Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy

by Faye Brann

  She and Evie had come over again yesterday, when the removal company had left, to say goodbye.

  ‘Thank you for bringing Anatoli back into my life,’ Matisse said, as they embraced at the door. ‘I know … he told me, before, about a woman in London who he loved but let go, that she was a spy, that he was too afraid for himself and his family to do the right thing. I think, now, that it was you.’

  Vicky nodded. ‘It was difficult and destructive and wrong to get involved; I don’t blame him for walking away when he did. And I’m glad he met you and I met Chris. That’s the way things were supposed to work out.’

  ‘Well, they nearly didn’t work out at all,’ Matisse said.

  ‘But they did in the end. That’s the main thing. Good luck, Matisse. I hope that your new life brings you happiness. I hope Dmitri settles okay. Send me a postcard, yeah?’

  ‘But of course I will,’ she said. They hugged then, and kissed each other on both cheeks, and two sets of eyes filled with tears as they knew it was time.

  ‘I have something for you, before I go.’ Matisse presented her with a large, rectangular package.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Let’s just say it is a little thank you from me,’ Matisse said.

  Vicky picked up the package and walked towards her car. ‘Bye, Matisse.’

  ‘Bye, Vicky. I will miss you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  She’d gone then, leaving Matisse to finish her packing and prepare for the long flight west. They were flying to Los Angeles before hiring a car and taking the two-hour drive to their new home. Somewhere along the way, Matisse would become as invisible as Vicky.

  ‘It’s time, Dmitri, let’s go.’ She took one last look and shut the door, putting her arm around her son as they left the old world behind them.

  *

  Vicky sat facing Jonathan again, barely recognisable as the woman who’d first walked into his office six months previously. Her hair was cut into a newly sharpened bob that accentuated her cheekbones. She had cheekbones. Running had proved to be therapeutic – great thinking time – and she’d found herself going further and faster during her holiday, taking in the unfamiliar sights and sounds of Dubai as she jogged along the beach road each morning. Her skin, usually pasty, was tanned and, dare she say, a little tauter than before. She was relaxed, happy and confident – three things she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  ‘You had a good holiday then, by the looks of things,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Well, we decided to extend our stay and ended up there until New Year’s Day,’ Vicky replied. ‘It was lovely, Jonathan. Honestly, you should see the place. I mean, it’s like some kind of Disney on steroids, there’s so much to do and see and it’s all so clean and everyone seems to smile all the time, and it’s—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Victoria, I’m sure it’s great.’ Jonathan sounded a bit pissed off. Vicky changed the subject.

  ‘So, what did you want to see me for anyway, sir?’ she said.

  ‘Well I don’t want to beat about the bush. I know you wanted to come back to JOPS,’ Jonathan said, ‘but I wanted to make sure, after all that happened on the boat, that you still meant it.’

  ‘I had a feeling you’d ask me that,’ she said. ‘I want to … but I think I have to say no, after all. I thought about it a lot while we were away. Chris is super supportive, but I can’t do it. It’s not fair on him, or me … or you. And the kids … James is still so young, and Evie and Ollie, well they need me more than they think, even if it’s just as a glorified taxi service.’

  ‘I had a feeling that would be the case.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s just, you’re a natural. Even after all those years, you get results.’

  ‘Maybe it was dumb luck in Dubai.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Vicky sighed. ‘Neither do I, to be honest. But I can’t do it. Full time would be impossible – and, as you said before, part time doesn’t make any sense.’

  Jonathan leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘What will you do instead?’

  ‘I guess I’ll stay doing some PTA stuff … spend time with the family … I don’t know, Jonathan, I’ve got a lot to figure out. Matisse and Anatoli are lucky in a way: they get to build their whole lives from scratch, reinvent who they are, and live a life free from all the things you get saddled with over the years that shape the way things are for you.’

  ‘They have to start again, build up friendships and shared history from the very beginning, in a place where they don’t know anyone or anything, without any support. That’s a lot of work.’

