me that he always conducted conversations with Gavin there so that the table could act as a protective barrier; Gavin was still deeply phobic about being touched by men.

  “Gav!” yelled Susanne after she had made us tea. “You still alive?” She dumped our mugs in front of us, and as she did so Gavin came down the stairs.

  He was rail-thin and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was longer and shaggier, suggesting that being a barber would never be Susanne’s métier, but he had taken time to shave, and his sweatshirt and jeans both looked freshly laundered. I realised he had made a big effort to appear well for me.

  “Gavin!” I exclaimed warmly, but found I was unsure what to do next. I knew that as a woman I was allowed to touch him, but clasping his hand in that context seemed too formal and hugging him might have been more than he wanted, particularly as Susanne was standing by.

  “Hi,” he said with a fleeting smile. “Don’t get up. Hullo, Lewis.”

  “Well, I’m off,” said Susanne, plonking a mug of tea in front of him as he sat down opposite me. “Back in an hour, Gav. Cheers.” She grabbed her bag and clip-clopped out. The door banged noisily.

  My instant reaction was: how does he stand it? But I repressed that thought in order to concentrate on making the right moves. I felt I had fluffed the greeting by being too tentative. “How are you doing?” I said, trying to sound sympathetic without being oppressively caring.

  “Still breathing.” He gave me another quick smile but said nothing else, and it was a relief when Lewis intervened.

  “Carta’s brought a letter from Sir Colin Broune, Gavin,” he said, “and I think it must be important because he wanted it delivered by hand. Carta, tell Gavin what happened.”

  I did my best but I was very conscious that Gavin was unable to look at me,
and as I pushed the letter across the table towards him I was unnerved when he shrank back as if it were contaminated. To my distress I saw his eyes fill with tears.

  “I’ll tell you what I could do,” said Lewis crisply, exuding both kindness and common sense. “I could read the letter aloud but slowly, so that you could easily interrupt if you wanted me to stop. The trouble is that if you don’t know what Sir Colin’s written, you might start to wonder about it later and that could make you anxious, particularly if you don’t want to read the letter yourself.”

  Gavin hesitated, nervously revolving the mug of tea between his hands, but when he at last nodded, Lewis read with numerous pauses: “ ‘My dear Gavin, I regret the manner of our parting and I apologise for my anger. You were very brave during the trial. In fact your courage made me see not only how deeply I failed you but how all your clients should feel guilty about what happened. The truth is we colluded with Mrs. Delamere. The fact that I unwittingly became entangled with Asherton is, I feel, symbolic of how easy it is to allow evil to enter one’s life, and how hard it often is to recognise and reject it.

  “ ‘I understand from various reports in the newspapers that you have now abandoned your occupation. Should this be true, and naturally I hope it is, you will be looking for a job. I write to say that a place could be found for you in one of the divisions of RCPP, and I can ask the head of personnel to assess you to decide where you would flourish best. Even if you later decide the job doesn’t suit you, it will at least be a beginning, a stepping-stone to a job you prefer. You and I need never meet again. My organisation is extremely large and I seldom see employees below a certain level, particularly if they are not employed at my headquarters in Old Jewry.

  “ ‘I wish to say one thing more. You were kind to me when we first met. I hope that now you will allow me to be kind in return. Yours sincerely, COLIN.’ ”

  Lewis stopped reading. Then after a long silence Gavin leaned forward and buried his face in his hands as he wept.

  V

  Lewis instantly turned to me but I needed no prompting. Springing to my feet I shot around the table, stooped over Gavin and hugged him. How self-centred I had been, merely seeing Sir Colin as a walking chequebook! “This is better than any donation Colin could make,” I said strongly as I sat down at Gavin’s side. “A good job with a good company—it’ll be just what you need once you’re well!”

  Gavin wiped his eyes on the cuff of his sweatshirt and whispered: “I could never accept it.”

  I was shocked. “But he obviously wants to help!”

  He turned to Lewis. “Explain to her.”

  “It would be as if Gavin were continuing to profit from a client,” said Lewis evenly, and added before I could protest: “But it’s an interesting letter, isn’t it, Gavin? Sir Colin, it seems, is rather more than just a run-of-the-mill City hatchet-man.”

  Gavin managed to say: “I’ll read the letter now. But I can’t touch it.” So I spread both sheets of paper in front of him on the table.

  After he had stared at the handwriting for some time he said: “It was good of him to apologise, good of him to say nice things about me, good of him to try to help. But he’s got it wrong about colluding with Elizabeth. It wasn’t my clients’ fault that all I could do to make a living was sell myself.”

  “It’s right that you should want to take responsibility for your actions,” said Lewis, “but it’s right too that Sir Colin wants to take responsibility for the part he played in keeping you in business. And it’s especially right that he should now want to make amends by stressing that you’re brave, that you deserve better in future and that you’re worthy of support and encouragement.”

  But Gavin could only comment: “I still can’t accept his offer.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but Lewis pushed my foot to shut me up.

  “Very well,” he said to Gavin, “but would you like me to write to him that you’re not well and won’t be job-hunting for a while? You might feel the letter requires some kind of response.”

