The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim

by Jonathan Coe

  It was a heart attack, of course. It usually is.

  The airline handled it all very delicately, I must say. A week after I’d got home, they sent me a letter, letting me know a few extra details which I have to say were comforting, very comforting. They told me that Charlie Hayward had suffered from heart problems for some time – this was his third attack, they said, in the last ten years – so the news hadn’t come as a complete shock to his wife, although of course she was devastated. He had two daughters, both in their twenties. The body was flown back home from Singapore and he was cremated in Sydney. On the way out to Singapore, though, they’d had no choice but to keep him in the same seat, right next to me. They put a blanket over him and said that I could come and sit with them if I liked, on one of the staff seats near to the galley, but I said no thanks, it was OK. Somehow I thought that would have been rude, disrespectful. Call me fanciful, if you like, but I felt he would have appreciated the company.

  Poor old Charlie Hayward. He was the first person I’d really managed to speak to, after taking my decision to reconnect with the world. Not a very auspicious start.

  However, things were about to get better.

  3

  I was the last person to leave the plane after it landed at Singapore. While they lifted Charlie’s body and carried it off, I moved over to another seat, and sat there for a while after the other passengers had gone. Depression came over me. I could feel it. I was used to it by now, and knew how to recognize it. It reminded me of a horror film I had seen once on TV when I was a little boy. This man was trapped in a secret chamber in a big old castle, and the villain of the story pulled a lever which made the roof of the chamber start coming slowly down on top of him. Closer and closer, until it threatened to crush him. That’s what it felt like. It never quite crushed me, of course, but it got close enough that I could feel it, weighing down on my spine, cutting off my freedom of movement, paralysing me. Whenever this happened, I would for some time be physically unable to raise myself, will myself into motion. You could never really tell what was going to bring it on, either. It could be anything. In this case I suppose it was a sort of relapse: having said so much to Charlie, having unburdened myself so shamelessly of so many words, a tidal wave of words finally breaking through the floodgates, after months and months of withdrawal from the world, months made long by silence, by lack of human contact (contact, that is, unmediated by technology) – after all that, and the disaster it had just led to (indirectly or otherwise), I was already suffering something like a nervous reaction. I lapsed into immovable stillness and had no awareness, none at all, of what was going on around me. Finally, I noticed that a stewardess, once again (it was even the same stewardess, I believe) was shaking me gently by the shoulder. ‘Sir?’ she was saying, in a kindly undertone. ‘Sir, we must ask you to leave the plane now. The cleaning staff are waiting to come on board.’

  Sleepily I tilted my head towards her and, without a word, rose to my feet in a slow and I suppose trance-like movement. I made my way down the aisle, through Business Class and then out along the walkway towards the arrivals lounge. For some of the time I think the stewardess must have been walking alongside me. She said something like: ‘Are you OK, sir? Would you like someone to come with you?’, but the reply I gave must have been reassuring enough for her to trust me to my own devices.

  A few minutes passed. I can’t say for certain where I would have spent them, but after a while I became aware that I was sitting at a café table, conscious of an oppressive, sticky heat and surrounded by shops bearing the names of familiar global brands, through which crowds of jetlagged passengers wandered in their own kind of daze, their eyes glazed and sightless, each one threading between the racks and stands and revolving displays with the thoughtless tread of a sleepwalker. I looked down at the liquid in my coffee cup and saw that it appeared to be some sort of cappuccino. Presumably I had ordered it and paid for it. I inserted a finger between my neck and the collar of my shirt in order to wipe away a ring of sweat that had gathered there. As I did so my eyes were drawn to one figure in particular amidst the crowd of somnambulant shoppers. She was a young woman of about twenty-five and my first impression of her was curious. I am not a particularly spiritual person but the first thing I noticed about this woman – or thought that I noticed – was that she was wearing a very colourful blouse. In fact it was probably this burst of colour, making her stand out like a fiercely burning beacon, that had first caught my attention and startled me out of my latest trough of depression. But actually, when I looked at her more closely, her clothes were of quite an ordinary colour and what I must have sensed, instead, was something else about her that was colourful, something internal, some kind of bright and luminous aura. Does that make any sense? As I continued to watch her this aura slowly flickered out and faded away but still there was something compelling and irresistible about her. For one thing, while the surrounding crowds seemed to be drifting ever more slowly, as if in a state of deep hypnosis, this woman had a sense of purpose. A rather furtive sense of purpose, admittedly. She wandered from shop doorway to shop doorway, trying to appear nonchalant but unable to stop herself from looking around her so frequently and so warily that at first I thought that she might be a shoplifter. Since she never actually went into any of the shops, however, I had to discount this theory. She was dressed in a rather masculine way, with a blue denim jacket which seemed quite unnecessary in this kind of heat, and had the sort of short hair and boyish looks which I’ve always found particularly sexy. (Alison used to have the same looks, for instance – Chris’s sister, Alison Byrne – although the last time I saw her, about fifteen years ago, she had started to wear her hair long.) I suppose you would call this woman’s hair reddish, or perhaps strawberry blonde. It looked as though she might have used henna on it. Anyway, the jacket is the important thing, because after a while I began to suspect that she might only be wearing this jacket in order to conceal something underneath it. I came to this conclusion after watching her, I suppose, quite brazenly, for a minute or more, during which time she noticed me and flashed me one or two anxious and irritated glances. Embarrassed, I averted my gaze, turned it towards my now empty coffee cup, and tried to concentrate on something else – in this case, an announcement over the PA system: ‘Welcome to Singapore. Passengers in transit are respectfully reminded that it is forbidden to smoke anywhere inside the terminal building. We thank you for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant onward journey.’ Then, the next time I looked at her she caught my eye again, and this time she came over, weaving her way through the drifting swarms of passengers until she had reached my table and was standing over me.

