The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

11

At 11.30 on the morning of Monday, 2 March 2009, I found myself in Reading, sitting in Alan Guest’s office. All ten full-time staff members of Guest Toothbrushes were present, including Trevor, Lindsay, David Webster and chief accountant Tony Harris-Jones. The weather outside was grey but moderate, with no immediate threat of rain. Beneath us on the forecourt I could see four black Toyota Priuses, ranged neatly in a line; sitting on a bollard next to them was a bored-looking press photographer, chatting to his colleague, a local journalist, who stood leaning against one of the cars and smoking a cigarette. The offices of Guest Toothbrushes were part of an industrial estate in the south-western suburbs. Beyond the forecourt I could see rows of warehouses and low-lying office buildings, the province of firms specializing in bathroom fittings, computer components and sports and leisure wear. A network of little roads and mini-roundabouts criss-crossed the estate, but I couldn’t see any cars using them. It was almost eerily quiet.

As for the mood in Alan Guest’s office, I could best describe it as tense. Today was a big day in the history of Guest Toothbrushes – there were three bottles of non-alcoholic champagne on the table, along with eleven glasses – but for some reason nobody seemed to be feeling particularly celebratory. Alan, a thin, ascetic-looking, silver-haired man in his mid-fifties, had a distracted air about him. It was falling to Trevor to do most of the talking.

‘Now, gentlemen, we’ve been monitoring the forecasts on the BBC Weather site, and I have to say that the news isn’t too bad, for most of you …’

I should really have been listening to this, but I wasn’t able to concentrate. My mind kept going back to Caroline’s story. For the first few days after reading it I’d been able to think of nothing else. I was so outraged, so furious with her, that every inch of mental space (do you measure mental spaces in inches? I’ve no idea) had been colonized by thoughts of how I was going to respond. I drafted dozens of emails in my head – some of them from me, some of them from Liz Hammond. I picked up the phone a hundred times, thought about calling and then put it down again. In the end, as you probably guessed, I hadn’t responded at all. How could I? What was I supposed to say? My sense of betrayal at what she had written was beyond words. And although I’d managed to calm down about it since then – to a certain extent, at least – there were still moments when my sense of injustice reared up again. I couldn’t help it. It was a completely involuntary thing. And it was happening now.

‘So we’re not anticipating any major meteorological upsets,’ Trevor continued. ‘Certainly not in the first half of the week. Things might get a little choppy on the crossing from Aberdeen, Max, if you leave it till Wednesday or Thursday, but I can’t see you having to do that …’

At the same time, I had to concede my grudging admiration for what Caroline had done. I’m no literary critic (God forbid), but as a piece of writing, it struck me as .… well, competent, at any rate. No worse than many of the turgid yawn-fests she’d thrust under my nose during our marriage, in her attempt to get me to read ‘serious’ novels.

‘Now, as you know, we’ve allowed in our expenses for five nights’ overnight accommodation, but clearly most of us won’t be needing that. After all, there’s a competition for the first man there and back, but I think we all know who’s going to win that one.’ (Laughter, and glances in the direction of Tony Harris-Jones, whose journey would be taking him no further than Lowestoft.) ‘But if the rest of us can manage it in four days, or even three, all such savings would be much appreciated by our Supreme Leader, I’m sure. We are in the midst of a nasty recession, and times are tough out there, as everybody is all too aware.’ (The glances were directed at Alan Guest, this time, and there was no laughter to accompany them. He stared ahead, expressionless.) ‘And please, might I add, be reasonable when choosing your accommodation. No five-star establishments, please. No Scottish castles or country house hotels. Think Travelodges, or Best Westerns, if you feel like pushing the boat out. Try to keep it under fifty quid a night, if at all possible.’

And the other thing was – how had she done it, exactly? Was she a mind-reader or something? Caroline and I had barely spoken to each other in the final years of our marriage, it seemed to me now. I had spent most of that time sitting in silence beside her, either in front of the television or at the wheel of our car, or opposite her at the breakfast or dinner table, neither of us speaking a word, and I can honestly say that I never had the faintest idea what was going on inside her head. And yet in writing that story, she had more or less transcribed my thoughts; and transcribed them, I would say, in a way that was about eighty-five per cent accurate. It was frightening. Was I really that transparent, or was she simply blessed with amazing powers of perception, which I had never suspected or noticed before?

‘As for the competitive element of this trip, Lindsay has been doing some more brainstorming over the weekend – she never stops, this woman: never stops – and has come up with another absolute gem of an idea. Lindsay, I’ll hand the floor over to you for a moment, if I may.’

