The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘I wrote a poem this morning!’ Flora announced, beaming. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Erica.’

  ‘You wrote a poem?’ TP sounded worried.

  Flora ignored him. ‘It’s because of you-know-what.’ She winked at Erica. ‘I feel as if I’ve got this massive... surge of energy and creativity.’

  ‘What’s you-know-what?’ TP whined.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Flora and Erica together. Ha, thought Erica.

  Flora pulled a small piece of paper out of her cardigan pocket. Erica could see the back of it, on which was written ‘bacon, smoked salmon, quince jelly, cheese, bics for cheese, avocados’. A heavy exhaustion took possession of her brain, dulling her senses. The trauma of the last few minutes had taken it out of her. Thank goodness the assignment was now complete and the deception was over. Well, sort of over. Erica would never be able to tell Flora that she had jettisoned the Herod part of the plan.

  Flora began to recite, in a slow, theatrical voice:

  ‘Peter and Christopher Hitchens

  Are my favourite famous brothers.

  Although there is stiff competition –

  The Marxes, the Coens, and others –

  Who are no doubt preferred by their wives

  And must surely appeal to their mothers,

  Peter and Christopher Hitchens

  Are my favourite famous brothers.’

  There was silence. TP slid off the breakfast bar. ‘I’d better get on with some work,’ he said, and stomped out into the garden.

  ‘It’s better than anything he’s ever written,’ said Erica. ‘That’s why he’s in a huff.’

  ‘He isn’t in a huff; he’s just upset about his tour,’ said Flora. ‘Twenty grand, though – it’s a bit much, isn’t it? I didn’t want to tell you while he was in earshot, but the reason I wrote the poem is because I had an extremely horny dream last night, involving both Hitchenses. At the same time. Which is completely impractical, because I’ve heard they don’t get on, don’t even speak. It’s a shame, isn’t it?’

  ‘Another dream?’ said Erica, alarmed. ‘We don’t have to send Valentine cards to them, too, do we?’

  Flora giggled. ‘Don’t worry. They’d both think I was an airhead, I’m sure. I wouldn’t even waste my time trying. Anyway, I have to be faithful to Paul,’ she added coyly.

  ‘I don’t see why, when you’re not faithful to Frank,’ said Erica, regretting the comment straight afterwards.

  Flora didn’t seem to mind, thankfully. ‘That’s different,’ she said. ‘You can’t be unfaithful to the person you’re being unfaithful with – that’s very bad form. Maybe after we’ve sorted out the rules for one-night stands we can move on to some more general guidelines for adultery.’

  ‘So what happened in your dream?’ Erica asked quickly. Anything but the one-night stand project. She stiffened. Herod’s Valentines were behind her, but the future would be full of new and imaginative ordeals of Flora’s devising. Erica wasn’t sure she liked her new job as much as she’d hoped she would.

  Flora looked wary, as if she were considering something. Then she said, ‘No, I’d probably better not say. I don’t think Peter Hitchens would approve of me talking about him in a carnal context, even if Christopher wouldn’t mind. Erica, look!’ Flora leaped up off the sofa, pointing outside.

  TP was mowing the lawn.

  HOW TO HAVE A PERFECT ONE-NIGHT STAND

  1. Apply the Emmylou Harris principle. Limit yourself to one night only. That way, you will need no other limitations on the character, mood, quality and intensity of the occasion.

  2. If in doubt, don’t do it. Don’t go ahead but allow misgivings to ruin the occasion. Don’t reveal indecision and guilt by saying, ‘Is this a good idea?’ or ‘I need to decide whether I’m going to get my last train home’, thereby shifting responsibility on to the other person. Any lack of wholeheartedness during the preliminaries is appalling etiquette.

  3. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that, just because your time together is limited, there is no point in saying anything romantic or significant. Obviously it would be futile to say, ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you’, since that isn’t an option, but there is no harm in saying, for example, ‘I’ll never forget you’, or ‘This has been one of the most amazing nights of my life.’ A one-night stand has to be short but it does not have to be sordid, throwaway or worthless. It can (should?) have as much resonance as a decades-long relationship.