  ‘Are you a policeman or something?’ she asked.

  She had an English accent. Quite posh, but with that hint of Mockney that posh young people these days seem compelled to affect.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m not a policeman.’ She said nothing in response to that, just continued to stand over me, glaring down suspiciously, so I added: ‘Why would you think I was a policeman?’

  ‘You were staring at me.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I admitted, after a moment’s reflection. ‘I apologize. I’m very tired, and I’m halfway through a stressful journey. I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  She thought about this, before saying: ‘OK,’ in an uncertain tone of voice. ‘And you don’t work … for the airport, or anything like that?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for the airport.’

  She nodded, apparently satisfied. Then, just before turning away, she added: ‘I’m not doing anything illegal, you know.’

  Again, her tone was tentative, as if she didn’t really know whether this was true or not. I tried to reassure her by saying: ‘That had never occurred to me.’ I was trying to see what she had hidden beneath her jacket, where I could see a distinct bulge, but it was impossible to tell. She was on the point of turning away again, but something still seemed to be holding her back. It oc
curred to me that she was tired and might like to sit down.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked.

  Immediately she thudded down into the seat beside me. ‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’m bushed.’

  ‘What sort?’

  She asked for a skinny latte with a shot of maple syrup and I went to buy it for her. When I got back to the table with our coffees her jacket was no longer bulging. Whatever had been under there she had now transferred to her handbag, which was a loose, roomy affair she was just in the process of zipping up – again, with that slightly furtive air which seemed to characterize all her movements.

  I decided not to reveal my curiosity, in any case, and confined our conversation to small talk.

  ‘My name’s Max,’ I said. ‘Maxwell Sim. Sim, like the …’ (I glanced at her, and hesitated) ‘… like the card you put in a mobile phone.’

  She finished zipping up her bag and held out her hand. ‘Poppy,’ she said. ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘Back to London,’ I said. ‘Just a quick stopover here. Couple of hours. Should be at Heathrow first thing in the morning. On my way back from Australia.’

  ‘Long trip, then. Business? Pleasure?’

  ‘Pleasure. Theoretically.’ I took a sip of coffee, and muttered, ‘Bestlaid plans, and all that,’ into the froth. ‘How about you?’

  ‘No, this is a working trip for me.’

  ‘Really?’ I tried not to sound surprised. Now that we had started talking, she seemed even younger than I’d first thought – not much more than student age – and I found it hard to imagine her as a business traveller. She didn’t look the part at all.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I travel a lot in my line of work. In fact that’s pretty much what it consists of. Travelling.’

  ‘Were you … working just now?’ I asked, for some reason. I suppose it was an impertinent question, but she didn’t seem to take it that way.

  ‘While you were watching me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’

  It seemed as if she wasn’t going to tell me any more.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘it’s none of my business what you do for a living.’

  ‘It certainly isn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘After all, we’ve only just met. I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘I work –’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ Poppy held up her hand. ‘Give me three guesses.’

  ‘OK.’

  She sat back, arms folded, and looked at me with an appraising but also mischievous gleam in her eye.

  ‘You write software for a computer game company with a reputation for horrific misogynistic violence.’

  ‘No, not at all. You’re miles off.’

  ‘All right then. You breed organic chickens on a smallholding in the Cotswolds.’

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘You’re a celebrity hairdresser. You do Keira Knightley’s highlights.’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘You work in a gentlemen’s outfitters in Cheltenham. Bespoke three-piece suits and frighteningly accurate leg measurements.’

  ‘No, and that’s four guesses. But you’re getting closer.’

  ‘One more then?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Well, how about … Senior Lecturer in Contemporary Fashion at the University of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.’

  Actually I do consider myself quite a smart dresser, and since she made this suggestion with a lingering glance at my Lacoste shirt and Hugo Boss jeans, I was rather flattered. Even so, I shook my head. ‘So, do you give up?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  I told her the truth: that I was the After-Sales Customer Liaison Officer for a department store in central London. To which her immediate response was:

  ‘What on earth does that mean?’

