The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Page 6

  Tom’s heart plummeted. He didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What do you mean, “we’ll be going”?’ As if it were not yet fully in the bag. ‘Who’ll look after the kids?’

  Selena walked over to put the kettle on. When she turned to face Tom again, she had a sly grin on her face. ‘I don’t know exactly who, but it’ll be somebody from our new family.’

  Tom shivered. This sounded like a comment of the sort that might first alert a husband to his wife’s rankling insanity. ‘Our new family?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes. Don’t look worried – I haven’t gone chicken oriental. I made a simple, practical decision. Nobody should be alone in the world, without a safety net of people to support and look after them in times of need and…offers of free holidays. This morning proved that we haven’t got that, and that’s not a situation I’m prepared to accept. So I’ve advertised for new relatives.’

  ‘What?’ Tom gasped.

  ‘And there’s no point trying to talk me out of it. The advert’s already up on the notice board at Tesco.’ Selena laughed. ‘It’s brilliant. You wait: once news gets around about what I’ve done, everyone’ll be doing it. Think of all the elderly people who’ve got noone, or whose kids have cut them off after big feuds. Think of everyone whose loved ones have died, or disowned them because they once got into trouble…’

  ‘Selena, you can’t seriously…’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. I’ll get masses of responses to my advert, you wait and see. I’m going to hand-pick the members of our new family.’

  ‘What, from the feuders and the abandoned, the disgraced and disowned? These are the people you’re going to leave in charge of Joe and Lucy?’

  ‘Oh, you’re such a worrier! Listen, I swear to you, if you’re not a hundred per cent happy with our new family, we won’t leave the children with them. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tom, though he was far from it. Thinking back over the way Selena had constructed her sentence, it seemed to him that she had snuck in the ‘new family’ part; there was no suggestion that Tom might be able to veto these solicited relatives, either as individuals or collectively, as a theoretical proposition. He would have a say only in whether or not to leave the children with them. But he knew Selena well and she was not sneaky. She was straightforward. If she made the new family sound non-negotiable, that was because it was. Selena was drawing this feature of the situation to Tom’s attention, not trying to disguise it.

  He knew there was no point arguing. New relatives would be sought on his behalf, even as he protested. He prayed that everybody in Tesco this afternoon would be too busy to look at the notice board. First thing tomorrow morning, on his way to work, he would nip in and take the advert down.

  ‘So, it’ll be fine,’ Selena concluded. ‘I’m really quite excited about the whole thing. How was your day? Your morning?’

  Tom decided not to tell her about Nora Connaughton’s memo or his response. It would sound pathetic. Big deal, he’d taken a veiled pop at his boss. Had he really expected Selena to applaud his bravery? She’d spent the morning judging and firing their close relations, and sending out for new ones. She was a woman of action; how could Tom expect her to appreciate the subtle nuances of his way of doing things?

  As it turned out, he didn’t have a chance to answer. The phone in the sales office rang, and Selena picked it up. ‘Beddford Homes, how may I help you?’ she recited in a sing-song voice. Then, sounding interested and genuine all of a sudden, she said, ‘Yes, it is. Oh, you saw my advert? Brilliant! Thanks so much for ringing.’

  Tom’s gut quaked. The first aspiring substitute relative had made contact.

  There was an email from Nora waiting for Tom the following day. She made no reference to his enquiry about her health.

  From Nora.Connaughton@phelpscc.com

  To: Tom.Foyers@phelpscc.com, Cc: Gillian.Bate@phelpscc.com, Imrana.Kabir@phelpscc.com.

  Dear Tom

  In future, please could you let me know if you plan to work from home? It’s just that it makes life easier for me if I know where staff are. Last Thursday, for example, Nathan asked me if I knew where he might find you, and I, in all innocence, directed him to your office. Glad to see Burns Gimblett is progressing nicely – well done!

  Best wishes, Nora.

  Tom resisted the urge to spit at his computer screen. So now she was copying in not only Gillian, but Imrana from Human Resources, the department that dealt with grievances, internal wrangles, hirings and firings. The subliminal message was unequivocal – it was rather like receiving a message from God, cc The Grim Reaper, suggesting that you might want to visit the doctor for a routine check-up. As for the mock-jovial line about Burns Gimblett – did Nora think Tom was an idiot? Did she imagine that a dollop of praise at the end cancelled out the needling tone of the rest, the subtle bullying, the warning-masquerading-as-humble-request?

