The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets (26 page)

‘What if he's ex-directory?' asked Erica.

‘He isn't. I know, because when I told him I was, he looked puzzled and asked me why.'

‘Why don't you ring all three numbers? He'll answer one of them and then you'll know.'

‘No. Too risky. When the card arrived, he'd immediately remember the strange phone call, wouldn't he? He might hire a detective and trace the number.'

‘Of course he wouldn't,' said Erica.

‘I would,' said Flora. Erica believed her. Flora would do a lot of things that most people wouldn't. ‘Or he might hear some background noise, something that would enable him to identify the house.'

‘You could ring from a phone box. Or I could.'

‘No! Look, to be honest…' Flora's eyes darted to the right, then back again. ‘This is going to sound odd, but I like the grandness of the gesture. You know, sending it to all the P Sheafs in the phone book. I feel a bit like King Herod.' She laughed. ‘Don't know which one you want? Right, target them all – that way you know you'll get your man. Do you see what I mean? If King Herod wanted to send a Valentine to his financial adviser, and didn't know his exact address, this is
what he'd do. I like my plan – I think it's funny. It makes the whole thing more exciting. What's wrong with it?'

‘I don't know,' said Erica doubtfully. ‘Isn't it a bit unfair to the other two?'

‘Unfair? The opposite, I'd have thought.' This time Flora looked as if she did not want Erica to disagree with her. ‘Two people will get Valentine cards this year who might
otherwise
have got none. Think how pleased they'll be. I know Valentine's Day is silly in many ways, but you'd be surprised how many people would be bolstered for weeks, maybe even months, by the idea that they've got a secret admirer. It's an adventure, apart from anything else.'

Erica would not have been surprised. Her reservation about Flora's plan stemmed from her being able to imagine only too vividly the effect an anonymous Valentine might have upon a person. Especially one that said, ‘Interested? Or just curious?' It was a clever, subtle message. Was it fair to make a person believe that they had an inspired and discriminating admirer when they did not, when they merely shared a name with the real object of desire?

Grateful as she was for the thousand pounds and for her unconventional job, Erica couldn't help wishing that she could avoid direct involvement in this mad Valentine-sending scheme. If she had not been working for Flora, she could have observed the goings-on from a distance; it would not have occurred to her to take an ethical position on the matter. It was different now that she was Flora's paid accomplice.

That evening she sat in her flat with the three cards on her lap and an empty tin of pork sausages and beans on the sofa beside her, wondering how Flora would react if she told her she felt uncomfortable about the whole business. She'd probably just laugh, and find someone else to write and post
her cards for her. But then Erica would have to return the money; how could she not, in all conscience? What sort of employee refused her employer's very first request?

And since the cards would be sent anyway… Erica opened each one in turn and wrote the agreed message inside, in a style of handwriting that she had invented and practised: long, angular letters that tilted to the right. Nothing like Erica's small, neat script or Flora's round, unruly scrawl. Flora hadn't instructed her to do this, but neither had she explicitly told her not to, and Erica would have felt even more strongly implicated if she'd written the cards as herself.

She put them in their envelopes, sealed them, and fished in her bag for the piece of paper Flora had given her with the three addresses on it. She stared at them. 3 Bankside Close. 31c Brownsville Road. 19 Woodland Rise. Each one the home of a different P Sheaf, two out of three of whom were unloved by Flora. Perhaps nobody loved them. Erica felt sorry for these two strangers, and for herself. Tomorrow, before going to Flora's house – before going to work – she was supposed to drive to Silsford and post the cards. She wasn't entirely sure that she could or would do it. She looked again at the addresses, and decided to postpone writing them on the envelopes, as if to do so would be to commit herself. ‘You must make sure to post them first thing,' Flora had said. ‘I know Valentine's Day is three days away, but we don't want to cut it fine. It's nicer if they arrive early. I've always loved early Valentines. They allow you to feel a sort of advanced smugness. Not only have you got a card, but you know you've got one long before the actual day, so you can bypass the agony of waiting and hoping. I want Paul to know that his secret admirer is a considerate person, you see.'

When Erica was in her flat alone, she spent most of her time replaying recent conversations she and Flora had had. Home had become the place where – mentally, while sitting motionless on the sofa, staring trance-like in the direction
of a fuzzy old black-and-white television – she archived and catalogued the footage of her life as Flora Gustavina's best friend.

‘Shouldn't you post it more locally?' Erica had quibbled. She preferred to drive as little as possible. Her car, a boxy old Skoda that she'd bought from one of her mother's church friends for three hundred and fifty pounds, often stopped without warning and would not start again. ‘Surely you want him to know the card's from you.'

‘Of course I don't.' Flora had inspected Erica closely at that point, as if searching for an indication of her planetary origin. ‘If I wanted him to know, I'd write it myself and sign it, wouldn't I? And then hand it to him. I wouldn't need three cards.'

‘Yes, but you at least want him to suspect…'

‘Exactly. I'd like him to suspect, but not be at all certain. That way, if he wants it to be me, he'll start to drop hints, perhaps invite me out for dinner…'

‘But he'll only do that if he thinks it's likely to be you.' Erica had been surprised at her own vociferousness. Now that she was being paid, she felt obliged to give top-notch advice in the clearest possible manner. ‘If the postmark says Silsford, he might not suspect you at all. Or your name might come way down the list.' Flora looked as if she did not like the sound of that. Erica continued, ‘In which case he's not going to make a pass at you, is he? He's your financial adviser. He won't risk behaving unprofessionally unless he's convinced you're his mystery admirer.'

