‘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 w
inked.
‘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.’
‘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.
The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Page 21