‘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 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.’