The Terrible Privacy Of Maxwell Sim

‘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 Sao 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?’