The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  I’m in such a state that I phone Carta to pour out these new employment problems, and she promises she’ll help me solve them.

  She’s the best sister a man never had. I still think she’s megashaggable, but so what? A man can have a megashaggable sister and realise shagging’s a total non-starter—that’s what the incest taboo’s all about. There’s a sort of plastic side to the brain, as I worked out long ago when I was meditating on sexual orientation, and that’s why the brain can adapt to all kinds of peculiar circumstances. My brain’s now been moulded by the journey to think of Carta as the best kind of older sister, the kind who escorts you to kindergarten and holds your hand so tightly you can’t wriggle free to run under a bus, the kind who doesn’t just dump you when you reach the school playground, the kind who takes you to your classroom and tells the local bully that if you’re beaten up there’ll be hell to pay.

  I think Carta and Susanne are both aware now that they’re like sisters-in-law, and that’s why they can finally get on. Their relationships with me don’t impinge on each other, they dovetail.

  Weird. But then maybe miracles always are . . .

  The very next weekend Carta visits me, and with her comes Eric Tucker who used to be Mr. Over-the-Hill but who’s now Mr. Prime-of-Life, bursting with health and vitality after the success of his last book. Instantly I decide I don’t want to see him, but Carta goes off to the kitchen area to waffle with Susanne while coffee’s being made so I wind up alone with this bloke who’s got a golden career. I hate him and feel a mega-failure. Major relapse.

  “Carta says you’re worried about how to ease your way into the job market,” he says, “and I wanted to give you a tip: get the basic office skills. It won’t take too long and it won’t cost too much. Then you can always earn money temping as a secretary.”

  I’m just thinking I hate him worse than ever for underlining what an unqualified mess I am, when I realise he’s dangled a good idea in front of me. Even a modest proper-job would build my CV and boost my morale—and maybe I could even have fun hanging around the water cooler with all those gorgeous . . . no, I couldn’t. Gavin Blake Office Shag-Star isn’t a role I want to audition for. Susanne would castrate me and walk out.

  My thoughts skitter on but Eric interrupts them. To my amazement he says: “I was a mess in my twenties. I lived off women so that I could write my books, and I wound up ploughed under. But my brother Gilbert made me get office skills and eventually I got my life back on track.” He stops, clears his throat. “Well, that’s it,” he says airily as if he’s been talking about nothing instead of doing something cool and brave. “That’s all I came to say. Thanks for listening.” And he joins Susanne and Carta who are still chatting about the stock market.

  That evening I write him a letter. It reads: “Hey, thanks for the tip. Thanks for giving a shit. Thanks for telling me how you got sorted. GAVIN.” I chew the end of my pen for five whole minutes before adding: “PS. I hope you and Carta will be very happy.”

  The funny thing is it’s much easier to accept that marriage now I know he was a bit like me once but busted a gut to put himself right. He’s earned her, he’s worthy of her. Okay, good luck, mate, I think as I seal the envelope, and the next moment I realise I’m feeling less anxious about my future employment. If he can turn his life around with the aid of a modest proper-job, then I can too.

  The St. Benet’s future’s publicly unfolding: Nicholas announces his decision to leave in six months’ time. Carta will stay on to manage the office and continue supervising the conversion of the new building, but eventually, she says, she’ll get a job as a lawyer in the voluntary sector. She’s enjoyed the fundraising but she feels it’s not quite her métier.

  Val and Robin will be remaining at St. Benet’s to support the new rector, but Lewis sticks to his decision to leave. His son-in-law the bishop has just received a big promotion to a glamorous southern diocese, but just when I’m telling myself that Lewis won’t be able to resist going there to be cared for by his daughter in his old age, he tells me he’s determined not to live on his son-in-law’s doorstep. He never says so, but I reckon this son-in-law isn’t his kind of clergyman.

  Seizing the chance to ask him directly about his future at last without making him think I’m obsessed with staying close to him, I blurt out: “So which city will you be living in?”

