Heartbreaker (11 page)

“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 you 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.”

“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 put 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.”