“Well,” he says, opening the front door, “I’m sure you want to be on your way.”
I do, but I’m determined to send him a message that says SORRY in capital letters. It would help to have him on my side and pleading my cause to Carta.
On another card I scribble down the number of the Austin Friars flat. “Here, take this,” I say, shoving the card at him. “I’ll give you a freebie as compensation, but don’t tell the other blokes, this is just between you and me. Call that handwritten number any day Monday through Friday at four-twenty-five and we’ll make a date.”
Mr. Pass takes the card gravely and says, bemused, “I’m not sure why I’m being singled out for special favour.”
“No?” I say. “I’ll tell you why. You called me Mr. Blake. You treated me with respect. And more important still, you stopped that braindead scene of mine upstairs from getting even worse than it already was. So I owe you, Mr.—” I pause.
“Tucker,” he says wryly.
“Tucker? ”
“Gilbert Tucker, yes, I’m his brother. He’s a bit hot-headed sometimes, but he’s a good chap when you get to know him.”
I just say: “You’re the good one, chum. Look, I mean what I say—it’s all free for you, and I guarantee there’ll be no risks of any kind.”
Mr. Gilbert Tucker looks as if he’d like to believe me but can’t. I probably shan’t see him again, but he’ll put in a good word with Carta now, I’m sure of it, and that has to rank as a big plus.
The other big plus is that at least Elizabeth will never know I was dishing out a freebie while chasing the St. Benet’s fundraiser—and by the way, why do I keep doing things which would give Elizabeth a fit?
I know this is a question I need to answer, but I also know this isn’t the moment to brood on it. I need to focus on making a dignified exit, and after saying a polite goodbye to Gilbert the Good I walk quickly away from the Wallside house and Monkwell Square.
Back in the car I start the task of figuring out why I’ve acquired this taste for high-risk behaviour, and after a while I dimly realise that I’m feeling negative about Elizabeth. Then I see that in reality I’m not just amazed by her “lovely arrangement” with Norah about the escort girl. I’m feeling . . . no, not angry. I couldn’t be angry with Elizabeth, I owe her everything, she’s so wonderful to me. But I feel sort of . . . well, sort of hurt, know-what-I-mean, sort of sad. And that’s not just because I don’t like being told who to shag on weekends. It’s because unless we’re on holiday I don’t get to shag Elizabeth more than once a week.
Okay, so I’m bloody lucky she wants us to shag at all, I realise that. I know I don’t deserve her, I know I was nothing when she picked me out of the gutter and I know I’d go back to being nothing if she kicked me out of the house. But since she’s apparently happy for the shag to continue, I don’t see why it can’t happen more often. I mean, it’s not as if she doesn’t get good value. Thanks to her, sex is the one thing I do really well, but she’s determined to restrict me to Saturday mornings, and I mind, I can’t help it, I just do. I feel not only sad but frustrated—and suspicious, okay, I admit it, I admit I’m bothered that she might be having it off with someone else, even though I don’t really believe she is. Why did I ask her this morning if there was someone else when the common-sense answer was that there wasn’t? I suppose I was in such despair that I lost sight of my common sense and allowed my knee-jerk suspicion a free rein.
What makes me believe there’s no one else? Well, there’s no one around who fits the job description. It certainly isn’t Asherton—if he performs with women at all, he’s probably only interested in carving patterns on them, and Elizabeth’s no masochist. She’s not having any kind of lesbo-love-fest with Norah either. They tried that back in the Swinging Sixties, Elizabeth says, but by 1970 they’d decided to be just good friends. Elizabeth has a wide range of acquaintances, but I think she’s very careful who she shags. That’s because she always has to be the one in control—and yes, let’s face it, this is what the sex-on-Saturday-mornings-only rule is all about. She keeps me short to keep me on the hook.
So what do I do with this insight? Can’t whinge, can’t nag, can’t sulk, and I certainly can’t criticise—how could I after all she’s done for me? I mean, what kind of an ungrateful bastard am I, for God’s sake? If I love her—and I do—I must accept everything she does. It’s the very least I can do after she’s been so wonderful to me.
