The Heartbreaker Read online

  Ms. Shaggable’s about to speak, and I’ll bet my best Rolex I shan’t hear estuary English. We’re talking class here. We’re talking style.

  With an oddly precise inflection she says: “I’m a friend of Richard Slaney’s.”

  At once I fling the door wide open. “Then come on in!” I purr, voice smooth as liquid chocolate. “Any friend of Richard Slaney’s is a friend of mine!”

  She takes the plunge and crosses the threshold.

  I’ve recovered from my shock and my eyes have returned to their normal shape after their seconds of being spherical, but I’m more baffled than ever. Can she be Richard’s PA? No, she’d have said so. And she’s not Moira playing games either. I saw a photo of Moira when I was at Richard’s home in Hampshire.

  Golden Girl’s speaking again. What is that precise little inflection she gives to her careful Home Counties accent? There’s something foreign there, but I can’t identify the country. Fascinating.

  “What’s the G stand for?” she says, and of course I think of G-spots and G-strings and assume this is some kind of upmarket verbal foreplay, but it turns out she just wants to know my first name.

  “Gavin,” I say, and find I’m unable to take the suspense a moment longer. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Carta Graham. I used to be a partner with Richard at Curtis, Towers, but now I’m—”

  “—fundraising for that clergy-bloke who’s fixing Bridget—yeah, Richard told me about you. Okay, what’s going on?”

  She looks me straight in the eyes and says: “He had a coronary this morning.”

  “Shit!”

  “He’s still alive but I don’t know what the prognosis is. His PA’s promised to—”

  I’m too shocked to listen. In fury I yell: “Those bloody cigarettes! I told him again and again he ought to quit!” But then I get my act together and ask how she knew Richard had a date with me today. It turns out he made an entry in his desk diary which meant nothing to his PA but everything to Ms. Shaggable. I feel my eyes go spherical again. This is definitely the day I get slammed by surprises.

  “Richard told you about me?” I say incredulously. “He actually told you?”

  “Last night, yes. But he only referred to you as G and he didn’t disclose your gender.”

  “Ah, I see! Mystery solved. I couldn’t imagine Richard coming out of the closet, even for a good friend.” I start to drift across the living-room into the kitchen area. “Have a seat at the counter,” I say, “and I’ll pour you a glass of wine.” The living-room has no furniture in it except for a swivel chair, the matching footstool and a TV/video on a cart. Sometimes between shifts I like to put my feet up and watch trash.

  The babe’s saying doubtfully: “I’d better not stay.”

  “Why not? Since Richard won’t be here I’m free until my next appointment.”

  The penny finally drops with such a crash that her jaw sags. How typical of Richard to tell her everything yet tell her nothing! These closet gays play their cards so close to their chests it’s a wonder the cards don’t take root there. And what was he doing talking to this gorgeous piece, for God’s sake? Of course I realised the last time he took me sailing that he was getting much too emotional, but I never thought he’d do a total freak-out.

  Wiping the memory of the sailing trip I refocus on my visitor who’s now realised why my living-room’s so under-furnished: it’s because nothing much ever happens there. “Yes, I’m in the leisure industry,” I say amused to help her along. “I give stressed-out City executives some essential relaxation.” Extracting a Waterford crystal wine-glass from the cupboard over the sink I open the refrigerator to take out the Chablis Premier Cru. Orange juice for me, of course. I never drink at work. I’m a top-of-the-market professional, not some pathetic amateur pill-popping in Piccadilly Circus.

  When I turn to hand her the drink I see she’s looking at me as if I’m a pervy version of Batman who’s just about to be sent down for abusing that silly wimp Robin. So the lady’s a prig. Tough! Specially as she’s also nearly wetting herself because she wants to shag me. I give her a high-wattage smile and casually zip up my jeans.

  “Which hospital’s Richard at?” I say, gesturing to the stools by the counter, but she won’t sit down. She stands stiff as a soldier on the edge of the kitchen area and clasps her glass as if it’s a bayonet.

  “Barts,” she says, very chilly.

  “Great. Hey, did you see in the paper that Barts is threatened with closure? What the fuck does the Government think it’s doing?”

  Not a muscle of her face moves when I toss the f-word into the conversation. This is one cool, cool babe who fancies herself as ultra-controlled and thinks she’s far too smart to end up in the sack with a leisure-worker. Dream on, baby! I’m going to melt that ice even if I have to hire a blowtorch to do it. I’m going to make you steam.

  Opening one of the drawers below the kitchen counter I take out a business card. “If I give you my number,” I say soberly, turning on the class-act, “could you please let me know how Richard’s getting on? I’d be really grateful if you would.” And I give her a serious, appealing look designed to go straight to her tough little heart.

  It works. She agrees. Having scribbled on the back of the card I explain: “Ignore the printed phone number—that just connects to the office at my home in Lambeth, and you’ll only get my manager or her secretary. But the number I’ve written down is the number of this flat. Call me here at five minutes before either eight, noon or four-thirty and I’ll always pick up. Those are the times before my shifts begin.”

  “Don’t you have a mobile?”

  I never answer yes to this question. Clients and chicks would give me no peace if I did, and anyway the aging techno-lump which lives mainly in my car doesn’t exactly fit my image. I’m waiting for the new wave of mobiles before I update, the digital-satellite-made-in-heaven wonder-toys which the nerd department of The Times is always predicting.

  “I’m not interested in mobiles,” I lie. “They weigh too much and die at the wrong moment.”

  “But don’t you need a mobile for your business?”