  ‘I know. Starting over isn’t the easy choice.’

  ‘Neither is giving up what you love.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, how about we figure out a way for you to still be a school mum and a spy too?’ Jonathan said. ‘I’d like to offer you a deal, Turnbull. We’ll keep you on a contract where we bring you in on an assignment basis.’

  ‘As in, I get to choose what I work on and when?’

  ‘Not quite. Look – there’s no point in either of us pretending you’re the same person you used to be. You don’t look the same, and you sure as hell don’t act it. But we need versatility, we need people to blend into every situation. And your age, your looks, your experience – they’re all things we can use to our advantage. Not every time. But I’d certainly like to call on you when we need to.’

  Vicky paused. ‘And I could say no, if it didn’t work for me?’

  ‘You could. But I imagine you won’t. Because from what I can see, you appear to be a far happier, stronger and confident person since you came back to work than the one you were before.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  A wood pigeon had found its way to the streets of Putney and was ‘hoo-hoo-ing’ outside their bedroom window. Vicky wished she had a baseball bat handy to shut it up. It was far too early, and a Saturday, and she didn’t have to get up and do the school run or take James to nursery. As the pigeon continued its aural assault, Vicky tossed and turned and tried to imagine a scenario where the cooing was soporific instead of just bloody annoying, and failed. She sighed. She was so tired. Today was the PTA’s big Easter egg hunt and she had so much to do. Becky had put her in charge of music, which was a merciful reprieve from cake baking, but she still had a thousand things on her to-do list before the hunt that afternoon.

  The sun streamed through a gap in the curtains. She gave in and sat up, careful not to wake her sleeping husband, and swung her legs onto the floor. At that moment, the doorbell rang.

  Chris mumbled something in his sleep and turned over.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Vicky said. She took a quick look at the clock. It was early for a Saturday. Unusual. Not unheard of, but she couldn’t think of a good reason why anyone would be ringing the bell at this time in the morning. She threw on her dressing gown and went downstairs.

  She opened the door and saw that it was a delivery of flowers. They looked and smelt amazing.

  ‘For a Mrs Turnbull?’ the delivery man said.

  ‘Thank you! They’re beautiful.’

  She shut the door, read the card, and smiled. To my friend Vicky, with love, it said. She knew it was Matisse, letting her know they were doing fine. She’d had three similar bouquets since January, one each month; her friend’s way of communicating that she was safe and well.

  Vicky wondered if Matisse was happy. She hoped so. Even on the other side of the world, would she still be looking over her shoulder once in a while, to check no one was watching? No matter how relaxed she appeared, Vicky was still on high alert most of the time. It had taken years to kick the habit of trusting no one after she left the service the first time. This time, with a family, she doubted if she could let her guard down fully until it was time to dig her a hole in the ground.

  Vicky padded into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on and put the flowers in the sink, before going back upstairs to brush he
r teeth and go to the bathroom. She was awake now; she might as well go and make a cup of tea and enjoy the peace and quiet.

  On a sudden impulse, she decided to poke her head into James’s room before she went down. Her youngest son was snoring softly; the image of his daddy, she thought. She moved on to Ollie’s room and opened it, the smell of teenage feet, sweat and farts nearly knocked her down. She smiled, closed the door, and made her way to the final room. She saw a light was on under the crack in the door and gave a light tap.

  ‘Morning, Mum.’

  ‘Morning, Evie.’

  ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘It was a delivery of flowers, from Matisse.’

  ‘Does that mean they’re okay?’

  ‘Well I’m guessing it means they are happy and safe, yes.’

  ‘Are they living with that man now?’

  ‘You mean Anatoli? I don’t know, petal. Maybe.’

  ‘He and Dmitri look like each other. They have the same eyes.’

  ‘Yes … yes they do.’ Observant girl, she thought, smiling to herself. ‘Come down for breakfast when you’re ready, okay?’ She kissed her daughter lightly on the forehead and went back downstairs for a cup of tea. Her beautiful children.

