“Oh God!”
“I want you to meet the new girl she’s taken on.”
“Why?”
“Well, pet, I’ve been thinking very hard about you as the result of our recent conversations, and I’ve realised I have very little idea what you might be getting up to at weekends. And that makes me uneasy.”
“Darling, I would never have gone sailing with Richard without telling you!”
“I wasn’t just thinking of your boat fetish, dear. I was thinking of all those American tourists. It’d be so easy for you to get in a pickle when you go grazing in Covent Garden, and anyway how do I know grazing there’s all you do?”
“Elizabeth, if you think I secretly go clubbing to shag teeny-totties, you couldn’t be more wrong! I loathe music that’s just a headbanger’s jerk-off! I’m bored rigid by all those chemically trolleyed teenagers who think they’ve found the secret of the universe!”
“Yes, dear, I know you’re twenty-nine and far above all that kind of nonsense, but that’s exactly my point! Now you’re nearly thirty you could be unconsciously looking for something a little more stable than just a weekend fling, and that’s why I’ve made this lovely arrangement with Norah.”
I choke on my toast. “What lovely arrangement?”
“She’ll let you date this really nice upmarket girl—a history graduate who’s also an opera fan! No fee to the agency, of course, and the girl will do it with you for free.”
There’s so much wrong with this idea that I hardly know where to start my reply but finally I decide honesty’s the only possible policy. “Forget it. Why should any bloke with my looks want to bother with a girl who has to be shared with a bunch of johns?”
Elizabeth sighs as if she can’t believe I could be quite so dumb. Then she says: “I don’t think this is quite the moment for fantasy, pet. What other kind of upmarket girl is going to want a steady relationship with you once she finds out what you do for a living? Now wake up, there’s a good boy, and face the facts. This girl would know what you do so you wouldn’t have all the stress of pretending to be what you’re not—and you get quite enough of that sort of stress during the week when you’re passing for gay. You could have ever such a nice relationship with her at weekends, and when you do get tired of her you’ll be able to have another girl straight away from Norah’s stable, no fuss, no mess—and no stressful, undignified trawling around Covent Garden for women who are never around long enough to guess what you do.”
She pauses but when I’m silent she adds kindly: “Face it, pet, it’s the answer, isn’t it? All right, I know I’m the one you care about, but if you’re to be kept sexually satisfied, it’s vital that you link up with someone of your own age. I’m a realist, you see—always was, always will be—and I know I can’t expect you to be content with just little old me on Saturday mornings!”
My voice says: “If we could get together more often—”
“No, don’t let’s go into all that again, dear, there’s no point. You know very well that I’ve reached the age when I like it once a week, done properly—unless I’m on holiday, that is. Naturally then I have more energy.”
“Yes, but . . . Elizabeth, there’s no one else, is there?”
“Don’t be silly, who am I supposed to be having it off with? Now be sensible. You know very well how precious you are to me, and that’s exactly why I always want the best for you—which in this case means coming to Norah’s with me tomorrow to meet the new girl.”
All I can think is that I can’t afford to get stroppy. She might change her mind about letting me go to the funeral. So I say nothing, and as Elizabeth relaxes, confident that she’s won the argument, she remarks idly: “I just have this very strong feeling that I must help you into a relationship with a suitable girl before you get into trouble with someone who’s entirely wrong . . . In fact I’d definitely call the feeling a psychic premonition.”
I keep my mouth tight shut.
“There’s a dangerous girl wandering around out there somewhere,” murmurs Elizabeth, unable to resist giving her crystal-ball act another whirl even though she knows I’m an arch-sceptic. “A blonde. You’ve already met her.”
This fails to impress me. Obviously there’s always the danger that I might meet a bunny-boiler in Covent Garden, and obviously there are loads of blondes “out there” in a city of several million people.
“She’s older than you,” invents Elizabeth dreamily. “I can’t see her face but I’m sure she’s got brains, she’s a strong personality. And . . .” She stops.
I somehow keep my expression blank so that there’s nothing for her to read. “And?”
“. . . and she’s somehow mixed up with Richard Slaney,” says Elizabeth abruptly, turning her head to see my reaction.
