The Heartbreaker

by Susan Howatch

  Well, it’s a neat theory, but there’s no proof, is there? Yet there’s a sense in which this doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the Betz fiasco is lying around like an unexploded bomb, and I’d better be bloody careful I don’t detonate it when I do my frolic with Frosty-Puss.

  Okay, so do I need to put her right out of my mind? Maybe it depends on whether or not she’s heard of the Betz fiasco, but as her fundraising’s only been going on for a few months the odds are she knows nothing about Darrow closing down a psychic healing business in Fulham in 1990, and there’s no reason why she should ever have heard of Betz—he’d have been history long before she joined the St. Benet’s team. So I reckon I’m as safe as a gold bar in the Bank of England here, but let’s be thoroughly sensible about this, let’s be as mature as someone nearly thirty should be, let’s just take a moment to visualise how this could all go wrong.

  But although I exercise my imagination energetically for a while I just can’t come up with a doomsday scenario. After all, I’m not going to bring Carta home to meet Elizabeth, am I? And Carta’s not going to take me to the church to meet the Rector. And even if we met him in the street by chance I’m hardly likely to say: “Hey, Rev, I know Elizabeth Mayfield—remember the Betz fiasco?” And we’re not going to meet him in the street anyway.

  Relaxing at last I lie back on my bed and dream of Frosty-Puss, the ultra-shaggable one, the sort of golden British girl who doesn’t normally cross my path. As Elizabeth knows, I’ve made American tourists my speciality. I pick them up in Covent Garden on weekends, take them to a high-buzz place for a meal and then go back with them to their hotel. The great thing about these American babes is that they’re sex-mad—or their therapist has told them they ought to be—and they speak English, more or less, so I can put my brain on autopilot while I enjoy myself. Personally I can’t recommend Americans too highly for a weekend shagbender. Saturday night, maybe Sunday—and then off they go to Stratford or Oxford or back to the States with no harm done and no complications. Perfect.

  But not as perfect as an interlude with Carta Graham, golden girl of my dreams. I go on thinking about her, and the funny thing is that after a while I feel sure she’s thinking about me, even though I don’t believe in any of that ESP rubbish and know that in reality I’m just freaking out on wishful thinking. I wonder what her home’s like. I wonder if she enjoys living in her world. I used to live in a world like that once, long ago.

  “You got lost, didn’t you?” murmurs Richard in my ear as I drift into unconsciousness, and at once I fling back a denial, but seconds later I dream I’m sailing across a glittering sea in another galaxy but with no knowledge of how I can ever find my way home.

  As soon as I get to Austin Friars the next morning I call Directory Enquiries to see if Carta’s number’s listed, but it isn’t. She could be listed under another name, but probably she just prefers to be ex-directory. I then ask the helpful Telecom totty to give me the number of the St. Benet’s Appeal office and she turns this up for me with no trouble.

  After my meditation I get the coffee going and fix the water jug. (The first client fancies ice-cubes as sex aids.) Then I glance again at the list of clients and automatically supply the nicknames I’ve chosen to remind me who’s who. Three minutes later the buzzer drones and away we go.

  This morning I do the Grunter, who makes more noise than Monica Seles chasing the Wimbledon singles title, the Rimmer, who’s ripe for harvesting by the queer-bashers, and Gomorrah, the prima donna who announced at the start of his first session that if I ever mentioned the word S-O-D-O-M he’d piss all over the walls. (Hurriedly I assured him that no one was going to force him either to Gomorrah or be Gomorrahed. The early shift’s almost always a buggery-free zone anyway since only the diehards fancy it so soon after breakfast.)

  This morning Gomorrah wants to use a condom he’s brought back from a trip to Amsterdam. It’s bright pink, it’s got I LUV U printed on it and it’s reeking of synthetic strawberries. I’m glad he’s no longer trying to convince me that his favourite routine carries no risk of AIDS, but this little latex luvvie’s strictly for girls who don’t mind getting pregnant. Patiently I explain to him—not for the first time—that it’s a house rule that I provide all the condoms, even for oral numbers, in order to ensure the highest possible standard of healthcare. Gomorrah throws a tantrum but finally falls into line.