  4. You shouldn’t make grand claims (see above) that aren’t true. That doesn’t mean, however, that you must say everything that is true. If the sex has been unsatisfactory, there is no need to mention it. You won’t sleep with the person again, so there is no opportunity for improvement. Therefore, women: behave as you do when you are given an unfortunate coat for Christmas by a well-meaning relative. Do not say, ‘Bloody hell, what a disappointment. Couldn’t you do any better than that?’ Be politely appreciative and spare the man’s feelings. Men: your part of the deal is pretending to be unaware of the hopelessness of your performance. Women hate nothing more than to have to comfort a man after bad sex; it adds insult to injury.

  5. If you’re married and your one-night stand partner knows you are, do not remove your wedding ring, especially if you’re likely to meet him or her again in a non-sexual context when you will, once more, be wearing the ring. There is no need to bring the hackneyed symbolism of deception and betrayal into the proceedings. Remember: you are not two different people, nor should you try to be. You are one person doing something worthwhile and life-enhancing. So, while you should be tactful and ensure that your husband or wife doesn’t find out for the sake of their happiness (see unfortunate coat point above), you should in no way behave as if you are ashamed or guilty.

  6. Ideally, you should spend the whole night together. This should include breakfast (continental, definitely not full English, irrespective of whether you are at one of your houses or in a hotel). It is perfectly acceptable to leave as soon as breakfast is over, whatever time this may be. If you absolutely cannot stay all night, say so before the sex begins. Give the other person plenty of notice that you will need to dash off at four in the morning. Otherwise, they will feel desolate and abandoned and wonder what they did wrong.

  7. If your one-night stand partner is someone you know and will see again non-sexually, you will need to work very hard on a new manner. You absolutely must not treat them as if nothing has changed, and revert to an everyday chumminess or professionalism. That would suggest that you want to pretend nothing happened. The new manner must somehow reflect an underlying connection, and could involve such elements as: fewer words more carefully chosen; an increased solemnity in your bearing; significant private looks; an increase in the amount of respect and awe accorded to the other person; emitting a faint aura of regret and missed chances – a sort of if-only-ishness.

  8. Women: your underwear must match. It is not sufficient for the bra to be merely the same colour as the knickers, or even the same colour and material. They must be a set. It is irrelevant that many men will never notice a detail like this; it should be a matter of personal pride. Men: your underwear should be clean and, if not brand-new, then at least new-looking. It is totally unacceptable to present a pair of boxer shorts that, for example, is fraying at the top, around the elastic.

  9. While it would be absurd to insist on no mention of spouses, assuming you are both married, it is very bad form either to praise or denigrate your life partner. So, stick to factual references only. ‘I had to come by train because Philippa has got the car tonight’ is fine. But ‘You’re so gorgeous. Philippa’s body fell to pieces after she had our third child’ is not, nor is ‘Philippa’s a brilliant gardener. She’s so capable round the house. She can make anything, grow anything...’ etc. Avoid, in particular, a combination of praise and criticism, which conveys the impression that your spouse is everything to you, fills up every possible corner of your mind and life.

  10.
The biggest faux-pas of all, and one men are often guilty of, is to ask your one-night-stand partner if she still has sex with her husband, or – worse still – how often. If you ask questions of this sort, you will appear to be an oaf who knows nothing of social norms. If you do ask, you deserve, and should expect, a lie by way of response.

  11. The sexual positions you choose should reflect – or at least not directly contradict, in terms of their symbolism – the mood you hope to create. If you’re highlighting pure physical pleasure and cheerful experimentation, almost any position is acceptable. If, however, you’re aiming for a deep bond and a lasting emotional imprint, avoid anything too innovative and technically demanding. Choose, instead, a position that allows a lot of eye contact. Men: avoid, at all costs, torso-kneeling (kneeling, upright, at the end of a woman’s torso and looking down at her from on high). While intercourse is possible in this position, it will make her feel like something unsavoury on display at a car-boot sale – a single floppy shoe with a brown-stained inner sole, for instance. Torso-kneeling is also incredibly risky for any man who isn’t absolutely confident of his sexual prowess. If you’re no good in bed and you torso-kneel, your lover will suspect that you’re trying to be towering and manly in the only way you know how.

