Thank goodness, thought Erica. She’d been terrified that he would go back inside. But, no, he was on his way to the office, or to see another client. Or home, perhaps, to 3 Bankside Close, or 31c Brownsville Road, or 19 Woodland Rise.
Flora flung open the front door. ‘Did you see him?’ she whispered.
Erica nodded.
‘Oh God! He’s so gorgeous.’ She took hold of Erica’s elbow and steered her inside. ‘I find just thinking about him more erotic than actually having sex with most people.’
‘I don’t think he’s sexy at all,’ said Erica, though she hadn’t planned to mention it. But now that she’d started, it seemed important to carry on. Trying to save Flora from her own foolishness was certain to be in her job description, even if this had never been formally stated. ‘There’s something aggressive-seeming about him. Like a sort of anger, almost, just beneath the surface. I don’t think he’s very friendly.’
‘Not sexy?’ Flora was aghast. ‘What are you talking about? What about his low, scary voice, like Hal the computer from 2001? Imagine that voice saying... certain things!’ Her eyes gleamed.
‘What did he say in your dream?’ asked Erica.
‘I’ll never tell you that.’ Flora grinned. ‘Though I’ll happily tell you what he did. Missionary position. The squashing and crushing variety, no arm support. Lots of silence, lots of rhythmic pounding. Camomile tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I bet I’m right. I can’t see him being a clamberer, or a there-there-er. Did you post the cards?’
It was the question Erica had been dreading. She hadn’t. The three Valentines were still in her bag. She’d been terrified of Paul somehow detecting their presence when she’d run into him outside. She’d felt as if he were bound to intuit their existence and meaning through the thin fabric of her bag, even though she had not written his name inside the cards, nor, yet, on the envelopes. Now she was certain Flora would guess the truth straight away: that Erica had not successfully completed her assignment as instructed, that she had deliberately disobeyed.
‘Yes,’ she lied. Panic swept through her; soon she would be fired, friendless. Why hadn’t she done what she’d been told to do? Why had she been unable to bear the idea of the other two P Sheafs, who were not financial advisers and did not smell of lime and acid, opening their cards and feeling their hearts swell with false pleasure, happiness that was based on a horrible lie, a ruse, Flora’s stupid Herod plan? And they would never know, that was the worst thing about it. They might spend the rest of their lives believing in their secret admirer. But so what? Erica reminded herself that she didn’t know these people. And worse things happened all the time. She was being idiotic. She cursed her own squeamishness. Flora was probably right to say that there was nothing wrong with lies that made everybody happy. Now Erica had lied to please Flora and, in doing so, had made herself considerably more miserable. I must post the cards on my way home, she thought. It wasn’t too late. They would still arrive by Valentine’s Day.
‘You know you’re a genius?’ said Flora.
‘I am?’ Erica would have been delighted if she hadn’t felt so guilty. She curled into a corner of the blue velvet sofa in Flora’s kitchen and tried to forget about her own dishonesty, about the other two P Sheafs whom she would have, later, to defraud, and about the kernel of strained darkness she believed she had detected in Paul the financial adviser. Enya’s ‘After Ventus’ drifted in from the conservatory. Flora had turned the volume up louder than usual.
‘You are! You asked me if I wanted to have sex with Paul just once, or if I wanted a proper affair. I thought about it a lot, after you’d gone, and came to a startling conclusion.’
‘What?’ Erica’s blood raced.
Flora came and sat down beside her, carrying their drinks. ‘At first I thought definitely an affair. But there would be disadvantages. I’ve never strayed so close to home before. And Paul is Frank’s financial adviser, too – it would be a bit much to have an ongoing thing right under Frank’s nose.’
Erica’s thorough and conscientious nature compelled her to ask a question that had been in her mind since she and Flora first met. ‘What are your guidelines, if any, about what you will and won’t do? From a Frank point of view, I mean. Do you make distinctions between one sort of infidelity and another?’
‘Of course.’ Flora smiled. ‘That’s so funny.’
‘What is?’
