Heartbreaker (36 page)

“That’s all very well,” says Asherton, barely able to hide his contempt, “but you don’t practise what you preach, do you? Christians aren’t interested in the wholeness of body, mind and spirit! How can they be, when the body is something they despise?”

“On the contrary, it would be heresy for us to despise the body when we believe God became flesh and blood in order to embrace his creation to the full. But how does your Guild of Light and Darkness treat the subject? I hope you haven’t fallen into the old Gnostic error of splitting the body off from the spirit and behaving as if the body’s of no importance! Or have you rejected the practice of satiating the body with physical excesses to keep it quiet while the spirit supposedly soars towards salvation?”

“Why how exciting you make it sound!”

“You find physical abuse exciting, Mr. Asherton?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Didn’t you? In that case are you agreeing with me that mind, body and spirit are one, and that if we downgrade any of these things we downgrade our humanity?”

“No, I’m not saying that either!” snaps Asherton, voice suddenly all cyanide and no sugar. “That’s just naive nonsense. Spiritually the body’s only an encumbrance, and that’s why an exaggerated veneration of the body’s so wrong—it’s the reason why Christianity’s so against sex—”

“Christianity’s against the abuse of sex, not sex itself. How could Christianity—genuine Christianity—be against sex when sex is such an important function of the body, the body which Christianity says should be treated with dignity and respect? But of course if your society is following a strand of Gnosticism which says the body is of so little account that sexual abuse is actually encouraged—”

“I deny that charge absolutely!” explodes Asherton, rigid with fury as he hypes up his lies. “What the Gnostics seek to do—by various ancient practices which I’m not allowed to disclose—is to work on setting the body aside so that the spirit can flourish. What can be more religiously desirable than that?”

“A religion which believes body, mind and spirit should work together instead of against one another,” said Nicholas immediately. “A religion which says body, mind and spirit shouldn’t be divided by anyone seeking the health and healing which underpin salvation.”

(Dazed by the sight of Asherton being continually walloped I can only think: game, set, match . . .)

But of course I’m fantasising. He’ll come back and win in the end, just as he always does, and meanwhile he’s saying patronisingly: “I think we should leave health and healing to the medical gentlemen—don’t you agree, Doctor?”

“Quite so,” says this dumb old git. “A terrible lot of quackery goes on outside orthodox medicine.”

I want to leap to my feet and shout furiously: “Let him have it, Mr. Charisma!” but of course I stay welded to my chair and anyway Nicholas doesn’t need me bawling out encouragement like a football hooligan. He says shortly to Dinosaur-Doc: “Are your patients simply bodies to you? Do you take no account of their individual personalities?”

“Well, of course I didn’t mean to imply—”

Nicholas doesn’t wait for him to finish. Back he swings to Asherton. “I think you’d agree with me,” he says, “that we live in a culture unhealthily obsessed by the body, a culture where the spirit is greatly neglected. But the solution, surely, is not to say the body’s so unimportant that people can trash it in any way they like. The solution’s to say that the body’s so important that it should never be trashed either by starvation or gluttony or sexual abuse or any other kind of tormented behaviour.”

“Wait a minute!” says Asherton, snaking back into the attack. “You’re being very dictatorial here! What about the freedom of the individual? Why shouldn’t people have the right to choose what to do with their own bodies?”

“For people caught up in the trap of abusing the body, there
is
no freedom—it’s as if they’re locked up in jail. Take prostitutes, for instance, who spend their time splitting off their bodies from their minds in order to survive the abuse and degradation—”

“Please!” cries Mrs. Local Doctor, all pink cheeks and heaving bosom. “This truly can’t be a suitable subject for a clergyman to discuss!”

“Nonsense, Dorothy!” says Mrs. Local Parson, magnificently robust. “Christians don’t have no-go areas! It’s all God’s world, isn’t it?”

“Go on, Nicholas,” orders Colin, ignoring the women.

“My point is that sometimes people are so impoverished that they have to sell themselves to survive—they’re imprisoned by material deprivation. And sometimes people are so damaged by psychological wounds that they too feel they’ve no choice but to sell themselves—they’re the ones imprisoned by emotional deprivation. But whatever the source of the deprivation, freedom of choice isn’t there.”