  The kettle boiled, and she poured hot water into the mug. As it stewed, she cleared last night’s dinner into the dishwasher and gave the table a wipe down with a cloth. She heard the letterbox open and something land heavy on the mat. The postman was early this morning, too. She took a sip of her tea and then went to the door again. A plain brown envelope was on the mat, with her name on the top, no address, no stamp. It wasn’t the postman then.

  She took the envelope into the living room and sat on the sofa. A pair of Damien Hirst butterfly prints now proudly hung either side of the chimney breast, and Vicky paused to admire them and silently thank her French friend once again for her generous gift. She turned her attention back to the envelope. Inching her finger under the envelope seal, a set of files fell out with blurred close-up photos of a woman and a man and a Post-it stuck to the top. ‘Are you awake?’ it said. She drank her tea, read the files, then headed to the utility room. She rifled through a pile of ironing in the basket on top of the washing machine until she found the phone she’d been looking for.

  WIDE AWAKE

  Acknowledgements

  When writers come to mind, you imagine them as solitary beings tapping away in a shed, miraculously coming out after six months with 400 empty biscuit wrappers and a fully-formed novel. It couldn’t be further from the truth! Writing takes a village, and I have an incredible village.

  Firstly, my thanks go to my amazing agent, Davinia Andrew-Lynch, who believed in me and in Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy enough to help shape it – and me – into a credible piece of work.

  Huge thanks to Helen Lederer and the whole of the Comedy Women in Print team, for championing an award that recognises comedy writing as a craft in its own right and for their continuing support of all the witty women who have become part of the family; and to the 2020 judges of the Unpublished category – Yomi Adegoke, Fanny Blake, Kate Bradley, Grace Campbell, Kirsty Eyre and Jennifer Young – for selecting TTSS as the winner.

  Thanks to Kate Bradley for making TTSS a reality, and to all the team at HarperCollins for their help and support guiding me through the publishing process (never easy for a first timer!). It is truly a dream come true to see Vicky in print.

  Thanks to Julia Crouch for your invaluable critique and to Susy Marriot at PWA for your guidance and support. To Caroline, Eira, Gayle and Sarah, thank you for suffering through that early draft. I hope you like the results! Thanks also to my Falmouth cohort – Alison, Deana and Jane – it has been a pleasure trading writing war stories with you over Sunday-night cocktails on the Southbank. Long may it continue.

  My sincere thanks go to all my wonderful friends and family around the world: in particular, to my Courtyard Playhouse family, for their friendship and laughter, and to Cheryl, who gave me the courage to write in the first place. Thank you also to Nathan: your pride and excitement at having an ‘author Mum’ means everything. The biggest thank you, though, must go to Steve, without whose patience, encouragement, and love absolutely none of this would have happened. ‘I think I’d make an amazing spy,’ I said to him one night, while drunk at a dinner party. ‘You’d make a better assassin,’ he said. Everyone else was shocked; we both erupted in laughter, and TTSS was born. Steve, this book is because of you.

  Finally, thank you to every reader who decided to take a chance on a debut author, and to every bookseller who helped make it happen. I’m very happy and honoured that you did.

  Read on for an interview with the fabulously funny Faye Brann, winner of the 2020 Comedy Women in Print prize.

  Congratulations on winning the Comedy Women in Print prize, what did that feel like?

  Surreal! The longlist was announced just after the first lockdown began in March 2020 and instead of getting to go to a swanky awards party, I found out I’d won by Zoom and got my Hussie (as the CWIP trophies are fondly called) in the post. Regardless, the excitement of sitting on a call with HarperCollins and being told I was going to be a published author was a very, very special moment. It sounds corny to say it was a dream come true, but it really was.

  Did you write Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy with the prize in mind?

  Not at all. I started writing Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy about four years ago and was in the process of searching for an agent when I first entered the CWIP Prize in 2019. I didn’t win that year, but I did find an agent. Davinia gave me copious notes on my manuscript and helped me bash it into shape before we went out to publishers. Around the same time, CWIP dropped me an email encouraging resubmissions for the 2020 prize, but only if I had a significantly reworked manuscript. I decided to give it another whirl – and I’m very glad I did!

