Heartbreaker (17 page)

XIII

“I’ll tell you one topic that never surfaced today,” said Nicholas as we reached the City, “and that’s Richard’s proposed donation to St. Benet’s. Maybe he never told Moira about it.”

“If they were close enough to talk about Gavin during his last hours, I see no reason why Richard wouldn’t have mentioned the donation plan,” I objected, “particularly as the donation was linked with his guilt about not getting involved with family therapy.” But less certainly I asked: “What’s the etiquette on jogging a widow’s memory about her husband’s promise to give to a good cause?”

“You pray she isn’t suffering from amnesia.”

I sighed.

“I could put out a tactful feeler later,” said Nicholas as the car reached the Barbican at last and began to travel east along London Wall, “but I’d have to pick the right moment and that could well be several weeks away.”

“Even if Moira does know about Richard’s promise,” I commented gloomily, “she might well hesitate on the grounds that it was over-generous.”

“You really think she wouldn’t honour the commitment?”

“After what she got up to today, I feel I no longer have any idea what she might do.”

Nicholas was halting the car by the traffic barrier of Monkwell Square. “We’ll discuss it all tomorrow,” he said incisively. “Meanwhile give my regards to Eric . . . How was that brother of his when you saw him last weekend?”

“I thought he looked tired. Too many visits to those dying AIDS patients in the hospice perhaps.”

“I must give him a call.”

We parted, and then setting the day’s emotionally exhausting events aside I prepared to relax with Eric over the meal he had promised to cook to welcome me home.

XIV

“Let’s hear the bad news first,” said Eric, passing me a glass of Nuits St. George. “How was the sleazeball?”

“He took one look at my bodyguard and decided to spend his time chasing someone else.”

“Honestly? Tell me everything!”

I launched into a blow-by-blow description of what had happened; I thought this was more likely to generate an atmosphere of trust, an essential ingredient in the reconciliation we were still working on after our big row the previous weekend. Even so, I found myself becoming irritated when Eric showed signs of sliding into another snit. I thought that by now he should have been able to set aside the humiliation he had suffered last Saturday, but apparently I had been expecting too much. Or was I dealing here not with humiliation but with simple jealousy? That seemed unlikely. I could see that Gavin was sexy enough to make other men grind their teeth, but what I couldn’t see was why an intelligent, sensible man like Eric should sink into such fury over a mere prostitute, no matter how good-looking the prostitute happened to be. It would have been far more typical of Eric if he had just laughed and exclaimed: “Poor sod, what a loser! Don’t tell me you think he’s gorgeous!” But that kind of balanced response was definitely not on offer.

When I had finished my story he refilled our glasses, set the bottle down with a thump and said: “I think Nick’s gone crazy. What rubbish to think that Gavin’s been put across your path for a purpose! This guy’s seriously bad news, and the idea that he could ever be a benign part of your spiritual journey is just sentimental twaddle—and what’s worse, it’s dangerous sentimental twaddle!”

I kept calm. “To tell you the truth, I too thought Nicholas was nuts at that point, but—”

“Lewis is the one who’s got it right, of course. Gavin Blake’s nothing but a metaphysical typhoid-carrier, and you should never under any circumstances see him again!”

“Well, the odds are I never will,” I said, somehow managing to stay cool. “But don’t you think Nicholas was right to say we’re all like cells in one body, all called to help one another in the fight against sickness?”

“Of course he was right, but that’s not the point at issue here! We’re not talking about the principle implied in ‘I am my brother’s keeper’— we’re talking of the application of that principle!”

“Sorry?”

“Think of the poor in Calcutta. We’re all required to care, but we’re
not
all required to be Mother Teresa, giving hands-on help. Most of us are required to care by praying or sending donations or both.”

“Yes, I see, but—”

“Now apply that to the Gavin situation. You can pray for the bastard, of course you can, but the idea that you should give hands-on help is ludicrous! He’s definitely one for the psychiatrists!”

I knew it was unwise to argue but I found I had to fight the implication that I was just a dizzy blonde who couldn’t cope. “Maybe God thinks I’m uniquely suited to help Gavin.”

