Heartbreaker (4 page)

I had to be careful, though, when I announced the good news to Elizabeth. She’d have had a fit if she’d known I’d been seeing Richard at weekends without charging him, and if she were ever to find out that the jackpot fuck had started life as a freebie . . . No, it doesn’t bear thinking about. She’d go ballistic.

I glance at my watch. Ten minutes until Iowa Jerry arrives. Then after him there’s that bloody Kraut who ought to be terminated—no, wait, if this is Wednesday it’s not the Kraut, it’s Humpty Dumpty, the bloke with the stomach. The Kraut comes on Thursdays. I’ve had plenty of German clients who were no trouble so I’m not being racist, but this particular German makes me wish we’d met in World War Two. Then I could have killed him legally.

I wash up the glass Ms. Iceball used and wonder idly how she came to be raising money for a church. It’s so weird how smart, cynical Richard likes that church and the people who run its so-called Healing Centre. But then he thinks they’re curing Bridget, silly little cow, who’s been adding to her father’s stress and contributing to that bloody coronary . . .

Okay, forget Richard, it’s time to focus on my work. Iowa Jerry has to have American condoms because he doesn’t trust the Brits to make them right, the stupid old fart. Must tell that bitch Susanne to order more. I admit I’m finicky about condoms myself, but my finickiness is based on scientific research, not xenophobic folklore. With gay sex you can’t mess around when it comes to condoms. Ignorant little boys who bust out of the closet and hit the scene so hard they bounce think regular condoms are good enough but they’re not—not if we’re talking high friction in an unforgiving environment. Only the strongest will do. Okay, so there’s more to gay fun and games than the highest-risk high jinks, but even with the other routines I don’t use just any old fun-rubbish. The condoms have to be top-quality from a top supplier. They have to be not past their sell-by date. They have to be kept away from a heat source when being stored. And water-based lubricants only, please, not oil-based stuff that can rot them. Even the strongest condoms are sensitive little plants and UK condom manufacturers have a quality control scheme to nurture them along. There’s even talk of a Pan-European standard, but that’ll never work because the French and the Italians will cheat, and meanwhile the best British condoms are as good as anything the Americans can produce even if they haven’t been water-tested and air-burst-tested and God-knows-what-else-tested by the FDA.

I’m a condom expert because I want to survive—and don’t tell me HIV is a difficult virus to catch! I’m in the bloody front line here, and besides it’s not the only STD around, as Dr. Filth often reminds me when I go for my check-up. I’m an expert too on sexually transmitted diseases, but whenever I start to feel over-anxious I remind myself that gay sex, as practised by a professional, is probably a lot less risky than other dangerous sports such as motor-racing or hang-gliding. It’s the clients who are the problem, not the sex. You only need one nutter going out of control, but Elizabeth screens the clients carefully and I keep my judo skills up to the mark so here too the risk is reduced to a minimum. I do offer minor S&M—the fantasy kind where no skin gets broken and no one passes out—but the major stuff would be senseless to undertake. Much better for the real pervs to be served up to Asherton the Mega-Monster at his Pain-Palace in the heart of Westminster.

I get out the extra-strength American condoms for Iowa Jerry and remember to put his chocolate bar on the bedside table. He always likes chocolate afterwards. I’m very careful to remember little touches like that. It marks me out as a top-grade leisure-worker, performing an essential social service which makes a lot of people feel much happier.

The buzzer goes. It’s Jerry. But I’ll pretend for a few magic seconds it’s Ms. Priggy.

Well, it’s a nice easy way to get an erection . . .

The lunch-time shift ends at three, which means the last client reels off around two-fifty and I use the remaining minutes to clear up and prepare for the late shift which begins at four-thirty. Tomorrow it’ll take longer to clear up because of that bloody Kraut, but tomorrow’s another day.

When I’ve finished I flop down on my living-room chair, watch an Australian soap opera on TV, eat two bananas and drink a glass of milk. Then I zap the picture and call Elizabeth.

No luck. The private line gets rerouted to the office and that bitch Susanne picks up.

“Where’s Elizabeth?” I demand.

“Dunno. Why?”

“Tell her Richard Slaney’s had a coronary.”

“You mean when you were doing him?”