Fair enough, but in that case why am I secretly rebelling? It’s something to do with Richard, don’t know what, but whatever it is, Richard started it. And though he’s not here any more I’ve now got Carta instead. Which means that whatever it is can’t be connected solely with the sailing. Bloody hell, I can’t unravel this mystery, it’s so peculiar that it’s doing my head in. What I know for sure, though, is that if I’ve got to shag an escort slag I’m going to work all the harder to compensate myself with Golden Girl despite Elizabeth’s paranoia about St. Benet’s.
But I’d better be bloody careful. I’d better not forget just how dangerous rebellion can be.
I glance at my Rolex. I’ve still got the whole evening ahead of me. Driving over to the West End I prepare to go grazing again in Covent Garden.
Well, Elizabeth didn’t explicitly forbid it, did she? And God knows I need some fun before Sunday lunch at Norah’s when I get to meet the tart Elizabeth’s chosen to be my regular weekend squeeze . . .
This new filly in Norah’s stable isn’t bad-looking and she’s moderately shaggable but she’s what the gays call TTH—Tries Too Hard. I like the babes who play cool and hard to get. More of a challenge.
Also at lunch are three not-so-new fillies, Victoria, Chloë and Lara, who are all billeted beneath Norah’s roof. Norah operates the escort agency out of an office in Kensington, a fact which means her large Pimlico home has the space to house the new girls who need to save money on accommodation while they get started.
I’m surprised today to find that Susanne’s been hauled up from the basement flat to join us for Sunday lunch. She chomps the roast beef, looks mutinous and says nothing. Yuk. The chihuahuas have smart new coats from Harrods and look like genetically engineered rats. Doubleyuk. I flirt overtly with new girl Serena, covertly with Victoria, Chloë and Lara, and try not to die of boredom.
I wonder what Golden Girl’s doing with Sad Eric. I wish to hell I hadn’t made such a fuck-up of that scene on Wallside yesterday.
I also wish I’d been smart enough to note the number on Carta’s phone when I was at the Wallside house, but I was too busy serving up my gay monster act. I’ll call her at the office tomorrow in the hope that Gilbert the Good’s told her I’m radiating contrition from every pore—and maybe if he’s Gilbert the Best he’ll have pointed out to her that my bad behaviour was all Eric’s fault anyway.
Monday dawns, and after the early shift I call Carta to deliver my well-rehearsed apology, but some sort of granny-gizmo with a postmenopausal voice tells me that Ms. Graham is unavailable. Shit! I call again before the lunch-shift but Ms. Graham is still unavailable. I leave my number and request a call back but nothing happens. Shit again! Okay, so she’s trying to teach me a lesson, but I’m not going to get depressed because I know she’ll eventually be panting to see me again.
In fact even now she could be wetting her knickers at the thought of the funeral . . .
But before the funeral there’s a diversion which turns out to have cosmic consequences. On Tuesday afternoon I go to the West End to meet the very rich new client that Elizabeth and Asherton were discussing when I arrived home last Thursday.
His name’s Sir Colin Broune, pronounced “Brown.” Why the dotty spelling? I wonder if it’s an affectation put on by a dozy git who’s nouveau riche (or as Mum would say, “common”). But maybe his family came over with the Conqueror and it’s a distinguished Frog-name which was originally pronounced “Broon.” A dip into Who’s Who reveals that in addition to having some sort of science degr
ee from Cambridge he’s fifty-two, unmarried and chairman of RCPP, Royal Chemical and Pharmaceutical Products, a position which my father would have said qualifies Sir Colin to be known as “a captain of industry.” In other words, we’re dealing here with just another stuffed shirt. Should be no problem, although one can never know for sure.
“What makes you think he’s mega-rich instead of just rich?” I ask Elizabeth.
“It’s always worth checking on the private wealth of someone with a title, dear, so Asherton ran a special check through that bent inspector he knows at the Inland Revenue. It turns out Sir Colin’s worth thirty million.”
“Wow! Who told him about me?”
“He wouldn’t say. I told him we like to know the name of the referring client as a security measure, but he said: ‘I’m paying good money. That should be enough.’ ”
“Fancies himself as a tough guy?”
“More likely he just felt grumpy dealing with a woman.”
“Which hotel’s he picked?”
