The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets (25 page)

‘I don't think it works,' said Erica, irritated. She glared at TP, who was smiling complacently. ‘You said you only put it in for the rhyme. Now you're claiming it's an image of him starving the children. Which is it?'

‘Both,' said TP.

‘Perhaps there's something about the word “tin-openers”, a certain clumsiness or… comic ordinariness…' Flora mused.

‘You said it was good! You said it works!'

‘Yes, well… maybe a clumsy image is a good way of unsettling people,' she concluded. ‘Let's face it, you want your audience to feel uncomfortable, don't you, while they contemplate the deprivation of the have-nots?'

Erica was determined that TP should not get away with it. ‘Even if you didn't only include that line for the sake of the rhyme, it sounds as if you did, and that's bad,' she said.

‘What's your problem?' TP snapped. ‘What do you know?'

‘Who fancies a latte? Or a mocha?' said Flora.

Erica looked out of the window, at the uncut grass and unraked leaves. She was in danger of bursting into tears. She blinked hard. TP had broken the rules. The discussion was not supposed to turn personal.

What did Erica know? She had known a lot once, at university. She had got her degree, a good upper second, and then taken the first job that had come up. Muzorsgy's. The manager was the wife of one of her university tutors. It was only supposed to be temporary, but Erica had liked her boss and her colleagues; she would have felt disloyal if she'd left.

Flora made no attempt to discipline TP for his rudeness. She was busy putting drinks into the rotund, bumpy mugs she'd bought from a potter friend of hers. ‘I don't want one,' said Erica, frostily enough to satisfy herself that she had struck back, but not so overtly that Flora would notice anything amiss. ‘I have to go now.'

‘Okay.' Flora stretched out a hand behind her and waved.

Two days later, Erica's mobile phone rang while she was in the supermarket. ‘Erica!' It was Flora. ‘Is everything okay? Is there something wrong with your phone at home?'

‘It's been cut off.'

‘Why?'

‘I didn't pay the bill.'

‘Oh, right.' Flora chuckled. ‘I love your rebellious streak. I was expecting you hours ago. Why didn't you ring?'

Erica was thrilled. Flora had missed her. Her whole body was enlivened by the idea; her skin tingled. ‘I can't make calls on my mobile any more,' she said. ‘I've had it changed to incoming calls only.'

‘I've got so much I want to talk to you about,' said Flora. ‘And Frank's making a full day of it in the office, so come round as quickly as you can. Where are you? What are you doing?'

Before Flora phoned, Erica had been wondering if she ought to risk stealing some food that she couldn't afford. If she did it at the same time as buying what food she could afford, surely noone would suspect her. ‘Shopping,' she said, though she was already taking items out of her basket,
depositing
them on random shelves. She knew she wouldn't now have the patience to wait in the queue for the till. What could Flora want to talk to her about? It had to be the work.

‘Shopping!' said Flora. ‘Perfect. Can you do something for me? Let's call it your first assignment. I want you to buy three identical Valentine cards. Are you in a shop that sells cards?'

‘Yes, I'm at the supermarket.' Erica began to retrace her steps, picking up the shopping she had just discarded and putting it back in her basket. If she was going to have to queue anyway, she might as well get the things she needed, save herself another trip tomorrow.

‘Good,' said Flora. ‘Choose a card that's tasteful and suggestive – nothing too… deterministic.'

Erica felt ridiculous and afraid at same time. She wished Flora hadn't called it an assignment. She'd have liked her to sound more serious, more professional, if this was the
beginning
of the work she wanted Erica to do. But if it was, what
might the rest of it be? What would come next? It didn't sound like something that would last very long – certainly not as long as Erica needed it to. And she wasn't sure she
understood
exactly what Flora wanted her to do.

She tried not to sound anxious as she said, ‘You mean the same card, three times? Not three similar cards?'

‘No, the exact same card.'

‘And… when you say not too deterministic… What do you mean, exactly?'

‘Nothing that mentions either love or lust explicitly. Nothing that's clearly meant for either a long-term
relationship
or a purely physical, light-hearted thing. Something more all-encompassing that doesn't… limit the possibilities. Flattering to the recipient, without pinning anything down. Does that make it easier?'

‘Yes,' said Erica, flustered, wishing she had a pen and paper with her. She tried to memorise Flora's adjectives: ‘
all-encompassing
', ‘flattering', ‘suggestive'. She hurried over to the cards, worried in case another shopper, closer to the relevant aisle than Erica was, snapped up the last three identical non-deterministic Valentines.

An hour and forty minutes later, Flora and Erica sat at the table in Flora's conservatory with the three cards in front of them. The conservatory was also the music room. Enya's
Shepherd Moons
played in the background. It was Flora's favourite album. ‘God would listen to this sort of music if he existed,' she often said.

‘It's advert music,' Erica had once dared to reply, delighting Flora with her contrariness. ‘Prudential, or Scottish Widows. God would only listen to it if he was thinking about getting his personal finances in order.' She'd made Flora laugh uproariously.