  After he goes I finish the shift by doing the Mandarin, who gets his kicks by watching me go through my repertoire of gay poses. If only all my clients were so undemanding! The Mandarin’s an eighty-two-year-old Chinese man with little English and a beatific smile. His son makes the appointments and pays for the sessions. It’s wonderful how the Chinese look after their old people.

  Since this last appointment involves no physical contact I take my post-shift shower after Gomorrah flounces off, and as soon as the Mandarin’s tottered away I shovel down the egg-mayo sandwich Nigel’s made this morning at my request, skip the work-out at the gym and streak home in the XJ-S. It’s possible to get back in twenty minutes but today it’s raining, the traffic’s snarled and I make a diversion anyway to the florist in Moor Lane. Stuck in a traffic jam south of the river I decide the moment’s come to call Carta on my elderly mobile which becomes a car-phone whenever I bed it down in the Jag.

  “It’s Gavin Blake,” I say in my most businesslike voice as my pulse rate soars. “Have you heard yet when the funeral’s going to be?”

  “Heavens, you’re not going to that, are you?”

  I nearly take a bite out of the phone. “I was his friend. I’m entitled.”

  There’s a pause before she says abruptly: “I haven’t heard anything yet but the notice should be in The Times very soon.”

  “I need to know now in order to clear a space in my schedule,” I say, keeping my voice dead neutral. “Please call me as soon as you get the information.” And I blip out just as the traffic eases. Come on strong, back off cool—it never fails to inflame them. She’ll now be beside herself wondering when I’m going to come on strong again.

  At eleven I arrive home with the flowers I’ve bought to soften Elizabeth up. Can’t stay long, the timing’s too tight, but I can take ten minutes.

  As I pull up on the paved front garden I spot a tall Barbie-doll figure teetering along in towering heels, black tights, a short black leather skirt, a long black leather jacket and God knows what underneath to keep the silicone mountains in order. She’s carrying an umbrella inscribed around the rim with the words: IT’S RAINING WOT A BITCH. She’s Elizabeth’s secretary, Susanne.

  Susanne works from eleven till around seven-thirty because those are the hours which suit Elizabeth, who likes to use the first part of the morning on personal chores such as getting her hair blonded. So Susanne’s still at the office when I come home straight from work, and that’s when she hands me my schedule for the next day. She also orders condoms and sex aids for me, and she’s capable of negotiating fees, although Elizabeth, who loves power, usually handles the haggling. Susanne always treats me like filth. Slag! I can’t stand her.

  Susanne used to be one of Norah’s escort girls but she was no good, partly because she has a tin ear for language and never learned to drop her Essex rasp, and partly because she’s outstandingly charmless. Norah usually employs only well-spoken college graduates, but she thought Susanne (originally known as Sharlene) was bright enough to keep the punters smirking with her repartee. The newcomer was repackaged as “Suzette,” a name supposed to conjure up images of cutesy Parisian popsies, but Ms. Charmless said what was wrong with being a Brit, for God’s sake, and screw all Frogs, she was going to be “Susan.” The name “Susanne” which then emerged was Norah’s idea of a compromise.

  This kind of behaviour from Ms. Charmless eventually generated blasts from appalled clients and in the end Norah sacked Susanne who promptly took her revenge by attempting suicide. It’s bad for an upmarket escort agency when one of its totties tries to top herself. N
orah’s jowls quivered above her pink frilly blouse as she frantically sought advice from Elizabeth. Even the chihuahuas looked anxious.

  Elizabeth took charge. She too thought Susanne was bright but recognised that her gift was not for entrancing punters. Susanne was brought to live in the Lambeth house, given just enough therapy to get her functioning again and then sent on various courses to learn typing, a little accounting and some essential IT. Susanne devoured them all and wanted more. Elizabeth promised more on condition that Susanne agreed to work for her, and simultaneously Norah offered Ms. Charmless the basement flat of her Pimlico house at a nominal rent. (This was a worthwhile deal for Norah, since Susanne did a lot of paperwork relating to the escort agency without adding to Norah’s wages bill.)