  “Why, this one, of course!” says Lewis, astonished that I should be in any doubt.

  “But you did mention moving—”

  “Yes, but to another borough! I was asking myself whether I should move from the City to Westminster or to Kensington and Chelsea or—”

  “But that’s wonderful!” I shout. Then I get a grip, can the hysteria and say with the necessary seriousness: “You mean this is okay with God? He doesn’t want you to leave London?”

  “Naturally God’s aware that I’m much too old for such a radical change!” says Lewis, smiling at me, “and if I stay in London it’ll be easier for him to find a place where I can be useful.”

  However it seems a short holiday in Cambridge could be on the cards. Lewis says he has a ladyfriend there and although he knows his destiny’s to be an unmarried mentor like Great-Uncle Cuthbert, he always enjoys her company. This lady, who’s also uninterested in marriage, is a theology graduate currently campaigning for cathedral reform. “She’s rather eccentric,” says Lewis fondly. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! Maybe they’ll get together one day at the altar after all.

  I decide I wouldn’t mind if Lewis were to produce an interesting wife, but he seems pretty sure he’ll get a flat on his own. He’s looking for one in Bayswater, where Great-Uncle Cuthbert’s Anglican–Benedictine Order still has its headquarters not far from Marble Arch. This house was where Lewis spent his adolescence after being rescued, the house which now seems closest to his idea of “home.” He couldn’t possibly be a monk, he says, but if he lives nearby he can visit often and perhaps be useful to the community in various ways.

  Meanwhile everyone’s saying: “How’s poor old Lewis going to manage without Nick and Alice?” but he’ll be fine. He’s not strapped for cash, he’ll find the right flat and he’ll stuff it with all his music gear and his books and his icons. He’ll visit his monks for the daily services in their chapel. He’ll keep on working, seeing the people who come to him for spiritual direction. And best of all he’ll keep on seeing me.

  I’ll look after him.

  But at present he’s busy looking after me, busy being my mentor. He says I have real spiritual gifts. Me! Imagine that! What’s so great about Lewis is that he’s always so encouraging, so sympathetic, so approachable . . . all the things poor old Dad never was. I’m thinking of Dad a lot at the moment—no doubt because he represents unfinished business— and sometimes when Lewis speaks with that same old-fashioned accent I’m enthralled because I recognise him as a healed version of my father.

  Thinking of healing resurrects the subject of the weekly healing service, and now that my fear of losing Lewis has been terminated, I find my anxiety levels are low enough to allow me to commit to a date.

  It’s time to beam in on St. Benet’s.

  The healers at the services vary, I’ve learned, because they’re drawn from all those who work at St. Benet’s plus anyone Nicholas chooses to invite, and as Lewis has already told me, they don’t have to be priests and they don’t have to be men. When Carta received her crucial healing, it was Val, Dr. Lush-Lips, who did the laying-on of hands. The healer puts his/her hands on your head—or slightly above your head—and says a prayer. You can even tell him/her what to pray for. The theory is that the healer’s lined up so accurately with The Bloke at that moment that The Bloke’s power just whooshes straight through to the person who needs healing. This sounds weird, even iffy, but Carta swears the whole process as practised at St. Benet’s is very low-key, very safe, totally honest. There’s no guru promising to walk on water before he drives off in his Rolls-Royce, no wonder-worker egging
people on to screech and writhe before they reach for their chequebooks. There are just the healers working quietly and unobtrusively without payment, and beyond them all is The Bloke. Lewis says The Bloke’s always there.

  As I nervously mull over these reports of the healing service, I know I’ll feel a lot less jittery if I can make up my mind who I want my healer to be. I don’t have to choose Val. I don’t even have to choose Lewis’s deaconess. I—

  “YOW!” I shout, punching the air with a clenched fist as the image of the ideal person smashes into my mind. Why didn’t I think of her before? My IQ must be even more off than I thought it was, but on the other hand no one’s put her name forward for consideration. Can’t think why not, though. She’s the obvious choice.

  “You do it,” I say firmly to Carta.

