The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets

by Sophie Hannah

  Tom shook internally. He was not the sort to shake externally. Six months’ leave! It was unheard of. Had Nora agreed to this? No, it couldn’t have happened so quickly. Gillian must have set it in motion before she was promoted. Right, that’s it, thought Tom. He often thought this, and nothing ever happened as a result. Several things were immediately apparent to him: Idris was the sort of person who asked for what he wanted, straight out. Therefore, Idris got what he wanted more often than not. Tom would never have dared to ask for six months’ unpaid leave, even if he could have managed financially, which he couldn’t. If he dared to ask, Gillian or Nora or whichever revolving-wheel-ornament was in charge at the time would say no, without even having to consider it. Tom thought so, anyway. He was pretty sure.

  Inwardly, he vibrated at the injustice. He was in a trap and could see no way out. He’d worked for the company for seven years and had never had either a promotion or a pay rise, apart from the minimal, token one that all employees got every year. He knew he ought to try, as Idris had, to improve his situation at Phelps Corcoran Cummings, but once he had tried and failed, what would he have then? Nothing. In realising this, Tom came closer than ever before to identifying the cause of his problem. For as long as he kept his wishes, his fat stack of grievances and his hatred a secret, he still had some power, power he told himself he might one day choose to exercise, even though, deep down, he knew he never would. But the power was there all the same; the sheer force of his illwill towards the company that employed him was awe-inspiring. As long as it continued to grow, Tom was able to feel like a man who could do serious damage if he chose to. He was aware of the steaming bile inside him all the time, energising him, like a hearty dose of steroids. Every time he bumped into Gillian Bate by the water machine and told her he was fine, everything was fine, he felt like David pulling back his catapult, ready to launch a hefty rock at Goliath’s head. And not launching it was the whole point, for once the rock lay on the floor at Gillian’s feet, once she’d looked down, sniggered at it and stepped over it on her way to her next meeting, it would all be over for Tom.

  As he sat at his desk and fumed, he had an unusual idea, the sort of idea that, it seemed to Tom, only a person with some flair would have. He’d had lots of flair once, before his colleagues and bosses at Phelps Corcoran Cummings had underestimated it out of him. Beneath ‘To: Nora.Connaughton@phelpscc.com’, in the ‘cc’ box, he entered Gillian Bate’s email address, and Gilbert Sparling’s. Then, in the larger box below, he typed:

  Thank you for your kind letter. I am perfectly all right, and thank you for asking. I was busy working from home last Thursday and I didn’t want to interrupt my work, which was why I asked Ruth to send me the Burns Gimblett files. I hope you are not unwell yourself. I noticed that on Monday and Tuesday last week you were out of the office for two hours at lunchtime on each day. Since this was so much longer than the lunch hour we are all in the habit of taking, I was a bit concerned, and then when I saw you at the division meeting on Wednesday, I couldn’t help noticing that you were looking a bit peaky. I hope that my concern is unfounded and that you are in good health, but do let me know if there is a problem, as obviously I would be happy to help in any way I can.

  All the best, Tom

  He clicked on ‘Send’, then did a little dance of glee. He felt wonderful. Who wanted to be direct and assertive when there was so much fun to be had by being devious and double-edged? But now he had a decision to make: what to say if Gillian asked why he’d copied the email to her. Simple: he would say that, since Nora had sent Gillian a copy of her original letter, it seemed only polite to include her in the reply. Tom was fairly sure he would hear nothing from Gilbert Sparling. Sparling, the MD, was a billionaire who divided his time between Geneva and South Beach, Florida. He was never in the office, and noone Tom knew had ever met him. Hopefully Sparling would be too busy staring at crocodiles through the floor of his glass-bottomed boat, or drinking Kir Royales on the beach with famous fashion designers, to pay any attention to Tom.

  Still, if anybody did ask about his email, Tom could dishonestly – and, therefore, all the more convincingly – say that he’d simply been replying to Nora’s letter, and had taken the opportunity to raise his concern about her health. Straightforwardness was what terrified him, and this was far from straightforward.

