Heartbreaker (13 page)

In fact even now she could be wetting her knickers at the thought of the funeral . . .

But before the funeral there’s a diversion which turns out to have cosmic consequences. On Tuesday afternoon I go to the West End to meet the very rich new client that Elizabeth and Asherton were discussing when I arrived home last Thursday.

His name’s Sir Colin Broune, pronounced “Brown.” Why the dotty spelling? I wonder if it’s an affectation put on by a dozy git who’s nouveau riche (or as Mum would say, “common”). But maybe his family came over with the Conqueror and it’s a distinguished Frog-name which was originally pronounced “Broon.” A dip into
Who’s Who
reveals that in addition to having some sort of science degree from Cambridge he’s fifty-two, unmarried and chairman of RCPP, Royal Chemical and Pharmaceutical Products, a position which my father would have said qualifies Sir Colin to be known as “a captain of industry.” In other words, we’re dealing here with just another stuffed shirt. Should be no problem, although one can never know for sure.

“What makes you think he’s mega-rich instead of just rich?” I ask Elizabeth.

“It’s always worth checking on the private wealth of someone with a title, dear, so Asherton ran a special check through that bent inspector he knows at the Inland Revenue. It turns out Sir Colin’s worth thirty million.”

“Wow! Who told him about me?”

“He wouldn’t say. I told him we like to know the name of the referring client as a security measure, but he said: ‘I’m paying good money. That should be enough.’ ”

“Fancies himself as a tough guy?”

“More likely he just felt grumpy dealing with a woman.”

“Which hotel’s he picked?”

She names a five-star modern outfit in Mayfair. I’ve been there before to meet a nervous first-timer who’s distrustful enough to pass up the flat at Austin Friars. No problem.

So at ten minutes to five on Tuesday afternoon I arrive at the hotel and head for the ground-floor men’s room where I check my appearance carefully. I’m dressed as a businessman in a charcoal-grey suit, sober tie, blue-and-white striped shirt, black socks and black shoes. The sex gear is stashed in a smart briefcase. I look achingly respectable.

At less than one minute to five I approach a house phone and ask the operator for Sir Colin Broune. The phone rings at five o’clock precisely.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I say after a bass voice has rasped a monosyllable. “This is Gavin Blake.”

“Room twelve-o-seven.” He slams down the receiver.

This could be difficult. He sounds in a filthy mood. Leaving the house phones I scan the lobby, but the man I’ve identified as one of the hotel security team is passing the time with a girl who’s manicuring the flower arrangement. I always like to know where the on-duty gorilla is before I head for the lifts. Some of these blokes are bent enough to demand a cut of the fee if they don’t boot the leisure-worker straight out into the gutter, so even though I’m looking so respectable I make very sure he’s paying me no attention.

When I reach the twelfth floor I find Sir Colin’s waiting for me with the door ajar.

He’s tall, around six-four, and heavily built. That could be tiresome if he expects me to heave him about, but on the other hand I’d rather he played the beached whale than Jaws in the mating season. My defensive skills are first-class and I seldom get hurt, but when someone’s big and aggressive and in a foul temper it can be tough to get the angles right so that the crucial muscles can function in a way that neutralises the danger. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m not happy with this assignment, and that if things go really wrong I could be hobbling around at Richard’s funeral tomorrow like someone emerging from the dungeon of Asherton’s Pain-Palace.

The man’s got the light behind him but even so I realise straight away he’s no beauty. He’s got a big fat face and mean little eyes and a tight-lipped mouth. Balding. Mottled skin. Creased jowls. Whisky-ish breath.

“Blake?”

“Yes, sir.”

He flings the door wide, turns his back on me and stumps off past the bathroom to the far end of the room. Here he dumps himself in a chair at the table by the window and picks up the evening paper.

Closing the door behind me I go to the bed and unpack the essential items from my briefcase. Take one step at a time. Focus. Plenty of condoms in case he fancies some kind of marathon with plenty of arse-changing. Lashings of lube to make sure neither of us gets caught short . . . God, I’d kill for some amyl nitrate, but no, I never do drugs, not even poppers in a sex crisis. I tell myself I’ve got the experience, I’ve got the skills, I’m going to be fine—but I’d better bloody well watch out for handcuffs because I wouldn’t put it past this bugger to be into S&M.