  12. Always fake an orgasm if it becomes clear that you aren’t going to have a real one. Never ask your lover if he or she has had one. Also, do not assume that if you have occasioned an orgasm (real or feigned) in the other person, that your work for the night is done, unless both of you are only in your teens or early twenties. If your partner is in his or her thirties or forties, you should aim to provide three orgasms. Anything less appears niggardly, like arriving at a dinner party with only one bottle of wine.

  13. You need to give careful consideration to the balance between sexual activity, comic tension-diffusing banter, intimate whispered conversation and sleep. Certainly no more than four hours should be spent sleeping (you can always catch up the following night). The sexual activity should be broken up into at least two chunks. Two two-hour sessions are preferable to one four-hour stint.

  14. Remember that ill-judged one-liners such as ‘Aren’t you going to take off your pants?’ can ruin everything. A good example of this in a non-sexual context is the 1985 Band Aid single ‘Do They Know it’s Christmas?’, in which the line ‘Tonight thank God it’s them instead of you’ destroys the whole effect.

  ‘Your phone’s back on!’ Flora cheered.

  ‘I paid the bill,’ said Erica. ‘I’ve just finished writing up your one-night stand...’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve changed my mind about that. I thought about it after you left and I realised, if my guidelines became famous, you know, really caught on, then everyone’d know what to do to tick all the right boxes, and people’s behaviour wouldn’t tell you anything about their real selves. It’d give oafs the tools to masquerade as civilised, and that’s the last thing I want to do. Oafs. Oaves. It should be “oaves”, shouldn’t it?’

  Erica felt as as if a small stone, thrown from a great distance, had landed in the pit of her stomach. ‘But I’ve spent hours on it!’

  ‘Oh, God! Sorry!’ Flora’s voice was a loud combination of anguish and the need to make haste. ‘I’ll give you a bonus or something. Now, listen. There’s been a development on the Paul front.’

  ‘What? Already? Has he said something?’

  ‘No, no, I haven’t seen him or spoken to him. But... I’ve met someone. Someone else.’

  Another small stone. ‘Who? When?’

  ‘Last night. I can’t go into detail now. I’m not sure whether Frank is in or out. Sometimes he lurks, or drifts around silently while he makes up his mind whether to go in to the office or not. So I’ll tell you later. But, anyway, Paul – nothing I said about him applies any more.’

  ‘You don’t fancy him?’

  ‘Yuck, no. He’s a monosyllabic neanderthal who thinks an expensive suit and a talent for adding up is enough to conceal his essential brutishness. It isn’t too big a leap of the imagination to picture him clubbing someone to death, his face smeared with blood and wolf saliva. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Erica in a tight voice. She was angrier with Flora than she had ever been. She had put such effort into producing a definitive document that accurately and eloquently summarised all Flora’s thoughts on the one-night stand, only for Flora to dismiss the whole thing in a casual aside. Now the hours the two women had spent discussing Paul were to be flushed away as well. But it wasn’t the waste of her time and energy that infuriated Erica – it was Flora’s knack for making her feel ridiculous. Flora was the one who had dreamed up the absurd idea of marketing herself as a relationships expert; Flora it was who had decided to send a Valentine card to a stocky and uninspiring financial adviser. Yet somehow Erica had ended up, in both cases, as the one to whom it had to be explained, as if she were a child, how preposterous an idea it had been from the start.

  Flora sighed. ‘I wish I hadn’t sent Paul a Valentine. Too late now, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Erica said, without thinking. Then she blinked a couple of times, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. Damn! She saw instantly that she had committed herself to a full confession. She bit down hard on her lower lip.

  ‘Maybe not?’ Flora perked up; she was ready to be convinced.

  ‘Has Paul been back to collect his briefcase?’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘He left his briefcase at your house. It was there two days ago. I found it and put it in the hall. I...’

  ‘What’s this got to do with anything?’ said Flora impatiently.