“God wouldn’t be so dumb! Why should he use a vulnerable woman to help this psycho?”

“But
am
I so vulnerable? I’m smart, I’m tough, I’m streetwise—”

“Oh, come on, Carta! You’re vulnerable because you’re obviously fascinated by this totally sick testosterone package who hip-swivels around as if he had WANNA FUCK? tattooed on his chest!”

“Eric, you’re losing it. Stop right there.”

“I just want to make it crystal clear that I’m not going to let this rat gnaw our relationship to pieces!”

Making a huge effort I kept my temper. “Listen,” I said. “
I have no
plans to see Gavin again.
Got it? And I’m convinced I gave him a big enough brush-off today to ensure he leaves me alone in future.”

“But he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re there, like Mount Everest. He’s got to conquer you. He’s committed.”

“Rubbish!”

“It’s not rubbish! After his romp with Moira today isn’t it obvious he’ll stop at nothing? The trouble is women get moronic when they’re mixed up with a man like that—all they want to do is swoon into his arms and simper: ‘Take me’!”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this! Of all the stupid, snotty, sexist garbage I’ve ever heard—”

“At least I’m giving you some down-to-earth realism, unlike your boss who’s been doling out the airy-fairy mysticism like a dud psychic with a crystal ball!”

“I thought you admired Nicholas!”

“Yes, I do, but he’s not perfect and like a lot of clerics he can be ruthless in using people to further his spiritual aims. I can just see him being professionally drawn to Gavin—what a sicko, what a challenge!—and I can just see him thinking too that you’re the ideal person to lure Gavin into the St. Benet’s net—”

“You’re twisting everything—it’s not like that—”

“No? Well, don’t tell me Nick can’t be ruthless where his ministry of healing’s concerned—look how he saddled you with the fundraising! I know you thought it was a call, something which you as a fledgeling Christian could do for God, but ever since you’ve been buck-chasing you’ve been overworking, obsessive and prone to be flaky at home. No, you’ve taken a wrong turn and I’ll tell you why you took it: you wanted to boost your ego and cut a dash in the City again! You started to miss everyone telling you how glamorous and successful you were, so you dived into big-time fundraising which nowadays is just as chic and glitzy as any job in PR or the media—”

“You’re just furious with the fundraising because it led me in the end to Gavin Blake! Look, I’m calling a halt—I’ve had a long hard day which has been very stressful emotionally—”

“I bet! Specially losing out to Moira Slaney!”

“God, what a bloody thing to say!”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“No, it damn well is not! Oh, shut up and leave me alone—stop beating me up like this—”

He walked out.

I burst into tears.

Then I opened another bottle of wine.

XV

Again we struggled to patch up the quarrel but this time the memory of it lay between us like an acrid smell which refused to fade. The following weekend Eric went down to Winchester to see his parents and I didn’t volunteer to go with him. I found his mother heavy-going, and besides, I thought it would help the relationship recover if we spent some time apart. Eric evidently came to the same conclusion because as soon as he had finished a stint of office-work to boost his bank account he travelled to Norway to do some research.

One result of his imaginative verbal assault on me after Richard’s funeral was that I was now determined to prove that fundraising was exactly what God required me to do at this stage of my life and that Nicholas had been a genius to spot my potential talent. Furiously I toiled away to justify us all, but to my dismay I now encountered nothing but setbacks. I heard no more from Moira about the promised donation, no one else was busy writing cheques, and finally I lost a large donation which I had convinced myself was safely in the bag. The donor pleaded the financial climate—sterling falling through the ERM floor, Lamont devaluing the pound, and the mass tumbling of the currencies as the stock market sank fathoms deep in gloom.

I conceded the severity of the financial climate, but I still felt not only infuriated by the donor’s weak-kneed slide out of a commitment but also as crushed as if I’d been rejected by a lover. Fundraising resembles old-fashioned wooing. One courts and flirts and intrigues the potential donor, and a personal relationship is built up which makes it hard for him—in the City it’s usually a man—to backtrack. Eventually, if the courtship reaches its desired climax, the donor yields and reaches for his chequebook with the result that ecstasy is achieved on both sides. To be balked of this ultimate satisfaction was both a professional disappointment and a blow to my self-esteem.