  Had you written any books before Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy, or is this your first full-length novel?

  While I was living in the Middle East I studied for an MA in writing and wrote the opening chapters of a narrative non-fiction book about life as an expat wife (known back then as ‘trailing spouses’, UGH). Anyway, when I had completed the MA, I decided to carry on researching and writing the book. I haven’t ever done anything with it in terms of trying to get it published, but it wasn’t a wasted effort. Getting 80,000 words down on paper gave me the confidence and stamina to try my hand at an actual novel. I had a few ideas about what I wanted to do and made a few false starts, but Tinker, Tailor, Schoolmum, Spy was my first full length work. I learned a huge amount in writing it and I’m really proud of the result.

  What advice would you give to anyone thinking of entering next year’s CWIP Prize?

  Go for it! CWIP is the mastermind of Helen Lederer and though only in its third year, it is gaining momentum all the time. Quite rightly, too. I think funny books can often get overlooked as being significant, even though we all love a bit of a giggle. The CWIP family is a hugely supportive and growing network I’m so happy to be a part of – they really care about their witty women writers and are great cheerleaders long after the competition is over. I think something like ten books have been published since 2019 (when the prize started) by debut authors who made the long and short lists. In two years, that’s a pretty good track record.

  How did you get the idea for Vicky, juggling being a special op with being a suburban mum?

  Well, the initial idea for the book was about being a woman returning to work after years raising a family. I don’t think it’s a secret that picking up a career again on the ‘wrong’ side of forty-five with a great gaping hole in your CV can be challenging. But middle-aged women have so much to offer! So, really, I wanted to show that we can be awesome and use our age and experience to our advantage; and to capture that energy and elation at being your own person again while also exploring the frustration and guilt that many of us struggle with in trying to ‘have it all’. In terms of V
icky being special ops, I always fancied being a spy and I thought it would be a fun mash-up of genres, to smash together the world of James Bond and Desperate Housewives. And so, Vicky was born.

  The book opens at a paintball birthday party. Did you do any spy training to get into the mind of your characters?

  Not really, unless you count doing a Couch to 5k. I read a few ‘kiss and tell’ spy books for procedural tips and tricks and spent a lot of time googling MI5 which was fairly fruitless (they are called the Secret Service for a reason), researching illegal arms trading, modern day spyware and how to procure a fake passport. I probably have a drone parked permanently over my house as a result.

  If you were a spy, would you want to be behind the scenes or in the field?

  Definitely in the field. Although my husband says I’d make a better assassin than a spy, and he may be onto something. Like Vicky, I did go clay pigeon shooting once, and was commended for my sharp shooting. I’m also a Slytherin and enjoy sitting still for long periods of time. It ticks a lot of boxes.

  Have you also tried live comedy, and was it difficult?

  I’ve never tried stand-up, but I’ve done a lot of improvisation comedy, which is very different. Not least because in improv the audiences are usually rooting for you – there’s no heckling and it’s really supportive. With stand-up, audiences are more ‘I paid to see you, now entertain me’. Terrifying! Improv comedy is completely unscripted and I love the madness of it, that you arrive onstage with no idea what’s going to happen and can create something funny, sad or beautiful from a word, a gesture or a few notes on a piano. It helped me become a better writer, too. It taught me a lot about what works in a story, about how to use detail and call it back later, and most importantly, about letting go of ideas that are not working.

  How hard is it to be funny?

  Creating comedy in any form is a bit torturous. You do spend a lot of time thinking ‘what if people don’t find me funny?’ But I try to ignore that little voice as much as I can. Learning and teaching improv helped a lot with accepting that sometimes you’re going to fail; but when you get it right, it’s glorious. Humour is always in the truth of a situation. If you giggle while you’re writing because you can identify with a particular character or moment in time, it’s a reasonably safe bet that someone, somewhere, will giggle while they’re reading it.