“You’re joking! You think I’d wait hours to call Elizabeth if he’d passed out in bed? When he didn’t show up I called his office and some under-chick said he’d had a coronary and wound up in Barts.”

“You’re not supposed to call clients at work!”

“Hey popsicle, you’re just the secretary, remember? You don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!”

“Piss off, pinhead!” says the bitch and hangs up.

I try to do some relaxation exercises but I can’t stop thinking of Richard and suddenly my memory gives me such a jolt that I freeze. I’ve remembered the photos. If he dies and all his things get sorted . . . But he’s not going to die, is he? It’s the poor who die of coronaries. The rich get the best treatment and live.

I fritter away some time by watching TV again, but I soon find I’m watching the clock instead. Will Ms. Priggy call or won’t she? She does. At four-twenty-five precisely the bell jangles and I leap up, panting for what’ll probably be good news. He must be out of intensive care.

I grab the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Carta Graham.”

“Great! What’s new?” I say, relaxing in anticipation of the progress report, but all she says in that same crisp, efficient voice is:

“He died.”

I’m gutted. I can’t believe it. I actually say to her: “I can’t believe it.” But why the big surprise? Do I seriously think there’s something out there called God who guarantees that the good blokes survive? Forget it. But I’m still shocked to pieces. Despite all his cigarettes and booze and high-stress lifestyle, I never really thought Richard would die at forty-nine.

Apparently he had another coronary, and even though he had instant medical attention the heart refused to restart.

“How do you know all this?” I blurt out but add quickly: “I’m not doubting your word. I was just wondering if you were there.”

“I wasn’t but Moira was. She called my boss, Nicholas Darrow, the Rector of St. Benet’s, and he’s gone to the hospital to be with her. Well—” She’s preparing to end the call “—sorry to be the bearer of bad news—”

“Wait.” I’ve remembered the photos. “I need your help. Richard kept some photos in his Mayfair flat and they’ve got to be junked right away.”

“Photos of you and him?”

“No, just me, but they’re not the kind of pics a hetero family man would keep, and since Richard’s big obsession was that his kids should never know he was gay—”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get a set of keys from Moira. Then I can lift the pics as soon as she’s gone back to Compton Beeches.”

“But what the hell am I going to say to her?” she demands, but adds before I can reply: “Maybe I can work something out with Richard’s PA.”

I jack up the charm. “Brilliant! Thanks a million. Can you call me back at six-thirty to tell me if you’ve fixed it?”

She says she will.

She calls back at six-thirty on the nail. This babe’s a real dynamo, and when she’s not ball-bustering around playing Mrs. Thatcher’s illegitimate daughter she’s hoovering up messes like a triple-star contract cleaner.

“Gavin Blake?” she barks, reminding me of my headteacher in kindergarten.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for calling back,” I say, determined to be well-behaved, but I just sound like one of those poor sods who operate in call centres and gradually get turned into robots. Good morning, thank you for calling London Leisure-Workers, this is Gavin speaking, how may I help you achieve your multiple orgasm today? Thank you, Gavin, this is—

“I’ve got the keys.”

I wipe the fantasy. “Congratulations!”

“It turned out he kept a spare set at the office, and when I told his PA I needed to retrieve some papers connected with the Appeal she offered me the keys right away.”

“Cheers. Where’s Moira?”

“Staying overnight at the flat. Then she’s supposed to go back to Compton Beeches, but I’ll have to double-check later to make sure she’s gone.”

“So when can I meet you to get the keys?”

“Let’s say this time tomorrow. But I’m not handing the keys over. I’m coming with you to the flat.”

Wow! How green can a light get? Blowing a kiss into the phone I murmur in a double-cream-suitable-for-pouring voice: “Can’t wait!”

“You’d better behave!” she snaps back. “The only reason why I’m coming with you is because if I let you get into that flat, I’m responsible for what you do there. How do I know you won’t start nicking things?”

What kind of lowlife does she think I am, for God’s sake? I bet my upbringing was far classier than hers.

“Maybe we could nick things together,” I say innocently. “Then we’d be a pair of nickers.”

No laugh. Not even the hint of a gurgle. She’s bursting a blood vessel trying to give me no encouragement.