  She’s shattered. Stunned. Obviously this idea’s never occurred to her just as it’s never occurred to anyone else. More weird still she now behaves like a preschooler invited to sit A-level physics.

  “Oh, but I’m not up to it,” she gabbles in panic. “I’m just an administrator, not spiritually gifted at all. I’m just a beginner Christian.”

  I stare at her, and seeing my astonishment she gabbles on, trying to sound rational but only seeming more nutso than ever. “I want you to have the best person for the job,” she says, cheeks now a luscious creamy pink, “and that can’t be me, couldn’t be. You need someone really special.”

  “I can think of no one more special in this context than you. Can’t you see? This is where the road’s going! We’re looking at journey’s end!”

  She starts to get it. “You mean—”

  “The Bloke’s designed it and we’ve got to help him by rising to the occasion. It’s meant to be a grand finale for winners, not a shiver-fest for a couple of wimps!”

  Suddenly Carta’s eyes fill with tears. She whispers: “I’m so frightened of failing you.”

  But I know all about fear of failure. I know how it can tear you up inside and maim your true self and stop you functioning at your best. Lewis says all spiritual problems are generated by fear of some kind. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of abandonment, fear of loneliness, fear of dying . . .

  But no fear’s stronger than love. That’s why I hug Carta tightly before releasing her and saying: “Okay, tell me: what’s the story?”

  Of course she’s only got an inferiority complex, but that’s not the point. The point is it’s a roadblock and has to go. How can you be your whole self when there’s a part of your mind telling you that in one area at least you’re no good, you’re hopeless, you’re rubbish? And this has nothing to do with humility. Lewis says genuine humility means being totally realistic about your strengths and limitations. An inferiority complex is about being unrealistic, about having a distorted view of yourself. It’s not the same thing at all.

  Golden Girl tries to outline her problem. She’s always relied on her intelligence, she says. It’s been the only thing that’s never let her down. People you trust let you down, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of that father of hers, the compulsive gambler?). People behave like absolute shits, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of husband number one, that swine Betz?). People try to stab you in the back, she says (what’s the betting she’s thinking of every woman-hating male in the City who’s tried to wreck her past career as a high flyer?). But so long as you’ve got brains, she says, you can work out how to survive.

  That was her philosophy until 1990 when her brains failed to save her and her world crashed. Then she found out that a load of the most important things in life such as truth, beauty and goodness—and of course love—the whole spiritual package—aren’t always accessible through intellectual reasoning and streetwise brainpower. In fact although Christianity can be very intellectually high-powered indeed, spiritual stuff can never be fully sorted by the human intellect. It’s too mysterious, and this makes intellect-dependent Carta baffled. How does she cope with this weird new world she’s uncovered and make the most of her new raised consciousness? Answer: she doesn’t. She’s too nervous of failing. She’s always equated survival with intellectual success, and she can’t imagine surviving in a dimension where there are no exams to pass and you’re required to function as the whole you and not just as a brain on legs.

  Yes, she did manage to summon the nerve to work for St. Benet’s, she says, but she could only do the work because it was non-spiritual. She doesn’t seem to realise that the deepest spirituality, as I’ve found out from observing Lewis, is essentially practical and thoroughly engaged with normal everyday life. In contrast Carta seems to think there’s a little box in her head marked “spiritual” which never gets opened unless she’s trying to pray—and she’s no good at prayer anyway, she says. She’s very sorry, but she’s sure God understands.

  Instantly I picture God staring aggrieved at this flaky little fleck of paint which keeps wilting on the canvas and marring the pattern he’s planned for this micro-area. “You bet God understands!” I snap. “He’s probably saying: ‘What a load of bullshit!’ and tearing his long white beard!”

  She manages to laugh. “I’m nuts, aren’t I?”

  “Welcome to the club. But we can get healed.”