  Now, I decided, was not the time to go into a huge amount of detail. ‘I’m there to assist the customers,’ I explained, ‘when there’s been a problem with their purchase. A toaster that doesn’t work. A pair of curtains that doesn’t hang properly.’

  ‘I see,’ said Poppy. ‘So you work in the returns department.’

  ‘More or less,’ I conceded, and was about to add, ‘Used to, at any rate,’ and start explaining that I hadn’t actually been into work for the best part of six months, but something stopped me. I had overburdened Charlie with my confidences, after all, and that hadn’t panned out too well. ‘So, is it my turn now?’

  She smiled. ‘It wouldn’t really be fair. You’ll never guess what I do. Not if I gave you a thousand guesses.’

  It was a nice smile, revealing her white, neat but slightly uneven teeth. I realized that I was perhaps staring at her more intently, and for longer, than was strictly polite. How old was this woman, exactly? Already I felt more comfortable talking to her than I’d felt talking to anyone for a long time, and yet she must have been at least twenty years younger than me. The realization gave me a curious feeling: half uneasy, half exhilarated.

  Meanwhile, Poppy was unzipping her handbag, and then she opened it up just far enough for me to see something unexpected inside: a digital recording device of some sort – professional quality, by the looks of it, at least the size of a hardback book – and a large microphone: again, the sort that professionals use, robust, chunky and sheathed in a grey polyester windscreen. As soon as I had peered over and had a good look at this equipment, she zipped the bag shut again.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘A clue.’

  ‘Well then … You must be some sort of sound recordist.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s only part of what I do.’

  I pursed my lips, unable to think of any further suggestions.

  ‘You say it involves a lot of travelling?’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes. All over the world. Last week I was in São Paolo.’

  ‘And this week Singapore?’

  ‘Correct. Although – and this is another clue – I didn’t leave the airport, on either occasion.’

  ‘I see … So you make sound recordings of airports?’

  ‘Also correct.’

  Try as I might, I couldn’t see what she was driving at. ‘But why?’ I had to ask, eventually.

  Poppy placed her coffee cup carefully on the table, and leaned forward, her chin cradled in both hands.

  ‘Put it this way. I’m part of an organization that provides a valuable and discreet service, to an exclusive clientele.’

  ‘What sort of service?’

  ‘Well, I don’t really have a name for my job, because I don’t normally tell people what it is. But since I’m making an exception for you, let’s just say that I’m – a junior adultery facilitator.’

  A sort of wicked thrill went through me when she spoke these words. ‘Adultery facilitator?’ I said. It was exciting just to repeat the phrase.

  ‘OK,’ said Poppy, ‘I’ll explain. My employer – whose name I’m not supposed to tell anyone – has set up this agency. He’s set it up for people who are having affairs – mainly men, but not always, by any means – and want things to go smoothly and safely. Things are very difficult for the modern adulterer. Technology has made everything much more complicated. There are more and more ways of being in touch with someone, but everything leaves a trail. In the old days you might have written someone a love letter and the only witness would be the person who saw you popping it into the postbox. Nowadays you send someone a couple of text messages and the next thing you know, there they are on an itemized phone bill. You can delete as many emails from your computer as you like, but they’ll still be stored, somewhere or other, on some big mainframe in the middle of nowhere. More and more elaborate strategies are required if you don’t want to get caught out. This –’ (she patted her handbag) ‘– is just one of them.’

  ‘So how does it work?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s quite simple. First of all, I travel all over the place, to a number of different airports, I make some
recordings, then I get home and compile them all into a CD. A CD which we then sell on to our clients, as part of their package. Now suppose that you’re one of these clients. (Although I have to say, you don’t look much like an adulterer.) You’re away on a business trip in the Far East. But you decide to cut the business trip short, and spend a night or two in Paris with your mistress instead. Obviously your wife mustn’t find out about it. Well, here’s a good way of putting her mind at rest. Just before you come home, you phone her from your hotel suite in Paris. Your loved one has slipped into the bathroom for a shower, so you put the CD onto the stereo system, call your wife, and what does she hear in the background while you’re talking to her?’ Opening the bag, she pressed the recorder’s ‘Play’ button, and from the internal speaker I could hear a recording of the announcement that I’d found myself listening to a few minutes earlier: ‘Welcome to Singapore. Passengers in transit are respectfully reminded that it is forbidden to smoke anywhere inside the terminal building. We thank you for your cooperation and wish you a pleasant onward journey.’ Poppy smiled at me, triumphant. ‘So there’s your alibi. Who’s going to think twice about where you might be calling from, after hearing that?’

  I nodded slowly, to show that I was impressed.

  ‘And people pay for this?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Poppy. ‘Big money.’ (She stretched the word ‘big’.) ‘Honestly, you’d be surprised.’

  ‘What sorts of people?’

  ‘All sorts. Unhappily married people are everywhere. But still, the fees are rather steep, so we tend to attract a certain sort of clientele in particular. Investment bankers, professional footballers, that kind of thing.’