  “Yes, but I’m the one who’s got to respond—he’d be furious if he knew someone other than me had read all that.” Retrieving a pad of notepaper and a pen from the nearby desk he sat down again at the dining-table and eventually, after several false starts, he produced a note which read: “Dear Colin, I appreciated your generous letter. Thanks. But I’m ill now and not job-hunting and I feel RCPP wouldn’t be viable anyway. Sorry. GAVIN.” At that point he paused, chewing the top of his pen for several seconds before adding rapidly: “P.S. It’s not AIDS.”

  “That’s thoughtful,” I said.

  “They all worry about it. I worried about it.” As he looked at me directly I saw all the emotional damage reflected in his eyes. If the damage had been physical, the eyes would have been bruised and bloodied. It was eerie how a person could be so hurt yet have no scars to show for it, just the haunted expression of extreme pain stoically endured. “I’ve had my final AIDS test,” he said to me. “It was clear. I’m all right. I’m going to live.” Tears spilled down his cheeks again as he turned his head sharply away. “I was so afraid of getting it,” he said. “So afraid. All the time.”

  I hugged him again, and as he leaned trustfully towards me I thought how we had clasped hands at the Healing Centre, I thought how we had clung to each other after Mrs. Mayfield’s sentencing, I thought of all our nerve-jangling encounters when we had been exploring our relationship as fellow travellers, deeply and mysteriously connected, on a journey neither of us could have foreseen.

  He said: “Please don’t wash your hands of me.”

  And I said: “Never. I’m here for you and I’ll go on being here for you.”

  “The people I loved in the past either went away or never loved me back.”

  “I love you, Gavin. I won’t let you down, I promise.”

  We sat there at the table in that quiet room, and Lewis, utterly still, sat opposite us. Outside the sun was shining and seagulls wheeled across the flat landscape in a flicker of arcs bleach-white against the blue sky.

  “I often wondered what it would be like to have a sister,” said Gavin, “but of course I only had a brother.” Releasing my hand he rubbed his eyes and began to fold the letter he had written. “Lewis wants me to talk about my family,” he added, “but it’s hard.”

  “I sympathise—I always find it hard to talk about my family too. My father was a compulsive gambler and that created endless problems when I was small.”

  “Then I feel lucky,” said Gavin, “because when I was small I had no problems.” He sighed before adding painfully: “Hugo was the most wonderful brother to me. I had wonderful parents and a wonderful home. Everything was wonderful, but the trouble was I couldn’t hold on to it, I wasn’t good enough, it all just slipped through my fingers.”

  “But why didn’t someone hold on to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my mother held on to me. She kept me from being taken into care when my father made a mess of our life in Glasgow. She married again and moved to Newcastle because she saw that as the chance to give me a decent home. I would have slipped through her fingers if she hadn’t hung on so tightly, and if I had slipped it wouldn’t have been my fault. It would have been hers.”

  Gavin thought about this but finally shook his head and said: “You were probably a terrific kid and worthy of all those efforts your mum made. But I wasn’t. I just couldn’t measure up.”

  “To Hugo?”

  “To everyone.”

  “All those wonderful people who weren’t wonderful enough to see you were slipping through their fingers? Ugh! Pardon me if I puke! If they left you feeling that everything was your fault, there’s something seriously wrong with your definition of ‘wonderful’!”

  Gavin’s expression was at first shocked but then, reluctantly, enchanted. With amusement he said to Lewis: “She’s not like a therapist, is she? No therapist would be that outspoken.”

  “I can almo
st hear the mewing as Robin has kittens.”

  We all laughed before Gavin said carefully to me: “As you’re not a therapist, you won’t try to rearrange my head, will you?”

  “No, I just want to rearrange the heads of all those wonderful people. Preferably by banging them together.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ll tell you about my family.” And at last, often pausing to fumble for the right word, he began to speak of the past.

  VI

  “Let me make one thing clear from the start,” said Gavin. “This story isn’t about sibling rivalry. Hugo was the best of brothers to me. We got on. I idolised him.”

  He hesitated so I nodded to show him I had taken this information on board without wanting to swing a hatchet at it. Across the table Lewis was so motionless that I wondered if he was still breathing.

  “In fact,” said Gavin, “I loved Hugo so much that when he was dying I promised to live his life for him once he was dead—and I did try to do that, I really did, but I just wasn’t up to it. So I broke my promise to him and I failed to compensate my parents for his loss. That was when I knew I had to go. I had to spare them any further grief.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m not quite with you. How did you try to ‘be’ him, as you put it?”

  “I tried to read medicine. Hugo was going to be a doctor, but not just an ordinary GP like Dad. Hugo was going to be a surgeon, a Harley Street specialist, a real high flyer. Mum and Dad were so proud of him.”

  “But what did you really want to do?”

  “Be an architect, but Dad said I wasn’t pushy enough to hustle for commissions. He said I’d be happier teaching in a private school where there were no discipline problems—and maybe he got that right. I could have spent those long school holidays sailing.”

  “Why didn’t you go into the Navy?”

  “Dad said I was too much of a loner to make a go of it.”

  “Your dad seems to have been—no, sorry, let’s not get diverted. You made this doomed decision to be a doctor, you said—”