She names a five-star modern outfit in Mayfair. I’ve been there before to meet a nervous first-timer who’s distrustful enough to pass up the flat at Austin Friars. No problem.
So at ten minutes to five on Tuesday afternoon I arrive at the hotel and head for the ground-floor men’s room where I check my appearance carefully. I’m dressed as a businessman in a charcoal-grey suit, sober tie, blue-and-white striped shirt, black socks and black shoes. The sex gear is stashed in a smart briefcase. I look achingly respectable.
At less than one minute to five I approach a house phone and ask the operator for Sir Colin Broune. The phone rings at five o’clock precisely.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I say after a bass voice has rasped a monosyllable. “This is Gavin Blake.”
“Room twelve-o-seven.” He slams down the receiver.
This could be difficult. He sounds in a filthy mood. Leaving the house phones I scan the lobby, but the man I’ve identified as one of the hotel security team is passing the time with a girl who’s manicuring the flower arrangement. I always like to know where the on-duty gorilla is before I head for the lifts. Some of these blokes are bent enough to demand a cut of the fee if they don’t boot the leisure-worker straight out into the gutter, so even though I’m looking so respectable I make very sure he’s paying me no attention.
When I reach the twelfth floor I find Sir Colin’s waiting for me with the door ajar.
He’s tall, around six-four, and heavily built. That could be tiresome if he expects me to heave him about, but on the other hand I’d rather he played the beached whale than Jaws in the mating season. My defensive skills are first-class and I seldom get hurt, but when someone’s big and aggressive and in a foul temper it can be tough to get the angles right so that the crucial muscles can function in a way that neutralises the danger. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not happy with this assignment, and that if things go really wrong I could be hobbling around at Richard’s funeral tomorrow like someone emerging from the dungeon of Asherton’s Pain-Palace.
The man’s got the light behind him but even so I realise straight away he’s no beauty. He’s got a big fat face and mean little eyes and a tight-lipped mouth. Balding. Mottled skin. Creased jowls. Whisky-ish breath.
“Blake?”
“Yes, sir.”
He flings the door wide, turns his back on me and stumps off past the bathroom to the far end of the room. Here he dumps himself in a chair at the table by the window and picks up the evening paper.
Closing the door behind me I go to the bed and unpack the essential items from my briefcase. Take one step at a time. Focus. Plenty of condoms in case he fancies some kind of marathon with plenty of arse-changing. Lashings of lube to make sure neither of us gets caught short . . . God, I’d kill for some amyl nitrate, but no, I never do drugs, not even poppers in a sex crisis. I tell myself I’ve got the experience, I’ve got the skills, I’m going to be fine—but I’d better bloody well watch out for handcuffs because I wouldn’t put it past this bugger to be into S&M.
Very occasionally an S&M perv does slip through the net of Elizabeth’s vetting procedures, and if that happens I’m allowed to terminate the session right away because he’d know serious S&M isn’t on my menu. In theory I don’t have a menu. Clients pay for my time and do what they like, but in practice Elizabeth always slaps on a surcharge for unusual requests and always delivers the stern warning that any violence beyond routine play-acting is as taboo as bare-backing. The trouble in this case, though, is that Elizabeth, dazzled by the thought of the thirty million quid, could have glossed over the screening procedures and told herself: Gavin will cope.
I start to undress, making a sexy production out of it in case he’s taking peeps, but the Evening Standard never rustles even when I gyrate out of my leather belt and snap it. What’s he up to? I find I’m sweating lightly. Time to take deep breaths and listen in my head to my favourite tenor aria from Zauberflöte.
Shutting the closet door on my clothes I pause to look at him again, but he’s still hidden by the paper. This is seriously weird. He must know I’m stark naked by this time so why doesn’t he take a look? Maybe he wants to lure me close to him before trying to land a punch, but if so he’s miscalculated—my judo skills mean I could floor this lump of middle-aged blubber with a couple of well-judged flips. But I don’t want to get into violence. Unlike Austin Friars this place has no hidden cameras to record who struck the first blow, and if there’s a major disaster the hotel security team’s going to believe the word of the captain of industry who’s rich enough to give the Inland Revenue a corporate orgasm, not the word of an innocent leisure-worker who’s only trying to do his job.