‘Watching you trying to find a polite way of asking me if I have any morals whatsoever. I have a very strict code. One: nobody threatens my marriage. Whatever happens, even if I fall madly in love and have to have a broken heart for a week, or a month, or a year, I don’t consider leaving Frank. I never have and I never will. That’s basic loyalty.’ She nodded instructively at Erica. ‘On that score, you won’t find many people who are as moral as I am. Two: no flings with Frank’s friends, colleagues or relatives – anyone who’s more his than mine, in other words. Paul belongs jointly to both of us, but still – rule number three: one bonk only with shared acquaintances. And none with shared friends. Our coupley friends, for example – those men are totally out of bounds. Because of rule number four: no sex, or even mild flirtation, with the boyfriends or husbands of my female friends. So, for example, if you had a man, I would steer well clear of him.’ Flora smiled reassuringly. ‘Finally, rule number five: I’m allowed to have an affair with any man who hasn’t been eliminated by any of the other rules, as long as the meetings aren’t too frequent. I wouldn’t want to be sneaking off every second night, lying to Frank.’
‘So what would be a reasonable frequency?’ asked Erica.
‘One evening a fortnight,’ Flora replied without hesitation. ‘To coincide with Frank’s squash nights. Or, if my lover lived too far away to make evening sessions feasible, one whole night per month.’ She nodded gravely. ‘Everything in moderation,’ she said. ‘But, then, once these things start, one tends to want more and more. Why do you think that is?’
‘Emotions start to run riot,’ Erica guessed.
‘Yes, but why? Your question made me mull it over, and I think I’ve worked it out.’ Flora raised herself to a kneeling position. She could never sit still when she’d had an idea. Erica craned her neck to look up at her. ‘A one-night stand should be enough,’ said Flora. ‘Why does a relationship, if it’s not your main relationship, need to drag on endlessly? You’re not looking for a life partner – you’ve already got one. So wouldn’t it be nicer to have just a small taster, a distilled... nugget of romance, sex, whatever, with a third party? Nicer, and also much more clearly delineated from one’s marriage. Imagine the highlights of a six-month affair – all the best bits and none of the humdrum stuff – packed into one night. Wouldn’t that be great?’
Erica sipped her camomile tea and said nothing. She thought about how she would have felt if she’d only been able to spend one afternoon with Flora. And they were just friends.
‘One night would be enough, if people could only get it right,’ said Flora. ‘All one needs to do is apply the Emmylou Harris principle.’ Emmylou Harris was Flora’s second favourite singer, after Enya. Erica had noticed that none of the songs Flora loved were sung by men.
‘Hi there!’ The blonde bobbed head of Vicky the personal trainer appeared in the doorway, followed by her petite, muscular body in a pink tracksuit. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Erica was enraged. Why was there always somebody hanging around? How could anyone concentrate on anything in the middle of this circus? Didn’t Flora ever crave solitude? Erica resisted the urge to growl and wriggle.
‘I’ve set it to “manual”,’ Vicky told Flora. ‘But you can change it to “fat-burn” or “cardio” if you want.’
‘Brilliant. You’re a star.’ Not a genius, Erica noted.
‘I’ve bought a cross-trainer,’ Flora told her. ‘Shall we have a go on it later?’
Erica’s anger intensified. They were supposed to be working. She smiled unenthusiasti
cally. As soon as Vicky had retreated, she said, quickly, ‘What’s the Emmylou Harris principle?’
‘When Frank and I went to see Emmylou Harris at the Maltings, she said we were a wonderful audience. She said we were special. She used those words: “wonderful” and “special”. There was a real rapport between her and us. It was tangible, like a sort of force-field of emotion. And she kept saying what a great time she was having.’
Erica was about to ask how this was relevant to the previous topic of conversation when Flora raised a hand to silence her. She had more to say. ‘Emmylou didn’t arm herself with cautious indifference. She didn’t say, “Look, you lot are just another audience to me. You do realise that, don’t you? This time tomorrow I’ll be singing these same songs to an equally appreciative crowd at the Birmingham NEC. Just so as you know.” She wasn’t scared that if she said nice things to us, we’d follow her home and demand that she entertain us every night for the rest of our lives. This is my point: when you know something’s finite, you can relax and give it your all. Everyone involved knew that the gig was going to be a one-off – that was what made it so perfect.’