“I’ll meet you outside forty-nine Austin Friars at six-thirty tomorrow night,” she says in a voice designed to freeze hell, and hangs up, probably quivering at the thought of a date with someone so depraved. How I’m going to enjoy our first snog! She’ll be begging for it in the end, of course. They always do.

Sighing with satisfaction I head home to Elizabeth.

The shock of Richard’s death hits me again that night. I lie awake remembering our six sailing trips and reliving them one by one while in my head Pavarotti sings my favourite aria from
Die Zauberflöte.
Finally I reach the last voyage. Richard and I are sailing down the Solent towards the Needles, the cliffs are stark white, the sea’s wine-dark—and suddenly the lost past comes pouring back, recaptured, restored, redeemed. Even Hugo, rooted in that crevice in my mind, is silenced. I feel so special when I remember that moment, so unified, so all-of-a-piece. But does that mean I usually feel a broken-down mess? Course not! I’m highly disciplined, strongly motivated and totally focused on stashing loadsa-money in my Cayman Islands bank account so that I can retire in two years’ time and sail away into the golden sunset. Life’s great!

“It’s a terrible life you lead,” says Richard in my memory, and feeling narked I say: “So’s yours!” but the thought that his lifestyle could be criticised so infuriates him that he gives me this passionate speech about being a pass-for-straight gay. I make no attempt to interrupt. The fact is that as I’ve long since dropped all my preconceived notions about gays I’m interested in what he has to say. I don’t mean I’m a dripping-wet liberal and I don’t mean I’m a pro-castration homophobe. I just mean that I’ve realised all the talk by the activists on both sides of the gay debate has little relation to what really goes on. Homosexuality’s much more complex than the two-dimensional propaganda spouted by the fanatics, and the gay activists in particular should try listening to alternative gay views instead of shrieking nonstop about coming out. Here’s Richard, letting it all hang loose about his right to be the kind of gay he feels he is.

“I haven’t slogged and sweated through a lifetime of keeping quiet about one aspect of myself only to have a bloody activist tell me that coming out will transport me to gay heaven! Gay heaven’s the last place I want to be, thanks very much, and these mindless shits who say people like me should be open about their private lives have no right to deprive me of my right to choose what kind of life I want to lead! I
chose
long ago to be silent about my sexual orientation, but I didn’t lie to myself about it. I faced what I was and I made a rational decision about what I wanted from life—I wanted marriage and a family, I wanted to be well-respected in my local community, I wanted to get on in my profession, I wanted the kind of things a whole load of other men want, and why should I have my ambitions skewed just because of something I can’t help and never wanted? God almighty, no one in their right mind could
want
to have feelings which are the cause of so much misery—and if that’s not politically correct, fuck it, I don’t care! This is
my
life, to live as I’ve lived was
my
choice, and if homosexual rights are to mean anything at all they must include the right to pass for straight and pick a mainstream lifestyle!”

In my memory I nod as I listen to him. I don’t argue when he stops speaking. He’s entitled to his views. There are many homosexualities, just as there are many heterosexualities, and why shouldn’t he be allowed to speak up for his particular brand?

“I’ve lived out my own truth,” he adds, “and if that means I’ve never had any kind of deep relationship—if that means I now choose to pay for sex in order to stay in control and avoid a mess—then so be it. The handicapped usually have to pay for sex anyway—and if any activist wants to query my use of the word ‘handicapped’ I’ll smash his teeth in! No politically correct bastard’s going to deprive me of the freedom to describe my sexuality in any way I please!”

He finally stops talking. He’s emotionally exhausted. Taking his hand I grip it tightly and say: “I think you’re bloody brave, Richard, to fly in the face of fashion in order to pursue the truth as you see it.” Of course we both know the fascist activists would call him a coward and spit on him. “There’s a Byron quote I’ve always liked,” I add before he can reply. “It goes: ‘Yet, Freedom! yet, thy banner, torn, but flying, streams like the thunderstorm
against
the wind.’ You know that one? Byron didn’t give a shit for fashionable opinion either and he too lived out his own truth.”

Then Richard breaks down and says he loves me and the whole scene goes off the rails, but I’ll never forget how much I admired his guts for defending his right to be a certain kind of gay.