  Nora looked rough most of the time. In the meeting Tom had mentioned, when people had disagreed with one another and Nora, as the most senior person present, was expected to take a firm line, she had looked as if she were writhing in pain, as if demons were clawing at the walls of her stomach. To say ‘You’re right, you’re wrong, that’s settled’ was way too direct for Nora. She wouldn’t last five minutes as an assistant at Lucy’s nursery, thought Tom. Neither, he conceded, would he.

  He pictured the panic on Nora’s face when she realised her extra-long lunches had been rumbled, and for an instant his soul was bathed in joy. He tried to focus on the other messages and letters that needed his attention, but it was no use; he was feeling too sprightly and triumphant to sit at his desk and work, so he decided to go to the show home and find Selena. He couldn’t wait to tell her what he’d done. If Nora sent him another letter complaining about his early departure, maybe he’d pretend he’d been taken ill. He’d never faked sickness before, but now that Nora had put the idea into his head, it seemed a good one. There were all sorts of things Tom could do that would involve defiance but not directness. He felt dizzy with elation; he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t cottoned on to this sooner. It had to be because years of working for Gillian Bate had crushed his flair.

  As he parked his Citroën in the Beddford Homes development’s car park, he allowed himself to hope that perhaps Nora would say nothing about his premature exit from the office. Perhaps she would never dare to criticise him again, now that she knew he was better at the covert digs game than she was.

  Selena was in the show home garage-cum-office with her feet up on the desk. She was drinking a mug of tea, and grinned at Tom as he walked in. ‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. ‘Leave before midday, teach them not to take you for granted.’

  Tom was keen to tell her of his adventure, but puzzled, also, by his wife’s change of mood. ‘You’ve cheered up,’ he said. ‘I thought you were furious.’

  ‘I was, then. But I’ve dealt with it.’ This was the sort of woman Selena was: angry before the event that would make her angry had happened, happy twenty seconds later because she’d sorted out the problem. Often she didn’t feel the need to tell Tom what had been wrong, once it was right. Tom was the eloquent and fulsome complainer of the household; ranting to Selena until he’d got it out of his system was the only way he knew to resolve any of his difficulties in the outside world. Until today.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘You know that competition I entered, in Good Housekeeping?’

  ‘No.’

  She sighed. ‘You never listen. The luggage company Packed to Perfection ran this competition. You had to write a strapline to promote their merchandise, ten words or less, and the word “suitcase” or “case” had to be in it somewhere. The prize was a long weekend for two at the Hotel Europa-Regina in Venice. Completely free. Anyway, I won.’

  ‘What?’ Tom had always wanted to go to Venice. This had to be better than anything that had ever happened to Idris Sutherland. ‘But…that’s brilliant. What was your slogan?’

  ‘“World open. Case closed.”’ Selena laughed. ‘We have to use their luggage, but that’s okay. They’re giving us a free set, and our suitcases are knackered anyway.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you were angry,’ said Tom.

  ‘Because…what were we going to do with Joe and Luce?’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘It’s a weekend for two adults, not for a family. And, quite frankly, I’m glad there’s no provision for kids. Joe is four. Do you realise that in four years and four months, we’ve never – never! – had a night on our own, l
et alone three.’

  Tom saw the problem. ‘I’m sure the luggage people would let us take the kids,’ he said. ‘I mean, we might have to pay for them, but…’

  ‘Tom, I don’t want to take the kids. Sorry if that sounds selfish, but I think we deserve a break without children. Clearly Packed to Perfection think so too, and that’s why the prize is a long weekend for two, not four. I can’t remember the last time we haven’t both been up before six-thirty. Can you?’

  ‘No,’ Tom admitted.

  Selena opened her mouth and an avalanche of names poured out, all friends of theirs, all with children. She told Tom about the many thrill-packed nights those couples had spent away, alone – at casinos, theatres, nightclubs, artists’ retreats, ski resorts, on safari – while siblings, grandparents and godparents had looked after their offspring. By the time she’d finished, Tom was feeling quite resentful. ‘Well, I can’t think of anyone we could leave the kids with and just…go,’ he said.