  ‘Flora, I didn’t send the three cards. I couldn’t do it. I felt too... mean, that it just wasn’t fair to the other two, the ones who would imagine someone was interested in them who wasn’t, so I...’

  ‘But you told me you posted them.’ Flora sounded confused. Not angry. Yet, thought Erica.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I lied. I’m sorry. I’ll completely understand if you want to sack me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, you’re my best friend,’ said Flora.

  ‘I was going to post them, honestly!’ said Erica. A small tear of relief escaped from the edge of her eye and trickled thinly down her cheek. ‘On my way home the other day. They’d still have got there in time, I’m sure. I would have overcome my silly scruples and sent the cards, but then when I went to the loo I saw Paul had left his briefcase, and I just thought it’d be so much better to stick one of the cards in there and...’

  ‘He hasn’t been back for his briefcase, and I haven’t seen it,’ Flora interrupted. ‘This is most odd. He can’t not have noticed that he hasn’t got it. He’s so attached to that briefcase, it almost qualifies as an essential organ. Where did you say you saw it?’

  ‘I found it in the downstairs toilet, and I moved it into the hall.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Erica heard a loud clunk. She chewed the skin around her fingernails. Please let it still be there, she prayed. Flora could retrieve and destroy the card, and no damage would have been done.

  ‘Erica? It’s not there. What did it look like?’

  ‘Dark brown leather, with two pockets at the front. It’s an Armani one, I think.’

  Flora screamed with glee, a circus spectator’s scream. ‘That’s not Paul’s briefcase, it’s Frank’s!’ she giggled.

  A sour taste filled Erica’s mouth. But it wasn’t true; she knew that perfectly well. ‘No, it’s not. I’ve seen Frank’s – it’s black.’ She didn’t appreciate the joke; what could its aim be, other than to terrify and embarrass her? And that wasn’t like Flora.

  ‘His old one was. He’s got a new one. I should know; I bought it for him.’

  ‘But...’ Erica’s mind began to spin. ‘It was Paul’s, it had to be. It was full of loads of boring stuff about financial thingies. I put the card inside a pamphlet about ISAs.’

  Flora was still laughing, but sounded as if she were
trying to stop, out of respect for Erica’s anxiety. ‘Well, Paul must have given Frank the boring stuff during one of their meetings. Frank’s briefcase is a mobile dustbin – he crams it full of all sorts of crap he’s never going to need again. Oh, this is brilliant!’ She hooted. ‘I wonder if Frank’s found the card yet. Shit!’

  ‘What?’ Alone in her living room, Erica ducked when she heard Flora’s sudden change of tone, as if she’d just spotted a sniper in the window of the house across the street, with a gun pointed in her direction.

  ‘Frank might find the card and pass it on to Paul. Then Paul’s even more likely to suspect it’s from me than he would otherwise have been.’

  ‘Surely not.’ Erica felt feverish; her skin was suddenly clammy. ‘Who’d put a Valentine card for a... prospective lover in her husband’s briefcase in the hope that he’ll pass it on? Anyway, why would Frank think the card was for Paul?’

  ‘It was inside an ISA leaflet Paul gave him, it had Paul’s name on it...’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ Erica blurted out. ‘I didn’t write his name on it; there wasn’t time. I just stuffed it in the briefcase. Paul’s name’s nowhere on the card or the envelope. If Frank’s found it, he might think it’s intended for him.’ Thank God Erica had altered her handwriting. She thought of all the thank-you cards she had sent to Flora and Frank, after staying the night at their house. Then panic took hold of her. What if she hadn’t disguised her writing sufficiently? What if Frank thought she was in love with him? Two strangers had escaped, but Frank was now the innocent victim of King Herod. Oh, God; this was the worst disaster imaginable.

  Flora was laughing again. ‘If Frank found it, he’d think someone had given Paul a Valentine card, which Paul stuffed into his ISA leaflet and forgot about, and passed on by mistake. Anyway, there’s no need to worry because Frank never reads those glossy financial brochures Paul gives him. Neither do I. We’re always saying, in fact, how pointless it is for us to have a financial adviser when we’re too lazy to read any of the information he gives us. All our money sits in the building society, year after year, doing nothing.’