  “I suppose if I were to research healing thoroughly—study the techniques—equip myself with the right special knowledge—”

  “You’re wandering into the wrong religion! This isn’t about special knowledge, as the Gnostics thought, so you can give the high IQ a rest before you blow a fuse. All you and I have to do here is love one another and trust The Bloke.”

  She gazes at me as if I’m talking Sanskrit. Funny how people can learn a lot about Christianity and yet be unable to apply it to their daily lives. “I’m not talking about love as airy-fairy guff or sentimental goo,” I say. “I’m talking about love as creative dynamite, a force which can make a difference to everyday life and open up all kinds of opportunities which wouldn’t otherwise be there. Healing opportunities, for instance.”

  “Sure,” she says earnestly, but I know she’s still at sea so I decide I have to hit the brain on legs with a flying tackle.

  “What’s your problem about love?” I demand. “Why do you feel it has to be kept safe in your head in a little box marked ‘spiritual’?”

  “What on earth do you mean?” she hits back hotly, but she’s pulling down all the defences in double-quick time. “I love Eric. I love you. I love my St. Benet’s friends. I even love my family when they’re not driving me nuts. I don’t have a problem about love, just about being spiritual.”

  “But love’s the most spiritual thing there is!”

  “Yes, but . . .” Her eyes fill with tears again. I wait. She looks away. I wait some more, but finally she whispers: “Love hurts when it goes out of control. It got so I couldn’t stand the pain.”

  I see it all.

  “You’re talking about Kim, aren’t you?” I say.

  “Yes, but I’ve got over him. I’ve integrated the good and bad memories. I’m happily married to someone else and my marriage to Kim is no longer unfinished business. I’m fine now.”

  That’s the way it ought to be, of course. And that’s the rational response, the one Carta the Lawyer has drafted with the aid of her intellect and can spew out word-perfect on cue. But how far does this response connect with reality? Well, I know what I think, but I know too that I can’t say it. She’d just deny she’s still damaged, low on trust, high on suspicion, emotionally tight-arsed, struggling all the time to control love, only letting it out of that multiple-locked little box in her head when she’s absolutely sure she won’t get wasted.

  Well, I’m sympathetic. Of course I am. I know all about loving and being trashed. But I also know, thanks to Susanne and Lewis and The Bloke, that trashing doesn’t have to have the last word. You must never knuckle under to being trashed. That represents a failure to respect the worth of your true self, and it converts the trashing into a roadblock in n
o time flat.

  Meanwhile Carta’s insisting as she wipes away the tears: “I’m fine. I just get emotional sometimes at the thought of Kim, that’s all.” She scrunches up the Kleenex and gets herself together. “What were we talking about before we nose-dived?”

  “The healing service. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  “Do what?” The brain on legs must be still punch-drunk from all the spiritual chitchat.

  “The laying on of hands, dum-dum!”

  “Oh God, I’d quite forgotten—”

  “Think of the journey!” I urge, egging her on. “You’re not going to fall by the wayside now, are you?”

  “Certainly not!” she says, recovering fast.

  “Then friend, I’m begging you: help me out here. If you really love me—”

  “I’ll do it,” she says, and the die’s cast.

  She’s going to be in that church with me, and there’s now no way I’m going to back off in a fit of panic. I need her to be there for me and she needs me to be there for her and I’m never going to let her down, never.

  So off we go hand in hand at last into the final stretch of the finishing strait of our epic journey, but as I well know from my harrowing swim to shore through the shark-infested waters, there’s still no guarantee of survival. It may be grand finale time, but it could also be the time I get blasted.

  I’m terrified.

  I wear a black tracksuit with a white trim. I never wear an ordinary suit nowadays or designer clothes. Susanne’s chosen the tracksuit for me at an East End discount store. For the healing service I also make her buy me some glasses, fake ones which have plain lenses. Sunglasses in winter would look too mafioso yet I must have something to hide behind as I venture out into the world to take my place among a crowd. I’ve grown my hair longer for extra camouflage, and in the mirror I see this thin, bespectacled nerd in cheapo gear complete with scuffed trainers. No gay on the make would give me a second glance.