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

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