  ‘Neither could I. That’s why I was fuming,’ said Selena. She was grinning from ear to ear, so Tom relaxed and allowed himself to assume that a solution had long since been found, that he and Selena would be going to Venice without Joseph and Lucy. A complete rest for three days and nights – it seemed almost too good to be true, even in the new world, the one in which he used Nora Connaughton’s own methods to defeat her.

  ‘I started thinking about our support network,’ said Selena.

  Tom shuddered. ‘Don’t say that. It’s the sort of thing Gillian Bate says.’ Last week she had sent a round robin email to all Phelps Corcoran Cummings employees informing them that from now on job interviews were to be known as ‘selection events’.

  ‘Okay,’ said Selena, ‘but you know what I mean. We’ve both got big families, and yet I knew – I just knew for certain – that nobody would look after the kids for a long weekend, not in the proper spirit, anyway. We’ve got this amazing opportunity, something we’d never normally be able to afford, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that not one of our parents or siblings would say, “Go for it, have a great time. Joe and Lucy’ll be fine with us. Don’t worry about a thing.” That’s why I was so angry. I hadn’t even asked anyone yet, but I knew what they’d all say.’

  ‘And?’ said Tom.

  Selena pulled an A4-sized notepad towards her and began to read from it. She was exceptionally thorough and efficient. Tom would have liked to have a boss like her, someone he could respect. ‘Your mum said she could do it if we dropped the kids off no earlier than three-thirty on the Friday, because of her tennis, and came back on the Saturday afternoon instead of the Monday, because she’s got bridge on Sunday. She wanted me to ring Packed for Perfection and ask if we could go for just one night – a one-night long weekend! – and donate our other two nights to the runner-up. Stupid old bat. And she expected me to be grateful for her offer, as if she was doing us a real favour. After all the hours I’ve spent on the phone to her in the middle of the night, when she and your dad have their rows! Do I ever say, “Sorry, Rhoda, but I’d actually like to be asleep now, so can you please shut up?”’

  ‘When are these three nights?’ Tom asked nervously, worrying about his annual leave. He’d already taken a lot of it, and there was the camping trip in August still to come.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ said Selena. ‘It’s not until next May.’ Tom stopped panicking. ‘My parents obviously can’t do it. My mum’s in too much pain from her arthritis, and my dad has to play golf morning, noon and night or the world will end. Bernadette said no because she and Dave fight a lot and she thinks it’d be bad for the children to be in such a combative environment. Tess said no because she hasn’t got the room, Anna and James said they weren’t sure, that they’d find it very hard and tiring…’

  ‘That’s fair enough, isn’t it?’ said Tom. ‘People have got their own lives. Why should they drop everything to look after our kids?’

  ‘That’s what I thought at first,’ said Selena. ‘Then I thought, sod that, sod the understanding approach. They should drop everything. Just this once, they should. This trip is something I won. It’s a prize. First prize! That’s what makes it different. I’ve never won anything before, and I never will again. Especially not for something…proper like this, something creative.’ Selena’s eyes shone with tears at the thought of having to turn down what she had earned, what was rightfully hers. Tom understood. Having to refuse the reward would detract from her sense of achievement. It oughtn’t to, but both Tom and Selena knew it would. Another couple would go to Venice, and it would be as if Selena had never won the competition.

  ‘Did you ask Paula and Nick?’ said Tom.

  ‘Oh yes! They said no thanks, not while Lucy’s still in nappies, but they’ll definitely have the kids for a weekend when they’re older – yeah, I bet! When they’re forty-six and forty-four respectively, by which time we won’t have had a break for forty-two years!’

  ‘Can we skip to the part where you solved the problem?’ Tom pleaded, feeling faint.

  ‘Not quite yet,’ said Selena. ‘Good. I’m glad it’s not just me. I can see you agree. How do you feel, now that I’ve told you what everyone said?’

