The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim by Jonathan Coe Read Free Book Online

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 occurred 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