Very occasionally an S&M perv does slip through the net of Elizabeth’s vetting procedures, and if that happens I’m allowed to terminate the session right away because he’d know serious S&M isn’t on my menu. In theory I don’t have a menu. Clients pay for my time and do what they like, but in practice Elizabeth always slaps on a surcharge for unusual requests and always delivers the stern warning that any violence beyond routine play-acting is as taboo as bare-backing. The trouble in this case, though, is that Elizabeth, dazzled by the thought of the thirty million quid, could have glossed over the screening procedures and told herself: Gavin will cope.

I start to undress, making a sexy production out of it in case he’s taking peeps, but the
Evening Standard
never rustles even when I gyrate out of my leather belt and snap it. What’s he up to? I find I’m sweating lightly. Time to take deep breaths and listen in my head to my favourite tenor aria from
Zauberflöte.

Shutting the closet door on my clothes I pause to look at him again, but he’s still hidden by the paper. This is seriously weird. He must know I’m stark naked by this time so why doesn’t he take a look? Maybe he wants to lure me close to him before trying to land a punch, but if so he’s miscalculated—my judo skills mean I could floor this lump of middle-aged blubber with a couple of well-judged flips. But I don’t want to get into violence. Unlike Austin Friars this place has no hidden cameras to record who struck the first blow, and if there’s a major disaster the hotel security team’s going to believe the word of the captain of industry who’s rich enough to give the Inland Revenue a corporate orgasm, not the word of an innocent leisure-worker who’s only trying to do his job.

Psyching myself up to end this futile anxiety attack, I grab a condom, walk over and make him an offer. I always insist on being the one who puts on the client’s condom because then I know it’s on properly and my fear of AIDS is eased.

Sir Colin’s response to my offer is to grunt while continuing to read the
Standard.

Maybe he’s just had a mini-stroke. By this time the blokes are usually gasping and even the most antique equipment’s defying gravity . . . But I’m now more sure than ever that this is a perv waiting to pounce.

And suddenly he does pounce, making me jump almost out of my skin. Flinging aside the newspaper he shoots to his feet, biffs the condom out of my hand and yells: “Get out!” Then he thuds to the bathroom and locks himself in.

This punter’s certainly a novelty. I close my mouth, which is hanging open, and pick up the condom. Have to give the client what he wants, of course, but I’ve never before had a client who threw me out before I’d done my job.

I dress, feeling better. I know now he’s not an S&M perv, just a fat man with problems. Maybe he’s always like this after a hard day at the office. Or maybe he gets his kicks out of having a leisure-worker present while he reads the
Evening Standard.
Kinky. But not dangerous.

Having repacked the briefcase I write him a class-act note on the telephone pad. It reads: “Dear Sir Colin: I shall remain available until six o’clock in accordance with the agreement you reached with Mrs. Delamere. Should you change your mind and decide that you wish me to return to your room, please call the porters’ desk and ask them to let me know you’re feeling better. I shall be waiting in the lobby. Yours sincerely, GAVIN BLAKE.”

I put the notepad on the bed so that he sees it as soon as he emerges from the bathroom and then I leave, shutting the door loudly behind me to make sure he knows I’ve gone.

Downstairs I buy a copy of the
Financial Times
in the lobby shop and settle myself near the jumbo flower arrangement which is still being manicured by the pretty girl. The security man, who’s yawning away by a pillar, never gives me a second glance.

After ten minutes I learn that Sir Colin Broune wishes me to know he’s feeling better. Back I go to the twelfth floor.

The door’s open, so I go in and once more start unpacking the gear and taking off my kit. Sir Colin’s no longer reading the
Standard
but he’s got his back to me as he stares out of the window. I pause, trying to be imaginative. That’s one of the challenges of the job: using one’s creative imagination. It’s what separates the top-of-the-range leisure-workers from the middle-market drones and the rent boys at the bottom of the pile.

My trousers are still on but I keep them zipped up and pad barefoot to his side.

“I’m sorry if you’ve had a rough day, sir,” I say gently. “Life can be difficult sometimes, can’t it? Would you like me to fix you a drink?”

Mr. Moneybags subsides into the nearest chair like a pricked balloon and slowly starts to weep.