  Tom gave it some thought and decided that of course she didn’t. She knew what game they were playing, and she knew he knew. The email’s upbeat last line was not intended to make Tom feel better; rather, it was a shield for Nora, who was evidently too gutless to say what she meant and take the consequences. Part of her wanted Tom to like her, even as she plotted to bring him down. This, he realised, gave him a certain amount of power.

  He decided to reply by letter, to make it clear that there was nothing casual about his response. ‘Dear Nora’, he typed, despising her. Of course, he too was averse to saying what he meant, but for that reason he had always taken pains to ensure that he never became the boss of anybody, never put himself in a position where he had a team of staff to manage. Nora was evidently deluded about her own capabilities. For her to have applied for the job of division manager was as absurd as if Miffy Bunny were to make a bid to replace Orla Guerin as the BBC’s Middle East correspondent.

  Don’t worry about having sent Nathan to my office,

  Tom typed.

  He obviously interpreted, with relative ease, the big sign I’d cellotaped to my door, explaining that I’d be working from home all day and giving several phone numbers where I could be reached. He contacted me immediately and easily, so there was no problem there. Could I just take this opportunity to clarify something? I am unsure of your policy with regard to working from home. Would you a) prefer me not to work from home, but always to work in the office, b) prefer me to ask your permission in the event of my wishing to work from home, or c) simply like me to inform you of the days on which I’ll be working at home? No doubt I’ve mislaid the communication you sent to all staff in which the guidelines were clearly laid out – I’m so sorry for this uncharacteristic carelessness on my part. And, sorry also to create extra work, but could you possibly send it again? I hope I don’t sound too pedantic wittering on about efficient dissemination of information. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found it’s all too easy to slip up when you’re hazy about what is expected of you. Hope you’re making the most of this lovely weather we’re having!

  All the best, Tom

  (cc: Gillian Bate, Imrana Kabir, Johnny Eyebrows)

  Tom chuckled. Johnny was a drug dealer who hung around the precinct centre in town. Tom bought a bag of grass from him every now and again. He re-read what he’d written and frowned. Nora would, of course, know that he was taking the piss, but would she do anything about it? Would Gillian, or Imrana, have the guts to demand to know who Johnny Eyebrows was?

  Tom decided that one of the three women was bound to, though he wasn’t sure which. But questions would be asked, once it was noted that there was no Phelps Corcoran Cummings employee by the name of John Eyebrows. Tom fantasised about how he might reply. ‘Oh, yes, didn’t I mention it? Johnny’s a friend of mine, an artist. He’s doing a big installation at the moment on the theme of the language of business, and he’s asked me to get him copies of some non-confidential correspondence…’ Tom’s blood fizzed with glee. He could do it; he could pull it off. All he had to do was say it solemnly, and nobody would be
able to prove that his intentions were mocking, anarchic and disrespectful. The worst they could do was ask him, crossly, not to pass on any more Phelps Corcoran Cummings memos to Johnny. In which case he could offer the honest mistake line of defence and promise never to do it again.

  Tom sent the letter to Nora, Gillian and Imrana. He did not bother to print out a copy for Johnny Eyebrows, for he was as certain as he could be that Johnny would not appreciate the brilliance of the whole scheme. It didn’t matter; Tom appreciated it enough for both of them. His whole body pinged with adrenaline. He spent most of the day humming while he worked and, at five thirty, found that he was less keen than usual to leave the building. The offices of Phelps Corcoran Cummings were no longer merely the site of his suffering; they were the glistening white arena in which he showed a few people a thing or two, people who might say, ‘I never thought that mousy Tom Foyers had it in him.’

  There was another reason why he wasn’t keen to leave work, a reason unconnected to his job. At seven o’clock he was due to drink wine and eat cheese with three strangers who had, on the telephone yesterday and this morning, professed to want to form a family with him and his wife. Tom sighed and pulled Selena’s advertisement out of his jacket pocket. He’d removed it from Tesco at five past eight, on his way in, but he’d been too late. At least three people had already seen it, the three who would be joining Tom and Selena at the Beddford development’s show home this evening.