“Ah!” I say without missing a beat as I marvel at her luck in hitting the mark. “You’re thinking of his wife. Richard mentioned once that she was a blonde. But I’ve never met Moira Slaney.”
“Then it’s not Moira Slaney I’m thinking of,” says Elizabeth.
Having offered to make her some more tea, I scramble out of bed and whisk the breakfast tray downstairs.
Funny how creepy all that psychic rubbish can be . . .
Later I go out, crossing Lambeth Bridge into glitzy SW1 as I head for Fortnum & Mason. Here I buy a bottle of vintage Bollinger and have it gift-wrapped before it’s popped into a Fortnum’s bag. I want Carta to think I’m not just a bloke who picks up booze at the nearest branch of Oddbins. I want her to think I’ve got style and class.
Back at home I eventually prepare for action. I dress in stone-coloured RL trousers, a creamy shirt and a slickly cut navy-blue jacket which made my bank account creak last month. No tie. A plain belt with only a CK logo on the buckle. And beneath all these maximum impact ogle-items I’m sporting underwear by HB, the designer whose models look as if they might just possibly know what to do with a naked woman if they met one by chance in a bedroom.
Off I drive to the City. As it’s Saturday afternoon the parking regulations are suspended, and after abandoning the XJ-S on a yellow line I walk back down Wood Street to the vehicle barrier which guards Monkwell Square. The Wallside houses form the square’s northern side.
It’s now five o’clock and I’m gambling (a) that the lover lives out, and (b) that they don’t get together on a Saturday evening until six at the earliest. (Independent Carta would have other things to do, other people to see.) It won’t take long to persuade her to cancel the date, especially if I get lucky and find her lounging around in a skimpy dress, bare-legged and knickerless as she reads about orgasms in some chattermag for chicks.
Finding the right house I give the doorbell a punch, but when the door opens my heart sinks. I’m not face to face with Carta. It’s the boyfriend. He’s shorter than I am but he’s no dwarf. His eyes are chocolate-brown but not soft. His dark, reddish, curly hair needs cutting and styling and yes, that’s soft. I can’t stand moppy hair, there’s no excuse for it. He’s kind of podgy, obviously never bothering to work out. Soft again. He’s wearing mass-produced jeans and a red sweatshirt with no designer logo. Boring. He badly needs to update. He’s older than I am, maybe even as much as ten years older, and he’s definitely way over the hill.
Without a trace of sexual interest he looks at me and says: “Yes?”
I add some more facts to my new file. He’s straight as a steel stake, not a flicker of any bi undercurrent there, and from that one syllable he’s uttered I can tell not only that he’s educated but that he’s probably from the south of England. He could even be a Surrey boy like me.
“Hi,” I say civilly, one straight bloke to another. “I’m a friend of Richard Slaney’s. Is Carta around?”
From the top of the stairs behind him Carta exclaims, “Gavin?”
“Carta!” I drawl, very debonair, and glide past her dated old lover into her home.
I don’t get invited into the living-room straight away, but I realise she has to pu
t on an act for Mr. Over-the-Hill. Of course she’s secretly thrilled to see me. “What on earth are you doing here?” she demands as she comes downstairs.
“Delivering a reward for all your help this week!” I say, smiling at her, and hold out the gift-wrapped bottle. Now I’ll get invited into the living-room—which I suspect is up the stairs on the first floor. There doesn’t seem to be much down here at ground level except a couple of closed doors.
Carta’s delighted with the present, of course, but has to pretend she’s not. Waving away her fake protest I flash her another smile before turning to Mr. Over-the-Hill. “My name’s Gavin Blake,” I say sociably. “Good to meet you.”
Mr. Over ignores me and merely says to Carta: “You want me to handle this?” but Carta’s not going to let him fling me out—oh no! She’s going to signal that she’s more than glad to see me. Now I’ll get invited up to the living-room.
“Gavin,” she says crisply, “this is Eric Tucker. Look, some friends are stopping by at any moment for a drink before they go on to the Arts Centre for a concert, so I can’t invite you up to the living-room but—”
“Oh, I’d love to see the living-room!” I exclaim, realising that she’s signalling me to override what she’s saying. “Does it look out on the Roman wall?” I get my foot on the first stair.