‘That’s totally different,’ said Erica, thinking that Flora must know it was. She had a dreadful sense of anticlimax. She felt suddenly empty, hollowed out; she needed Flora to say something that was incontrovertibly true. Flora’s fanciful analogies sometimes felt to Erica like a form of starvation.
‘If I could guarantee that the Emmylou Harris principle would govern any one-night stand I had with Paul, I’d be totally content to sleep with him only once,’ Flora summed up. ‘It’s when I imagine the unfortunate things he’ll probaby do and say almost straight away that I think I’ll need more time. You have to put in a lot of hours, often, to turn the awful things that might make you shudder for years to come into pleasant memories. That’s why some affairs last longer than bloody degree courses,’ Flora concluded on a note of bitter triumph. ‘See? I’m a genius.’
‘What nonsense,’ Erica snapped. She had never snapped at Flora before. Why was Flora suddenly the genius? ‘Your theory’s got more holes than a golf course.’
Flora chortled contentedly. She did not enquire about the holes. ‘Anyway, you asked yesterday what work you’d be doing, after the Valentines. This is it.’
‘What?’ Erica cowered. She wished Flora would forget all about the cards, never mention them again. King Herod! Why emulate him, of all men? While most people shuddered at the thought of his ruthlessness, Flora Gustavina admired his methodology. She must, Erica concluded, have missed the point of that particular bible story in quite a big way.
‘I’m going to become a relationships expert,’ said Flora. ‘I am one already, but I mean, I’m going to become known as one. You see them on television all the time, on shows like This Morning. I’m always struck by how superficial their insights are: stuff like “if he tries to bash your head in with a hammer, leave him”. So that’s what I’m going to do, and I’m going to start by focusing on the one-night stand. The rules that should govern a one-night stand. That sounds good.’ Flora appeared to be talking to herself.
‘How... What...?’
‘Have you got some paper and a pen? I’ll give you my initial thoughts, and later you can take your notes home and condense them into something snappy and irresistible that we can send to newspapers and television companies.’
Erica began to chew the inside of her lip. Working for Flora, she was beginning to realise, was akin to being ambushed by a different alien creature every day. At Muzorsgy’s, life had been predictable. Erica had ordered stock, put it out on the shelves, attended to the book-keeping, helped customers to find the products they needed. There had been a routine. It must be very conventional, Erica thought guiltily, to yearn for routine. She pulled a red gas bill and a black Biro out of her handbag, making sure Flora didn’t catch a glimpse of the three unaddressed, unsent cards, and wrote ‘One-night stand’ on the back of the bill, on top of the pale blue italic print which explained that Erica could pay at a bank, by post, by direct debit, by cheque or postal order.
‘How to have the perfect one-night stand,’ said Flora, in a titular voice. ‘Call it that.’ Call what that? Erica wanted to ask. What would be the culmination, the eventual product, of this enterprise? And was it materialistic – philistine, even – to expect everything to have a result?
She heard a scraping sound and turned to face the window. TP loomed. He nodded at her through the glass and smiled furtively, as if suggesting a truce. Erica smiled back. This time she was grateful for the interruption. Perhaps Flora would forget about her plan to become the first television evangelist for the church of the one-night stand.
The scraping noise grew louder. Could it be the sound of TP grating his excessive knuckles against the wall, Erica wondered queasily. She couldn’t see his hands. Then his eyes ignited with pleasure and he raised a large spade in the air as Flora turned to wave at him. ‘TP!’ she called out. He’d been scraping the spade back and forth along the ground, Erica realised; how very irritating.
Flora turned away from the window and muttered, ‘What if Paul rejects me?’ Erica was astonished. Flora had always seemed to her to be a person who never even considered failure. ‘He won’t, he can’t. It isn’t as if I’m propositioning him directly, is it?’
‘You must have...’ Erica began delicately. ‘I mean, with all your experience...’