  At this point Susanne became Ms. Upwardly-Mobile, moving into a home of her own and reading books on interior decoration. A cat appeared and was named Alexis after the soap-opera villainess. A framed photo of this animal stood on Susanne’s desk at the office, a regular reminder of how greatly I preferred dogs.

  As I now arrive home, Susanne unlocks the front door. Naturally it never occurs to her to hold the door open for me—or maybe it does but she slams it anyway. With my arms full of flowers I finally succeed in getting into the hall.

  Elizabeth’s in the office but on the phone, negotiating a lease on a flat in Battersea. She’s told me she’s moving into sex therapy groups again. After the healing business was wiped she swore she wouldn’t dabble in future in any related areas, but the truth is she just can’t resist the chance to do some hands-on reshaping of people’s lives—all for the best possible motives, of course, including the desire to open a new bank account. But to give Elizabeth her due, I have to say she’s genuinely convinced she’s a grade-A healer and psychic. As she’s such a tough businesswoman, I think this weakness of hers for paranormal rubbish is all rather touching.

  The moment the conversation finishes I glide in to present the bouquet. “Surprise for you, darling . . .”

  Elizabeth’s delighted. But that bitch Susanne says: “Yuk, those lilies—what a pong!” and stalks out, breasts bobbing furiously beneath her silver-spangled T-shirt. Susanne’s breasts are so stuffed with silicone that they remind me of a brace of the balls used in bowls, the summer game the wrinklies play on lawns smooth as green baize.

  As soon as I’m alone with Elizabeth I say: “I want to apologise again for that mess yesterday,” and to my relief Elizabeth benignly waves away the memory as if it’s no longer important. I’m forgiven. Now at last I can ask her about the funeral, but first I have to do some skilled manoeuvring.

  “Elizabeth, can I just have a word with you about the Kraut?”

  “Wasn’t he any better yesterday?”

  “No, he was worse. He got it all over the bathroom floor and tracked it round the bedroom—”

  “Well, at least you don’t have carpets to worry about, but I agree he seems to have been a touch thoughtless.”

  “A touch—Elizabeth love, you’re still not getting it. This bloke’s filth—FILTH!—and I want him terminated right away!”

  “Better to ease him out gently by raising the price, dear. The clients who pay extra for specialities are usually ever so sensitive, and you don’t want to get the reputation for being heartless.”

  “That bugger’s as sensitive as a bloody tank! But okay, never mind that for now, I want to ask you for a special favour. Can I go to Richard Slaney’s funeral? I’d really like to be there as a mark of respect.”

  Elizabeth sighs and rolls her eyes upwards in exasperation.

  At once I add: “I’ll do overtime to fit in the clients who get cancelled.”

  “You know I don’t like you working overtime,” says Elizabeth abruptly. “You know how fussy I am about you not overstraining yourself.”

  “I’m overstraining myself dealing with that bloody Kraut!”

  “Gavin—”

  “Okay, listen, how about this: I’ll go on with the Kraut. But you let me go to Richard’s funeral.”

  Elizabeth picks a lily out of the bouquet and begins to flick the flower to and fro, like an angry cat jerking its tail. “Now listen, dear,” she says sharply. “You’re confusing two quite separate issues. If you really feel you can’t go on with the Kraut, then you don’t have to go on with him. I’ve never insisted that you do anything you don’t want to do—that would be counter-productive, since you’d soon start having problems with the equipment. I know you had to be taught a little lesson in the beginning about being obedient, but be honest! I’ve never made you keep going with anyone you hated, so don’t try and strong-arm me now over Slaney’s funeral by using the Kraut as a lever.”

  “Well, I thought if I offered to make some kind of sacrifice—”

  “What are the odds on someone from St. Benet’s being there?”

  Carefully I say: “I suppose someone might come out of sympathy for Mrs. Slaney—a curate, perhaps, or a church volunteer. But since Richard wasn’t a believer and had no direct contact with the place I can’t see the Rector himself bothering to attend.”

  Elizabeth meditates on this but makes no sceptical comment. Instead she remarks: “I must say, I’m astonished how sentimental you’ve become about Slaney! I’m beginning to think he’s had the most unsettling influence on you.”