Flora had nodded. ‘Everything you say would be true if it weren't for one crucial fact.'

‘Which is?'

‘I'm me.' Flora shrugged. ‘Any man who knows me and gets a Valentine card is going to make me his prime suspect straight away. Sending an anonymous card is such a me-ish thing to do. Not many people are as keen as I am on
mischievous
and intriguing modes of behaviour.'

‘But he knows you're married.'

‘I'm still me,' Flora insisted. ‘I'm telling you, when he gets the card, he'll think “Flora”, immediately. Then he'll look at the Silsford postmark, and he'll remember that I'm married, and he'll be less utterly positive. Other women might spring to mind. But you see my point? I need the combination of Frank and the Silsford post mark to mitigate against the total obviousness of the card being from me.'

‘What if he doesn't drop hints or invite you out for dinner?'

‘I don't know.' Flora had frowned. ‘If he doesn't do that, he'll do something else. Something will happen. Things will change between us.' She nodded suddenly, as if making up her mind. ‘He'll know it's me, but he won't be able to prove it. It'll drive him crazy.' She grinned, her eyes twinkling with glee. ‘And of course I don't have to admit it until it suits me…' She laughed. ‘I've never been very good at making men wait for sex, but I love making them wait for information.'

‘So you want to have sex with him? Just once, or… a proper affair?'

‘That's a good point,' said Flora, wagging her index finger in the air. ‘I must give it some thought.'

When Erica arrived at the Gustavinas' house the following day, she bumped into Paul the financial adviser on the doorstep. She made a startled, incoherent noise. The skin on her face tingled hotly. She clutched her bag against her chest, protecting it with both arms, as if she feared he might try to mug her. The smell of Paul's aftershave coated the air around them. It was sharp and citrusy, like a mixture of lime and acid.

Fortunately, Paul didn't notice that the sight of him had disturbed Erica. He waved vaguely without looking at her. She'd observed when she'd met him before that he (and Vesna the cleaner, coincidentally) preferred to look at things than at
people. Paul gazed at printed columns of figures; Vesna stared at the piles of colourful pottery in the sink, into buckets of soapy water.

Today Paul stood still, legs planted apart, mobile phone to his ear. He wore a navy suit and a sky-blue shirt without a tie. His voice was deep and oddly lacking in inflection.
A
dalek might sound like him
, thought Erica. The subject of his conversation, from what she could gather, was a forthcoming rugby match. He and whoever he was talking to would meet a group of surnames – Watkins, Carter, Clay – in the Red Lion before kick-off.

Erica lowered her eyes and waited. Paul didn't move aside, seemed unaware that he was blocking her route to the front door. He was a chunky, slab-like man. The skin on his face looked as if it had been heaped on top of the bones, then patted into place with a spade. Eventually, he ended his phone call with the word ‘curry!' – a decisive announcement – and lumbered meatily towards his car.

Thank goodness
, thought Erica. She'd been terrified that he would go back inside. But, no, he was on his way to the office, or to see another client. Or home, perhaps, to 3 Bankside Close, or 31c Brownsville Road, or 19 Woodland Rise.

Flora flung open the front door. ‘Did you see him?' she whispered.

Erica nodded.

‘Oh God! He's so gorgeous.' She took hold of Erica's elbow and steered her inside. ‘I find just thinking about him more erotic than actually having sex with most people.'

‘I don't think he's sexy at all,' said Erica, though she hadn't planned to mention it. But now that she'd started, it seemed important to carry on. Trying to save Flora from her own foolishness was certain to be in her job description, even if this had never been formally stated. ‘There's something aggressive-seeming about him. Like a sort of anger, almost, just beneath the surface. I don't think he's very friendly.'

‘Not sexy?' Flora was aghast. ‘What are you talking about? What about his low, scary voice, like Hal the computer from 2001? Imagine that voice saying… certain things!' Her eyes gleamed.

‘What did he say in your dream?' asked Erica.

‘I'll never tell you that.' Flora grinned. ‘Though I'll happily tell you what he did. Missionary position. The squashing and crushing variety, no arm support. Lots of silence, lots of rhythmic pounding. Camomile tea?'

‘Yes, please.'

‘I bet I'm right. I can't see him being a clamberer, or a
there-there
-er. Did you post the cards?'

It was the question Erica had been dreading. She hadn't. The three Valentines were still in her bag. She'd been
terrified
of Paul somehow detecting their presence when she'd run into him outside. She'd felt as if he were bound to intuit their existence and meaning through the thin fabric of her bag, even though she had not written his name inside the cards, nor, yet, on the envelopes. Now she was certain Flora would guess the truth straight away: that Erica had not successfully completed her assignment as instructed, that she had
deliberately
disobeyed.

‘Yes,' she lied. Panic swept through her; soon she would be fired, friendless. Why hadn't she done what she'd been told to do? Why had she been unable to bear the idea of the other two P Sheafs, who were not financial advisers and did not smell of lime and acid, opening their cards and feeling their hearts swell with false pleasure, happiness that was based on a horrible lie, a ruse, Flora's stupid Herod plan? And they would never know, that was the worst thing about it. They might spend the rest of their lives believing in their secret admirer. But so what? Erica reminded herself that she didn't know these people. And worse things happened all the time. She was being idiotic. She cursed her own squeamishness. Flora was probably right to say that there was nothing wrong with lies that made everybody
happy. Now Erica had lied to please Flora and, in doing so, had made herself considerably more miserable. I
must
post the cards on my way home, she thought. It wasn't too late. They would still arrive by Valentine's Day.