Today was not a TP day. And Frank would be in the office until at least four thirty. Bliss, thought Erica. Or, rather, it would be, it could have been, if she hadn't totally failed in the task Flora had set her. ‘There was so little choice,' she explained for the fourth time. ‘Most of them were so vulgar, or embarrassingly soppy. With messages that would only apply in very particular situations.' As soon as she'd started looking, Erica had understood what Flora meant by ‘deterministic'.

‘They always are,' said Flora. ‘You know why, don't you? It's because noone has any initiative or creativity these days.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well… you know. The government tells us not to smoke or eat salt, motorway signs tell us not to drive while we're tired. Cups of coffee we buy from train buffet cars have “careful – hot” printed on them. Teachers go on courses to learn how to teach exactly like other teachers. Flair and independence are discouraged in every sphere of life, and as for risk-taking – huh!' She raised her eyes. ‘And card manufacturers know this. They know noone has any gumption any more, so they make their cards really specific. Most people aren't up to the task of deciding what to write in Uncle Terry's bunion
operation
card, so Hallmark make cards saying “Get well soon after your bunion operation, Uncle Terry”.'

Erica laughed. ‘Yes, well, a lot of the Valentines in Asda were like that. One said, “If I show you mine, will you show me yours?” Another said, “Valentine, I've been searching for so long” on the front. And then inside it said, “There are so many pubs – you could be in any of them.”'

‘This one's perfect,' said Flora. ‘Why are you so worried about it?'

In the end, despondent, Erica had chosen a plain red card with ‘happy valentine's day' on the front in small white letters, all lower case. Inside it said ‘be mine'. ‘It doesn't really say anything,' said Erica. ‘It's not suggestive or flattering.'

‘It's fine,' said Flora. ‘It's simple. Perfect. I like “be mine”. One always wants full ownership, however briefly. And I can add my own message as well, can't I? Or, rather, you can.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes.' Flora giggled. ‘That's your second assignment. To write the three cards for me, and the envelopes, and post them.'

This, it seemed to Erica, was a good moment to clarify the issue of the work. ‘Flora, you know you said I could work with you? I'm still not sure what exactly you want me to do or how much you'd pay me. I mean, maybe you were joking…'

‘Of course I wasn't.' Flora looked concerned.

‘It's just… If I'm not going to be working with you, I really need to start looking for another job. I'm pretty desperate for money…'

Flora reached into the bag that was hanging from the back of her chair and pulled out a cheque book. ‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Yes, of course. I'll write you a cheque for five hundred quid now, is that okay?'

‘But…'

‘Or more? More. A thousand. And just tell me when it runs out.'

‘Flora, don't be ridiculous. You can't give me a thousand pounds. I haven't done anything!'

‘You've bought the cards. And you're going to write and send them for me.'

‘But that's not work.' Erica felt like howling. ‘I don't understand. You said I could work with you, but you don't work. Sending three Valentine cards will take me about five minutes. What else do you want me to do, to earn the rest of the thousand pounds?'

Flora sighed. ‘I'm not sure yet,' she said. ‘Things arise, don't they? I'm bound to need your help all the time. I like the idea that you're on standby.'

Erica shook her head tearfully. ‘I need a proper job,' she said. This was a disaster.

‘Would you prefer it if we said you were my secretary?'

‘I can't even type.'

‘Have I asked you to type? Okay, then, my personal assistant – how about that?'

‘No. I don't know…'

‘Come on, Erica, don't be so conventional. Just because I'm not giving you letters to type doesn't mean it's not a proper job.' Flora looked forlorn. ‘If I pay you, that makes it proper enough, doesn't it? I mean, I don't know yet what I'll want you to do. It could be anything – maybe one week I'll want us to impersonate people. I might need you to help me shelter a wanted criminal. Who can predict the future?'

Erica nodded. It seemed that Flora was not teasing her; she was serious. And Erica hated the thought that she was in any way conventional.

Flora wrote a cheque for a thousand pounds, tore it out and handed it to her. ‘Now, back to work,' she said, grinning. ‘I've decided what I want the cards to say: “Interested? Or just curious?” What do you think?'

‘Brilliant,' said Erica. She clutched the cheque in her hand, under the table. A warm glow of security spread through her body. No more loitering in the aisles of Asda, wondering whether to steal pork chops.

‘Go on, then. Get writing.'

‘You want the same message in all three cards?'

‘Yes. Exactly the same.'

‘Who are they for?'

‘Paul.' Flora beamed. ‘My financial adviser. You've met him a couple of times, remember?'

Erica did. He had the face of a footballer, or a soldier. A man with very short hair and hard features who did man's things. ‘You've never said you fancy him.'

‘I didn't. But last night changed all that.' Flora winked.

‘What? You mean you've…'

‘No, of course not. I had a dream about him. It was the most explicit dream I've ever had, and when I woke up I was
passionately
in lust with him. Have you ever had a sex dream?'

‘Who are the other two cards for?' asked Erica.

‘Ah. Well, the trouble is, I don't know Paul's address. I only know he lives in Silsford. I don't want to send it to his work address because his secretary might open it and tease him. She'd certainly see it. And if I asked him for his address, or asked anyone he knows, that'd look too suspicious. So I looked in the phone book. There are three P Sheafs in Silsford. I decided I'd just send the card to all three and one of them will be him.'