  “Sweetie, I don’t have the kind of business where I’m shitting bricks in case I miss a vital call! I’m available at set hours Monday through Friday, and if a bloke wants to see me he rings the office and makes an appointment—if his credit card pans out, and if he’s lucky enough not to go on the waiting list. God, why would I want a mobile? I’m not interested in forming social relationships with these guys—I don’t even do escort work! I’m strictly bedroom.”

  “In that case,” says Ms. Ultra-Cool with all the killer-skills of a leading QC, “what did you think you were doing when you went sailing with Richard?”

  She’s blown me away.

  Shit, I’m going to shag this piece one day even if it’s the last bloody thing I ever do . . .

  I hurl back a tough reply. “Richard’s the exception that proves the rule,” I snap, and add before I can stop myself: “Richard and I are friends. We like each other.”

  “He loves you!”

  It’s clear she’s furious about this, but why? Is she in love with him herself and feels conned now that she knows he’s gay? I can’t work it out. “Okay, but so what?” I demand. “And what the hell’s it got to do with you anyway?”

  “Richard’s my friend too!” she snarls back, “so it’s certainly my business if you’ve put him on the rack!”

  “If Richard’s on the rack, that’s not my fault. Hey, you look so sexy when you’re angry and I just love sexy blondes! You busy next weekend?”

  She’s devastated. She’s been thinking I’m gay, camping it up by faking a cod-hetero attraction, but now another big penny drops and she’s shocked rigid again. In fact she’s so shocked that she fights against believing the truth that’s staring her in the face.

  Shakily she says: “You’re bisexual?”

  “Oh, puh-leeze!”

  “You mean—”

&
nbsp; “I’m straight as a ruler, sweetheart. Now how about a date?”

  But she’s pole-axed. All she can say is: “So Richard’s not just in love with a hustler. He’s in love with someone who’s constitutionally incapable of loving him in return.”

  I fake a puke. “Wow, wheel on the soaring violins and bring out the Kleenex—it’s soap-opera time!”

  “Why, you—”

  “Pussycat, get real—my clients are smart, sophisticated businessmen who know the score. I don’t know what kind of crap Richard’s been spewing out when pissed on martinis, but don’t try and tell me he’s the kind of bloke who dies for love!”

  “He nearly died this morning!”

  Shit, she’s done it again. What is this shredding machine on extra-lush legs? The Attorney-General in drag? Margaret Thatcher’s illegitimate daughter?

  “You’ve got him so stressed out,” she storms at me, “that he’s been over-working, over-eating, over-drinking and over-smoking! No wonder he had a coronary! And it was all because of you!”

  “Bullshit!” I yell. “I’m not responsible for his decision to stay in the closet! I’m not responsible for his decision to marry and have kids! I’m not responsible for his successful career and high-powered job! I ease the stress, I don’t add to it, so don’t you try to lay this fucking guilt-trip on me! Just who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

  “I’m the friend of Richard Slaney’s who’s telling you you’ve got an attitude problem!” Slamming her glass down so violently that wine slops over the rim she stalks off towards the door.

  “Hey!” I say quickly. “You’ve forgotten my card!”

  She tells me what I can do with my card but I shout back: “Don’t you think Richard would want me to be kept informed about how he is?”

  That stops her, and in my most reasonable voice I add: “Look, we both want Richard to get well. It’s crazy to quarrel like this. Let me buy you a drink next weekend.”

  “I’m busy,” she says, cramming the card into her chic little handbag.

  I go fishing. “Husband?” I murmur sympathetically.

  “That’s my business.”

  “You mean no. If you’d got one you’d say so to slap me down.”

  “Sod off!”

  “So does the lover live in or out? A sexy chick like you has to have a lover. And where do you live anyway?”

  “You’ll never know.” She snaps the bag shut and starts the march to the front door again. “You needn’t worry,” she says dryly over her shoulder, and suddenly I identify a Scottish inflection in the way she speaks each word with such unEnglish precision. “I accept that Richard would want me to keep you informed. I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks, Frosty-Puss. And thanks for coming to tell me the news. That was good of you and I appreciate it.” I count to five before adding: “Or did you just come out of curiosity to see who Richard was shagging?”

  She storms out and slams the door so hard it nearly drops off its hinges.

  Bull’s-eye.

  I sit sipping OJ at the counter. I’m upset about Richard. In my head Hugo laughs but I shove him back into the crevice in my mind where he lives. Then I can think of Richard without being interrupted.

  Ms. Iceball doesn’t understand that I’m Richard’s friend. She’s mentally slagged me off like a mindless moral bigot, but she works for a church, doesn’t she, so what can one expect? I hate religion. And as for a clergyman who ponces around pretending to be a healer—that’s gross! There ought to be a law against it. Mum took Hugo to a healer and the bastard just grabbed her money and faked miraculous powers. I told Richard that story when he began talking about the St. Benet’s Healing Centre, but this disclosure was a mistake because he started asking about my family and I never discuss the past with my clients.

  But Richard’s not like the other clients and that’s why I’m sitting here feeling upset. I’m as upset as any friend of Richard’s would be, and as Richard’s famous for his friends there are going to be a whole lot of upset people out there besides me.

  I think of him being a friend.

  “I know you don’t work on weekends,” he said when he first invited me to go sailing with him, “but you won’t have to work on this occasion, I promise. We’ll just be friends.” Hey, pull the other one, mate, I thought to myself, who do you think you’re kidding? But he was as good as his word. He only cracked the weekend before last on our sixth trip, but I felt so grateful to him for all the sailing that I didn’t mind giving him a freebie. I never normally give freebies, never. When I say you have to pay me to do gay sex that’s the literal truth. But I made an exception for Richard because I owed him—and anyway it turned out not to be a freebie after all because he promised me a ten-thousand-pound hit of stocks and shares (which I’ll ask him later to convert into cash).

  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 wou
ld 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.”