  Selena had suggested congregating there rather than at home, just in case any of the three applicants for feigned kinship turned out to be mentally unstable. ‘We don’t want them to know where we live if they’re nutters, do we?’ she’d said to Tom over breakfast. Briefly, Tom had suspected her of taking this sensible precaution and talking about nutters as a cunning way of presenting herself – by contrast, and falsely – as sane. But then he remembered that Selena did not have hidden agendas. So maybe she was sane; he’d always thought so.

  Tom had said nothing. Every molecule of his brain, every atom of his heart was opposed to Selena’s plan, but he found it impossible to protest, and this wasn’t only because of his usual reluctance to speak his mind. What stumped him was that Selena argued her case so well; logically, he couldn’t fault her. His objection stemmed from a combination of two fears: of the unknown (the new relatives) and of the unconventional (the plan to acquire new relatives).

  Thinking about it, Tom decided that the latter was the more serious problem for him. ‘Nobody does this!’ he’d wanted to scream at Selena. ‘Not a single person in the entire world has ever done this! I don’t want to be a freak!’ He could imagine what she’d say: ‘Imagine if Noah had been a chicken like you – there’d have been no ark. Imagine if Martin Luther King had said that to himself. Or Emmeline Pankhurst. I’m ahead of my time, that’s all. One day everyone’ll do it. Real, blood families will be as passé as natural childbirth and breast-feeding – two other bloody stupid ideas!’

  He looked again at Selena’s notice and shook his head. At the top, in capital letters, she had written, ‘DO YOU DESERVE A BETTER FAMILY THAN THE ONE YOU’VE GOT?’ Underneath, she’d elaborated. ‘Do your relatives continually let you down? Do they fail to meet your needs and support you in the way you’d like them to? Do you feel alone in the world? Or perhaps you really are alone, with no living parents, children or siblings, or at least not ones you’re in contact with. If so, then you’re in the same position as us. We are Tom and Selena Foyers, a married couple with two children. We have a large extended family but they fall way short of the satisfaction mark, and so we’re recruiting for replacements. Reciprocal support guaranteed. If you’re interested, ring Selena on 01238554899.’

  Tom had felt faint when he’d first read it; he’d phoned Selena at the show home, aghast. ‘Couldn’t you have put it more diplomatically? What if my mum sees it, or hears about it?’

  ‘Your mum lives in Canterbury.’

  ‘Yours doesn’t! Your parents live four streets away! And what about James, who works about two hundred metres from…’

  ‘What about them?’ Selena had sounded mystified. ‘I’m not scared of them seeing my ad.’

  ‘But they’d be horrified, devastated. They’d never speak to us again!’

  ‘Yes, they would. If any of them sees it, I’ll just explain.’

  ‘Explain what? What will you say?’

  ‘That ever since the kids were born we’ve found their level of support disappointing, and we finally decided to take some action.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll really help! That’s bound to pacify them!’

  ‘Tom, pacifying our families is not my objective here,’ she’d said patiently, kindly, as if he were a bit slow. He gave up. Selena would never see his point; she wasn’t like him. Either you were terrified of how everybody might react to everything or you weren’t, and Selena wasn’t.

  The motorway was particularly clogged that evening, and there had been an accident at junction seventeen. Only one lane remained open, and the traffic crawled along. What was normally a forty-five minute drive took Tom nearly two hours. An hour into his ordeal, he realised he wouldn’t have time to go home and change; he would have to go straight to the show home.

  The sales office was locked, dark. Tom hovered uncertainly for a few seconds, wondering what he ought to do. The middle floor of the show home was illuminated, the curtains open. Tom heard laughter, some of it Selena’s. He wanted to turn and leave, but he wasn’t brave enough, and he didn’t want to let Selena down. She was doing this for them. For Venice. He rang the doorbell.