Psyching myself up to end this futile anxiety attack, I grab a condom, walk over and make him an offer. I always insist on being the one who puts on the client’s condom because then I know it’s on properly and my fear of AIDS is eased.
Sir Colin’s response to my offer is to grunt while continuing to read the Standard.
Maybe he’s just had a mini-stroke. By this time the blokes are usually gasping and even the most antique equipment’s defying gravity . . . But I’m now more sure than ever that this is a perv waiting to pounce.
And suddenly he does pounce, making me jump almost out of my skin. Flinging aside the newspaper he shoots to his feet, biffs the condom out of my hand and yells: “Get out!” Then he thuds to the bathroom and locks himself in.
This punter’s certainly a novelty. I close my mouth, which is hanging open, and pick up the condom. Have to give the client what he wants, of course, but I’ve never before had a client who threw me out before I’d done my job.
I dress, feeling better. I know now he’s not an S&M perv, just a fat man with problems. Maybe he’s always like this after a hard day at the office. Or maybe he gets his kicks out of having a leisure-worker present while he reads the Evening Standard. Kinky. But not dangerous.
Having repacked the briefcase I write him a class-act note on the telephone pad. It reads: “Dear Sir Colin: I shall remain available until six o’clock in accordance with the agreement you reached with Mrs. Delamere. Should you change your mind and decide that you wish me to return to your room, please call the porters’ desk and ask them to let me know you’re feeling better. I shall be waiting in the lobby. Yours sincerely, GAVIN BLAKE.”
I put the notepad on the bed so that he sees it as soon as he emerges from the bathroom and then I leave, shutting the door loudly behind me to make sure he knows I’ve gone.
Downstairs I buy a copy of the Financial Times in the lobby shop and settle myself near the jumbo flower arrangement which is still being manicured by the pretty girl. The security man, who’s yawning away by a pillar, never gives me a second glance.
After ten minutes I learn that Sir Colin Broune wishes me to know he’s feeling better. Back I go to the twelfth floor.
The door’s open, so I go in and once more start unpacking the gear and taking off my kit. Sir C
olin’s no longer reading the Standard but he’s got his back to me as he stares out of the window. I pause, trying to be imaginative. That’s one of the challenges of the job: using one’s creative imagination. It’s what separates the top-of-the-range leisure-workers from the middle-market drones and the rent boys at the bottom of the pile.
My trousers are still on but I keep them zipped up and pad barefoot to his side.
“I’m sorry if you’ve had a rough day, sir,” I say gently. “Life can be difficult sometimes, can’t it? Would you like me to fix you a drink?”
Mr. Moneybags subsides into the nearest chair like a pricked balloon and slowly starts to weep.
I raid the mini-bar and mix him a whisky. I fetch a wad of Kleenex from the bathroom. Then I kneel down by the side of his chair, sit back on my heels and wait. He has a sip from the glass and blows his nose. I go on waiting but presently I take his hand and hold it.
He likes that. His fingers press against mine. More tears fall but he mops them up doggedly with his free hand. His eyes are bloodshot now. What can it be like to be so plug-ugly, so totally lacking in sex appeal? But at least he’s got thirty million quid to cheer him up.
“Did someone die, sir?”
He nods before mumbling: “A very old friend. Six months ago. Cancer. Bloody awful.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Everyone says time heals. But it doesn’t. I still feel as if it all happened yesterday. I never normally talk of it, but a fortnight ago I met—” He names a client of mine “—and suddenly I did talk to him, don’t know why, suppose it was because I knew he was one of us. He said what I needed was someone to help me along, someone absolutely discreet and reliable, and he said he knew this well-educated young chap who knew how to behave, and . . . well, it seemed like some kind of answer, although I’ve never before consorted with . . . but I felt desperate enough to try anything.”
“I understand. What was your partner’s name, sir?”
“Partner! I hate all these modern corruptions of good, solid, old-fashioned words, and the only corruption I hate more than ‘partner’ is ‘gay.’ Edward was my friend. We were both homosexual. Why not call a bloody spade a bloody spade?”
The Heartbreaker Page 12
