Heartbreaker Read Online Free PDF Page A

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—”
    “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