  “Well, he won’t have any influence on me in future, will he? He’s dead.”

  “Ah, but it’s amazing the influence the dead can have on the living, dear. Every psychic knows that . . . Very well, I’m not keen on this, not keen at all, but I do see that from a psychological point of view it’s best if I allow you to go. You must have the chance to say a formal goodbye because then it’ll be easier for you to draw a line under the whole business and move on.”

  “Darling, I’m really grateful—”

  “But you’re not to get into conversation with anyone, you’re to leave immediately after the service and you’re not to go near anyone who’s wearing a clerical collar.”

  “Okay, fine, no problem,” I say earnestly, trying not to sag with relief.

  Back clunks Susanne with a steaming mug of coffee in her purpletaloned claw. “Shall I dump those flowers somewhere else before they stifle us, Elizabeth?”

  “No, dear, I want to arrange them myself straight away.” Picking up the bouquet she moves out of the room in search of a vase.

  Susanne sips her coffee and looks at me with sharp, feral black eyes. “So you’re going to slobber over Slaney’s coffin.”

  “You’ve been eavesdropping!”

  “So?”

  “I don’t like eavesdroppers.”

  “So?”

  “Your speaking-tape’s jammed, Barbie-Boobs! Take yourself back to the toy shop to get your head fixed!”

  “You talk to me like that because you’re jealous!” she spits. “You’re jealous because I’ve got a proper job now and you’re still a rent boy!”

  “I’m a big-time leisure-worker earning megabucks and you’re an office slag earning a pittance!”

  “But I don’t have to wake up every weekday morning knowing I’ve got to shag filth for a living, do I?”

  “A top-of-the-range operator doesn’t have to shag filth!”

  “Oh yeah?” she snarls. “What about the Kraut?”

  “Why, you—”

  “Children, children!” says Elizabeth maternally, returning to the room as if she’d anticipated this spat. “Gavin, run along, pet—we never risk keeping a client waiting, do we? Susanne dear, open the post straight away, please, and let’s do as much as we can before lunch.”

  I give her a hot snog and head back in triumph to the City.

  After the lunch-time shift I check the electoral roll and find Carta lives at Wallside, the classy row of Barbican houses in Monkwell Square. Interesting. She must have money. So what’s she doing messing around with a no-hoper who sits around imagining life when he could be out there living it? He probably sponges off her. Disgusting! In fact y
ou could almost say it’s my moral duty to rescue her from such a creep.

  Richard’s double-slot on the late-shift has been split between two occasional clients who happen to be in town: a black American lawyer from Chicago (“Chiccy Dickie”) and an Italian clothing magnate (“Mr. Meatballs”). They’re no trouble but I miss Richard’s wit. Well, I miss Richard—period, as my American clients would say.

  At six-thirty precisely, as I prepare to leave, Golden Girl calls to tell me the funeral’s next Wednesday at three. I thank her profusely, whisper: “Can’t wait to see you in black!” and hang up. But of course I fully intend to see her before then. The weekend’s coming up and I’ve got her address and she’s going to have a big surprise . . .

  Saturday dawns. Brilliant. I’m up at six, hardly able to wait. Saturday’s the one day I get to shag Elizabeth.

  When I reach her bedroom with the early morning tea I find her curled and perfumed and wearing her best negligée. Sensational! I rev myself up to deliver a grade-A-triple-starred performance and nearly pass out with excitement. Numerous magic moments slip blissfully away.

  Elizabeth’s just so wonderful to me. Not only did she teach me how to do sex at stud-star level but she even said that as a very special favour we could keep shagging on a regular basis once my lessons had finished. I’m pretty sure my predecessors, Jason and Tony, never got that far.

  However, I’m special, I’m different, I’m the one who’s a big success. Elizabeth even takes me on holiday with her. We go to her favourite luxury hotel in Bournemouth and do really weird stuff like play bingo and dance foxtrots.

  During our late breakfast in bed on this particular Saturday morning Elizabeth says casually: “Norah rang last night. She’s invited us round for lunch tomorrow.”