  ‘Well, I hope there’s some way of arranging it. I’d love to go to Venice. We could maybe save up and pay for some kind of…I don’t know, nanny.’

  ‘Tom, our mortgage has just gone up by two hundred quid a month.’

  ‘It has?’

  ‘Yes! The discount phase is over. We can’t afford a nanny. Soon we’ll barely be able to afford a pizza. But that’s not what I mean, anyway,’ said Selena. ‘What I meant was: how do you feel about our two large and predominantly able-bodied families?’

  ‘Erm, well…’

  ‘You don’t want to sound mean, so I’ll say it. You feel as if you might as well not have a family. I mean, all that bollocks about love and closeness and let’s-spend-every-Christmas-fucking-day-together. All that hot air from our parents and brothers and sisters about how we don’t bring the kids to see them often enough, and they feel they’re missing out on Joe and Lucy’s childhoods. I’ve actually lost sleep feeling guilty about it, once or twice! But it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? We’re utterly alone in the world.’

  ‘We’ve got each other, and the kids,’ said Tom, alarmed.

  ‘Of course, but as a foursome we’re utterly alone. And four isn’t enough, especially when two…’ – Selena pointed at herself and Tom – ‘...want to have eight hours uninterrupted sleep, together, with neither of them having to get up at half six and watch The Hoobs and Peppa Pig and Funky Valley and fucking Noddy and…’

  ‘Selena, I’ve never heard you talk like this before. You love your family…’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m not saying I don’t. You can love people and still be utterly alone in the world, can’t you? They probably love me too, and your lot love you, but when it comes to any of them helping us in the way we most need to be helped… forget it!’ Selena put on a squeaky voice. ‘“I think I’d find it very hard and tiring.” “Couldn’t you go for one night instead of three?” I mean, fuck off, the lot of you!’

  ‘Aren’t you being a bit unreasonable,’ said Tom. ‘I mean, if we were both run over by a car, any of our relatives would look after the kids, you know they would. But we don’t really need to go for a long weekend in Venice, do we?’

  Selena stared at him long and hard. ‘I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself,’ she said, getting up from her chair, her empty mug dangling from her thumb. Tom sighed. Nora Connaughton was a mere shadow in the back of his mind. He had far more serious problems, and, since home misery was worse than work misery, he felt even more dreadful than he was used to feeling. He’d left the house this morning thinking that the Foyerses and the Henshaws were, by and large, two decent and dependable bunches of people. Now Selena had proved to him that his parents and siblings would only put themselves out for him once he had been run over. They would all behave brilliantly, in that circu
mstance. Otherwise, they would behave selfishly. Which, depending on how you looked at it, could be construed as an incentive to go out and get knocked down by the first oncoming vehicle.

  It took only seconds for Tom to arrive at the bitter conclusion that all his relatives wanted to see him flattened under the wheels of a bus, the same ones Lucy was always singing about, the ones that went round and round all day long. ‘It’s too late to be caring towards somebody once they’re dying in hospital,’ he said glumly. ‘A family shouldn’t be like the Samaritans: only there to save you if you’re absolutely desperate. They should want you to be happy and…have nice trips to Venice.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Selena. ‘And it’s not nice trips plural,’ said Selena. ‘It’s one trip to Venice, which I won, fair and square. And they’re going to stand by and let us turn it down? Don’t any of them care if we both have nervous breakdowns or if our marriage falls apart?’

  ‘But we’re nowhere near nervous breakdowns,’ said Tom. ‘The kids are really easy and good…’

  ‘Not easy and good enough for those lazy shits!’

  ‘…and they’re at nursery all week, anyway, and our marriage is absolutely fine.’

  ‘Yes! No thanks to them! Anyway…’ Selena held up her hands, fingers spread wide in a ‘that’s enough’ gesture. ‘I mustn’t get all agitated again. I’ve spent most of the morning like this.’ She exhaled deeply. ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No! I want to know how you got round the problem. Tell me we’re going to Venice next May.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be going,’ Selena said confidently.