  The hall light came on, and Selena trotted downstairs to let him in. The show home was arranged on three levels, as were all eighteen houses in the development. On the ground floor there was a long, narrow hall, a utility room, a cloakroom and a large, L-shaped bedroom with a built-in study area. The lounge, kitchen and dining room were on the first floor, arranged around a spacious rectangular landing, where there was also a small bathroom. The top floor comprised an even larger rectangular landing, the main bathroom, two single bedrooms and the master bedroom, which had an en-suite bathroom with a big, round Jacuzzi-bath in its centre.

  Most of the houses on the development were empty shells, waiting for new owners to fill them with evidence of good or bad taste, but the show home had been furnished and decorated. Selena had shown Tom round when she’d first got the job with Beddford, saying, ‘Don’t you wish we could afford one?’ All the walls were custard-coloured, all the duvet covers and scatter cushions bright yellow. The curtains in every room were checked – red, orange and yellow – and had belts around their middles on each side that held them permanently open. The carpets were fudge-coloured and fluffy.

  Tom would never have chosen to decorate a house in this way, but as he’d moved from one custardy room to another, he’d felt oddly comforted; it was like being inside a big, new dolls’ house.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said to Selena. ‘Are they…?’ He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘Yup, they’re all here,’ she said. Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Oh, Tom, they’re great. I can’t believe how well it’s worked out.’

  Tom felt frightened. ‘You’ve only known them…’ – he glanced at his watch – ‘…fifteen minutes.’

  ‘No, they were all early. They’ve been here since half past six. Which is the first thing I realised we’ve got in common. When aren’t I an hour early? Come up and meet them, anyway – they’re all dying to see you. Oh Tom, it’s so amazing! I feel as if I’ve known them for ever.’

  With a leaden heart, Tom ascended the stairs. His new family was in the lounge, the show home’s most impressive room. It was big and square, and had a balcony that overlooked the river. On the yellow leather sofa, an overweight old woman with grey cropped hair and frameless, bifocal glasses was reading a book to Lucy, who was sitting on her knee. The book was called The Big Red Bath. Tom had never seen it before. He was about to ask Selena about it when she
said, ‘Look, Audrey’s brought books for the kids.’ Tom noticed a pile of them on the floor at the old woman’s feet. He took in Audrey’s bright-red lace-up shoes with their funny, stitched ridges that reminded him of pastry round the edge of a pie-dish.

  Audrey looked up and smiled. Lucy said, ‘Hi, Daddy Paddy-whack-whack.’ Then they both turned back to the book. ‘Water on the floor, bubbles mount, the bath is starting to bob about!’ Audrey recited. Joe was lying under the rectangular coffee table, holding an orange plastic gun that Tom did not recognise. Above him were two empty bottles of red wine and three full. Seven cheeses were artfully arranged on bright-yellow plates, which, Tom worked out, Selena must have borrowed from the dining table. ‘I’m Butch Cassidy, Daddy,’ said Joe. ‘And Clive’s the Sundance Kid. Bang bang! Bang!’

  A round-faced, bald young man in immaculate navy jeans and a white Aran jumper stood up and shook Tom’s hand. ‘I’m Clive,’ he said. ‘Twenty-nine, forensic pathologist. Nice to meet you. I hope you don’t… you know, disapprove of… pretend shootings.’ He nodded in Joe’s direction. ‘I’m actually a pacifist!’

  At that moment, Tom wasn’t convinced he disapproved of real shootings. He had himself in mind as his first victim. This was intolerable. ‘Clive…?’ He prompted, not because he cared what the man’s surname was, but because he could see that he was expected to say something.

  ‘We’ve decided not to bother with surnames,’ said Selena, ‘since the aim is for us all to be one big family. Actually, we were thinking, if this works out, maybe we should all change our names to a new name, you know, so that we’d all be called the same thing.’

  ‘Kilkenny,’ said the third imitation relative, a teenage girl with dreadlocks, two nose rings in her left nostril and a Scottish accent. She was wearing a short leather skirt over patterned leggings, and big black boots. ‘I’ve always liked the name Kilkenny.’

  ‘This is Petra,’ said Selena. ‘Don’t mind Tom being silent and awkward, everyone. This whole thing was my idea, and he’s a bit apprehensive. Aren’t you, Tom?’