But there was an ironic side to this as well. Caroline would never realize it, but she’d fallen at the last fence. Those powers had failed her at the most crucial point. Because she was wrong – totally, fatally wrong – about what I’d been thinking that day, after Joe had been pulled out of the nettle pit and she saw me kneeling over him on the grass. ‘In mourning over the death of the son he’d never had’ – is that what you reckoned, Caroline? Was that the spin you’d decided to put on it? Well, listen to this: you were miles off. Not even close. And neither you nor anybody else was ever going to find out the truth, either. Not if I had anything to do with it.

Lindsay, meanwhile, had started to tell us something about the onboard computer system on our Priuses. I really ought to be paying attention.

‘So what happens is, when you press the “Info” button on the fascia, you get a choice of two screens. One of them is the Energy Monitor screen, which tells you where the power is coming from at any given time, and the other screen gives you detailed information about how much petrol you’ve consumed since the trip counter was last reset. Those trip counters have been set to zero on all four vehicles, by the way, so please don’t touch them until you’re safely back here …’

Another nasty thought had occurred to me, too. A lot of the information which had formed the basis of that story could only have been obtained from Lucy. Especially that stuff about me not knowing why the grass was green. (Which was all perfectly true – and would still be perfectly true now.) So, yes, Caroline and Lucy must have got together and had a right old laugh, some time or other, about silly old Daddy, who knew fuck-all about the important things in life, and was always trying to bullshit his way out of difficult questions and awkward situations. Obviously, my comical ignorance about matters of general knowledge formed the basis of many of their cosy mother-and-daughter chats, these days. Well, I suppose I should be glad that I gave them something to bond over …

‘So what we are offering you, gentlemen, is the opportunity to win not just one but two highly desirable prizes. The first man there and back gets one of these handsome signed certificates – a beautiful addition to any office wall, I think you’ll agree – but there will also be a cash prize of five hundred pounds –’ (there were cheers, whoops and loud intakes of breath – again, from everybody except Alan Guest, whose face remained inscrutable) ‘– for the driver who does the most to demonstrate the green credentials of Guest Toothbrushes, by returning home with the lowest average figure for petrol consumption on his information screen. In other words – drive carefully, folks, and drive economically!’

Lindsay sat down to widespread applause, and at this point the wine bottles were opened and the meeting dissolved into informality. I heard Alan take Trevor aside and say, ‘Don’t let everyone hang about – remember we’ve got that newspaper man waiting outside,’ so after just a few minutes we drained our glasses, left the office en masse and made our way down the echoing concrete staircase that led to the forecourt. Trevor, David, Tony and I were lugging our overnight bags with us.

Without really meaning to, I found myself at the back of the group, walking alongside Lindsay Ashworth. Sometimes things just happen that way, I’ve noticed, when there’s an unspoken chemistry between two people. It’s like invisible choreography: you don’t plan to fall into step with the other person, but somehow, everyone else around you moves aside and you realize that you have found each other, without even meaning to. That’s how it had been with Caroline, the first time we spoke to each other over the Formica-topped tables in that gloomy staff canteen all those years ago, and that’s how it was that morning, with me and Lindsay. When she saw that I was walking beside her she turned and smiled at me. Her smile was full of warmth and encouragement, but also with something more troubling behind it: a certain nervousness, perhaps.

‘So – are you ready for this?’ she asked me.

‘Ready for what?’ I asked.

‘Ready to take the IP 009 to places it’s never been before.’

I nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.’

‘Good.’

Something in the way she said this prompted me to remark:

‘Funny atmosphere in there this morning. Everybody seemed a little bit on edge.’

‘Oh, you noticed that, did you?’

‘Is everything OK?’

We had already been talking in undertones, but now Lindsay brought her face even closer to mine.

‘Keep it to yourself, but Alan had a meeting with the bank today. It didn’t go well.’ She stopped walking so that the others could get further ahead (we were on the staircase between the first and second floors), and added: ‘They’re refusing to offer him any more credit. And he’s furious about it, because he only switched the account to these guys a few weeks ago.’

‘Which guys?’ I asked – and when Lindsay told me the name of the bank, I recognized it at once. It was the same one that Poppy’s obnoxious friend Richard used to work for. ‘But … the firm is all right, yes? I mean, everything’s solid, and secure?’

‘I don’t think there are any long-term problems,’ said Lindsay. ‘I think it’s more of a short-term cashflow thing.’ She added: ‘That’s why Alan’s mad at me, as well.’

‘At you? Why would he be mad at you?’