I raid the mini-bar and mix him a whisky. I fetch a wad of Kleenex from the bathroom. Then I kneel down by the side of his chair, sit back on my heels and wait. He has a sip from the glass and blows his nose. I go on waiting but presently I take his hand and hold it.

He likes that. His fingers press against mine. More tears fall but he mops them up doggedly with his free hand. His eyes are bloodshot now. What can it be like to be so plug-ugly, so totally lacking in sex appeal? But at least he’s got thirty million quid to cheer him up.

“Did someone die, sir?”

He nods before mumbling: “A very old friend. Six months ago. Cancer. Bloody awful.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Everyone says time heals. But it doesn’t. I still feel as if it all happened yesterday. I never normally talk of it, but a fortnight ago I met—” He names a client of mine “—and suddenly I did talk to him, don’t know why, suppose it was because I knew he was one of us. He said what I needed was someone to help me along, someone absolutely discreet and reliable, and he said he knew this well-educated young chap who knew how to behave, and . . . well, it seemed like some kind of answer, although I’ve never before consorted with . . . but I felt desperate enough to try anything.”

“I understand. What was your partner’s name, sir?”

“Partner! I hate all these modern corruptions of good, solid, old-fashioned words, and the only corruption I hate more than ‘partner’ is ‘gay.’ Edward was my friend. We were both homosexual. Why not call a bloody spade a bloody spade?”

“Right, sir.”

“We lived together quietly, with dignity, and never spoke of our friendship in detail to anyone. These bloody activists today with their revolting lack of taste—”

“Yes, beyond the pale, sir, frightful. What was Edward like?”

“Well, he was the best of men in all kinds of ways but his real talent was for horticulture. The garden of my country house is his memorial, and every time I look out of the window I think of him.”

We pause. More tears are shed so I get another clump of Kleenex from the bathroom. When I’m kneeling beside him again I say: “May I ask, sir, what you and Edward liked to do when he was with you as I’m with you now? I’m not saying I could in any way take his place—that would clearly be impossible—but maybe I can ease the pain by helping you recall happier times.”

The thick hand, mottled with age spots, closes gratefully on mine again, but Sir Colin can’t quite bring himself to “call a bloody spade a bloody spade” when describing his sex life, and it takes me a while to realise that he and his Edward never got past the schoolboy stage. Apparently these two men met up at Cambridge and that was it. No infidelity but no development either. It was all just like an old-fashioned heterosexual romance, ripe to be turned into a costume drama by the BBC.

In fact Sir Colin’s not too interested in sex. We fish around for a bit and I push the right buttons but after a brief grunt he’s happy to forget this interlude and become sociable. This is a bore because he wants me to talk about myself.

“I’m sorry, Sir Colin,” I say, making sure my voice vibrates with rueful charm, “but I never discuss my private life with clients.”

“But how does a boy like you become involved in a game like this?”

“I was always fond of games, sir.”

He laughs. “Where were you educated?”

“The University of Life, sir.”

More laughter. This is good. He’s feeling much better, but I wish he’d take the hint that I’m not to be grilled about the past.

“There’s no need to keep calling me ‘sir’!” he’s exclaiming impatiently. “You can call me Colin. What are your interests? Do you like music?”

“I like opera.”

He’s enchanted. “Why?”

“Because it’s lush, lavish and utterly divorced from real life.”

Unfortunately he’s more enchanted than ever by this off-putting reply. “How original!” he exclaims. “I like a young man who knows his mind and isn’t afraid to speak it. As it happens I’m an opera fan too—you must let me take you to Covent Garden!”

“Colin, I’m sorry but I don’t do escort work.”

He’s undeterred. “I’m sure I can come to an arrangement with Mrs. Delamere,” he says, and I can hear all those millions thrumming in the background as he speaks, “but we must meet again soon anyway. I understand you have a flat in Austin Friars.”

I’ve hooked Mr. Moneybags. But I’m not sure I’m happy about that. He’s no trouble—I could keep him on the line just by holding his hand— but he’s led such a sheltered sexual life that I don’t like to think of him falling into the hands of predators. On the other hand, he would hardly have got to be chairman of RCPP if he was a wilting daisy, unable to look after himself. Ironic to think he’s such a simple little soul in the bedroom.