“Hey, wait a moment!” cries sad old Eric Tucker, getting pathetically territorial, but I’m skimming upstairs before he can stop me.
“Okay, you’re welcome to look at the view,” I hear Carta say, cleverly managing to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I guess you deserve some sort of reward for trekking all the way out here to bring me a present, but after that I’m afraid you’ll have to—”
“What an amazing house!” I marvel as I cruise ahead, but in fact the house seems more eccentric than amazing, a sort of mezzanine-with-everything mishmash. Still, the living-room’s an impressive spread, a two-level space of about twelve metres which Carta’s filled with writhing modern furniture, all curls and curves. The oldest thing in the room is probably the battered teddy bear which is propped up in a display cabinet amidst some bulbous Lalique glass. This bear, who’s no doubt an antique picked up for a vast sum at Sotheby’s, has an oh-my-God-now-I’ve-seen-everything look. I immediately want to kidnap him.
Meanwhile my feet have carried me to the huge window and I decide to get rapturous to keep the conversation bowling along.
“What a view!” I breathe, and add as I notice some mass-market prints: “And look at your pictures!” They’re all dire. “I somehow got the impression the other night that you weren’t interested in art.”
“What other night?” demands Sad Eric, sounding as if he’s about to combust.
Carta says firmly: “I’ll explain later. Now Gavin, you’ll have to excuse us, but—”
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll go,” mutters the Sad One, almost too enraged to speak, and disappears downstairs.
Seizing my opportunity I say at once to Carta in a low voice: “Hey, you’re looking great! It’s okay, I know you’re not really mad at me for stopping by—”
“But I am,” she says, still polite but allowing an edge to creep into her voice. “I suppose you looked me up on the electoral roll, but all I can say is that I don’t want you paying me attention like this and I’d be very grateful if you’d now stop.”
“You mean you’d rather have that chubby heap than me? You can’t be serious! He looks like he just fell off the back of a lorry!”
As I speak voices have been ringing out in the hall, and at this point footsteps, lots of them, start to thunder up the stairs. “Carta darling!” screeches the first visitor as he erupts into the living-room. “How are you, angel?”
Carta has no choice but to turn away but I stay where I am in amazement. These three visitors are all gay and two of them are the in-yer-face type, always gasping to scream about their rights to any media microphone in reach. The first one’s what I call a frothy number, but the froth is almost certainly camouflage to disguise the fact that he’s articulate, smart and streetwise. These militants are a tough bunch. His in-yer-face chum could be his partner but not necessarily. This bloke’s flamboyant too but harder and smoother, probably more of a diplomat. He’s flaunting one of those godawful moustaches and displaying a taste in leisurewear so old-fashioned that you almost expect to hear Abba belting in the background. Like Sad Eric he badly needs to update.
But it’s gay visitor number three who interests me most, probably because he’s such a familiar type in my professional life. He’s Mr. Pass-for-Straight. He’s tall, dark, not bad-looking in a low-key way, with a friendly face, sensitive and intelligent, the kind of face that makes you think: he looks a nice bloke, I wouldn’t mind passing the time of day with him over a lager. His clothes are hopelessly conventional, but at least they don’t make you think of Abba. A school choir would be more in keeping—or my mum’s favourite, Cliff Richard, crooning about his unimaginably innocent summer holiday.
How do I know Mr. Pass-for-Straight’s gay when he’s looking like every suburban matron’s dream of a reliable son-in-law? Because he glances at me and nearly faints beneath the onslaught of the testosterone surge. The other two are vibrating like whacked gongs too, but Mr. Pass-for-Straight’s the only one who looks like a starving man scenting a square meal.
“Hey!” calls Eric Tucker as he follows his guests into the room and finds them all boggling at me. “Time to go—you’ve had your look at the view!”