‘I sprung this idea of the prize for petrol consumption on him this morning. He said we couldn’t afford it.’

‘It’s only five hundred quid, though.’

‘Exactly. That’s what I thought. Anyway, we can’t even stretch to that, at the moment, apparently. So he’s making a big deal of putting up the money himself.’

‘His own money?’

‘Yep.’

We started to walk on again.

‘All this,’ I said, ‘puts a bit of pressure on you, I suppose.’

‘You could say that. I think he’s started to feel that this whole stunt is a bad idea. So if it goes wrong …’

‘… You’ll get the blame?’

She nodded, and I said: ‘Don’t worry. It won’t go wrong. It’s a brilliant idea, anyway.’

Lindsay gave me a brief smile of gratitude. We had reached the ground floor, and she held the heavy door open for me as we left the draughty staircase behind, and stepped out into the grey, feeble sunlight. Everyone else was already halfway across the car park, on their way to the row of waiting black Priuses. Once we were outside, Lindsay stopped to light a cigarette.

‘You know, this is the first month,’ she said, ‘that we’ve not been able to pay our mortgage. Martin hasn’t worked so far this year.’

Trevor had told me that Lindsay’s husband worked in the building trade. That was all I knew about him, and I didn’t enquire further.

‘Tough times, Max,’ she said. ‘Nasty times. Somebody’s screwed up, haven’t they? Somebody near the top. But no one’s going to admit it.’ She glanced across at the little crowd gathered around the four black cars. ‘Come on, anyway. The paparazzi are waiting to meet you. You don’t want to miss out on your fifteen minutes of fame.’

It turned out to be rather less than that. The photographer took a picture of the four of us standing in front of one of the cars, and the journalist asked us some vague questions about what sort of toothbrushes were most useful to people who lived in remote parts of the country: he didn’t seem to have quite grasped the point of the exercise. Their work was done in just a couple of minutes, but instead of leaving they hung around to watch our departures, all the time maintaining a slightly amused and disdainful air which I think the rest of us found off-putting, to say the least.

It was all very confused and hectic. Alan Guest presented us with the video cameras on which we were to record our diaries. (Lindsay had one as well, and was wandering around from car to car, already shooting footage at random.) The instruction manuals, he told us, were in our glove compartments – along with the instruction manuals for the cars themselves, which seemed to come in two volumes and to total more than 500 pages. He told us not to be alarmed, assuring us that we didn’t need to look at these manuals immediately and that we would find the cars very simple to drive. I wasn’t entirely convinced by this, because not only couldn’t I get my car to start, but I didn’t even know where to insert the little cuboid of plastic that I’d been presented with in lieu of what would, in days gone by, have been a set of keys. Finally Trevor came over and explained to me that there was a button you had to press while holding down the brake pedal with your foot. It all seemed very complicated, and there was no satisfying throaty response from the engine when I followed his instructions. But then I put the car into drive mode, and it did indeed start to move – so unexpectedly, in fact, that it edged forward a couple of yards and ran into one of the bollards at the edge of the car park. It was only a gentle nudge – didn’t do any damage to the bumper, or anything like that – but I suppose it wasn’t too auspicious, in retrospect. Alan Guest did not look especially pleased.

Finally, on the stroke of midday, we drove off in convoy. Behind the fleet of four intrepid salesmen, Lindsay and Alan followed in Alan’s BMW. Lindsay was still filming us. When we reached the largest of the mini-roundabouts on the periphery of the trading estate, we all pulled over: this was our official starting-point. The roundabout had four exits, and we were each to peel off on to a different one. Lindsay and Alan got out of their car and stood in the centre of the roundabout. A keen March wind was blowing, and rain had started to drizzle down. Alan, well wrapped up in his coat and scarf, put his hands together to make a kind of megaphone, and shouted: ‘This is it, chaps! Good luck!’ Lindsay was still capturing everything on camera.

Tony Harris-Jones went first, taking the eastern exit. Then it was Trevor: he performed a 360-degree turn on the roundabout, doubling back the way he had come and heading south. David Webster took the western exit. And then it was my turn. All I had to do was head straight on, taking the second exit, which led north. I had my window open to say goodbye to Alan and Lindsay and as I passed beside them, Alan gave me a formal wave but Lindsay, I noticed, looked up from her filming (she had not done this for any of the others) and blew me a discreet kiss with her left hand as I drove by.

When I saw her gesture, my heart lifted, and I experienced a new, curious sensation: a glow of happiness spreading through my body, starting at my feet and rising all the way up until even my scalp was tingling.

And then, as soon as she was out of sight, I felt suddenly, terribly alone.