The good news was that I received no further word from Gavin. So much for Eric’s hysterical prediction. Out of respect for Nicholas, who of course hadn’t been ruthless in exploiting me but merely smart enough to pick the best person for the job, I said a quick prayer for Gavin every night. The prayer consisted of the following words addressed silently but briskly to God: “Please help Gavin Blake get a life. Thanks. Amen.” Guiltily aware that this prayer was so minimalist it could scarcely count, I also made an effort to light a candle for Gavin at St. Benet’s every morning before I started work.

Meanwhile Eric had decided to extend his visit to Norway, but we were in touch again by phone and the memory of the row was finally losing its jagged edges. This improvement in my private life was just as well because in my professional life things were going from bad to worse. Another potential donor slithered away, my organiser succumbed to cyber-madness and the Healing Centre’s trustees quashed my brilliant scheme to get Nicholas on morning television’s prime showcase. Then to cap it all Nicholas decided that we still couldn’t approach Moira about Richard’s promised donation because Bridget had had a relapse and was back in hospital. Nicholas thought that the relapse was probably a temporary setback resulting from Richard’s death and that Bridget could be helped again at the Healing Centre later, but I thought Moira might well decide she had had enough of complementary medicine. The entire subject of the Slaney family and the lost donation filled me with gloom.

I did feel better when Eric at last returned from Norway, but soon he allowed the next draft of his book to take him over so completely that I hardly saw him—a state of affairs which made me realise with dread how fragile our reconciliation was. Whipping up my will-power I produced the necessary energy to be endlessly understanding during our occasional meetings, and just as I was about to expire after my umpteenth gala performance as The Great Writer’s Loyal Little Helper, my fortunes suddenly revived.

I received a letter from the chief executive officer of an American investment bank based in the City. It read: “Dear Ms. Graham: We are interested in contributing to the St. Benet’s Appeal as part of our annual donation to charitable causes in and around the City of London. May I invite you to make a presentation to our Charities Committee? If you telephone this office, my secretary would be pleased to set up an appointment. Sincerely . . .”

This is the seductive side of fundraising: the predicted successes may fail to materialise but there’s always the chance of a generous donation floating in from an unexpected source. I had already approached this bank by mailshot and had even found the necessary sympathetic third party to promote our cause with the CEO, but nothing had happened. Yet now the CEO was apparently all benevolence! I decided I should try to thank him in person, and although he was away in America when I gave the presentation to his committee, I was able to ask his PA why her boss had chosen to take an interest in St. Benet’s.

“Ah yes,” she said, “Jerry thought you might want to know that. He said I was to tell you that he was a friend of Richard Slaney’s.”

XVI

I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Richard and felt euphoric. I was sure I had nailed the donation and I thought the amount could be as much as twenty-five thousand pounds, but before I received the letter which confirmed this estimate I was visited by an elderly man who huffed and puffed his way into my office with one of the Appeal brochures tucked under his arm. He was so fat and so bald that I was reminded of the nursery rhyme about Humpty Dumpty.

Having told me his name he explained: “I’m a partner in JQS Global, and we’ve decided we’d like to make a significant donation to your most worthy and interesting good cause . . .” The deep voice with its heavy public-school accent droned richly on. The ideal donor, bursting to write a cheque, had apparently found his way to my office without even receiving so much as a humble mailshot.

“May I ask how you heard about us?” I said, wondering if he was a Christian who had heard of the Appeal through his local church, but he just said simply: “I was a friend of Richard Slaney’s,” and handed me a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds.

XVII

I suppose I knew then. Perhaps I had even known after my chat with that PA. But of course I couldn’t believe it. It was easier to say firmly to myself: “God moves in mysterious ways!” and think how rewarding it was to be a successful fundraiser.

When I told Nicholas he said: “That’s certainly a fascinating development—almost miraculous!” No doubt he too knew then but, like me, couldn’t quite bring himself to believe what had happened.

The next day Moira Slaney phoned him to say not only that Bridget would be resuming her visits to the Healing Centre but that Richard’s promised twenty thousand pounds would be in our hands as soon as probate was granted on his estate.