I’m incensed. Imagine not introducing me to the guests! Imagine humiliating Carta by treating her new acquaintance—a friend of Richard Slaney’s no less—as rubbish which had to be put out for the garbage truck! Well, I’m sorry but I’m not standing for that kind of behaviour, no way am I going to stand for it. I’m going to shock that bastard rigid, I’m going to make him want to pass out with embarrassment, I’m going to see he reels as if I’d smashed his teeth in.
Radiantly I smile at the gays. “Well, hul-lo, sailors!” I purr, sashaying towards them as if I’ve never shagged a woman in my life. “My name’s Gavin Blake and I have a flat in Austin Friars near—wait for it, guys!— Old Broad Street which is the kind of address you don’t forget when you’ve got sex on your mind, but here’s my card—” I gyrate my hip to ease the wallet from my back pocket “—to drill the memory home. Just call to make an appointment! I take all the major credit cards—”
All hell bursts loose as Sad Eric finally combusts. “GET OUT, YOU SCUM!” he bawls, but I keep right on.
“—so darlings, if you drop-dead gorgeous guys want to fuck—and I mean fuck—F-U-C-K—”
“PISS OFF!” roars Sad Eric, hurling himself at me, but I just laugh and dodge out of his reach.
Golden Girl immediately fears for my safety. “Eric, don’t!” she cries, but at once I call back to reassure her: “Relax, sweetie, he’s past it—I could floor him in no time flat!”
At that point Sad Eric almost froths at the mouth, but before he can hurl himself at me again someone yells: “WAIT!” and we’re all diverted.
It’s Mr. Pass-for-Straight, making a surprisingly authoritative intervention. “Cool it,” he says quickly to Sad Eric while grabbing his arm and stepping between us. “I think Mr. Blake will be willing to leave of his own accord now you’ve demonstrated how deeply he’s upset you. No, Carta, leave this to me. Mr. Blake, allow me to show you out, please.”
As a parting flourish I fling down my business card on the coffee table, but the gays cringe, horribly embarrassed on behalf of their hosts and hating themselves for longing to jot down my phone number.
“This way,” says Mr. Pass-for-Straight to me in a firm voice, and the next moment I’m sweeping triumphantly down the stairs ahead of him.
But by the time I reach the hall I’m feeling uneasy. It was great the way Carta begged that chubby heap not to hit me, but on the other hand she didn’t look too keen when I bragged I could floor him. And was I being fair to t
he gay bystanders when I used them to launch my attack? No, I wasn’t. By soliciting so offensively I mocked them in front of their friends. There’s a paradox here and it’s this: although gay activists campaign for sexual freedom, many of them take a high moral line against leisure-workers. They see them as the subversive shits who help closet gays to stay closeted, and worse than any subversive gay shit is the subversive straight shit who ought to be wiped from the scene and sent back to the straights in instalments. However at least Mr. Frothy, Mr. Macho-Retro and Mr. Pass-for-Straight were spared the ultimate humiliation. As they almost passed out with the desire to shag me, they never guessed I qualified for dismemberment as the lowest of the low.
Which is a fact that Carta knew right from the start. Oh my God! What have I done?
With horror I finally see—as the rage against Sad Eric dies away— that I must have reinforced all her prejudices against me. I made a deliberately disgusting scene in her house in front of her friends, and now she can say to herself: “I was right. He’s filth. I never want to see him again.” Fucking hell, what an own goal! I must have been mental, but stay cool, don’t panic, even a catastrophe can be put right. I’ll just have to bust a gut to push a repentance scenario, and I can start by being extra nice to this bloke Mr. Pass who deserved my trashing even less than his boring companions did.
“Hey,” I say to him urgently, “I behaved like a headbanger back there—please could you tell Carta I’m sorry? Tell your friends I’m sorry as well—and let me tell you, one to one, that I’m very sorry indeed I played the leisure-worker from hell. I shouldn’t have let myself get needled by that bastard Tucker treating me like shit.” (I think this last remark can be classed as fair comment. And I do need to explain why my brains got scrambled.)
Mr. Pass says: “It’s hard to turn the other cheek sometimes.” I can almost hear him panting painfully, but he’s exercising such self-control that his hand never even trembles as he pushes back his thinning hair. He’s older than I thought he was. Forty, maybe more.
The Heartbreaker Page 11