(I think—no, I don’t think—can’t—)

“But my dear sir!” purrs Asherton, slithering onto the warpath again. “A lot of prostitutes, especially the ones at the top of the market, enjoy what they do! How dare you want to deprive them of their pleasure as well as their livelihood!”

“I thought it was an open secret that prostitutes soon come to despise their clients. What kind of pleasure do you get from having sex with someone you despise? And what kind of pleasure do the clients get from paying for such a travesty of love?”

“A great deal of physical satisfaction! We’re not all after love, you know!”

“Oh, but I think we are,” says Nicholas at once. “We all need to love and be loved, and that’s why prostitution’s such a rip-off. Love is the great reality, and no substitute bought and sold in the marketplace can ever begin to equal it.”

The words hit my head like flying nails.

“Ah, you old-fashioned romantic!” mocks Asherton, beside himself with the desire to gut this lethal shit-buster once and for all. “But as every sophisticated person knows, it isn’t love that makes the world go round! It’s money and power!”

And suddenly I find I’m sitting bolt upright in my chair. I’ve just realised that Nicholas is paying out the rope so that Asherton can hang himself. By this time Asherton’s in such a lather of fury and loathing that he’s forgotten where he is and who’s listening. He’s now so totally focused on wiping Nicholas off the map that he’s been lured into insisting a deep-sleaze profession’s just a free-market lifestyle choice and love’s just a four-letter word. I can almost feel the representatives of Middle England vibrating with repulsion. Their legendary decency and honesty, their fabled kindness and humanity, are all outraged. Asherton’s losing this battle, he’s losing it—he’s not invincible—he doesn’t always have the last word—

“You puzzle me, Mr. Asherton!” says Nicholas Darrow Mega-Hero as he moves in so smoothly for the kill. “For a religious man, you seem to have a very low opinion of human beings! But I myself believe in the dignity and worth of each individual, even a prostitute, because I believe that each one of us is precious in God’s sight. Do I take it that you’d just regard this as further evidence that I’m a hopeless romantic?”

“But of course!” exclaims Asherton pityingly. “Let’s face it, my friend! Certain groups in the human race are little better than animals, and the idea that each individual is someone special is merely sentimental clap-trap put out by soft-hearted idealists!”

Nicholas doesn’t bother to reply. He just looks up the table to his host, but Colin’s already leaning forward to complete the demolition job.

“And I’m sure all of us around this table,” he says flatly, “will recognise that last sentence as the philosophy which led the Germans to Auschwitz. Thank you, gentlemen. As we hardly need to vote on who won that debate, may I now invite the ladies to retire to the drawing-room?”

In a silence louder than a thunderclap, the three women slowly stand up and walk away.

Immediately Asherton excuses himself and leaves. I’m just thankful he’s not staying at the Hall, but Colin didn’t invite him, did he? I think he sussed Asherton right from the start and fingered Nicholas to fillet him. No flies on this captain of industry when he’s dealing with villains who pitch assaults on his wealth.

“I’m so glad we had the chance to talk,” he says poker-faced to Asherton as Old Toffee-Nose the butler prepares to spirit the guest away.

Asherton oozes gratitude for the hospitality, purrs goodbye to one and all, and glides off without looking back. I’m still worrying about the fact that I’ve witnessed his humiliation when Colin says: “Nicholas, can I now ask you to speak for five minutes about your ministry?”

How ruthless can you get? Not content with delegating the job of cobra-gutting to Nicholas, Colin expects the poor bloke to do a fundraising number—and without any help from his fundraiser, now shut away in the drawing-room like a second-class citizen! Not surprisingly Nicholas’s spiel’s more than a little ragged, and he barely mentions either the Appeal or his plans for the future. Talk about underplaying a hand! I wonder if I should do another pitch to Colin later tonight, but I decide it’s probably best to leave the subject of the Appeal well alone.

That’s because my relationship with Colin isn’t exactly all sweetness and light at the moment. The trouble is I’ve been so bored with the escort work that I’ve been what he calls “impertinent.” He even said I was asking to be “disciplined.” Shit, that’s all I need—a hulking great client lumbering out of the S&M closet! I’ll have to remind him my menu doesn’t include him beating me up—and let’s hope there are no handcuffs in his
objets d’art
collection.