‘I must have been turned down before? Of course. I’d say I have a sixty per cent success rate, which isn’t too bad. And I always bounce back – I mean, I’m quite good at handling rejection. I used to be brilliant at it, but I’m getting worse with practice.’ Flora giggled.
The back door opened and TP came in, holding a key in his bone-stuffed hand. He had his own key to the Gustavinas’ back door. Erica’s eyes filled with tears; she turned her face away to hide them. When did that happen? Why did he need a key? I ought to get up and march out of this house right now, thought Erica.
‘How’s my Throat Pastille this morning?’ asked Flora.
‘Pissed off. The Arts Council turned down my funding application for the Twenty-Two Parrot Gold tour.’
‘Oh dear!’ Flora turned to Erica. ‘Throat Pastille was going to…’
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ TP cut her off. ‘It’s not going to happen, is it?’
‘How much money do you need?’ asked Flora. Inwardly, Erica screamed.
‘I asked the Arts Council for twenty grand,’ said TP.
Flora nodded solemnly. Erica couldn’t bear it. She had a feeling that Flora was going to try to compensate TP for the Arts Council’s frugality, and she didn’t want to be present to hear the mooting of such a ludicrous waste, not only of Flora’s, but also of global, resources. For as long as there was only a finite amount of money in the world, Erica was of the view that TP should, to enable him to promote his poetry, be given none of it. ‘…nip to the loo,’ she mumbled, grabbing her bag and leaving the room as quickly as possible.
The air inside the Gustavinas’ downstairs lavatory had been stormed, at some stage, by Paul the financial adviser’s aftershave. Erica narrowed her nostrils. Why was the smell so strong? Had he crept back inside to use the toilet a few minutes ago? Perhaps he too had a key. Then she noticed a brown leather briefcase on the floor by the foot of the basin. It was open. A paper folder poked out of the top, and Erica read the words, ‘Paul Sheaf Financial Services’. Her throat tightened. She tried very hard to remove from her mind the picture of Paul sitting on the toilet casting a leisurely eye over his company’s latest brochure. The layers of aftershave that hung in the air were starting to make her feel sick.
She leaned over the large, square, white basin and washed her face. The green towel on the radiator smelled even more strongly of Paul the financial adviser than the general atmosphere did, so she used her sleeve instead. She opened the door and was about to leave the room when she thought of the cards. They were in her bag, which she’d – thank God, th
ank God! – brought with her. But she’d need to be quick; Paul could return at any moment. He was bound to come straight back as soon as he realised he’d left his briefcase at Flora’s. There was no time to close and lock the door again, or to write Paul’s name on one of the envelopes; in any case, Erica wouldn’t have known whether to write ‘Paul’ or ‘Paul Sheaf’. It wasn’t an easy decision to make, when the name was not going to be followed by an address. Flora would no doubt have had firm views, but Erica couldn’t work out what her friend and boss would want, so she just pulled one of the three envelopes out of her bag and stuffed it in between the pages of a pamphlet entitled ‘Index-linked ISAs: your questions answered’.
She stood still for a few seconds, in a sort of reverie. She stared at the briefcase, letting relief and a sense of accomplishment wash over her. Now the two undesired P Sheafs would not have to be made fools of, and Paul the financial adviser would receive the card that was meant for him. It was the perfect outcome: Flora’s romantic message had been delivered, yet King Herod had been foiled. This sort of rare happy ending almost made Erica question her atheism.
She carried the brown briefcase out into the hall and leaned it against the wall under the large stained-glass window, so that somebody would be sure to notice it. Briefly, she worried that, if Paul found the card too soon after having his case returned to him by Flora, he would know it was from her, but then she decided that was unlikely. Why would he check his briefcase on the way from one client’s house to another? He would be much more likely to find the card tonight, when he unpacked his things.
Jubilant, Erica returned to Flora and TP. TP seemed to look her up and down, inspecting her in a more thorough manner than usual, and Erica wondered if her face was red, or her sleeve obviously wet. She did her best to look casual and innocent.
The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets Page 22