I now find I have to have a big hit of port in order to face the fun and games in the bedroom. Of course I want to think about what Nicholas said—about the words which seemed to drill holes in my head so that the truth could roar straight into my mind like a white-hot lava flow—but I don’t dare. That’s because if I start rerunning the debate I may not be able to get through the rest of the evening. I might vomit when Colin starts slobbering over me. I might seize up in the wrong place if he wants to practise his buggery-for-beginners lesson. I might do a runner, get sacked like Jason and Tony, never see Elizabeth again . . .

So I mustn’t think of Nicholas.

I have to split that scene off now, cut it loose, stay totally focused on my job in order to survive . . .

As soon as we’re alone in his room Colin demands: “Does Darrow know the truth about how you earn your living?”

I’ve been in such a sweat about the sex that I failed to anticipate this question, but I see now that for Colin this is the big issue. A gay relationship can be discreetly indulged, he thinks, provided nothing’s done to scare the servants, but no one under any circumstances must know he pays. People would pity him. All that money and no one’ll do him for free! Sad, they’d think, sad. I can almost smell Colin’s blood curdling as he recoils from such a humiliating vision.

I say firmly: “Colin, I always practise total discretion. No one here knows about the money.”

He believes me. Or does he? “I know the subject of prostitution did come up naturally,” he says, “but nevertheless I was wondering . . . well, what do you think of Darrow? He’s attractive, isn’t he?” And he stares, challenging me to deny I’m nuts about Nicholas.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Colin!” I exclaim. “That man’s so straight he’d make the Leaning Tower of Pisa look horizontal!”

“You might still find him attractive!”

“Why would I waste my time?”

Colin says with a roughness which makes me freeze: “Can’t you see that I was asking myself why you supported St. Benet’s and the obvious answer was that you were in love with someone there?”

I keep my nerve. “I support St. Benet’s because I admire their approach to illness. When my brother was dying I didn’t notice the medical profession making much effort to treat
his
mind and spirit as well as his body.”

Colin at once backs down. “My darling, I’m sorry, I’d forgotten Hugo,” he says, and his remorse seems genuine, but a second later he’s trying to ambush me again. “What were you and Asherton talking about on the way into dinner?”

This jolts me but instantly I groan: “Oh God, can’t you guess? He wanted my phone number!”

“I thought as much!” Colin takes a moment to curse Asherton before demanding: “What did you say?”

“I said: ‘Excuse me, sir, but that’s currently privileged information.’ And I thought: you creep, get lost!”

Colin laughs and grabs me. But before the inevitable slobbery smooch arrives he mumbles in a voice thick with emotion: “What about Darrow’s comment that prostitutes despise their clients? Is it true?”

I don’t just give him a quick “no.” Instead I say seriously: “Maybe a low-grade rent boy would despise his clients because the odds are his clients would be scum. But as an upmarket leisure-worker I respect my clients because I know they’re all successful men.”

“So you respect me?”

“Course I do! You’re big and strong and tough and I think you’re terrific!”

He believes me.

Silly old sod.

Pathetic.1

Luckily the sex doesn’t require all my professional skills, which is just as well since the port has left me several grunts short of a porno-symphony. Colin’s had far more to drink than I have and he’s far older, so all he’s capable of is some semi-conscious kissing and pretend-biting. He doesn’t require me to do anything but fake rapture. Then he’s out for the count. Removing the condoms I crawl out of bed and use his bathroom as I shower off the saliva.

Back in my own room at last, I find that the relief of being alone hits me with such a wallop that I have to lie down for five minutes to recover. Again I want to think, to review the debate, but my brain’s past it. I get to the en-suite bathroom to use my toothbrush and mouthwash and then take another shower, a longer one. I’m starting to feel sick, not as the result of the alcohol—I’m still outside the hangover zone—but as the result of all that slimy rich food. Just thinking of the food revolts me so much that I return to the bathroom to make myself throw up.

That’s better. I finally feel in control.